The Seven Altars of Dusarra

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  Copyright Information

  Copyright © 1981 by Lawrence Watt Evans.

  Wildside edition copyright © 2002 by Lawrence Watt Evans.

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Wildside Press LLC

  www.wildsidepress.com

  Dedication

  Dedicated to Roy Thomas and Barry Smith, for stirring my interest in heroic fantasy.

  Chapter One

  The rider paused at the top of the low ridge; the plain that lay just beyond was spread out before him under the pale stars of late summer. Directly before him there was an interruption of the flat earth; jagged silhouettes rose in black humps, huddled together within an uneven stone ring. The circle was broken at the point nearest him, and a single shattered wall rose to mark what had once been a substantial gatehouse; beside that wall flickered an orange flame, as warm as the stars were cold.

  Although he was still too far away to discern any details, he knew that this was the town of Skelleth, and that the single light was the watch fire of the guardsman at the ruins of the North Gate. He had been here before, and knew that of the five gates in the crumbling city wall only this one was guarded. It was guarded against him and his kind.

  There was no sign of life other than the lonely fire, and even had the man posted there been fully alert—as he undoubtedly was not at this hour—he could not have seen the rider or his party at such a distance in the dark. Their approach was undetected.

  The mounted figure sat for a moment, his face invisible in the darkness and the shade of his trader’s hat, studying the panorama; he glanced up as a nightbird flew overhead, and his eyes shone a baleful red with reflected starlight. His hollow-cheeked face had no nose, but only close-set slit nostrils; ragged black hair hung almost to his shoulders, but there was no trace of a beard on the leathery brown hide of his jaw. He was inhumanly tall and correspondingly broad. He was, in short, not human, but overman.

  His long-fingered hand, with its oddly-jointed thumb and opposable fifth finger, grasped the guidehandle of his mount’s harness, an unnecessary precaution; his warbeast was trained to obey verbal commands or the pressure of its rider’s feet, and moved with such feline smoothness that there was no danger of dislodging its master. The creature was blacker than the night sky, and as silent; its golden eyes and polished fangs were the only discernable features. It stood the height of a man and, from its stubby whiskers to lashing pantherlike tail, measured a good eighteen feet. Its triangular ears were up and alert, but it gave no warning growl.

  Accordingly, the overman raised his arm in the signal to advance and led his companions over the final ridge and down onto the plain. His warbeast moved with silent catlike grace, its great padded paws disturbing not a single stone; the rest of the party was not so circumspect.

  There were four in the party, all grown overmen, but only the leader rode a warbeast; his three followers made do with yackers, the universal beast of burden of the Northern Waste. Each rode upon one of the ugly creatures and led another heavily laden with the goods they hoped to trade in Skelleth. There was something slightly ludicrous in the stately dignity of the overmen as they perched stiffly upright upon the broad backs covered with ropy, matted brown hair, and guided their beasts with finely tooled silver bits in slobbering black-lipped mouths full of uneven yellow teeth. The yackers’ hooves rattled on every pebble, it seemed, and there was a constant snorting and rumbling from the six shaggy, drooping heads.

  They were traveling the ancient Wasteland Road, which led straight to Skelleth’s North Gate; as the last yacker reached the foot of the ridge, the leader turned his warbeast off the road, heading west instead of south.

  “Hold, Garth!” called the second in the procession.

  The leader tapped a signal with his heel and the warbeast halted. “What is it?”

  His companion drew up beside him and asked,

  “Where are we heading? Is that not Skelleth?” He pointed to the flickering watch fire.

  The third overman pulled up beside them as well as Garth replied, “Yes, of course that is Skelleth, and that is where we’re going.”

  “Then why have we left the road? These yackers are quite slow enough as it is.”

  It was the third overman who replied, “Larth, did not Garth explain our situation to you?”

  “I remember nothing that explains our turning away from our destination.”

  “Then you remember nothing. We are to enter the town in secrecy.”

  “It was not you I asked, Galt.”

  “Galt, however, speaks correctly,” Garth said. “The Baron of Skelleth does not want overmen in his town; most especially, he does not want me there. When last I saw him he ordered his guards to kill me on the spot. Fortunately, they did not cooperate. However, if we can present the Baron with a peaceful trading caravan in the market square, not as a possibility but as an accomplished fact, I think he can be made to see reason and accept us.”

  “So we are to sneak in like thieves?”

  “Why else are we traveling by night?” Galt’s tone was sweetly reasonable.

  “It is not dignified!”

  “And what would be dignified?” Garth inquired.

  “To ride directly in by daylight, and demand as our due that we be allowed to trade.”

  Galt snorted. “That might be dignified, but it would also be stupid, perhaps fatally so. Garth says there are more than thirty guardsmen in Skelleth; true, they are mere humans, and none too well equipped by his account, but there are only four of us, and we are not exactly well-armed either.”

  Garth added, before Larth could reply, “It would not do for friendly traders to be bristling with weapons; we cannot risk incidents involving bloodshed. That is why I required that you three be unarmed, and I will conceal my own weapons before we begin our dealings with the people of Skelleth.”

  “Quite correct.” Galt nodded in agreement. Larth continued to look unconvinced.

  “Still,” he demanded, “why have we left the road?”

  His answer came from the fourth and youngest overman, who had not yet spoken, showing the proper deference to his elders; he could not, however, refrain from replying, “Because there’s a guard on the road, stupid!”

  Larth’s voice was emotionless as he said, “Galt, restrain your apprentice.”

  As all knew quite well, that flat tone was indicative of building rage; Galt did not hesitate to order his underling to shut up.

  When Larth had calmed somewhat, he asked, “How do you know that we can find another entrance unguarded?”

  “I don’t know for certain,” Garth said. “But when I was here before, they guarded only the north; the West Gate opens on a road that leads only to the Yprian Coast, which has reputedly been deserted for centuries, so what need to guard it? Therefore, we will enter through the West Gate. We will reach it by circling wide around, well out of sight and sound of the guard at the North Gate. Now, if we are to reach the market square before dawn we must move onward, so let there be no further debate.” His warbeast, in response to a signal undetectable to the others, strode onward.

  “Very well,” Larth said. It took rather more to get his yackers moving once again, but a moment’s prodding eventually registered with their dim brains and they resumed their plodding and snuffling. Galt and his apprentice were not far behind.

  There was still an hour remaining before first light when the little caravan reached the West Gate—which was, as Garth had expected, unguarded. It was also in such a state of total ruin that only the fading trace of an ancient road leading through the rubble showed where it had been, and it was only under protest that the yackers could be compelled to make their way across the j
agged bits of broken stone. Garth’s warbeast paid this minor inconvenience no heed whatsoever.

  Once inside the wall there was little immediate improvement in their surroundings. On either side of the road stood nothing but ruins. Gaping holes half-filled with rubble showed where cellars had been of old, sometimes rimmed with uneven remnants of walls of stone or wood or plaster, and between these pits were the broken pieces of buildings that had had no cellars and now lay in heaps upon bare earth.

  Galt commented, in a careful whisper, “Hardly the awesome fortress that our ancestors described.”

  Larth, in a rather less cautious mutter, replied, “Who can tell in this darkness? It looks deserted; Garth, are you sure this is Skelleth?”

  “Yes, I’m sure; only the central portion is still inhabited. When the wars ended so did the town’s reason for existence, and so did the supply trains from the south that kept it going. It’s been slowly dying ever since. That’s why I think the people will welcome trade, even if it’s with overmen.”

  “I hope so.” Larth’s voice sank into an incoherent mumble.

  The party moved on, and around them the buildings became less ruinous; on either side stood sagging, abandoned houses and shops—derelict, but still upright. Rotting shutters hung from bent hinges; broken doors stood open, revealing only blackness. Then, as they approached the surviving center, more and more doors were closed, even barred, and fewer shutters missing or broken. Before too long the only openings on either side were other streets, rather than empty lots where buildings had been razed or had fallen in. Everything was dark, however; the people of Skelleth were clearly all still abed.

  Finally the street debouched into the market square that occupied the town’s exact center; it, too, was dark, silent, and empty. Garth was pleased to see that the Baron’s mansion, which occupied the entire north side of the square, was as dark as any other building. He stopped his warbeast in the center of the market and motioned for Galt to join him. When Galt obeyed, he whispered. “This is the place, trader; that is the seat of the local government. Where would you suggest we set up?”

  Galt studied the square carefully, and finally pointed to the southeast corner. “That looks good.”

  Garth nodded. “Then you three set up there. It occurs to me that a warbeast will not be a welcome sight in Skelleth, and I am going to put Koros and my weapons somewhere out of sight. I would suggest that you do the same with the yackers; just tie them up in an alley somewhere, where they won’t upset the merchants. Koros, I think, had best go somewhere further out; I’ll find a ruin somewhere on the West Road.”

  “As you wish.”

  “I’ll be right back. Just remember, keep it peaceful.”

  Galt nodded. Garth turned and rode back along the route they had just come, while the others made their way to the southeast corner of the market and dismounted, stiff from their long ride.

  Galt studied the location with a practiced eye, then indicated a spot in front of a tightly shuttered shop, just beside the mouth of a narrow street. His apprentice immediately hauled a bundle off one of the yackers and began spreading blankets on the ground designated. Larth stood nearby, peering apprehensively about in the gloom, and Galt found himself grateful that Garth had made sure the party was unarmed; Larth was plainly nervous enough to have drawn sword at the slightest sound, which would simply not do.

  Of course, that was Larth. He himself was not so easily bothered, nor so easily commanded. The dagger in his boot was simply a sensible precaution, and none of Garth’s business.

  Leaving Larth to his anxiety, he began hauling bundles off yackers. In a matter of moments the ugly beasts were unburdened. Galt whispered to his apprentice, “Tand, you start spreading out our wares. Get Larth to help you if you can, but don’t start an argument. I’ll be back in a moment.”

  He gathered up the lead ropes from the six harnesses and began coaxing the yackers down the narrow street, out of the market. The beasts were not actively uncooperative, but it was still difficult to manage all six of them, so that he was several minutes at the task.

  Finally he managed to get them arranged in a circle, their lead ropes tied together. Although they could still move about, they were far too stupid to move all in the same direction; this arrangement should keep them more or less in the same place for quite some time. It did block the street, but Galt hoped that wouldn’t matter much. It didn’t look like a major thoroughfare. Besides, that meant that the overmen could not be taken from behind by enemies coming up this street; even if they got past the yackers, the inevitable noise would serve as a warning.

  The yackers were a new problem for him. Though he was a master trader, all his previous experience had been gained on expeditions to Lagur, since that was the only place the overmen of the Northern Waste currently traded. There were no yackers used on such expeditions, since all trade with Lagur went by sea.

  Once the beasts were taken care of, he returned to the square. He could hear the sounds of furs being unpacked; either Tand was working incredibly fast, or he had gotten Larth to help him, judging by the noise.

  Then, just as he was about to turn the corner into the market, the sounds stopped abruptly. So did he. Something was happening, obviously. Peaceful, peaceful, he reminded himself; he fixed his most nearly human smile upon his face and strolled forward as casually as he could.

  Larth and Tand knelt motionless amid heaps of furs and carved whalebone, staring off to their right. Following their gaze he saw a ragged human farmer, pulling a rickety cart half-full of squash, standing motionless in a street opening into the eastern end of the market. The farmer’s mouth hung open and his eyes were wide, the whites palely visible in the first light of morning—light which had crept up while Galt was securing the yackers without his noticing it. It appeared very much as if this man had never seen an overman before, and quite possibly he hadn’t. Larth and Tand were also staring, and it occurred to Galt that it might well be that neither of them had ever seen a human being before.

  This, Galt knew, was the decisive moment. Secrecy was gone. Now, if their mission was to succeed, they needed to convince the humans that there was nothing out of the ordinary about overmen trading in their marketplace. Garth had hired him as an expert on dealing with humans, and he knew that humans could be convinced of anything if only approached properly.

  He waved gaily, broadened his smile, and called, “Greetings, good sir! Would you care to see our wares?”

  The man turned his gaze from the others to Galt, but his mouth remained open and his eyes wide.

  Galt gestured at the heaps of trade goods. “We have fine furs, such as are rarely seen in these lands; we have fine carved implements of use in any home. Come and look, friend!”

  The man’s mouth slowly closed. He swallowed, and looked back and forth between the overmen. His eyes roved around the market square and found no one else and nothing out of the ordinary—except the party of overmen. Galt judged him to be recovered from his shock and considering the situation. He would not turn and run, because that would mean abandoning his cart; it had been a stroke of luck that the first human to find them had been so encumbered. He had two sensible options; he could behave as if the overmen belonged there, or he could raise an alarm. It was Galt’s job to convince him the former was the better course.

  Still smiling, he called, “It costs nothing to look, sir, and should something catch your eye, our prices are reasonable.” They certainly were! This trip was not expected to make a profit, nor break even, but only to establish an opening; accordingly, he and Garth had agreed that they would refuse no serious offer—though they would haggle, of course; that was expected, and suspicion would be aroused if they did not—and would even give away goods free if it seemed advisable. “If you haven’t brought any money, we might trade for those fine vegetables.”

  That decided him. The man found his voice and called, “Wait a moment, and I’ll come look.” He began moving again, wheeling his creaking cart into
the square.

  As he did, a shuttered window in the second story of the building the overmen had chosen to set up in front of opened, and a head was thrust out. “What’s all the yelling? It’s not yet dawn!”

  Galt doffed his hat politely and called up, “My apologies, good lady; it was thoughtless of me to bellow so.”

  The head, which was indeed female—Galt hadn’t been completely certain—turned to look at him. There was a moment of silence save for the creaking of cart wheels as the farmer positioned his wares. Then the woman asked, conversationally but in an unsteady voice, “You’re an overman, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, good lady, my companions and myself are overmen, come to trade peacefully. We have fine furs and jewelry that would surely please one as lovely as yourself; Tand, hold up that white fox for the lady.”

  Tand was still motionless with surprise, but picked up his cue with only the briefest hesitation and stood, displaying an excellent fur.

  The woman noticed Larth and Tand for the first time but paid them little heed, looking instead at the stacks of furs. There was a pause, and then she said, “I’ll be right down.” Her head vanished from the window, and Galt’s false smile relaxed into a genuine one. The danger was past. They had been accepted.

  When Garth returned several minutes later he found a small crowd clustered around his companions, bickering cheerfully over quality and price.

  Chapter Two

  Garth glanced apprehensively at the door to the Baron’s mansion as it swung open for the first time that morning. So far whatever gods there might be had smiled upon his little caravan; they had had no trouble on the road from Ordunin, nor with the merchants and farmers who had so far entered the market. The reactions of the villagers to a quartet of overmen sitting calmly in their midst amid displays of furs and carved whalebone had varied from simple acceptance to astonishment and horror—which could usually be soothed by a few quiet words and perhaps a gold coin or two. The fact that those already there appeared unconcerned had been a major factor in preventing general alarm or even a riot.