The Seven Altars of Dusarra

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  Garth had no intention of going back to Ordunin under the present circumstances; another annoyance to be credited to the Baron. He would have said as much, and explained the entire situation to his companions, had Herrenmer not been so close at hand, spying for his master.

  He stood for a moment longer but thought of nothing more worth saying, and neither Larth nor Tand volunteered any more questions; then he spun on his heel and strode off toward the King’s Inn at a pace that left Herrenmer half-running after him.

  At first he did not seek out the Forgotten King’s table, but merely sat alone near the front window, gazing out at the garbage that lined the alley and the back wall of the Baron’s mansion while he poured mug after mug of good cold ale down his throat. Herrenmer attempted to sit at the same table, but Garth picked him up by the neck with one hand and forcibly seated him elsewhere, despite his protests. The captain did not care to argue further, and instead sat where he had been placed, glowering at the overman. He was joined by Saram, who had still been at the shadowy table in the back corner, and the two men discussed that morning’s events, Herrenmer providing the facts of the overman’s audience with the Baron while Saram embellished them with comments on the Baron’s crafty nature and underlying insanity, and the probable benefits of allowing northern gold into the village.

  It was well after noon when Garth finally made his decision; he would not undertake to swear his allegiance to any master, but he had no doubt that the Forgotten King’s service would be less galling than that of the Baron. He would, accordingly, arrange a new bargain with the old man, the fulfillment of which would undoubtedly take him off to some foreign realm and provide him with something to do other than return to Ordunin. Something might come up that would show him a satisfactory solution to his current quandary.

  As time had slipped past, sunlight had crept across the floor and slanted into the depths of the fireplace in the eastern wall, and several other patrons had drifted in, to find themselves congenial company and comfortable seats or merely to drink a pint and drift out once again. Garth paid none of them any heed as he rose and made his way to the corner where the old man still sat, unmoving, as if mere seconds had passed since the overman had departed, and not half a day.

  Herrenmer saw his charge rise, and rose himself to follow. He found, to his astonishment, that his feet refused to obey him; he could stand, and move freely to either side, but when he attempted to take a step toward the overman’s retreating form, it was as if his boots were glued to the floor’s ancient planking.

  He stared at Garth’s back, then looked beyond to the yellow-cowled figure that sat, still unmoving, in the corner. A tattered edge of the old man’s hood flapped, though there was no wind in the tavern, nor any open door or window that might admit a breeze; Herrenmer caught a glimpse of light glinting from a hidden eye. He could not see the eye itself, but only that single fleeting sparkle in the shadowed socket; he felt a chill sweep him from head to toe, and he told himself that he really had no interest in approaching the strange old fellow. He reseated himself at his table; after all, he reassured himself, there was only the one door. He could keep an eye on Garth perfectly well from where he was, and need not worry about him slipping out another way.

  An involuntary shudder ran through him, and he decided that he would just as soon not even watch the overman’s conversation; he would watch the door. He turned his attention back to Saram, who had watched the whole brief byplay with intense interest, but now resumed regaling his former superior with the unlikely tale about his current mistress that Garth’s move had interrupted.

  Neither Saram nor Herrenmer noticed that someone else had also observed the captain’s curious hesitation, and now watched with interest the overman’s conversation with the mysterious yellow-clad figure. A dour old man wearing clothes the color of drying blood, this observer sat near the fireplace, ostensibly drinking his luncheon; his eyes, however, flicked swiftly about, missing nothing that happened in the taproom, but always returning to the mismatched pair in the back corner, their conversation just within range of his hearing.

  Garth himself was oblivious to the whole thing; he had been facing the wrong direction. He seated himself across from the Forgotten King and gazed for a moment at the ragged hood that shaded the ancient face; its color was scarcely visible in the sheltered gloom, and the overman wondered how yellow could look so dark. From where he sat he saw no motion, no glint of light, but only shadows and the old man’s wispy beard trailing from his withered chin.

  “Greetings, O King,” he said.

  “Greetings, Garth.” As always, the hideous voice was an unpleasant surprise.

  “I have considered your proposed bargain.”

  The old man made no reply, but Garth thought he might have nodded slightly.

  “I would know more about what services you would require of me.”

  There was a contemplative silence for a few seconds, then the old man replied, “I require certain items. I do not at present recall exactly which.”

  Garth, not yet over his anger at the Baron, felt a twinge of annoyance at the old man’s vague reply. “Listen, I do not care to waste my time prying words from you. I will not bind myself to your service, but at present I seek a way to divert myself while I consider what manner of reply to make to your Baron of Skelleth. What are these items, and where are they to be found? Would you have me fetch them?”

  The King was again silent for a moment, and Garth’s irritation grew; finally, the old man said, “You are to bring me whatsoever you find upon the seven high altars of the seven temples in Dûsarra.”

  “Dûsarra?” The name was unfamiliar.

  “A city in Nekutta, far to the west.”

  “And will I find upon these altars that which you need for your mysterious cosmic purpose?”

  “You will find the solution to your problems with Doran of Skelleth; let that suffice for the present.”

  “What? Will one of these altar objects provide some magical means of dealing with that madman? You are being deliberately vague.”

  The old man shrugged.

  Garth sat for a long moment, thinking. It was plain that he would coax no further explanation out of the Forgotten King, and the task set was exasperatingly cryptic. Still, such a quest would undoubtedly be an interesting diversion, and the old man had said it would provide a solution to his problems—presumably some means of coercing the Baron into behaving reasonably, or else a means of carrying out a satisfactory vengeance without destroying the fledgling trade. He had never caught the old man in an actual lie, and there could be no doubt he had knowledge beyond what was natural.

  And what else was he to do? He could not return to Ordunin under the present circumstances. Until he could come up with some way out of his oath to the Baron he had nothing better to do and nowhere better to go. Running some fool errand halfway across the world would be a welcome distraction. That was all he had expected until the King had made his final statement, and he had thought it sufficient; the old man’s words, curious as they were, could only make it more tempting.

  However, they also somehow made Garth uneasy.

  “I will do it,” he said. “I will find this city you speak of, and rob these seven altars, and we will see whether my problems are solved thereby.”

  The Forgotten King smiled behind his beard.

  Beside the fireplace, the old man wearing dark red nodded to himself.

  Three days later, in a windowless chamber bright with golden tapestries and gleaming lamps somewhere in the black-walled city of Dûsarra, the high priest of Aghad sat, sipping bitter red wine and studying an ancient text. With a rustle of draperies and robes one of his subordinates entered, and stood waiting until such time as her exalted master should deign to notice her.

  The wait was brief; the high priest lowered his book and demanded, “Yes, child?”

  “Darsen of Skelleth sends a message.” The underling held up a narrow strip of parchment such as could be
wrapped on the leg of a carrier pigeon.

  The high priest held out his hand, and the acolyte surrendered the note. He read it, then crushed it in one great brown hand.

  “We must see this prospective visitor. Go tell Haggat to ready his scrying glass.”

  The acolyte bowed and vanished through the curtains with another swift rustle; the high priest picked up his book once again, glanced at the page, placed a thin strip of embroidered velvet upon it to serve as a bookmark, then closed it and slid it onto a shelf beside a dozen others.

  Fifteen minutes later the priest strode into another windowless room; this one was draped in black and deep red, its somber gloom scarcely softened by the light of a single immense candle. A plump middle-aged man in a loose black robe stood within, holding a great crystal sphere in his hands; the acolyte knelt beside him, her face hidden in the shadow of her hood.

  “She has told you what I wish to see?”

  The man nodded, and held out the sphere.

  The high priest reached out and took it; he cradled it in his hands and gazed into it. The other two maintained a complete silence.

  Deep within the globe’s interior, the flickering reflection of the single candle’s flame twisted and shaped itself into the form of a sunlit path, a narrow road through grassy countryside; as the high priest watched a figure appeared, riding down this golden strip of light. Mounted on a huge catlike black beast, clad in helmet, breastplate, and flowing brown cloak, the figure was that of a red-eyed overman.

  The priest studied this vision for long minutes, then handed the sphere back to its master.

  “This overman may be useful, perhaps very useful indeed. You, Haggat, will inform me of everything you can learn relating to him. You may have this acolyte as your personal property, to aid you in this and as your reward. Understood?”

  The man nodded; one hand fell and pulled aside the acolyte’s hood, then stroked her night-black hair possessively. The other hand balanced the crystal sphere, which flashed and glittered strangely. Despite the dim and uneven light, fear was plain on the girl’s face as she looked up at her new master.

  The high priest turned and left, thinking intently; although not the focus of his contemplation, he found himself aware that he considered Haggat to be very pleasant company. A man with his tongue cut out could not chatter on aimlessly as so many did.

  He pulled his mind away from such distractions, and considered seriously what would be done with this thieving impertinent overman.

  Chapter Four

  The sun was sailing low in the western sky, as vividly red as Garth’s eyes, turning the narrow wisps of cloud into a ruddy web of light and shadow. The overman admired the uncanny beauty of the scene; the colors seemed brighter, more fiery, than the sunsets of the Northern Waste. He mused as to why this should be so.

  His mount seemed unimpressed. It kept its head low, its catlike ears spread, clearly displeased with its surroundings. Garth could hear, very faintly, the crunching of volcanic cinders beneath the warbeast’s huge soft paws, a rather remarkable circumstance. Ordinarily the beast moved as quietly as any lesser feline, its padded feet as silent as the moon.

  No wonder, then, that it disliked this strange new country! The sound of its own footsteps was alien, a constant reminder that it was far from home and all things familiar.

  Ahead of them, dead black against the crimson-flushed western sky, there reared up yet another mountain range. Already in the fortnight’s journey from Skelleth they had crossed one chain, the highest and most rugged Garth had ever seen, through a narrow pass, and made a detour around the southern end of another, lesser range. Now they were approaching a third such barrier, this one actively volcanic, as evidenced by the red-lit smoke that twined across the sunset clouds, and by the thin coating of fresh ash and cinder that lay across the countryside, clear proof that there had recently been a minor eruption.

  According to the rough map the Forgotten King had provided, his goal, the city of Dûsarra, lay somewhere in the foothills of this range, but as yet he saw no sign of it. He wondered that people would live in such a land, with the shadow of fiery destruction looming over them, but there was no question that they did; for some time now the road he traveled had wound through farmland, elaborately irrigated and lush with unfamiliar crops. He had noticed that the farmers’ houses were all roofed with tile or tin, rather than the more customary thatch; plainly, straw was too easily set ablaze by vagrant sparks drifting on the breeze that blew steadily down from the mountains, a warm, dry wind that brought with it strange new odors, scents he had never known before.

  He had come this far without incident, which pleased him. After agreeing to undertake this journey it had been a matter of an hour or so to obtain an assortment of bags and pouches, to carry whatever he might find, and a week’s supply of food and water, which he had augmented on the road by hunting and minor thefts from untended fields and wells. Thus equipped, he had allowed himself to be escorted out the North Gate, whereupon he circled around to the West Gate, where he had retrieved Koros and his weapons and other supplies. He had then circled further, to the southwestern highway, a branch of which he was still following. Unlike his previous quest in the Forgotten King’s service, which had led across barren, deserted lands inhabited only by barbaric little tribes, this journey had wound through league after league of settled, civilized countryside, more than he had known to exist upon the face of the world; he had dodged a double dozen of villages, and given a wide berth to a huge walled city indicated on the old man’s map as Ur-Dormulk, all before even crossing the first mountains that marked the border between Eramma and Nekutta. Five times now he had set Koros free at night so that the warbeast could hunt its own food, and each time he had worried that it might not be able to find any meat to its liking except human flesh in the form of sleeping farmers, as there was not much wildlife to be found in such thickly-settled regions. Fortunately, Koros seemed to have managed, preying on stray goats and sheep when nothing else was available; Garth was grateful that it remained true to its training and avoided killing anything humanoid—when it could be avoided. It had, on occasion, eaten people when nothing else edible could be found, and it had eaten those it happened to kill in self-defense, but as a rule it knew not to.

  It was an extremely useful animal, the finest product of a thousand years of selective breeding and magical shaping, but its voracious appetite could be very inconvenient. Ordinarily it was supremely obedient, but its loyalty decreased as its hunger increased, and Garth knew that five days without food, as opposed to the usual three days it went between meals, would render it willing to devour anything that moved, including its master.

  It had fed last night on a pair of plump goats, and usually when recently fed it was as placid as a pampered housecat; today, though, the harsh landscape and crunching cinders seemed to upset it, and it growled softly, low in its throat, as a new twist of smoke drifted up the western sky.

  Garth watched the smoke, and suddenly realized it had risen from a point between peaks; he stared at the jagged black shapes and thought he made out the curve of a dome amid the irregular constructions of nature. The shadows still obscured all color and detail, but the longer he looked the more convinced he became that there was, in fact, at least one man-made structure in these somber hills. He called the word that Koros recognized as a command to halt, as even the smooth grace of the warbeast’s stride jogged him sufficiently to make it difficult to focus at so great a distance.

  Yes, there was something there. He could not be sure what, as the sun was now slipping below the highest peaks, making it harder than ever to distinguish anything. He looked about, to rest his eyes, and noticed a farmer, a hundred yards away, leaning on a hoe and studying the overman and warbeast.

  “Ho! Farmer!” he called.

  The man did not move.

  “Come here! I would speak with you!” He motioned.

  The farmer looked about, as if to see if the overman meant someone els
e, though there was no other living being in sight, only the man’s own twenty acres and the empty road stretching away in either direction. Then he shrugged and came, dragging his hoe casually, to stand a dozen yards away.

  “Farmer, is that Dûsarra?” Garth pointed at the spot where he had seen the dome.

  The farmer followed the direction of the pointing finger and said, “I suppose it is.” His accent was strange to Garth, harsh and guttural, but his words were plain enough.

  “How far is it?”

  The farmer shrugged. “Couldn’t say. You’re an overman, I know, but what is that you’re riding?” He studied Koros closely, from the glittering three-inch fangs in its jaw to the tip of its lashing tail, and from its glossy black-furred shoulder to its huge padded paws. A good eighteen feet long, the monster resembled nothing so much as an overgrown panther, though proportioned differently in order to support its greater bulk. It had a cat’s golden slit eyes and triangular ears, stubby black whiskers on its muzzle, and a long slender tail. No panther had such fangs, though, and both legs and face seemed oddly elongated; it stood nearly as tall as the farmer himself. Pure black throughout, with no touch of color nor single gray hair, its muscles rippled smoothly under its fur; it clearly had no trouble at all in carrying the full weight of the armored overman and his supplies.

  “It is a warbeast.”

  Koros growled.

  The farmer suddenly seemed less sure of himself. He had assumed that any animal that served as a beast of burden, however formidable it might appear, must be docile and harmless—but no peaceful ox nor temperamental cart-goat ever made a noise like that. He thought better of previous actions, and said, “Dûsarra is ten leagues distant, my lord, along this same road, three leagues past the crossroads at Weideth.”