The Seven Altars of Dusarra

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  Garth made no answer for a long moment, and the priest said nothing, apparently granting the thief time to consider the hopelessness of his position. The overman, however, was not considering options or the lack thereof, but rather was noticing that he could distinguish, very faintly, the outline of a lone figure a dozen feet in front of him. This was not the result of any adjustment; his eyes had long been at their extreme of sensivity. No, there was new light filtering in, the first dim gray of approaching dawn. That reminded him how long it had been since he last slept, and he suddenly felt weary even as he considered how the growing light would work to his advantage. The priests were undoubtedly accustomed to living almost entirely in darkness; they would not do well outside their temple in daylight, if he could once get out into the streets.

  He wondered if the priest could see him at all; the light was not evenly distributed. Further, was he aware that he, himself, was visible? And it was now apparent that the priest was alone. Probably the lone man had been making a final inspection round of some sort, and tried to bluff out the intruder; unfortunately for him, his bluff was now ruined.

  Knowing that he faced a single opponent, Garth finally struck upon a scheme.

  “If I hand you the crystal, will you then open the door and let me go, unpursued?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you swear it, by your goddess?”

  “I swear it, by Tema.”

  “Very well.” With a great show of reluctance, Garth held out the gem with his left hand, purposely extending his arm not directly toward the priest but a little to one side, as if he still could not see where the man was. His sword remained ready in his right hand.

  The priest stepped forward, and carefully lifted the stone, using both hands. He stood for a moment, and Garth demanded, “Now open the door.”

  “Let me return the stone to the altar first.”

  “No! You said you would open the door when I returned the stone.” He lifted his sword as if to slash blindly in front of him; although the light was actually growing steadily, and already permitted him to distinguish such details as the cracks in the floor and the folds of the priest’s robe, he hoped to continue his ruse of blindness a few moments longer. He had no specific reason for it; he was merely snatching every advantage he could, as his training in war and statecraft had taught him.

  “If you insist.” The priest tucked the crystal under one arm and crossed to the wall; his free hand brushed across the black stone surface and caught something Garth could not make out. With a considerable effort, the priest pulled; the section of wall swung open, and gray light poured in. Garth had forgotten that the great portal faced east, but such was the case; and although the sun was still below the horizon, the sky above it was already warmly pink. The spacious antechamber was much less ominous in the cold morning light than it had been by moonlight, merely a large, bare room, with half one wall opening onto a stair to the street.

  Garth smiled with satisfaction. Moving with superhuman speed, he leapt across the few feet separating him from the priest; in scarcely a second from the opening of the door, his sword was at the man’s throat.

  “Now, O priest, you will give me back the stone. I have handed it to you, and you have opened the door; now I will take it again and go, unpursued,”

  “No!”

  “Yes.”

  “You cannot take it!”

  “You will die if you do not give it to me.”

  “My brothers will find you.”

  “What of your oath? You swore I would not be pursued.”

  “No! I swore you would leave unpursued, not that there would be no pursuit after your departure. If you take the altar-stone, the followers of Tema will seek you out, wherever you go.”

  “Perhaps. I will risk it. Now give me the stone, and I will go.”

  “No!”

  “Listen, fool, if you give me the stone I will leave you alive, and you may lead the pursuit; if you force me to kill you, there will be no one who knows who took the stone. It would be to my advantage to slaughter you out of hand, but that is not my wish. Give me the stone and live.”

  “You could kill me anyway.”

  “Why should I wait? Give me the stone!”

  “No! Help! Brothers! Thief, murderer!” The priest began shouting at the top of his lungs. Disgusted, Garth grabbed for the crystal, and got a tenuous hold with the long fingers of his left hand; his superior reach had caught the human by surprise, and the priest’s own grip slipped for an instant. That was all the time Garth needed; he snatched his hand back, the stone clutched as tightly as he could manage. With a scream that echoed and re-echoed from the dome, the priest lunged for it, and automatically, without thinking, without meaning to, Garth reacted as a warrior reacts; he ran the man through, impaling him on his broadsword. Blood spattered the wall behind the priest, and Garth exclaimed in disgust, a wordless noise in his throat.

  There was no doubt that the man was dead, or as good as dead; Garth’s reflexes were as reliable as ever, and if he had not put his blade straight through the heart it had been a very near miss indeed. He had the stone, though. Now he had only to get away with it; the other priests must have heard the shouting, especially that final scream.

  He yanked his sword out of the priest’s body; a good foot of the blade had protruded through the back of the robe, and it took a second pull before it came completely free, allowing the unfortunate man to fall to the floor. His hood fell aside, and for the first time Garth saw his face; a thin, pale face, red eyes wide and glazed in death, mouth gaping and filling with sluggishly flowing blood. Long white hair was flung across his features, tangling with a skimpy white beard; he had been a young man, perhaps only a novice rather than a full priest. Garth was not at all pleased. He had hoped to avoid killing anyone on this errand. He wiped his sword on the hem of the man’s robe and stepped across the corpse into the antechamber, carefully avoiding the spreading pool of blood, then paused for a moment to sheathe his sword.

  There was a cry from behind him; he glanced back and saw nothing but darkness. Nonetheless, he sprinted for the steps.

  More shouts sounded, and something whistled through the air by his ear; disdaining dignity he dove forward, curling into a ball around the stolen altar-stone and rolling down the thirteen steps to the street, where he sprang up and ran, paying little heed at first to direction but merely dodging at random from alley to street to alley. His hood flew back, revealing his inhuman visage, but none of the startled passersby attempted to stop him.

  At last, well after the shouting was lost in the distance, he slowed; he paused in an unoccupied alleyway to restore his obscuring cowl and height-disguising crouch, and hobbled out, doing his best to appear a harmless old man. The altar-stone was under his cloak, hidden by his crouch.

  It took him half an hour to find himself on a street he recognized; from there he made his way to the market place, and thence to the Inn of the Seven Stars. He dared not enter the tavern, as the followers of Tema might find him there; instead he went to Koros’ stall in the adjacent stable. There he decided to take a look at his booty, and pulled the great crystal from under his cloak.

  It sparkled eerily in the morning light; he gazed at it in fascination. It was very beautiful, an intense, cold beauty. He found himself studying its depths raptly, searching for something he could feel there; he had a sensation of being observed, and of unearthly power, as if the night-goddess herself were watching him from within the gem. He was unaware of anything but the gem, and the deep cold gleaming light within; he lost his sense of time, and felt as if he had been looking into the crystalline glow for all eternity, trying to meet the gaze of Tema. A cool stillness, like the air of a clear night, absorbed him, and he knelt utterly motionless.

  With the abruptness of a lightning bolt he felt a warm touch on his face, like a flame on ice; he turned away from it involuntarily, and the spell was broken as the gem ceased to be the center of his direct gaze.

  He bli
nked, and realized he was kneeling foolishly in the straw of the stall holding the stone while Koros nuzzled him curiously, wondering why he did not move.

  He had survived hypnotic spells before, and had a healthy respect for them; he covered the great crystal with straw, being very careful not to look directly at it. The straw would also hide it adequately; no one would be able to come close enough to find it without first disposing of the warbeast. Garth pitied anyone who might attempt such a feat.

  His booty secured, he paused for a moment to decide his next action; he seated himself comfortably on a pile of straw, his mount standing placidly over him. Long before he could reach any decision his fatigue caught up with him, and he slept.

  Chapter Nine

  He awoke slowly, his mind fuzzy; there were voices somewhere nearby. It took him several seconds before he recognized his surroundings as Koros’ stall in the inn’s stable; more seconds passed before he remembered that he had fallen asleep there unintentionally. His neck ached; he had slept with his head propped awkwardly against the side of the stall. He rubbed it absently and listened to the voices.

  There were two of them, both young human males; they were arguing about something, apparently the ownership of some item. A small item, it seemed, since the one who possessed it apparently carried it on his person.

  Garth sat up and looked around; it was daylight, and judging by the shadows either very early or very late. He thought for a moment, calculating the orientation of the stable, and decided that it was late afternoon. He had slept most of the day away, which was probably just as well. He had needed the rest.

  He recalled the events of the night before, and checked to be sure his loot was still secure; it was. He had thought that the crystal was clear, but looking at it in the sunlight—being very careful not to let it trap his attention once again—he saw that it was milky white. Not that it made any difference, he thought; he had no use for the thing. He covered it over with straw again.

  The argument outside was winding down; some sort of compromise had apparently been reached.

  It was none of his concern. He clambered to his feet, promising himself that never again would he sleep wearing mail; every link seemed to have left a permanent impression on his back, despite the quilting underneath and the breastplate on top. Reminded of the breastplate’s presence, he removed it; mail alone should certainly be sufficient for anything he was likely to encounter in the city. He was still wearing his sword as well, he realized when he almost tripped over it.

  Koros growled a greeting, and the voices outside suddenly stopped. Then one asked, “What was that?”

  The other replied, “I don’t know. Dugger said there was some kind of foreign monster in number three, but I figured he was lying as usual.”

  There was a pause. Garth patted the warbeast’s nose, and reached down to his pack for the wire brush he used for cleaning the monster’s ears, which had a habit of picking up burrs and other such unpleasant little items. The first voice spoke again.

  “Should we check?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’m going to look. Come on.”

  “Go look yourself.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “Well, all right. If you want.” There was the sound of footsteps approaching; light footsteps. Definitely young humans, Garth thought, as he stood with brush in hand.

  A moment later two adolescent faces peered over the stall door, and almost immediately vanished again. Garth grinned to himself. Then, slowly, first one face and then the other inched back into sight.

  “Greetings,” Garth said.

  “Uh ... greetings,” said the taller of the two boys.

  “I hope my beast didn’t upset you.”

  “No.” Then, after some hesitation, the lad went on, “You’re an overman, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” There was no point in denying the obvious, since his cloak and hood were lying in disarray on the straw, leaving his noseless, leathery face and black mail in plain sight.

  “Oh.”

  The other boy asked, “What’s that?” pointing timidly at Koros.

  “A warbeast.”

  “Oh.”

  “How’d you get in here? I’ve been here all day.”

  Garth shrugged. “I got in.”

  The boy decided further questions were not in order; instead, he explained, “But I’m supposed to watch the stable and make sure everyone pays their bills.”

  “You needn’t worry; I will pay. I paid the other boy for the first day.”

  “Dugger? Oh.” There was silence for a moment; the two had apparently exhausted their questions for the moment. Garth began cleaning the warbeast’s ears with the brush; there were no burrs or thorns visible, but the creature seemed to enjoy it anyway.

  When the silence seemed to be becoming uncomfortable, he asked, “What’s the news today? I have been busy since dawn.”

  “Oh! Then you haven’t heard! Someone murdered a priest in Tema’s temple, and half the city is hunting for him.”

  “Who did it?”

  “No one knows. Mernalla says she took a stranger to the temple last night, an old man with a funny accent, so they’re looking for him, but the priest was killed with a single sword-thrust, so it probably wasn’t anyone old. It must have been a warrior.”

  “Why would anyone kill a priest?”

  “I don’t know; I think there’s some kind of secret about it.” Garth noticed from the corner of his eye that the boy who hadn’t spoken as much was looking at him strangely, paying altogether too much attention to the sword on his belt. The youth suddenly fell back out of sight, and a moment later, apparently in response to a tug, the other followed.

  Inevitable, Garth thought to himself as he put the brush away. Still, there was no proof of any sort against him. No one had seen him clearly. It was interesting that the temple priests had not revealed the loss of the altar-stone.

  Perhaps it would be wise to remove himself from the premises, at least for the present; perhaps he should move Koros, too. He was unfamiliar with the city, though, and hiding places might be hard to come by. This stable was convenient, and as yet there was no real evidence against him; with luck he would not be bothered. He reminded himself to do a proper job of cleaning his sword at the first opportunity.

  He also reminded himself that he had six more temples to rob. Furthermore, since as a stranger he would automatically be under suspicion, the sooner he finished his task and departed the better. Therefore, he should get on with it.

  First, however, he would get himself a meal; he had not eaten since the preceding midnight, more or less, and the sun was now well down the western sky.

  He debated whether or not he should wear his cloak; the boys had not reacted negatively to the presence of an overman, but that said nothing about the reaction of adults. He picked up the garment, and saw to his disgust that there were bloodstains on it; he had not seen them in the dim morning light, as they blended with the brown fabric. There was the evidence to convict him of murder and sacrilege. The cloak would have to be promptly disposed of; he rolled it up and tucked it under his arm, making sure the stains were not in any way visible. He would have to do without it; he hoped that overmen were not utterly abhorred in Dûsarra. To the best of his recollection Nekutta had not fought in the Racial Wars, but of course history had never been his favorite subject of conversation. And even if it had, no word of anything significant had reached the Northern Waste for three centuries; anything could have happened in that time. Still, so far as he knew, no overman had been seen in this part of the world since the wars; the humans would probably be too surprised to do anything much about him.

  Besides, he had no choice. He had only brought the one cloak, since he had planned on a trading journey to Skelleth, not a long adventure. With a word of praise to Koros, he opened the stall door and stepped out into the stableyard.

  The sun was even lower than he had realized, and the western sky a smoke-streaked
expanse of crimson. He could hear the clatter and conversation in the Inn of the Seven Stars, and faintly, in the distance, the sounds of the marketplace; through the archway that was the only connection between the stable and the outside world he glimpsed occasional passersby, hurrying or strolling, striding, ambling, or strutting about their business.

  He had seen little of the stable the night before, for want of proper illumination; he looked about him, hoping to see some convenient place to dispose of the incriminating cloak.

  The yard was a long, narrow strip of bare dirt, with half a dozen large box stalls on either side, built of rough unpainted wood and roofed with red tile. One end was the archway to the street; the other end was a blank gray stone wall. Against the stone wall was a trough, itself carved from the same gray rock, presumably intended for watering whatever beasts of burden used the stable.

  Garth strolled along the yard, peering into the stalls; most were empty, but three contained horses, the creatures that the overmen of the Northern Waste had long considered merely a legend. Garth had encountered such animals once before, far to the east; he had not expected to see them here.

  He considered burying the cloak in the straw that lined the stalls, and rejected it; it was too likely to be found, drawing suspicion on the patrons of the inn, and possibly resulting in the conviction and death of whatever innocent happened to be renting the stall he chose.

  He reached the end of the row of stalls without striking on any better solution, and saw that the stone trough was empty and apparently had been for quite some time; a spider had spun its web across one corner.

  It occurred to him that probably no one had even noticed that the trough was here for years; people became accustomed to their surroundings and forgot the parts that did not concern them. He dropped the bundled cloak into the trough.

  There was still a fair chance that some person—perhaps one of the stable-boys—would find it; but the trough was deep, and the cloak was material that would burn, but not too brightly. The flames would not show, and with luck no one would notice another wisp of smoke in this smoke-shrouded city. He had tinder, flint, and steel in a pouch on his belt, as always; it was a moment’s work to set the garment afire.