The Seven Altars of Dusarra

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  Whatever ashes might remain would not be particularly noticeable in the accumulation of dust and debris in the bottom of the trough, and the bloodstains would certainly not be recognizable; the matter was dealt with. He rose, and started toward the arch.

  Before he was halfway down the yard he heard voices approaching; before he was more than a pace or two past Koros’ stall four figures appeared, not merely passing by on the street but coming through the arch toward him. He stopped.

  Two of the four were the two boys; a third was the girl who had taken him to Tema’s temple, and the fourth was a large man, clad in the usual Dûsarran robe, black in this instance, but belted about the waist and with a long, straight sword and sheath hanging from that belt.

  “Greetings.” Garth spoke politely.

  “Greetings, stranger.” The foursome stopped, a few feet into the yard. Garth nodded, then started walking again, as if to pass them by and depart.

  “Wait, stranger.” The man’s hand fell to the hilt of his sword. Garth stopped again. The man kept his gaze on the overman as he asked his companions, “Is he the one?”

  Both boys replied, “Yes.” The girl said nothing.

  “Mernalla?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  “Could it have been he?”

  “No ... no, it couldn’t. The man was shorter, with a higher voice, and he wore a dirty brown robe.”

  “You said he was tall.”

  “For a man, yes.”

  Garth interrupted, “Might I ask, sir, why you are interested in me?”

  “We’re looking for a murderer.”

  “What has that to do with me?”

  “You are an armed stranger; naturally, that makes you suspect.”

  “I suppose it does. When was this murder done? I only arrived in Dûsarra last night.”

  “A priest was slain early this morning.”

  “A priest? Could it not have been an internal matter?”

  “The priests of Tema do not kill their own.”

  “Then perhaps some rival cult is responsible?”

  The man started to reply, then stopped himself. The girl looked at him as he considered the suggestion, while the two boys continued to stare at Garth. At last, after a long pause, he said, “You have a good point. It could have been them. It could well have been.”

  Garth was pleased to see that the man was accepting his decoy so readily. “After all,” he said, “what cause could a stranger have to commit such a sacrilege? I am in Dûsarra to obtain some goods for my employer; what have I to do with temples, or with murders?”

  “Nothing, I am sure.” The man smiled. “My apologies for detaining you.” He stepped aside, making room for Garth to pass.

  One of the boys demanded belligerently, “What have you got that sword for, if you’re a trader?”

  “What?” Garth looked at his waist in feigned surprise. “Oh. Just habit, I assure you; an adventurer such as myself is accustomed to traveling armed.”

  The man swatted the boy on the shoulder and said, “Come now, there’s no law against wearing a sword, else I’d be a criminal myself. From what I hear, traveling the Yprian Coast without a good blade is akin to suicide.” He smiled at Garth again.

  Garth smiled back, unenthusiastically, and moved on past the foursome. He turned into the adjacent tavern and found himself an unoccupied table. The swordsman’s final comment was bothering him. Why should the fellow assume that Garth had come by way of the Yprian Coast? Why was no one particularly surprised at the presence of an overman in Dûsarra?

  Could it be that other overmen came to this city? Could there be an established trade route through the Yprian Coast?

  A middle-aged man took his order for a meal and a drink.

  If any overmen had come here from the Northern Waste, he should have heard of it; he was, after all, high in the councils at Ordunin, to which all his people swore allegiance. Perhaps there were renegades, along the western shores of the Waste?

  His ale arrived, and the innkeeper assured him that his food would soon follow.

  Another possibility finally struck him; could there be overmen living outside the Waste? On the Yprian Coast itself, perhaps? That explanation worked quite well; should such overmen exist, Dûsarra would be a natural place for them to trade with Nekutta and the other southern lands. The map showed the coastal plain lying just the other side of this volcanic mountain range; although the road across the mountains would most likely be rougher traveling than the routes east into Eramma, the Yprians, if they existed, would probably not dare to venture into Eramma. The overmen of the Northern Waste had not dared to do so for three centuries; the bitter memories of the Racial Wars had kept them out as effectively as any physical barrier.

  Likewise, the northerners had never ventured to the west, across the Gulf of Ypri; their histories taught that the western lands were empty and desolate. Undoubtedly, the Yprians were taught that the Northern Waste was an uninhabited wasteland, as it actually had been until three hundred and fifty years ago.

  This was a matter that would bear investigation when he returned home; he considered abandoning his quest and leaving Dûsarra immediately. He could drop off his one piece of booty with the Forgotten King in Skelleth on the way...

  No, he couldn’t. He could not return to Ordunin yet; he was still bound by his oath. Nor could he reenter Skelleth without first going to Ordunin; the Baron would not tolerate that. He could perhaps sneak into the village, but to skulk about thus, and to bring only one of the items he had been sent for...

  No, his pride would not allow that. He would complete his task here in Dûsarra first.

  The innkeeper was at his elbow, setting a plate heaped with steaming mutton and those vegetables—potatoes?—before him. He pulled a gold coin from the pouch on his belt and said, “Is there a room available?”

  “Oh, yes; my lord. I’ll fetch the key.” He took the proffered coin and vanished again.

  There were six temples remaining; if he recalled the girl’s words correctly, one of them was as nocturnal as Tema’s, and inasmuch as it would be dark by the time he finished his meal, that would be his next target. The worshippers of darkness, of course; the god with two names. Andhur something. That was the one.

  Time enough to find it later; he turned his attention to the food. The mutton was excellent.

  Chapter Ten

  The temple of darkness was a huge black pyramid, topped by a small dome that replaced the apex, and surrounded by a wide, empty plaza paved with basalt. Upon receiving directions from a passing Dûsarran, he had had no trouble at all in finding it; it stood near the center of the city, and several broad streets ended at the stone plaza.

  Unlike the temple of Tema, this structure had no imposing tower, no vast open doorway; it was stark and simple, completely unornamented, and the only entry Garth could see was a single small door in the center of one side of the broad base. There were no steps; it opened directly onto the plaza.

  The whole area seemed deserted; only a very few pedestrians made their way around the perimeter of the pavement, moving from one street to the next. None approached the temple. Perhaps, Garth thought, it was because the twilight still lingered; the western sky was still rosy, though overhead the sky was dark indigo, and in the east it was almost black and sprinkled with stars.

  He still couldn’t recall the god’s second name; he had merely inquired after the temple of darkness, which had been sufficient.

  Even if the god’s devotees thought it too early, Garth was impatient; he crossed to the door, and found it open. Inside he could see nothing but darkness; that was to be expected. Cautiously, he stepped inside.

  He was in a small antechamber, scarcely ten feet across; enough light trickled in from the door behind him to show him that. Another door was in the center of the opposite wall; there was no other opening in the bare stone. With a shrug, he crossed the room and tried the inner door.

  It was unlocked, bu
t held with a simple latch; he pressed the latch button, but before he could pull on the handle a sound behind him startled him into releasing it.

  The door to the outside had slammed shut when he squeezed the latch, which perhaps wasn’t as simple as he had thought; apparently there were mechanisms to make sure no light was permitted beyond this chamber. He was now surrounded by total blackness, a darkness so complete that his eyes could not adjust no matter how long he waited. He could not see his hand in front of his face, he discovered. By feel, he found the handle of the inner door once more, and swung the portal open.

  The darkness beyond was just as total; cautiously, he stepped through.

  With arms outstretched before him, he took a second step; his fingers struck stone. He turned right; another step, and again he hit stone. Turning full about, he tried the one remaining direction, and again encountered a wall.

  He stopped. Had he walked into a closet?

  There was a rustle of garments; he could not identify the exact direction from which the sound came. He listened more closely, and made out the faint sound of breathing. Someone was in this tiny room with him.

  “Is someone there?” he asked.

  “Who are you?” The voice was soft and hissing.

  “I am but a curious stranger. What is this place?”

  “This is the central shrine of Andhur Regvos, Lord of Darkness and Master of the Blind. Why have you come here?”

  “I was curious, good sir.”

  “Is it the custom in your land to enter holy places unhidden?”

  “I was unaware of your temple’s nature; I meant no harm.”

  “Very well; then you may depart in peace.”

  “Sir, are you a priest of this temple?”

  “I am.”

  “Could you, perhaps, permit me to stay? I am as yet uncommitted to the worship of any god, and I would learn more of your cult, for I may want to pursue your creed.”

  The priest said nothing for a long moment, and Garth wished he could see the man’s face. Finally, the priest replied, “I know no reason this should not be; though I doubt very much if you will choose to follow the path of Regvos, I have no desire to turn away a seeker of truth, even one as casual as yourself. Give me your hand.”

  Garth held out his hand, and almost immediately felt a bony grip upon it; he wondered if the priest had some magical means of seeing in the dark. He said nothing as he was led through a door he would have sworn was not there a moment ago when he felt the wall. Beyond, he judged that he and the priest were passing through a narrow corridor; it turned and twisted unmercifully, doubling back on itself, turning at unexpected angles, and generally giving the impression of being designed to confuse. Garth held out his free hand to avoid collisions with walls and pillars, and discovered by so doing that they were passing by several branching corridors; they were winding their way through a maze, there could be little doubt. Garth became disoriented, despite his best efforts, and was astonished when a final turn left them standing in a room he judged to be quite sizable, from the echoes and the feel of the air, where he would have expected the blank outer wall of the temple to be.

  The priest released something, and Garth felt a heavy velvet curtain fall upon him; he stepped forward and it slid behind him, closing off the winding passages from the chamber he now stood in.

  “Have you a tinderbox, or other agent of light?”

  The priest’s voice distracted Garth from his attempt to estimate the size of the chamber; he admitted, “Yes, I do.”

  “Such are not permitted here; surrender it, please.”

  Reluctantly, Garth took the pouch containing flint, steel, and tinder from his belt and handed it over.

  “Thank you. Now, I must return to my duties; I leave you to contemplate the darkness. Another will be with you, in time.” The priest’s hands were gone; Garth heard three footsteps, and then, without so much as a rustle of garments, the priest was gone. Garth could hear nothing of him; no breathing, no heartbeat, no movement.

  Unsettled, he took a few tentative steps forward; gauging the echoes of his boots on the stone floor, he judged the room he was in to be very large indeed, though not as immense as that under the dome of Tema’s shrine. The air was chilly; he could feel that even through his armor and padding.

  This was, then, most likely the temple sanctuary. Altar and idol would be in this chamber, somewhere—if they existed. It occurred to him that there was no need of an idol, to the god of darkness when this chamber was full of the presence of the god himself. Even an altar might be thought unnecessary; how would he explain that eventuality to the Forgotten King?

  Before he started worrying about that, he told himself, he should be sure it was the case. Arms outstretched, he took another few steps. Nothing there.

  A voice suddenly spoke, not a dozen feet away.

  “Greetings, stranger. Welcome to the shrine of Andhur Regvos. I am told you seek instruction; the best instruction is the darkness itself.”

  “What?” Garth realized his response was scarcely diplomatic, but it escaped him before he could control it.

  “The best proof of our faith is felt in the darkness; do you not feel it? In this absolute darkness, do you not feel the sensation of supernatural presence? Does not a subtle fear, a certain respect, find its way into your heart?”

  “I ... I am not sure.”

  “That very uncertainty is a sign of the awe that our lord inspires; you, an unbeliever, feel only the lightest touch of his power. You have known only Andhur, the darkness that passes; before entering this shrine, you have most likely never even known what full darkness was like, for in the outside world the light creeps in everywhere, continuing the eternal battle. Here, though, is the fortress of Andhur, where the darkness does not pass, but endures forever. The darkness goes on, though you and others like you may leave and return once again to the light.”

  “You speak of Andhur; I thought your god’s name was Andhur Regvos?”

  “The two names identify the two aspects of the deity; Andhur, the lesser of the two, is that darkness which may be penetrated by light, the darkness that is external. Regvos is internal darkness, that darkness of body and soul which does not pass; you would call it blindness. As darkness comes in many forms—night, shadow, and shade—so does blindness. We, the priests of Andhur Regvos, are seekers after the totality of blindness, as we have, in this temple, achieved the totality of darkness.”

  Garth was becoming confused; this bizarre philosophy was distracting him from his purpose. He suppressed the urge to say he did not understand, for fear of triggering a long explanation. Instead, he said, “And what of your rituals?”

  “Our ceremonies are of no concern to outsiders.”

  “Have you an idol, as do most shrines?”

  “No; what need we with some stone image when the palpable presence of our divinity is all around us?”

  “An altar, then, where the rites are performed?”

  “Yes, we have an altar, only a dozen paces away from you. Fortunately, our god keeps it safe from your defiling gaze. I see that you have not the makings of a worshipper of darkness; you are too concerned with mundanities.”

  “Perhaps you are right. Pardon me, then.” Garth strode on recklessly in the same direction he had headed before, which he believed to be directly toward the center of the chamber; he hoped to locate the altar and remove whatever it held before the priests could do anything to stop him. After all, would not the darkness hinder them, too? True, they lived in it much or all of the time and were fully familiar with the temple, as he was not; still, finding and stopping a thief in utter blackness would not be easy.

  He had gone only eight paces, rather than the dozen the priest had suggested, when his leg struck a low obstruction. He felt about, and decided it was indeed the altar, about three feet high, ten feet long, and perhaps five in width. In its center his groping hands found an object, vaguely spherical and covered with cloth, perhaps a foot in diameter. Ano
ther stone, no doubt, like the one he had taken from the temple of Tema. Curious.

  “Hold! What are you doing?”

  “I merely wished to touch the altar.” He picked up the stone; having no cloak to hide it under, he tucked it under his left arm. It wouldn’t matter that it was visible until he was out of the temple, and in the open streets he would rely on his superior speed to escape.

  He had what he came for, and in the darkness no one would even know it was gone until the ceremonies began. He returned the eight paces to where he had stood before, and said, “My apologies if I startled you.”

  There were rustlings behind him; a new voice spoke. “The stone is gone! He has the stone!”

  Garth growled, wishing he knew an appropriate curse; his people, being atheistic, used none.

  Suddenly there were rustlings on all sides; there were priests all around him. Had they been there all along?

  “Return the stone to its place, defiler.” The voice was that of his instructor, but lower, more authoritative in tone.

  Garth ignored it; if he spoke it would only help them to locate him. He crept toward the entrance.

  A dozen hands clutched at him; fingers curled around his wrist.

  With a bellow, Garth leapt back and drew his sword, keeping his left arm firmly around his prize.

  “Away!” he shouted.

  “No, desecrator; you must return the stone.”

  “I have no wish to harm you, but I will if I must.”

  “Yes, thief, we heard you draw your sword; but can you use your blade in the dark? There are many of us and but one of you. We can find you, for we have lived all our lives in darkness, but how can you find us? Here, of all the world, the blind rule and the sighted serve.”

  Garth slashed out blindly with his sword, but hit nothing. Again, unseen hands clutched at him; he tore free, and slashed again. He wished he had not so willingly surrendered the flint and steel that had been his only means of making light; if he could see, he would have the advantage.