It mattered little; he was almost out. He crossed the room, and pulled at the door to the outside.
It refused to yield. He bent to look at the handle, as the last flicker of his torch waned and died. He felt for a latch, but found none.
A possibility occurred to him; he groped his way back across the room and closed the door to the maze entrance, making certain it latched securely.
That done, he returned to the exterior door; this time it opened easily and he stepped out into the plaza, to stand blinking in the bright moonlight.
Chapter Eleven
There was no sign of pursuit; perhaps the priests of Andhur Regvos thought him lost somewhere in their labyrinth.
The plaza was still mostly empty. A few humans wandered about, ignoring him, though he was sure he must be a rather strange sight: an overman emerging from the temple with a bloody sword in one hand and a scorched and blackened dagger in the other, and a great black stone—the cover had twisted out of position, and he could see that the altar-stone was of some material resembling obsidian—under one arm.
Of course, he was still mostly in the temple’s shadow; or perhaps the Dûsarrans assumed him a participant in some secret ritual best left uninvestigated.
It would not do, he knew, to walk the streets of the city like this; he shrank back into the doorway, and seated himself on the paving, letting his three burdens fall.
He took the cloth cover from the stone, and carefully wiped his weapons clean before sheathing them; now the only problem was to conceal the stone itself.
Or was that, in fact, a problem? After all, he realized, no one had ever seen the thing. To the uninitiated, it would appear merely a large chunk of obsidian, a substance that he had seen sold freely in the marketplace the night before.
He knew it was still somewhat risky, but could think of no way to conceal his booty; so, once his blades were cleaned and sheathed and he had removed what soot and blood he could from his hands and mail shirt, he tucked the stone casually under his arm and strolled away unmolested.
It was still relatively early; he had to some extent lost track of time while in the temple but, judging by the position of the moon, he estimated it to be well before midnight. He would have to decide whether or not to tackle another of the remaining altars immediately, or whether it would be better to delay. The decision, however, could wait until he had disposed of his prize.
He found his way back to the Inn of the Seven Stars and headed for the stable, to deposit this new stone with his earlier prize. There was a boy sitting in the arch; Garth recognized him as the boy he had paid for Koros’ keep when he first arrived. If he had understood the conversation of the other two boys correctly, his name was Dugger.
It occurred to Garth that the lad could be a loose end; he would identify the warbeast-riding overman with the brown-cloaked old man who had expressed a suspicious interest in Tema’s temple. That was not something Garth wanted known.
He stepped into the arch; the boy clambered to his feet and said, “Greetings, sir. How may I serve you?”
A rather more polite greeting than he had given the night before, Garth thought; gold had a truly salutary effect on human manners. “In two ways, boy. Firstly, you will see that my mount is fed tomorrow night; it is to be given as much fresh raw meat as you can carry, or a live goat or two if you prefer, and a bucket of water. Secondly, you will make no mention of me to anyone unless asked, and if you are asked, you will deny seeing me in any guise other than my present one. Is that clear?” As he spoke this last phrase a large gold coin appeared in his hand, held up so that it sparkled in the moonlight.
The boy nodded eagerly. “Oh, yes, sir!”
“Good. Excuse me; I would tend my beast.” The coin dropped into the boy’s hand, whence it promptly vanished to some hidden pocket, and Garth passed into the stableyard.
Koros growled a greeting as its master opened the stall door; Garth ignored it while he dug out two sacks from his bundled supplies. He stuffed the obsidianlike stone down into one, then dug up the now-clear white crystal he had hidden beneath the straw and packed it on top, with straw around the edges to keep the sharp facets from cutting the rough fabric. That done, he tied the sack shut and stashed it under his other supplies. The other sack he folded into a small bundle and stuffed under his belt; it would, he hoped, carry whatever he found in the next temple.
Five temples remained. There was no point in wasting time, he decided; he would immediately pursue his quest and loot a third shrine. Things had not gone well in the first two; he had killed at least two people so far, possibly as many as four. That was not good. He would try to be more careful henceforth. If he kept on killing people at that rate...
He did not like killing people. A major reason he had been reluctant to serve the Forgotten King was that his first errand had resulted in a dozen deaths, perhaps more. However, whenever he found himself in a combat situation, his reflexes took over; he acted first and regretted it later. He was not proud of that, but recognized it as a part of his nature; all he could do was try to avoid combat situations.
Five temples remained, including the temple of Death; he would leave that for last. What were the other four? P’hul, the goddess of decay, was one. There was one that the tavern-girl had said frightened her; Agha? No, Aghad. That was it. He recalled hearing the name spoken back in Skelleth, as an oath; that sounded promising.
He considered visiting the tavern again, but decided against it; he was not hungry, nor even particularly thirsty, and could just as easily get directions on the street.
That in mind, he left the stable, nodding to the stable-boy who winked in reply, and headed for the marketplace.
As it had been the night before, it was bustling, crowded and torchlit. He strolled about a bit first, watching the reactions of the Dûsarran populace to an overman in their midst.
There were none; they accepted him as a matter of course. There must indeed be established communications between Dûsarra and a population of overmen somewhere.
Casually, he struck up a conversation with a merchant, pretending an interest in his display of stone carvings; when he learned that the carvings represented the Dûsarran gods, his feigned interest became quite genuine.
“Who is this, then?” he asked, indicating a six-inch carving of truly astonishing ugliness; it had a fanged, twisted, sneering face, with exaggerated masculine characteristics, and was done in a rough, primitive style.
“Aghad, of course.”
“And this?” He indicated a skull-faced, helmeted statuette that held a miniature sword almost the length of its body.
“Bheleu, god of destruction. One of your kind, so it is said.”
“What?” Garth looked more closely, and saw that the face was not a skull; the statuette had ragged, straight hair, two thumbs on either hand, and eyes rather than sockets. In short, it was a carving of an overman.
How very odd, Garth thought, that humans should worship a god in the form of an overman. After all, overmen had nothing to do with the gods, being atheists; and weren’t gods supposed to have existed throughout time, while overmen had only come into being a thousand years earlier? He looked over the whole display. He recognized the slender, graceful Tema, though these little idols did not have cloaks that spread out above them; a god with two eyeless faces he readily guessed to be Andhur Regvos. There were more of those two, in various sizes and with some variation of detail, than any others; there were a dozen or so of the fanged horror depicting Aghad, and perhaps half that number of the overmanlike Bheleu. There were two other recurring forms, both female; one held dagger and whip and wore a cruel smile, while the other was robed and cowled. He took a closer look at one of these; under the cowl the artisan had carved the face of a mummy, wrinkled skin stretched over bone. It had a nose, however, so it was not intended to be an overwoman; Garth guessed it must be P’hul.
That was only six, however.
“I only see six of the gods here.”
“Naturally.” The merchant looked surprised. Garth realized his mistake; the seventh god was Death, and even were there a market, it would probably not be considered safe to try representing him.
He tried to cover his foolishness. “Of course. Who is this?” He indicated the woman with whip and dagger.
“Sai.”
Garth looked blank.
“The goddess of pain and suffering.”
“Oh, yes.” He contemplated the display again. “And each has a temple here in Dûsarra?”
“The name says as much.”
“Where are the temples? I might want to visit them.”
The merchant looked at him strangely. “Very few foreigners visit the temples.”
“I was just curious.”
“Oh. Well, the temple of Tema is back that way,” he said, indicating the direction, “and most of the others are on the Street of the Temples, over that way.” He pointed toward the northeastern part of the city.
“My thanks.” Garth took a final look at the array of idols, then turned away, heading northeast.
The Street of the Temples was not hard to find; it was a broad, straight avenue, paved with stone and obviously intended for ceremonial processions. Most of its length was lined not with temples, but with houses and palaces; it was obviously one of the more desirable neighborhoods. There were a few shops, all closed for the night; this part of the city belonged to the day-people, not the night-worshippers.
One end of the street was the gate to a palace, the largest and most elegant Garth had yet seen; that, presumably, belonged to the city’s overlord. The other end, which was much further from where he had happened onto the avenue, appeared to be nothing but the blank stone face of the volcano on whose slopes the city was built; the street was cut into the stone for a few yards, keeping it at a negotiable slope, and then abruptly stopped.
Along the considerable distance between palace and mountainside, Garth saw four temples; they were readily distinguished from the adjoining residences because each was built entirely of black stone and surmounted by a dome of some sort, while the palaces and other buildings were flat-roofed and built of various materials. The temples were arranged two to each side, spaced along the street, dividing it into five equal lengths.
Garth had arrived on the street directly across from the temple second from the overlord’s palace; it made little difference to him which he visited next, so he chose the nearest and strode across the pavement.
The temple was mostly hidden by a high wall, built of the ubiquitous black stone; only the dome, a relatively modest one, could be seen. The wall had no windows, no eaves overhanging, nor any other architectural features suggesting it was part of the temple proper; Garth assumed it enclosed a yard, and that the temple lay within the yard.
The only visible entrance was a pair of gates, perhaps ten feet high and eight feet wide, made of some metal that gleamed an eerie silver in the moonlight; they were not simple flat surfaces, but shaped into ornate curves and ridges. With a start, Garth realized that the ridges formed recognizable runes, two to each gate, spelling out aghad.
As he approached the gates he noticed another surprising feature; the wall was built of carefully cut stones, all exactly the same size, and every stone block had carved upon it those same four runes: aghad. The name of the god was repeated a thousand times over on the wall of the temple.
Well, Garth thought, at least he need not wonder which temple it was. He reached out to try the gates, but before his hand touched the gleaming surface it parted and swung open before him, revealing the courtyard beyond.
He did not much care for such trickery; he looked carefully in all directions before cautiously stepping through, but could see no sign of how the gates had been opened. He tried to peer through the crack at the hinges, only to discover there was none; each valve hung from a single intricate hinge that extended for its full height.
The courtyard beyond seemed innocent enough: a broad expanse paved with loose gravel, with a fountain playing in its center. A long colonnade surrounded it on three sides; behind the far colonnade there stood the temple itself, an elegant building of black stone, with many windows and much ornamentation.
On every column, on all three sides, was a bracket holding a blazing torch, a welcome change from the darkness of the first two temples.
It should have been beautiful, with the soft hiss of the fountain, the dancing firelight, the columns and arcades. It wasn’t. There was something dim and menacing about it, and its proportions seemed somehow wrong, as if the architect had calculated the perfect dimensions and then maliciously distorted them.
Garth stepped past the gates and noticed for the first time that there were curious faint brown stains on the silvery metal. He had no time to study them, however, for as soon as he was clear the gates swung shut behind him, as mysteriously as they had opened.
He was debating whether to try to reopen them or simply to proceed when a long, lingering scream sounded from somewhere inside the temple; Garth tensed, his hand on his sword hilt. The scream cut off abruptly, to be replaced by soft, mocking laughter that echoed eerily along the colonnades.
His curiosity was piqued, and the matter of the self-closing gates was forgotten. He started forward.
“Greetings, overman.” The voice was deep and somber. It came from somewhere behind him, he thought; he whirled, sword drawn, but saw nothing except the closed gates. He noticed that they were now barred. He had not heard the bar falling in place; he reprimanded himself for not being sufficiently alert. “Welcome to the temple of Aghad.” The voice now sounded somewhere to his right; he turned more slowly, wishing that these Dûsarrans weren’t all so fond of trickery. He still saw no one.
“We do not receive many visitors here.” Again, the voice had shifted; he decided to ignore its movements, since they were obviously some sort of trick. “Aghad is not a popular god, I fear. The masses prefer harmless, impotent little Tema.” The voice laughed, softly.
Garth announced petulantly; “I don’t like speaking to someone I cannot see.”
“It is not intended that you should like it.”
“Why not?”
“Dear infant, you are ignorant, aren’t you?”
“In some areas, yes. Religion and its mystical trappings are not popular in my homeland.”
“Oh, dear, not popular! Aghad is not popular anywhere, fool. Aghad is fear, hatred, loathing, all the things men—and though you will not accept it, overmen—feel for the unknown, for the different, for what they cannot understand.”
“I can understand why such a deity holds little appeal.”
“Oh, yes, I’m sure! Why have you come here, then?”
“I wish to visit all the seven temples.”
“You lie with half-truths.”
“What would you have me say, then?”
“You come to steal, scum. The altar-stones of Tema and Regvos are hidden at your warbeast’s feet, at the Inn of the Seven Stars.”
Garth did not answer, but merely tightened his grip on his sword.
The voice laughed again.
“Oh, witling, put down your silly knife. We serve Aghad here, and Aghad alone, not Tema nor Regvos, nor Sai, P’hul, or Bheleu. Aghad is hate, thief, hate, envy, and every emotion that turns fellow against fellow. We who serve Aghad have no reason to aid or sympathize with our brother priests of the other temples. Sack all Dûsarra if you will, burn the city to the ground! We will not stop you.”
“Do you not care for your own temple? You have said I came here to steal.”
“Idiot, self-hatred is most basic of all; if one does not hate himself, how is he to despise others so like him? You may take what lies on our altar, for it is no unique thing, but a common substance, replaced at each ceremony. We do, however, demand payment.”
Garth did not lower his blade. “What payment?”
“You must make a proper sacrifice to Aghad.”
“What sort of sacrifice?”
>
“Ordinarily a supplicant must betray a friend, deceive a lover, or in some other way spread dissent; but in view of your foreign origin, filth, something else is in order. A service to our god: Slay us six priests or more, one from each of the other temples. You slew the one at the door of Tema’s temple, and a priest and priestess both of Regvos, though a third you let live. You have made a good beginning. Now, you must slay four more, from each of the four remaining temples, or the devotees of Aghad will make certain you do not leave the city alive.”
Garth made no attempt to conceal his astonishment “Are you serious?”
“We are.”
“Why?”
“Because our agents in each cult will blame your actions upon another, and discord will spread. You have already begun our task for us, you know.”
The reference to his conversation with the swordsman in the stableyard did not escape his notice. It was obvious that the cult of Aghad had some truly superb means of gathering information, whether it was by magical methods or merely an efficient system of spies and informers. He still found it almost incredible that these people wanted him to kill their countrymen.
“You serve a strange master, priests of Aghad.”
“No stranger than yours, Garth of Ordunin, late of Skelleth.”
Garth hid his surprise; after all, whatever their methods, there was no reason to believe they were limited to this one city. The cult of Aghad could easily extend throughout all the human kingdoms, for all Garth knew.
“What if I decline to pay your price?”
“You are free to do as you please, dolt; we merely present you with the following options, for you to choose from as you will. You may take what you find upon our altar, and fulfill our demand, and go in peace. You may take what you find upon our altar, refuse to do as we ask, and die before you leave Dûsarra. Or, lastly, you may decline our offer entirely and live, but with the knowledge that your cowardice has offended our god and our cult.”
The Seven Altars of Dusarra Page 12
