The Seven Altars of Dusarra

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  He rolled aside, and felt the rush of air as it lunged; it missed, and he swung the great broadsword as he lay on his back inches from its flank. The blade cut deeply into the monster, but there was still no perceptible effect. Slime ran sluggishly over the quillons and across the back of his hands.

  He struck again, before the thing could move far—vast and powerful as it was, it was also ponderous and, except for the swift lunges that used its own weight to drive its head forward, not capable of fast movement—and again the blade sliced messily into the yielding substance of the creature.

  It was like cutting at mud.

  He hewed again as it reversed direction, pulling back for another attack; with a ghastly sucking sound a sliver of its cold, damp flesh came free where this new cut met an earlier one.

  An idea came to him as he rolled onto his belly and pushed himself further toward the wall. The thing’s vitals were not within reach of his blade, it appeared, but he could cut the monster. If he could hack away enough of its insensitive outer layer in one spot, sooner or later he would injure it, perhaps inflicting enough damage to drive it back down into its tunnel, leaving him to deal with the metal door. No animal in Garth’s experience, of whatever kind, could long survive having chunks cut away.

  It would all be much easier if he could see what he was doing.

  He flung himself sideways as the rush of air warned him of another lunge, chopping with the sword as he did so. The monster withdrew, a little more slowly than before; Garth wondered if he had already made himself felt. It paused; Garth knew from the sudden cessation of the slithering noise of its movement. He judged the head to be somewhere in the center of the chamber, perhaps hovering above the altar.

  It was, he decided, time he took the offensive; with a bellow of simulated rage, intended to get his blood flowing more hotly, he lurched to his feet and charged the thing, the heavy sword swinging in front of him.

  The blade struck the thing’s horny jaws with a grating, scratching sound, without penetrating; the monster reared away nonetheless, and Garth flung himself beneath it. He found himself crouched beside the altar, and it occurred to him that that was a good place to be; obviously, the creature could not destroy the altar, or it would have done so years ago. It would be unable to come at him from above or behind if he kept his back to the stone column.

  The head swooped down again, only to stop short as it struck the altar-top; Garth took the opportunity to strike two quick blows, at converging angles, and was gratified when the second blow left a chunk of pasty worm-flesh hanging by a thread.

  The monster did not retreat this time but pressed forward unheeding, mindlessly trying to force its way past the stone altar. Garth had no intention of passing up such a chance, and followed up his first pair of blows with a series of chopping cuts, hacking more deeply into the wound he had made.

  Slivers of flesh pulled away to hang loosely or fall at the overman’s feet. The slime that coated the monster drooled sluggishly across Garth’s hands and wrists, seeming to soothe the stinging agony of his burns—which he was ignoring anyway in the heat of battle.

  He was striking from a crouch beside the altar, and was unable to get the full force of which he was capable into his blows from such a stance; since the head was swaying back and forth he dared not stand up, as he knew that apparently gentle motion could knock him away like a leaf in a windstorm. Still, he knew that he could inflict more damage more quickly if he could get into a position where he could swing his blade freely, and where gravity was working with him rather than against him. If he were atop the worm...

  His hacking had cut a ragged, oozing hole in the thing’s side, a break in its smooth, slick surface; it served him as a foothold as he launched himself upward, scrambling madly with the great sword clutched in one stinging hand while the other hand and both feet scrabbled for holds on the thing’s smooth wet flesh.

  He realized he was not going to make it; he felt himself beginning to slide back, when the worm suddenly changed its direction, swinging toward him, apparently in response to his weight. For an instant he feared he would be smashed against a wall before he had time to leap clear, and he clung desperately, attempting to claw his way upward.

  To his surprise, this panicky action was successful; the monster’s motion had given him the additional traction he needed, and he was able to pull himself up astride the thing’s “neck,” using the sword as an anchor.

  Now he only had to worry about being smashed against the ceiling; there was no way the thing could get at him here. He pulled his dagger from his belt and thrust it into the yielding flesh, to serve as a handhold, then set to the messy business of cutting his way through the monster with the great broadsword. He used both hands, pausing now and then to catch himself on the hilt of his dagger when he felt himself slipping.

  Spraddled across the vast back as he was, he still was not striking with much power; it seemed to be sufficient, though. In moments he had carved out a trench, which he crawled into, ignoring the oozing discomforts of the omnipresent slime that seeped from every inch of the thing’s flesh. Here he was much more secure, and could kneel while he wielded the sword, cutting his way deeper into the worm.

  The monster was apparently unwilling to give up its prey; it did not retreat down its passage, but instead flung itself about the temple chamber, as if seeking the little pest that was now slicing deeper and deeper into its back; several times Garth thought that the violence of its movements might dislodge him, or that he might lose his grip on his sword.

  Then, finally, he felt the blade bite into something more substantial than the creature’s flaccid flesh; he pulled it free, releasing a spurt of viscous ichor and a ghastly stink. He had found the thing’s vitals.

  He had little time to appreciate his accomplishment; the thing went into wild convulsions that made its earlier movements seem like nothing, and he was flung aside like a bothersome insect. His head struck the stone wall; the sword flew from his hands, and the darkness that filled his eyes enfolded him completely. His last sensation was an eerie awareness of distant, barely audible laughter; something was pleased with him.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Frima was not happy with her situation. Still, while being penned up in a stable with a man-eating monster at the whim of an overman was scarcely a pleasant thing, she had to admit it was better than being sacrificed to Sai.

  It had been some time now since Garth had marched off to rob the last two temples, and Frima was reasonably certain that he would not be coming back. All her life she had been told that nobody ever returned from the temple of death, and although Garth was plainly not the Unnamed God’s ordinary victim, she did not think he could manage to defy one of the basic facts of Dûsarran existence. She was, therefore, stuck here until such time as Koros should give up waiting. The overman had said it would be a day or so; she had waited a night and a morning and half the afternoon, but the beast showed no signs of departing. It had allowed her to go through Garth’s belongings, and she had found the stiletto he had mentioned; the knife did little for her self-confidence, however, as she had no idea of the proper way to use one, and found it completely inconceivable that such a puny little thing could deter a creature as magnificently powerful as the warbeast.

  The monster was undeniably beautiful, and friendly enough; she found herself alternately petting it, and then cowering away from it as she recalled what Garth had said. It had once eaten a wizard! Wizards were the most powerful beings she had imagined prior to her abduction, yet this thing ate one as if he were no more than a mere mortal!

  It did not occur to her to doubt Garth’s words; his delivery had been entirely convincing, and she was a fairly trusting sort anyway.

  She got up and walked toward the door of the stall, to try her luck at leaving once more; as always, Koros made no protest until her hand actually reached over toward the latch, whereupon it growled warningly. She withdrew her hand, sighed, and looked out at the empty stableyard
. She was about to turn away when a movement caught her eye.

  There was someone just beyond the arch; several people, in fact. She leaned out a bit to get a better view, and Koros growled again; she ignored it and continued to peer through the arch.

  There was a great mass of people out there; not passing by, but gathering together. She wondered what they could want.

  It occurred to her that perhaps they might rescue her; she considered calling out. After some thought she decided not to. Koros would undoubtedly take it amiss, and there might be bloodshed. She was not desperate yet.

  There was a curious snuffling at her side, and she realized that the warbeast had come up beside her and was also watching the people outside the arch.

  There was much discussion and shouting going on, but she could make out no words. A robe fell open for a moment, revealing that its owner wore a shirt of mail and had a sword on his belt. Thus alerted, she looked more closely and saw that several—perhaps all—of the men gathering wore swords, making curious bulges beneath their robes. Furthermore, all of the gathering crowd were men, as far as she could make out; nowhere did she see a beardless face.

  Someone in a dark red robe had made his way to the center of the arch; now he turned and addressed the crowd, a fist raised above his head. She still could not make out much, over the shuffling and rustling of the crowd, but she caught the words’ “overman” and “defiler.”

  Beside her, Koros growled.

  The man in red turned, and pointed into the stable—pointed directly at her, it seemed. The crowd surged, and with this apparent leader in the van marched into the stableyard.

  Koros leapt from the stall in a single fluid motion and landed, feet braced apart, in the center of the yard. It roared a challenge that seemed the loudest sound Frima had ever heard, and the crowd’s forward movement suddenly ceased.

  Frima watched in astonishment; quite aside from the confusing events unfolding before her, she found herself wondering how a beast as large as Koros had managed to leap through the relatively narrow opening between the stall door and the overhanging roof. More of its height must be in its legs than she had realized.

  Koros roared again and took a single step forward, toward the crowd of men; Frima saw that several had drawn swords, yet none dared approach any closer to the warbeast. In fact, they were gradually falling back.

  Another roar and another step, and Koros sank into a crouch, like a cat preparing to pounce. The crowd’s backward movement accelerated, and in a brief moment all were once again on the other side of the arch. Koros rose again, stretched itself, yawned, and stood calmly awaiting whatever might happen next.

  The man in red stood out from the crowd once again and spoke; this time Frima could distinguish his words, as Koros had frightened the crowd into relative stillness.

  “Fellow Dûsarrans, we are not cowed by this unholy monster, but merely cautious! It is not with this beast that we quarrel, but with its blasphemous master! Let us then wait here for his return, when we shall strike him down in our righteous anger, slaughter his monstrous pet, and return the sacrifice he has stolen to her rightful place! We will cleanse our city of this filth!”

  This speech was greeted with rousing applause. Frima, hearing the line about restoring the sacrifice, found herself very glad that she had not called out for aid. She suddenly saw Koros not as her jailer but as her protector, and found herself waiting eagerly for Garth’s return—while simultaneously dreading it, lest he be butchered or prove in the end as bad as the cult of Sai—and still suspecting that he might not return at all.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Garth had no idea how long he was unconscious. When he awoke he lay sprawled on the stone floor, the sword of Bheleu at his side. The red glow shone unobstructed from the tunnel, lighting the gem in the sword’s pommel with a murky crimson fire. Pools of gelid slime were scattered about, and his mail was thick with the stuff. He lay still for a moment, gathering his thoughts.

  He reached out and grasped the sword; as his fingers closed around the hilt, he realized that they no longer hurt. He sat up, released the sword, and looked at his palms.

  There was a slight puckering of the flesh, as of wounds almost fully healed, but no other trace of burns or blisters. Horrified, he wondered how long he had lain senseless.

  He tested his sensitivity, pressing his fingers to various surfaces, and knew a moment of panic when his first trial, feeling the texture of his chain armor, seemed dull and blunted; it was with great relief he realized it was the coating of slime that deadened his sense of touch. Running his fingers across the carved walls he could detect no lessening of his tactile sense. He was fit, then.

  But how long had he been here? What had become of Koros, who had been due for a feeding? Or Frima, who had been left with the hungry warbeast? Of the booty taken from the first five temples? Had anything come of the threats of the Aghadite priest?

  He clambered to his feet.

  As if on cue, as he turned his gaze toward the metal door that sealed the entrance, the barrier slid silently into the wall, and a stooped figure entered, garbed in a robe of such a dull black that it reflected none of the red light whatsoever. The man’s face was hidden by his hood, as was customary for Dûsarran priests, so that in his almost invisible garments he appeared to be an animated shadow, deeper and darker than the others that lay about the cave.

  No light entered with this apparition, and at first Garth assumed this to mean that it was night outside; he did not immediately recall that the passage was long and winding enough to admit virtually none of the sun’s light whatever the time of day.

  The robed figure was small and frail in appearance, despite the complete lack of visible detail. Garth thought at first that it might be a girl or young boy, despite the slowness and caution of age in its movements; but when the priest spoke, although his voice was high and broken, there was no doubt that he was an old man, despite his childish stature.

  “I hear you breathing,” he said.

  Garth made no reply.

  “Can you not speak? I know you are there, and alive.”

  “Yes, I am here. What would you have me say?” Garth picked up the sword as he spoke; the little old man appeared harmless, but he did not care to take any unnecessary chances.

  “Whatever you care to say.”

  “There is nothing I care to say to you.”

  “Would you answer a few questions, from courtesy?”

  “Perhaps. Ask what you will.” Garth noticed that the priest had turned his head toward him only when he had spoken; that, and the man’s words, made it seem fairly definite that, like the priests of Andhur Regvos, this feeble old man was blind. It seemed curious that such a decrepit and harmless person should be the sole servant of the most feared of deities—assuming that there was, as he had been told, only one priest of the Final God. Feeling that the priest need not occupy his full attention, he looked over the chamber, noting the already-rotting chunks and slices he had cut from the monster, the still-wet slime stains, the great pool of ichor where he had finally reached the thing’s viscera, and the skull-topped altar that stood undamaged and unplundered.

  “Have you seen what takes most who enter here, leaving no trace?”

  “Yes.”

  “It did not take you.”

  “It tried hard enough.”

  “What happened?”

  “It came up from the tunnel; I dodged. We fought, and I managed to injure it. I was struck unconscious, but its wound was severe enough that it preferred retreat to finishing me.” That, he thought, was a succinct and accurate summary of his desperate battle; he guessed that such a simple account would serve him better than any elaborate boasting, at least until her fully understood the priest’s attitude toward the monster. It might well be considered blasphemous to have defended himself at all.

  “What is it?”

  “You don’t know?” Garth’s astonishment got the better of him and was plainly revealed in his
tone.

  “No. I am but the caretaker of the temple; I know nothing of the god’s mysteries. The true servant of the Final God has not yet returned. What was it you fought?”

  Garth was suddenly reluctant to speak, though he knew no logical reason not to tell the man the nature of the temple’s inhabitant. “Tell me first more of your cult. Are you not the high priest of The God Whose Name Is Not Spoken?”

  “No. I am a lesser priest. The books of prophecy say that the one true high priest of death has not been in Dûsarra in four ages or more, and will not return until the dawn of the Fifteenth Age.”

  An uneasiness filtered into Garth’s mind at this new mention of the human system of numbering the ages. “This is the dawn of the Fourteenth Age, I was told.”

  “Yes. When this new age grows old, the high priest will return.”

  “If he has been gone for four ages ... the Thirteenth Age lasted three hundred years. Your high priest must have died centuries ago. Is it his heir you await?”

  “Oh, no! It is the one true high priest of the god of death. It is in the nature of his service that he himself cannot die.”

  There was a pause as Garth digested this information. He recalled mention made of immortality in the King’s Inn of Skelleth. An unpleasant theory crept into his thoughts.

  The Forgotten King had assured him that he sought to fulfill the purpose that the gods had given him, but which gods were they he spoke of?

  He looked again at the unnatural skull that grinned atop the altar. “What else do you know of your high priest?”

  “Oh, there are many legends! He was a king of old, in a land so ancient that its existence is forgotten; he made a bargain with the gods of life and death, whereby he shall live until the end of time, but he came to regret this and abandoned the service of his kingdom and his gods to wander the earth clad in rags. He will return when the Fifteenth Age, the Age of Death, begins, to complete his agreement. He alone has spoken to the Final God and lived; it is part of his task to be certain that The Name That Is Not Spoken is not lost. He commands all the world’s ancient magic, but has no use for it. There is much more in the sacred texts—his name, which I cannot pronounce truly, and the records of his doings.”