The Seven Altars of Dusarra

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  With the death of the Aghadite, much of the crowd had decided Garth had proved his point; the mob was shrinking steadily. The portion remaining, however, was the most militant group; when the berserk monster that had butchered their leader reverted to an exhausted overman, they began to advance toward him. Garth lifted the sword again.

  The warbeast roared again, and stepped up beside its master; the advance halted. From the corner of his eye Garth noticed that Frima was no longer astride the beast’s broad back, but he dared not divert his attention from the angry crowd to worry about her.

  The sword felt unbearably heavy. Although the mob was reduced to a fraction of its former size, it was still more than Koros could handle unaided; not that the warbeast was likely to be killed, but it would be too bogged down by the enemy’s numbers to defend Garth. He would have to defend himself, and he knew he couldn’t unless the trance came over him again—and he didn’t want that. He could never be sure it would pass.

  And of course, he had no way of knowing what would bring it on; it had come twice now, once in the temple of Bheleu and once here in the market, but it had not touched him in the temple of death, so it was not anger or physical danger that triggered it.

  Perhaps the sword itself would save him, as it had in the house behind the stable; he glanced at the pommel and saw that the glow of the gem had died away to a faint glimmer, which was not encouraging.

  Perhaps he could talk the mob out of attacking; with sword and warbeast and strong words he might be able to deter them. He raised the blade above his head, with an effort he hoped was not visible, but before he could speak a low rumble sounded, as it had in the temple of Bheleu.

  Recovering from his startlement more quickly than the Dûsarrans, Garth realized that the sound had come at the perfect moment for him; he took advantage of it by speaking in his deepest, most resonant tones, lower than any human throat could produce.

  “Hold, scum! I have slain your champion in fair fight; would you still dare defy me?”

  A tall young man in dark red robes answered him.

  “You are still a blasphemer and defiler, a murderer and committee of sacrilege; the gods demand your death!”

  “Fool! Which of your gods would dare? I am the servant of Dûs, Bheleu, the bringer of destruction; death and desolation follow me as hounds. What are you, to stand against me?” Even as he spoke, Garth wondered how he chose these words; although he knew his best hope lay in convincing his foes he was more than mortal, he felt that this eloquence was not entirely of his own making.

  “You are Garth, an overman from the Northern Waste, sent here to steal by a third-rate wizard!”

  This man was obviously another Aghadite, since he knew so much. Garth prepared to denounce him as such, but before he could speak a new voice sounded.

  “This is Bheleu incarnate, come to herald the new age, whatever he may have been before! Let those who defy him know that P’hul and her servants recognize this her brother and serve his ends!”

  The speaker of this proclamation stood behind the remaining mob and to one side, with a dozen gray-robed figures ranged behind him, all with hoods pulled forward and faces hidden. As he looked at them, it seemed to Garth that the light changed and the square became brighter.

  Then it became brighter still, and he realized it was no illusion; some new flame had appeared behind him, but he dared not turn to see what it was.

  There was a moment of near-silence as those who still stood against Garth muttered amongst themselves; the overman noticed that more had drifted away and vanished into the streets and alleys.

  “The Lady P’hul your sister gives you greetings, my lord; what would you have of her?” The gray-robed speaker raised a staff toward Garth.

  Before he could consciously decide upon a reply, Garth found himself shouting, “I am destruction!”

  In a chorus, the priests and priestesses of P’hul replied, “Destruction!” Hands flew up, and a fine gray powder was scattered on the air, to be spread across the market by a sudden gust of wind.

  “No!” cried the Aghadite. “The overman is a fraud and a thief! Slay him!” He drew a sword from beneath his robe and charged forward, a dozen others with him.

  A black blur filled Garth’s vision for an instant, followed by a flash of bone-white claws and gleaming fangs, and a spurt of rich red; but as Garth had anticipated, there were too many attackers for Koros to handle; even as half a dozen died screaming, others surged around and past the warbeast. Garth met them with a long sweep of the sword of Bheleu, disemboweling one, hacking open the side of another; a third came within reach and sent his own sword at Garth’s flank. The overman twisted, and the blade scraped across his breastplate, bruising his flesh beneath despite his padding.

  The sword of Bheleu came free. As Garth brought it around to run the point through the neck of his near-successful assailant, he saw that a new fire was kindling in the red gem. That threat disposed of, he turned to meet the next, and saw that the P’hulites were leaving, walking calmly away, without any opposition; he had hoped that they would aid him. A dozen allies, no matter how ill, might have turned this battle in his favor. What had been the meaning of their speeches, then?

  His blade demolished a man’s face. Blood now covered half its length, starting at the tip.

  Where, he asked himself, was this Bheleu when he was needed? Garth’s arms ached as he heaved his unyielding weapon about.

  A face appeared before him, and he tried to bring his blade to meet it; before the blow fell, however, the face seemed to dissolve. The mouth fell open; skin cracked like dry mud, oozing pus; white gum filled the eyes, and the man fell mewling at Garth’s feet.

  The sweep of the sword of Bheleu met no resistance, the man having fallen from its path; Garth struggled to regain control and defend himself even as the shock of what he had just seen filtered through him.

  New screams ripped through the square, added to those of the men Koros was slaughtering; a blade lightly grazed Garth’s throat, the dying effort of a man whose skin was peeling in blistered strips from his flesh. Gazing around, looking for new attacks, Garth saw none; instead, men lay dying on the ground, their wounds seeping white ooze rather than the natural red of blood. Those still on their feet were fleeing in terror; as Garth watched, more fell as they ran, to lie whimpering in the streets for their last few seconds of life.

  The sword of Bheleu fell unheeded from his hands. He had brought chaos and catastrophe to Dûsarra, despite his protestations.

  A cry distracted him. “Lord Garth! Help!”

  Recovering himself somewhat, Garth picked up the sword again and turned in the direction of Frima’s voice.

  She was at the gates, struggling to lift the heavy bar, a task obviously beyond her strength; the rope bindings were gone, leaving smouldering ash, and a torch lay on the ground near her feet. As he started toward her, he saw that the merchants’ canopies on the eastern side of the square were ablaze; that had been the new light that had appeared behind him as he faced westward confronting the mob. He had no idea who had set them afire, or why; it was something he meant to ask Frima at the first opportunity.

  He had intended to add his own waning strength to her attempt to lift the bar from its brackets; but as he approached, the sword hilt in his hands seemed to move of its own volition, and he found himself hacking at the center of the bar as he would hack firewood with an axe.

  The sword, or whatever agency controlled it, seemed to know what it was doing; at the second blow the central span shattered, the wood reducing itself to splinters in a thoroughly unnatural way. The ends remained intact, but did not prevent the gates from being opened far enough to permit first Frima, then Garth, and finally Koros to slip through into the empty night beyond.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The air was dry and warm as the trio moved down the stone hillside in an automatic effort to put some distance between themselves and the chaos of the Dûsarran marketplace; the orange glow that l
eaked through the gates paled until it was lost in the cloud-filtered moonlight. Somewhere behind them a faint rumbling sounded.

  A few hundred yards from the city walls, Garth stopped and gathered Frima and Koros to him. He set about checking the straps and knots that had held his supplies and loot in place on the warbeast’s back throughout the fighting as he asked, “How did the fires start?”

  “I did it. With a torch from one of the posts.”

  “Why?”

  “As a distraction; there were men sneaking around behind you.”

  “Oh.” That was disconcerting; he had been totally unaware of any such maneuver. “Thank you. And the ropes on the gate?”

  “They were tarred, to keep them from stretching in the rain; the tar burns well. That’s why I had the torch when I saw the men coming.”

  “Thank you. You have been most helpful.”

  There was silence for a moment as he pulled tight a loosened buckle. A faint crackling came from the city; the fire must be spreading. Garth glanced up, but saw no sign of pursuit.

  “I don’t know why I helped you!” Frima burst out suddenly. “You’re kidnapping me!”

  “That’s true,” Garth replied. “But would you want to stay in Dûsarra at present? With fire, panic, and disease loose in the streets?”

  “No.” Her voice was fiat and definite, all defiance gone.

  “That disease—have you ever seen it before?”

  “No, but I have heard of it. It is the White Death, which P’hul uses to dispose of those who have displeased her. She must favor you, as her priest said.”

  A few days earlier Garth would have dismissed that as mere human superstition; now, he was less certain. The events of the last few days and nights definitely seemed to have involved powers beyond any he was familiar with. He slid the sword of Bheleu into the place in the harness it had occupied before, wishing he had some other more convenient and more trustworthy weapon.

  “It may be,” he said, “that the Forgotten King will have no use for you. In that case, you shall be free to go as you please; you may return to Dûsarra and to your family if you choose. I make no promises, however.”

  “I may just escape before that.” Her tone had lightened.

  “I hope to prevent that. Recall that you are unarmed and half-clad, and that the city is a most unhealthy place just now.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, silly.” She petted Koros, who was licking blood from its claws.

  Garth smiled. No one had ever called him silly before. At least, not for a century or so.

  A blaze of red light lit the sky; Garth and Frima turned to see that one of the volcanic peaks was brightly aglow. A moment later the now-familiar rumbling shook the slope beneath their feet.

  “I think it would be wise to depart,” Garth remarked. He lifted the girl onto the warbeast’s back, then swung himself up in front of her. He was weary and would have preferred to sleep, but it seemed quite clear that he would not be safe anywhere near the city.

  When both were astride, Koros started forward in its customary swift glide, apparently unbothered by its recent exertions. As Dûsarra and the fiery volcano receded behind them, Garth contemplated recent events.

  His life-long atheism he now suspected to be incorrect; there was something that had directed his actions since his acquisition of the sword of Bheleu. No other explanation was adequate. Whether it was in fact the god of destruction he did not know, nor did he understand the relationship between this power, himself, and the sword. Whatever it was, it had gained him powerful allies in the cult of P’hul, and it might therefore have made him enemies as well—something he would have to be watchful for henceforth. The enmity of the cult of Aghad he had earned himself, and it was plain that the cult had power in lands besides its own; that, too, he must be watchful for.

  The sword itself he did not trust; were it not his only weapon, he would have sworn never to touch it again. As it was, he was eager to deliver it to the Forgotten King and be done with it.

  The Forgotten King—there was another matter for consideration. The old man was the high priest of death; it was not desirable, therefore, to serve him any further. Garth would deliver the loot from the various altars to him and then go his own way.

  The vague promises of fame, of possible immortality, and of some great cosmic significance were, at present, of little interest; his recent dealings with cosmic powers had left him far less enthusiastic about such matters. There were mundane matters enough to occupy his time. There was the possibility of trade with the overmen of the Yprian Coast, should they actually exist; there might well be repercussions from the events just past to be dealt with; there was his vengeance to be taken upon the Baron of Skelleth. Trade or no, he was determined to have his revenge.

  He rode on through the night, Frima hanging on forlornly behind him as she left the only home she had ever known, Koros padding smoothly along. His mind seethed with schemes to humble the Baron, with schemes to seek out and destroy the cult of Aghad, with thoughts of great deeds to be done. None of the three noticed the great red gem set in the pommel of the sword of Bheleu, protruding from the warbeast’s harness alongside its furry chest, where it burned with a murky flame the color of blood.

  Appendix A

  Notes on Language and Pronunciation

  ]The reader should remember throughout that the characters do not speak English, but a language which, if pressed for a name, they would call “Eramman.” All dialogue must be considered as translations from the Eramman, and all names as approximate transcriptions. An attempt has been made to keep all names as easily pronounceable for speakers of English as possible; since Eramman is an Indo-European tongue, reasonable accuracy is possible as well.

  However, a rough guide to pronunciation seems advisable.

  Accents: There are two different rules to be followed in regard to where stress falls; in Nekutta (including Dûsarra), Orgûl, Amag, Tadumuri, Mara, and almost all of Eramma, the accent always falls on the next-to-last syllable in any word, regardless of how many syllables there may be. In Orûn, the Northern Waste, the Yprian Coast, and in personal names but no other words in parts of northern Eramma (including Skelleth), the accent always falls on the first syllable, regardless of the length of the word. Thus Garth, being from the Northern Waste, pronounces the name of his home city OR-duh-nin, while the people of Skelleth or Dûsarra would pronounce it Or-DOO-nin.

  The Plain of Derbarok, lying as it does between Eramma and Orûn, has no set rule; its inhabitants vary their pronunciation at whim, and there is no consensus as to whether the correct pronunciation is DER-ba-rock or Der-BAR-ock.

  Phonetics: The Eramman language has seven basic vowels, which are represented in transcription by A, E, I, Y, O, U, and Ü; most have two pronunciations, depending on whether they occur in an accented syllable or an unaccented one.

  A is always pronounced like the a in era.

  E in an unaccented syllable is pronounced like the e in get.

  E in an accented syllable is pronounced like the é in passé.

  I in an unaccented syllable is pronounced like the i in bit.

  I in an accented syllable is pronounced like the ee in bee.

  Y is a sound which does not occur in English; regardless of accent it is pronounced like the Russian s; best approximated as something between the accented and unaccented I.

  O is always pronounced like the o in got; there is no long O in Eramman.

  U in an unaccented syllable is pronounced like the oo in book.

  U in an accented syllable is pronounced like the oo in boot.

  Ü in an unaccented syllable is pronounced as in German; in an accented syllable it falls somewhere between the German ü and ö.

  The use of a circumflex indicates that a vowel in an unaccented syllable is pronounced as if accented (e.g., Orûn and Dûsarra, pronounced OR-oon and Doo-SAR-ra). One-syllable words are always considered accented, but a circumflex may sometimes appear as a reminder.

  D
iphthongs are common in Eramman, especially AI, pronounced like the English word “I,” and EU, which does not occur in most forms of English, but closely resembles the Cockney pronunciation of the long O-sound.

  Consonants are pronounced much as in English, except R, which is trilled or “flipped” slightly (not rolled). The following combinations should be noted:

  TH is always as in thin, never as in there.

  DH represents the voiced th as in there.

  BH represents a sound somewhere between b and v, as in the Castilian Spanish pronunciation of either.

  PH represents a sound somewhere between p and f; in the combination P’H the apostrophe has no sound or value whatsoever except to indicate that the P and H are both pronounced individually and not as a single phoneme. P’hul is one syllable.

  CH is pronounced as in church.

  J is pronounced as in jar.

  G is always as in get, never as in gem.

  KH represents a voiceless gutteral, like the German ch in ach.

  GH represents a voiced gutteral; it sounds rather like gargling.

  SH is pronounced as in sheep.

  ZH is pronounced like z in azure.

  A final note on the names of the gods: Eramman is a declined language with seven cases; all nouns will ordinarily have an ending indicating their case and what part of a sentence they are. Names, however, do not have endings, ever. The names of the gods are, for the most part, simply words indicating their provenance with endings removed. Thus aghadye, the nominative form of the word for “loathing,” becomes Aghad, and bheluye, meaning “destruction,” becomes Bheleu (yes, it should be bheleuye or Bhelu; a few centuries earlier it was bheleuye, but pronunciations change).

  Native speakers would not find this confusing, nor tend to identify a god too strongly with the single trait his name represents, because they are accustomed to names with root meanings that may not have much to do with the things named. For examples of similar attitudes among speakers of English, consider the names Grace and Victor; no one assumes that every woman named Grace is in fact graceful, or that every man named Victor is a successful fighter. How many people, upon hearing the name New York, even remember that there is an old York?