by Angus Wells
It seemed the warboat was overrun: the masked men disgorged from the cutters with such speed that few among the peaceful Vanu folk had time to reach their weapons. They fell beneath the onslaught, victims of ek’Barre’s betrayal, and Calandryll mouthed a furious curse, determined that if he was to die now he would sell himself dear.
He was prepared for that; not for the realization that none among the raiders carried blades. There were no swords, nor knives nor cutlasses, in their hands. Instead, they carried such weapons as might disable or stun without killing: cudgels and flails, metal-shod staves, mail gloves. And nets, he saw, in the instant a fine web rose before his startled eyes and dropped to entangle him.
There was not enough space to escape it. It fell upon his head and shoulders, trapping him, dragging down his sword arm. At his back, he heard Bracht cry out, the Kern’s weight landing against him as the net drew them together. Katya, too, was caught; all of them like fish hauled in by a skein. He lost his balance, his comrades falling with him to the deck.
And a flash of pain exploded in his skull, its brilliance like the rising sun, followed on the instant by overwhelming darkness.
HIS first instinct was to groan at the throbbing of his head, his second to vomit. It was irresistible and he felt bile rise, turning his face to disgorge the contents of his stomach into a pool of brackish water. His belly emptied, he sought to wipe his mouth and found he could not: his hands were lashed securely behind his back, cords dragging elbows achingly tight, his wrists held by a loop around his waist. Likewise his legs were fastened at knees and ankles, bent by the short cord linked to the engirdling rope: all movement save that of his head was denied him. He opened his eyes on darkness and through the stink of his own sickness smelled oily canvas. Panic gripped him and he struggled to sit up, fresh needles driving through his skull as it struck wood. He cried out and on his lips and tongue tasted tar. He forced the panic away, fighting paranoia to tell himself he lived still and therefore might still hope, ordering his thoughts to a semblance of calm. It was hard-won and harder held, but through the involuntary trembling of his pinioned limbs and the dreadful aching of his head he assessed his situation. He was tied beneath a canvas, supine in a pool of salty water; wood surrounded him and it rocked with the undulating rhythm of a moving boat. Concentrating, he heard the steady splash of oars sweeping water, the alternating cadence of waves on prow. So: the cutters had come out of the fog in marine ambush; Kalim ek’Barre had downed Tekkan; grey-shrouded figures had attacked; held him now in a boat.
Hope dissolved like ice tossed in fire as certainty dawned: they were Chaipaku!
His stomach churned afresh, filled with new and awful dread: they could be only Chaipaku. Had he not already voided his belly, he would have spewed again; as it was, he began to shiver, his teeth rattling like the tiny finger-cymbals dancing girls employed. He was taken by the Chaipaku!
Worse, he was taken alive. They had attacked without intent to kill—why? Answer followed question as lightning links with thunder: because they planned no swift death at sword’s point, but something slower; something doubtless drawn out, long and agonizing.
He tasted blood as his chattering teeth met about the tip of his tongue and a numbing bitterness joined his dread. Where was the power Menelian had claimed to see in him? Where was that occult talent that had driven Katya back, turned the canoes of Gash, aided him before against the Brotherhood? Unleashed only by Rhythamun’s stone, it seemed, for it had failed him now—left him helpless. He laughed, close to hysteria, the sound sour as the taste in his mouth, the filth in which he lay. Power? There was no power in him, no talent save that of running blindly into danger. He spat blood and bile, terror and resentment fading as hope leeched out, replaced by numbing enervation. The end was settled now: he would meet whatever hideous fate the assassins had planned for him and Rhythamun would go on to raise the Mad God unhindered. Thanks to his brother’s blind ambition Tharn would once more walk the world; thanks to Tobias all that men deemed civilized would be thrown down into chaos, trampled under the heel of an insane god. It was almost—obscenely—amusing that it should end this way, the fate of the world decided by his brother’s pointless fear.
His laughter choked off. Had his bonds allowed, he might have curled in a fetal ball; as it was, he closed his eyes, weary now, and gave himself up to despair and a kind of sleep.
How long it lasted he could not tell, for when next he opened his eyes the boat still rocked beneath him, the oars still swept and the waves still splashed, though beneath the edges of the canvas shroud he discerned faint light, and it seemed the tempo of the water had changed. He groaned, for a little while seeking to immerse himself once more in the refuge of oblivion; but that was denied him and for want of occupation other than contemplation of his fate, he sought to define what he could about his immediate circumstances.
He thought then of Bracht and Katya, presumably in similar condition, though whether with him in this cutter, or held in others, he could not know; only that neither had escaped the net. And Tekkan—the Vanu folk on the warboat and the vessel itself—what of them? The traitorous ek’Barre had clubbed the helmsman down, not slain him; at least not as best Calandryll could tell. Nor were the cutters of a size to hold all the crew—so, did they sail free? It seemed likely, for surely the Brotherhood of Assassins had neither commission nor quarrel with them, only with him—on Tobias’s contracting—and with his comrades for the slaying of Mehemmed, Xanthese, and the rest. He wondered what the Vanu folk would do. Return to Vishat’yi, perhaps, to seek help of Menelian; or not, for fear of seizure when word came down from Nhur-jabal. And did they, could Menelian aid them now? It seemed unlikely: more probable that Tekkan would sail on, to Aldarin or back to Vanu. Perhaps the holy men of that unknown land would send out some other quester, but in time to deny Rhythamun his victory? What time was left?
He pushed those thoughts aside, concentrating on physical matters. The canvas beneath which he rested was not tied down; by shifting wormlike he was able to raise an edge enough that sunlight and fresher, mightily welcome, air intruded. Close to his face he saw felt boots, presumably those of an oarsman, and from the different rhythm of the craft on the water he guessed they traveled upstream, along the flow of the Yst. Past Vishat’yi, then, to some place farther inland.
The sunlight was strong enough to suggest the day was well advanced. Likely, therefore, they had slipped past the city in the concealing fog and now toiled up-river to . . . With great reluctance he made himself review all he had read of the Chaipaku, that once they had been dissident worshippers of Burash, a sect deplored for their bloody sacrifices, schism isolating them from the orthodox church. Still they maintained temples—he remembered mention of that in Sarnium, or Medith, no longer sure which historian was the more detailed—and in those temples—this with horrible certainty—they retained the practice of human sacrifice. He clenched his teeth as they threatened to clatter anew: death at sword’s point he could face—had faced!—but to think that he should go bound, helpless, into Dera’s arms was another thing entirely. Nor, it came to him, could he be certain of finding the goddess. Did the Chaipaku sacrifice him to Burash, would he be taken by that god? Or wander for eternity in limbo, claimed by none? He steeled himself against such theological doubts—of more immediate relevance was his physical fate, and all he could do toward preparation for passage from this world to the next was hope that he should be claimed by his own goddess. He whispered a near-forgotten prayer and sought to nudge the canvas higher.
A curse greeted his effort, and a boot that might have shattered teeth had the user not been more intent on his oarwork. As it was, the boot pressed down on the canvas, sealing him again, locking him back in the reeking darkness. He cursed in turn, but made no further attempt to shift the oily cover.
Slow time passed before he felt the cutter change direction, water slapping louder now against the flanks than the bow. Then the craft juddered and he heard the grating of pl
anks on gravel, shouts, and the splashing of feet in water. He was rocked as the boat was hauled ashore, and then the canvas was thrown back and he was hauled roughly from the bilge, dragged unceremoniously to a narrow strand of dark yellow sand, and let fall. Boots went by his face, sinking in the grit, each footstep filling swiftly with water, the inundation and the shells that littered the place suggestive of a tidal cove. He guessed they were not overly far from the sea and lifted his head, looking around.
Immediately before him was a sheer cliff of dark basalt, pocked in places with the scars of old rock-falls, their detritus strewn about the base. Descending thrusts of stone formed horns that curved protectively about the beach, concealing the bulk of its interior. His captors were hauling the boats up, hiding them from sight. To his right he found Katya, trussed as he was, her flaxen hair plastered about her face in damp tendrils, her swordbelt gone. Her eyes opened as he stared—that confirmation that she lived still a relief—and he saw them flash stormy grey with fury. He essayed a smile that she met with a tentative shifting of her lips, her own head moving as she, in turn, looked to define their whereabouts. Of Bracht he saw no sign until he craned his head round and found the Kern a pace or so behind him on his other side, closer to the river. An ugly bruise purpled the freesword’s cheek, swollen so that his left eye seemed to wink, his mouth distorted in an expression both smile and snarl.
More snarl, Calandryll decided as he saw the Kern strain against his bonds, that useless effort noticed by a Chaipaku, who paused in his labors and kicked the struggling warrior in the belly.
Bracht gasped, teeth gritted, and twisted his grimacing face up toward the kicker.
“Put a sword in my hand, fish-lover, and you’ll not do that again.”
The only response was mocking laughter and a gesture that brought two of the Chaipaku to lift the freesword. They thrust a staff beneath his arms, each taking one end, and dragged him, like a beast to slaughter, toward the cliff. Calandryll saw his comrade’s face pale as his shoulders were wrenched upward, but he bit back any cry. Then he and Katya received the same rough treatment, both following Bracht’s example, refusing to cry out as the joints of their shoulders took their weight and their bearers trotted swiftly across the strand to a low-arched cave mouth hidden behind the rockfall.
The sun lay just beyond the cliff’s rim, the entrance to the cave shadowed. It looked to Calandryll the kind of hollow the sea might scoop out, confirming his impression that they remained within the ocean’s sphere of influence, and when torches were lit he saw wrack littering the floor, the air within the confined space tangy with the smells of salt and seaweed. It was more than just a hollow, however, for the grey-clad men went confidently forward, the cave proving far deeper than cursory examination suggested. At its farther end was a hole, waist high from the floor and small enough the Chaipaku must go through singly, on hands and knees. The captives were dragged through and set upright where the tunnel opened into a far larger cave. Here the torches revealed a vaulting roof and a flight of roughly carved steps that climbed up one side to a ledge beyond which lay another tunnel mouth. This was wide enough three men might walk abreast, and several handspans higher than the tallest present. It turned sharply leftward, suggesting to Calandryll that it ran back parallel to the river, and along its length unlit flambeaux stood in rusted metal fixings, suggestive of regular use. It ended at a metal door, the leading Chaipaku producing a key that turned smoothly in the lock, the door swinging open on oiled hinges. Beyond, flambeaux spread fitful light about a vast cave, shadow and flame locked in intricate dance, the far reaches, the roof, all lost in darkness. Below, Calandryll caught brief sight of a fiercer brilliance, startling amid the lesser play of the torches. The door clanged shut with a dreadful finality and the captives were borne down the length of more steps, to where the light burned brightest.
They were deposited within a ring of massive slabs, each one surmounted with a wide silver ashet in which pungent oil flared, filling the interior of the circle with merciless white light, on stone that seemed too smooth to be natural. The staffs were removed and the cords connecting ankles to waists cut, allowing them to stretch out cramped legs, their muscles protesting. Calandryll saw that Bracht and Katya lay to his right and that the Chaipaku gathered about them, studying them as might butchers examine pieces of meat prior to carving.
They said nothing, and their silence was more menacing than blows. Bracht cursed them and found no answer; Katya lay silent, though anger still sparked in her eyes. Calandryll, cold dread in his belly now, stared around, aware that he gazed on sights denied all the learned scholars he had read, such sights as only the Brotherhood of Assassins had seen. The stones were carved with images of Burash in all his manifestations, as man and sea beast, and hybrid minglings of both, inscribed in antique language, and he recalled, briefly and bitterly, Reba’s prophecy: You will travel far and see things no southern man has seen. That much, certainly, was true, for this, he realized, was a sanctum of the Chaipaku, one of their secret temples, forbidden all save the initiates of the Brotherhood: none save the Chaipaku might look upon it and live.
The deep-cut images were hypnotic in their implicit threat and he found it hard to tear his gaze away, to look from them to the cold eyes observing him. They held neither compassion nor compunction, only the awful certainty that their owners looked upon victims so close to death as to be already beyond consideration. He felt a great urge to cry out, to protest his fate, to tell these implacable watchers of the quest he essayed, the terrible outcome of the sacrifice they so obviously intended. He stamped his teeth closed on the desire—there was no mercy to be found here; those eyes offered no hope—and instead spoke to his companions.
“What think you they intend?”
He was more than a little surprised that the question elicited no response from the Chaipaku: such indifference was more unnerving than a blow, but none came, nor when Bracht snorted grim laughter and answered bluntly: “To slay us.”
“Aye, that I know.” His surprise grew as he heard his voice ring firm, tinged with regret, perhaps, but neither shrill nor quaking. “But in what manner?”
“Not as warriors would,” returned the Kern, favoring their silent watchers with a contemptuous glare. “Such fish-worshippers fear honest swordwork, I think.”
“Did my folk sail free?”
Katya’s question was directed as much at the Chaipaku as at her comrades, and met the same stony silence; it was Calandryll who said, “I saw ek’Barre club Tekkan down.”
“May all the gods deny him rest,” she snarled.
“But I believe their quarrel is with us,” he continued. “Not with your folk. Mayhap the boat sails on.”
“We’ve that hope, at least,” she muttered.
“And little else,” said Bracht. His damaged eye was almost closed now, his mouth curled in a rueful grin as he turned the other toward her. “A pity, that.”
“That Rhythamun shall succeed, thanks to this scum?” Katya ducked her head in fervent agreement. “Aye.”
“That, too,” Bracht murmured, “though I thought on other matters.”
Katya frowned. “What mean you?” she demanded.
“That now we shall never reach Vanu,” said the Kern. “That now I may never hold you to that promise.”
Calandryll stared at the freesword, amazed that even now desire could motivate his words. He saw Bracht’s grin widen as Katya’s frown became a hesitant smile, a blush suffusing her tanned face.
“No,” she said softly.
“Had we,” Bracht pressed. “How might you have answered?”
For long moments the warrior woman looked into the Kern’s eyes, then her gaze faltered, lowering as she said, almost too softly to be heard, “Aye.”
Now Calandryll’s mouth gaped open in naked shock as Bracht roared proud laughter. The Chaipaku, too, looked on in wonder. “Then I shall die happy,” declared the Kern, and grinned again as he added, “albeit not so happy as I mi
ght.”
Katya shook her head, but now she, too, was smiling, and Calandryll found his own lips were curved. He drew strength from Bracht’s calm acceptance of the inevitable, determined that whatever manner of death awaited them he would meet it with a fortitude to match his comrade’s.
That resolution wavered somewhat as his captors stirred, bowing reverentially as they parted to allow a new figure entry into the stone circle. This one was not dressed in concealing grey, but wore a flowing robe of deep sea-green that rippled like wind-tossed water as its wearer strode forward, towering above the three prone captives. The hem and sleeves were embroidered with depictions of predatory fish and a silver rilievo hung upon his chest, suspended from a golden chain, the face of Burash glowering from the metal, that image echoed by the mask he wore. Age had tarnished the gold, lending it a greenish tint that emphasized its relationship with the seas, and its expression was angry, the lips downturned, the eyeholes slits. From them glittered orbs of menacing black.
A hand of indeterminate age, black hairs curling over the back, thrust out, a finger pointed in accusation.
“These are the ones.” The voice seemed amplified by the mask, booming out like waves crashing on rock. “Those who slew our brethren.”
“Who slew brothers,” cried the audience. “Who slew the chosen of Burash.”
“Who slew Mehemmed,” cried the masked man; a priest, Calandryll realized, or at least hailed as such by the Chaipaku.
“And Xanthese,” returned the others. One by one, ritually, they recited the names of the Chaipaku slain in Kharasul and when they were done the masked priest cried, “How shall they atone?”
“Let Burash judge them,” came the response.
“Aye. They have offended against our god—so let our god decide their fate.” The priest gestured. “Lift them up.”
Roughly, the Chaipaku hauled them to their feet. The priest touched them each in turn upon the chest.
