The Eyes of Sarsis

by Andrew J Offutt

  Feeling goosefiesh, she considered. Best to see what’s behind that curtain and get out before the Arms return to their mangy temple.

  She crept silently forward to peer around one edge of the curtain. In deep darkness she could just make out motionless figures — many. Scores of them. Statues? No! She could hear their breathing and she concentrated on stilling her own. She saw that the front door did not open directly into the warehouse, but into a long entrance hallway. An ambush, she thought. A superbly designed one too! The Arms lurked in darkness outside the entrance hall. Archers’ ports had been cut into the hall, which was well lighted. Shooting out of the darkness, the disciples of Drood could easily massacre Caranga and the guardsmen.

  Tiana knew she must warn Caranga swiftly and — her eye caught movement to her right.

  Her sword flashed and an Arm of Drood died, his warning cry a faint gurgle in his throat. It was enough; the murdering horde heard, turned and saw her.

  “Dung!” Tiana fled, pursued by men who murdered as a matter of religion. An Arm swifter than his comrades overtook her just as she reached her rope. Leaving her rapier in his stomach, she threw herself up the rope. Above, the spiders’ web would provide haven. She was nearly there when she saw a man throw his knife. Recognizing a true throw, Tiana dropped a few feet down her line. The knife passed overhead. But not harmlessly. It cut the rope. Tiana’s weight was enough to sever it. She knew a brief sensation of falling, then splashing light-flashes of pain, and blackness.

  *

  Tiana awakened stiff and cold. Her eyes focused — and rolled in exasperation. This sort of thing had happened to her before, and was a dreadful bother. She was cold because she was naked. She was stiff because she was chained spread-eagle atop the altar of cold black stone.

  By the Cud — what a cliché! These jackals are about to sacrifice me to their grisly god! This, Tiana realized, was an unusually bad situation: If Caranga and the King’s Own were to come in and find me like this, I’d never hear the end of it!

  Her chains allowed her some freedom of motion. Twisting, she could see the religious killers seated on their cushions before the altar. They looked expectant, all glittery of eye. Tiana suppressed a shudder. Whatever these evil men planned for her, it would be a spectacle they would enjoy.

  The altar consisted of the black stone slab on which she was chained, and the raised platform behind it. Tiana knew that she was but one character who would perform on this stage, and turned her head to see the other. He stared down at her. A tall gaunt man, wrapped in black robes. His face was a grim skull under a thin film of skin. Eyes like glass. He smiled, sort of.

  “Welcome to the temple of Drood of the Thousand Arms. I am Uldrood, child of the Lord of Darkness and his First Arm. Now that you are awake, we may begin the sacrifice. Long have I practiced my art, but never before have I had such a choice subject.” Before Tiana could spit words, he turned and raised his head to the idol.

  “Hear me, O Dread Lord of the Thousand Arms! Grant your blessings to your faithful worshippers. Let our knives be red with blood and our pockets full of booty. Accept this our sacrifice. In your honor I break her bones.” The priest turned back to look down on the assembled devotees. “The God is pleased to accept this unworthy creature’s death. It is a sign of His singular favor that in a vision, Drood told me this shapely defiler would come. Thus I prophesied to you, and thus it came to pass.”

  From among the Arms rose a man of medium height and powerful build. “Uldrood! I thought no prophet could be wrong all the time. Yet you have been. Your prophecy was that a troop of royal guardsmen would come through our front door. Instead, this lone woman entered through a high window!”

  “Orgar,” roared the priest, “sit down and stop blaspheming!”

  “No. It’s time for a reckoning.” Orgar strode forward and bounded onto the altar, a big man whose shoulders strained his black robe. He faced his fellows. “Brothers! Do you know what has been happening to us? Do you want to know why a night-demon habits our temple?”

  A general shout of approval rang in the sprawling room. Uldrood raised his hands in an attempt to command silence. To no avail. It was clear that Orgar would have his say. Tiana watched these events with interest, knowing that Orgar was walking a thin line. He must hope to displace Uldrood and assume leadership of these idiots. To do that he must destroy confidence in Uldrood’s leadership — without saying that which would justify the priest in ordering his execution. For Tiana the fight for supremacy was a most welcome distraction. Her picklock was where it always was — masquerading as an eardrop. Was there enough slack in her chains to enable her to reach it?

  Slowly, hoping no one would notice, she twisted, squirmed, reached for the pick. Chains clinked …

  “You want to know!” Orgar shouted. “I will tell you! It is a war ! A war between dark and unknown powers. The gods alone know what the shadow dwellers struggle over, with men and kingdoms mere expendable pawns in their game! You have all heard the stories. Fools die in every back alley of the world, fighting for they know not what. Thanks to this so-called priest of ours — and his visions — we have been sucked into this unholy business!”

  Tell them about it, Tiana urged mentally. Tell them, boy!

  Now she had her pick. Her hands above her head, she worked on the lock of her right manacle.

  “You remember Uldrood’s first vision. Last week he said it was the will of Drood that we capture a blind old man who had just come to Reme. We brought him here, not dreaming he was really a black demon. Uldrood ordered us to slay him — and then the darkness came! There it lurks still, in the middle of our temple. A piece of Night that no light can penetrate.”

  Tiana’s right hand was free. To free her left she must work with the pick in plain sight. It was painted a dull dark red, of course. Still …

  Orgar ranted on. “How did Uldrood deal with this disaster? Did he work magic to clear our temple? He did not! You remember his words, brothers: ‘This blackness is but a trick to frighten you. Go into it and slay the old man! Four good men plunged into that ensorceled dark — and how did they emerge? From time to time the demon throws out one of their bones … well gnawed!”

  Tiana’s left hand was free. She lay on a high altar with her left side toward the devotees, who stared at Orgar the fiery. Keeping her left arm above her head, she allowed the unlocked manacle to remain on her wrist. Her right hand reached down. By pulling her legs up, she could just reach the manacle on the right ankle. Don’t run dry, Orgar, she urged mentally. Rant on!

  Orgar did. “Uldrood’s second vision brought us worse disaster,” the big fellow shouted. “Despite my protests, one of the King’s Ears was captured. He was laid on the altar” (Tiana froze) “and Uldrood broke his spine. The priest swore Great Drood was pleased with that death. Then why did the dead man rise? His broken body shifted from side to side as he lurched into the pool of blackness. He emerged — bearing a scroll in his left hand and a knife in the other. He slew men paralyzed in horror and walked out into the streets of Reme.”

  Tiana had freed her right leg. To pick the lock on her left, she must sit upright. Such an act could not even partially be concealed. She lay quietly. Perhaps a chance would come to pick the final lock; perhaps not. She must wait.

  Orgar knew he had succeeded. The cultists’ fear had become hatred of their priest, First Arm Uldrood. To become the new leader Orgar need only slay the old. He looked at Uldrood, his triumph written on his face.

  Uldrood’s smile was sardonic. “Orgar, why do you not say what you want? All these words, when really all you want is to kill me? I am a fair man. You are more than welcome to try.”

  Orgar wasted no time in accepting the invitation. His arm snapped down and a knife dropped from his sleeve into his waiting hand. He charged Uldrood, blade poised for a disemboweling stroke. The priest stood motionless until the last instant, then twisted to his right. Orgar shot past and tripped over his intended victim’s outstretched foot. He bro
ke his fall with his left hand and his knife hand flashed in a throwing motion. The priest ducked. Before he realized the throw had been faked, Orgar was up and at him, knife gleaming.

  This time Uldrood met the challenger’s attack squarely. As the knife sped up at his belly, the priest’s right hand struck down, past the blade. The hard edge of his hand hit Orgar’s wrist and there came the snap of breaking bones. The knife spun through the air to fall a dozen feet from the combatants. Orgar turned and ran to retrieve it. The priest kicked him in the ankle. Again that hideous crack of breaking bone.

  Unarmed, without the use of one leg and one arm, Orgar strove on, but it was a futile attempt. The priest systematically beat him to death.

  “Now you,” Uldrood snarled as he hit, hit, “make full penance for your blasphemy. I am Uldrood, son and First Arm of Drood, Lord of Death! He gives me strength to break men’s bones to His glory. Fool, to pit your puny normal strength against mine! I have served the Dark Lord for many years, and I have slain mighty warriors and fair princesses, kings and commoners — all die beneath my hand!”

  While Uldrood was so delightedly killing Orgar, Tiana picked the lock on her last chain. There are few occasions, she mused, when anyone so beautiful as I may reasonably hope a roomful of men will not watch her — but one man slaying another is such an occasion! All her chains were unlocked. All still rested on her limbs as though secured. The only way out was the front door and the Arms were between it and her. Again she must wait for the right moment.

  It did not come. Uldrood rose from his victim and walked to the black stone block where she lay. He smiled down at her with a definite unpriestly relish.

  “Now it is your turn, defiling slut. I hope you do not mind if I make a spectacle of you.”

  “You could at least give me a bit of clothing to preserve decency.”

  “Any man would be a fool to offer clothing to a woman who looks the way you do!” he said, and the hand with which he had just slain a powerful man sped down at her.

  “He’d be a fool to think I’m just for looks, too,” Tiana said, and rolled off the stone block. Uldrood struck the black stone with all his strength. The loud cracking breaking sound did not come from the altar stone. Uldrood made a horrid sound in his throat and looked perfectly ghastly. Tiana, having fallen at his feet, kicked both his legs. As she rose, the priest fell to a kneeling position. His hand was a mess. The point of her elbow crashed into the back of his neck.

  Tiana had no time to check her kill. Though the Arms of Drood were astonished by the death of their leader, the paralysis of surprise would last only an instant. She saw no way through them to the front door and there was no other exit. There was no hiding place. Except the pool of Blackness …

  The disciples of death would not dare follow her into that place where no light could shine. If whoever or whatever was prisoned there was a friend, well and good. If not, she would be presenting herself to the dweller in darkness as a free meal. Well, she thought piratically, any port in a storm.

  Tiana jumped off the dais and raced toward the patch of utter darkness on the floor. The dazed Arms of Drood watched her leap over the ring of bright lamps into the Blackness beyond.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Caranga ran through the indigo-shadowed streets of Reme, cursing under his breath. As usual, he was sure the mess was his own fault. Yet even in hindsight it was impossible to see how the problem could have been avoided. The philosopher Saphistran had been right. Many years ago Caranga had met him and, over a bottle of wine, queried the revered scholar concerning human destiny.

  Quoth Saphistran, “Every man is completely the master of his own destiny, the captain of his fate. If a man is dissatisfied with the outcome of his life, he has only himself to blame.”

  The great philosopher then with brilliant argument proved this conclusion to Caranga’s satisfaction. However, the wine bottle half consumed, Saphistran declared that men were the helpless puppets of circumstance. Whatever should befall them, he solemnly advised, was written in their foreheads at birth. Caranga objected. With equally brilliant arguments the scholar proved his new conclusion. By then the wine bottle was empty, and pirate told scholar that he was completely inconsistent.

  “Nay,” the learned man replied, “both things are true. It is the world, not I, which is inconsistent.” As Saphistran then passed out from drink, no further enlightenment could be gained.

  Now Caranga knew the philosopher had been right. On the one hand Caranga’s problem was of his own making. Of his own free will he had adopted an orphan and raised her as his son and as a pirate. The forseeable result was that his daughter was a reckless trouble-hungry hellion. While Caranga could accept the idea that a brave son might perish in some foolish adventure, he could not bear the thought of his beautiful daughter in danger.

  Inconsistent, yes — and fully in concert with society. Caranga redoubled his speed. He must find guardsmen and return with them before Tiana got into trouble. Given that the whole problem was of his own making, how could he have avoided it? He’d had no idea how to raise a daughter. The deck of a pirate ship seemed a rather poor place to teach the maidenly virtues …

  His brooding ended when he sighted a mob of the King’s Own. Why, there must be two score! Could he persuade them to follow him? The king had given him no written commission, no token of authority. For a moment Caranga cursed his lack of foresight in not asking for such. Then he remembered that he had relieved the duke of his emerald signet ring after that misfortunate lord poisoned himself. Drawing the ring from his pouch, Caranga ran toward the soldiers.

  “In the name of King and Duke I command you! I am Caranga, this day appointed Friend to the King. In token of my authority I bear the duke’s signet. I’m sure you all recognize it.”

  “Indeed I do,” replied the troop’s commander. Though he spoke from the shadows Caranga recognized the voice; the captain who had tried to arrest Caranga and Tiana in the Wayfarer. “Tell me, how did you steal the Duke’s ring?”

  “Obviously, I couldn’t have. I understand your surprise, but what I said is true. The kingdom is in grave danger, and to deal with the emergency I am given special authority.”

  “Again, you lie well,” Captain Despan said, “but I have just come from my lord Duke. He ordered me to find you and Tiana and execute you both outhand.”

  The soldier’s tone was sincere — and the duke was lying near death and surely could not have given anyone orders. The pirate stood almost dazed with puzzlement; what madness assailed him? Now Despan pointed at the burly black.

  “Seize him! I’ll behead him with his own cutlass.”

  That proved more easily uttered than implemented. The first soldier to leap at the pirate found himself lifted, turned in air, and thrown back. He crushed into his comrades and most of the troop collapsed into a tangled heap.

  This gave Caranga a fair head start. He was faster than most of the guardsmen, but not all. Though he dodged and turned through dark alleys, the guardsmen were like hounds on his trail, mail chiming and jingling. The more Caranga thought about his problem the worse it seemed. He needed time to elude his pursuers; more time to reach the castle. If the king was there, could he gain audience or would he be arrested? How many other squads of guardsman had received similar orders?

  Caranga had found King’s Own — and they wanted to cut off his head! Nevertheless they were the only help he could find tonight, and a man must use what fate provides. Caranga circled back to the mysterious building in the old warehouse district. By now the swifter of his pursuers were well ahead of the slower. When Caranga slowed his headlong pace and brandished his cutlass, the foremost guardsmen also slowed. As Caranga intended, that allowed the slower men to catch up. As they neared the mysterious building, the guard was in good formation, weapons ready. Good, good. If Tiana were waiting outside the building, seeing him pursued by the guard would warn her. If she was inside, he must do what he could to rescue her.

  The main door to the
unknown building shattered into kindling when Caranga’s hurtling body smashed into it. He staggered in a narrow hallway lighted by several lamps; at the end was an oak door banded with heavy iron. This one Caranga could not smash — and the guardsmen were right behind him.

  First striking a loud blow with the flat of his cutlass against the wall, Caranga leapt up and caught hold of a beam. Gaining only a poor foothold, the pirate flattened himself against the darkness at the ceiling. Black vanished into blackness. The guard poured under him, jingling, helmets aflash.

  “That bang was the black dog slamming that door against us. Break it down, men!”

  The door was strong and resisted the soldiers. Caranga, clinging to the ceiling, had no worry of being seen or heard. Although he was in plain sight, he was sure they would not look up, and no small sound he might make could be heard above the racket the soldiers were making. The problem was that his handholds were slipping. In a few moments he would fall into the midst of the soldiers. Silently cursing his age, Caranga clung.

  A moment more — and with a snap the lock mechanism failed. The oaken door swung wide.

  From the ceiling Caranga shouted, in his best imitation of Despan’s voice, “Inside men, and slay!”

  Ignoring or not hearing the protests of their confused captain, the excited soldiers poured into the building. Despan was left alone with Caranga. The pirate dropped to the floor. Cutlass in hand, he faced the outraged captain.

  “You black demon! I’ll cut out your lying tongue before I chop off your head.”

  “You could try,” Caranga replied evenly. “But listen.” From the building came the sound of battle, the ring of steel against steel, the scream of men dying. “This building houses some hostile power. I have tricked you into attacking that power. We may spend our time fighting each other, while your men die leaderless, or we may lead them to victory.”

  “You are a devil. You force me either to betray my men or disobey my orders.”