I tore the timber free — and the sound brought the monster to me. It came in complete silence. A faint musty odour warned me, and with ail the power of my limbs I swung that ironwood club. It struck true, with a heavy impact and the sound of crunching bones — and then the thing was upon me.
Its ophidian flesh was cold as ice, its breath foul. I whipped it with my chains without seeming effect. What seemed tentacles without number gripped me. Paralysing cold fire ran through my veins. I was forced down in the absolute darkness. The thing’s great bulk was an overwhelming weight and I felt a cold soft wetness sucking at my feet. Susha’s scarlet mouth… I think, Tiana, that I began to gibber then. Aye, I Caranga, admit it.
Slowly, helplessly, I was being pulled into a toothless mouth entirely huge enough to encompass me!
Dread clutched my heart, for I realised the Old One’s true mouth would be in its belly… teeth or searing, melting acids or stones, perhaps to grind me — or my body, as I’d have smothered.
I was being swallowed alive.
Slight scratches on my legs burned from the creature’s acid juices. It was agony. Desperately, I flailed, but my legs were afire — and I knew that had there been light I’d not have been able to see them — they were in the beast’s maw.
It was then that the rumbling began. There was a roaring crash, like thunder. The ground shook as if struck by great sledgehammers. My chest felt crushed by the heavy blow that fell onto the creature atop me. Every tentacle snapped loose and flailed in spasms. The Old One writhed, convulsed and, with a mighty final convulsion, it went limp.
Only time had been holding the place together. The one timber I had tom loose had been sufficient to create stresses that ancient rotted timbers and the weak pillar could not meet. Down it had come and, strangely, it was the sweet creature itself that saved me, by being atop me!
It was dead, and I gathered my strength and clawed my way out from under the dead bulk — into bright sunlight. The temple floor was littered with three-foot blocks of stone. Most of the roof had come down — and one of those blocks had slain the Old One.
The walls stood; my men had been against a wall, feeling their way — they were all alive, blinking in surprise!
Yet now the shadows were back. Sweet Susha’s paps, but they were enraged at the slaying of their god! They moved along the walls, weapons in hand, hatred in those soulless ashy eyes. We stood unarmed, in the room’s centre now, in the bright sunlight where they dared not come. It seemed a standoff, but then came new horror — they produced shadow-bows and a shadow-arrow came streaking at me!
I was stupid to fear it. The shaft faded to nigh-naught when it entered the bright sunlight, for it was not a real shadow but the shadow of a nothingness, a shadow without a — well, I know what happened, and I saw it and think I can understand it, but I can’t explain that sweet set of paradoxes and impossibilities!
At any rate, when that pallid stick struck my chest in the bright sunlight, it was less than a bee-sting. Yet Narata was this time less fortunate, for he squatted beside a jumble of blocks, in shadow — he was slain by a volley of the shadow-shafts.
Hide amid the stones as we would, the host of foes ever found vantage points and loosed volleys. The sun would not long be overhead; when it died or even dimmed, we’d all die of invisible arrows. I must bring light to slay the shadows that cowered near the walls…
I sprang from cover and ran to the altar. Oh, they saw my intent aright, and they unleashed flights of their umbral shafts. I was staggered from a score of stings. Even falling, I hurled myself forward and my hand was just able to snatch away the veiling cloth that was my goal.
I was already squinting; I heard men cry out as sunlight struck the Egg of the Phoenix and all its facets blazed up like ten thousand torches. Every colour imaginable rayed the walls in a blinding splash of fiery light. Shadows writhed, vanished.
But I had invoked greater aid than even I knew. Spears of living colour leaped from that Susha-sent egg. When they struck the shadows, the creatures glowed red and twisted, writhed as if they were afire, by Susha’s lusty blood! Living light fought those things of darkness, and light prevailed. We could but squint and shade our eyes during that silent war. No — massacre.
Soon, Tiana, the army of shadows was slain. All of them were gone, gone forever. We had won both the feet of Derramal and the marvellous, the unbelievable Egg of the Phoenix!
And now, beloved daughter, we sail home, home to Reme, and I am the wealthiest man in all the world. By the Cud of the Cow and by Susha’s circumcision, I hope you are safe and well, with naught to do but rob a tomb and some silly old fool’s garden!
11 The Garden of Turgumbruda
In Escailas, capital of Bash-an, dwells a gardener of considerable repute. He is Turgumbruda, and he is also a wizard of black knowledge. Sinister plants are sold from his garden to men of dark desires. Others he grows for his own amusement. In his garden rests the torso of Derramal.
— the map of Lamarred
*
“How may I serve my lord?”
Dorbandura bowed low before the man who had just entered his inn. From his posture of obsequious welcome, the innkeeper furtively examined the customer with cold calculation.
The man was as tall and thin as Dorbandura was short and fat — bloated, really, with rat eyes stuck amid the meat of a hog face. The tall man was hard and lean, like an animal or a bird of prey, with penetrating, pale eyes in a dark face in which every bone was prominent. His black robe, ungirt, completely covered his feet, which made strange clicking sounds as he entered the establishment of Dorbandura of Escailas. Without speaking, the robed man seemed to examine the entire room and its furnishings.
“My lord, be assured that nowhere in Escallas can good accommodations be found at so good a price as at my inn.”
“Call me Thor-Nack. There is good reason for your inn’s modest rates. Thou dost robbery and murder on any lone traveller with valuable possessions.” The accusation was delivered in a perfectly calm, matter-of-fact tone — by a man who seemed to possess no weapons.
“Good Thor-Nack! I fail to understand your — humour. Please be seated and let us discuss your business.”
Blackmail, Dorbandura thought; he’d dealt with such men before. He motioned, and the robed innocent complied, leaving his back exposed to the kitchen doorway where lurked Dorbandura’s son, Shorbanthuda. He had caught his father’s tiny signal, and waited now to see if there would be need of his axe. Hopefully not; Dorbandura filled two mugs with wine and as he handed one to Thor-Nack, his ring dropped in the poison.
Thor-Nack accepted the mug and drank deeply. “Rather clumsy, fat man. Better to keep a poisoned mug handy than to play the obvious game with the ring. Too, this is a poor venom, easily tasted. Thou are too tight with thy money, fat man. Better to eschew this dithba, unless it is to go into something spicy, and spend a few more coppers for Naroka’s Sweetbird.” He finished the wine. “Tell your half-wit son to set aside that axe.”
Shorbanthuda took that as his cue to lunge forward. His axe swished through air only, to bite deep into the floor. An instant later he was flat on his back with the robed man standing over him.
“Do not move, fat man,” Thor-Nack said in the same calm tone. “This needs an object lesson.”
Thor-Nack’s arms were motionless at his sides, his feet and the youth’s throat and upper body concealed by the robe. Shorbanthuda struggled briefly, apparently strangling. Then, with a snap, his head twisted at an unnatural angle. Thor-Nack stepped off — click — leaving the youth’s neck marked by the imprint of a huge claw.
“A worthless boy, host. Yet do precisely as I say, and thou may have him back. Fail, and he stays as he is — dead.”
Shaking, his lips blubbering incoherencies, Dorbandura went to his knees.
Thor-Nack resumed his seat, helped himself to more wine. “Now to business. Among thy guests is a young woman, a flamehair of considerable beauty. She is a thief. In the roo
m thou hast rented her are even now precious jewels, gold and silver — ah, thou knew not, eh, and would have slain her ere now! Thou may keep all that bright metal and stone, she has certain other things I desire.”
Greed displaced fear in Dorbandura’s face, where grief had not yet appeared. “My lord! We have but to rob her room ere she returns!”
“Thou art stupid, fat man. She must first die.”
“I shall poison her tonight!”
“Thy crude methods would but earn thee a rapier in that gross gut, Dorbandura. Though thou shall spring the trap, I must prepare it.”
Thor-Nack bent to the corpse of Shorbanthuda and held his wine-cup to its throat. The boy’s father went all over gooseflesh. He saw no knife, yet suddenly blood flowed into the cup. When it was half full, Thor-Nack took it to squat on the floor near the fireplace. He began to paint on the floor, using the warm blood of the youth he had just slain. Dorbandura watched, petrified with fear. The drawing was merely a crude finger-painting of a face. It became less crude. Rapidly it took on fine detail and horrid realism. When the face of a horrific demon stared up at him, Thor-Nack drew a wide pentagram around it. He rose.
“Now, partner, learn thy part,” he said in a calm tone of command, “Today I shall search the city for her. Should I fail in my quest, she will come here to demand supper. Thou will have covered the pentagram with dirt — have a care not to mar it! — and placed a table within it. All other tables must be occupied by guests or piled with dirty dishes. When she seats herself, open this.” Thor-Nack drew a small box from his robe. “Throw the contents into the fire. Obey, and thou shalt be wealthy and thy murderous son restored. Fail, and… join him.”
Thor-Nack strode from the inn, clicking.
*
The first rule of theft was to know the place and the victim. In the present instance, that meant Tiana’s learning the layout of Turgumbruda’s home. She examined the walls, which were some eight feet tall and covered with ivy. There was but one door. Only when she banged on it for the fourth time was there a response. The door opened but a crack. The face within was hidden in shadows.
“What do you want?” The voice was blurred, strained, rather as if the speaker suffered some disease of lung or throat.
“Apprise your master that a customer with gold would buy his wares.”
“Nothing here is for sale. Begone, wench!” The door slammed.
I do not believe it, Tiana thought, looking about. Perhaps I’m somehow recognised.
Accordingly she walked away, looking back twice as if disconsolate, and spent several minutes coming around behind the house. That wall, she assumed, surrounded the garden. The wall was closely grown with greenery-including a huge saytree snugged close to the stones. It was quickly climbed; she was as quickly astonished and disappointed. Turgumbruda was a gardener; she had expected his garden to be sinister, yet beautiful and, above all, perfectly tended. She looked down into an ugly mess, weeds overgrown and run riot. In the centre of that unkempt eyesore stood a small stone building attached to a greenhouse. The former was in good condition; the latter was not, with several windows broken and all of them filthy. Directly before the stone building burgeoned a great thick mass of ugly bushes. Why anyone would want to grow such or suffer them to thrive, Tiana could not imagine. They bore neither fruit nor flowers, though they looked revoltingly healthy, far more so than anything else in what appeared to be an abandoned lot. Vinaceous tendrils sprayed out like green-leafed tentacles.
The small stream was strange, too. It ran into the greenhouse but did not emerge. A sewer drain inside, she supposed, though she still wondered. I need to know a lot more than this!
Climbing down, Tiana betook herself directly to the District of Roses — otherwise known as the thieves’ quarter. A few discreet inquiries, one bribe, one threat and a promise led her to a decrepit little hovel of leprous stone. Its door was ajar; she boldly entered a large dark room.
“Marderun the Wise — will gold loose your tongue?”
“The tongue of an old man is always loose,” the lean oldster said, from behind a counter strewn with handsome crockery. He was soft of white hair and face — from which stared two bright, black eyes. Marderun wore a faded blue tunic under a leathern apron stained with clay and dyes.
Tiana tossed a jingly little goatskin bag from hand to hand. “Of all men in Escallas, Marderun, you are surely the most knowledgeable. What know you of Turgumbruda?”
“I am nosy,” Marderun said. “It is my weakness. You are from Reme. Your confidence is high, and you are beautiful. Well I know a man of Reme, a man the colour of raven. So, I think, do you.”
Tiana blinked, then smiled. “Marderun, I see that you are wise indeed. Caranga fares well. I am his foster daughter, Tiana Highrider.”
“And you have designs on Turgumbruda, nor will my urging you against it be to aught avail.” Marderun sighed, gestured, leaned on his counter. “My excellent mugs are priced at three coppers; examine them. A strange man, Turgumbruda, grown the stranger of late. His strange and usually vile business long ago bought him the favour of important men, yet now he turns away all who would buy. Time was when he was seen at any slave auction that offered comely girls. Through the years he bought more than fifty. Once within his house, none was ever seen again. There was such an auction but ten days ago; Turgumbruda was not there. Too, he has ever bought horsemeat for his guard dogs and food and wine of the finest quality — for one.”
Tiana dropped three coins into a blue-striped mug; silver coins, not copper. “And none ever did aught about it? Perhaps the girls at last revolted and he is their prisoner — no no, they must have food. By the Back — he’s slain them all!
“As I said, Turgumbruda long since won the favour of important men, who are known to suffer at times from blindness concerning some matters. Lately, though, he may have gone too far.”
“Ah. How so, friend of my father?”
“No no, no more silver, generous Tiana; you are Caranga’s foster daughter. None would take you for his natural one! Well, Turgumbruda has stopped spending altogether. He no longer buys food for the dogs or himself — he buys nothing. He has now neglected to pay his taxes.”
“Ah, the final sin! But what of that peculiar servant who slammed the door in the face of a customer with gold — me?”
“None ever saw him, before this change came on Turgumbruda.”
“I didn’t see him either, Marderun. Tell me of his home — and the greenhouse.”
“I do wish you’d give it up, Caranga’s own flower!” Marderun sighed. “All was built years ago. I have not been in the house. An aqueduct channels the stream through the greenhouse. He had the workmen dig away on either side, so that the greenhouse is sunk a bit. Thus he may take as much water from the stream as he wished and divert the excess to the sewers.”
“Odd. When did that process begin?”
“It happened gradually. And Tiana — a man seeks you. I cannot keep it from one so beautiful, and Caranga’s own. He is tall, hawkfaced, in a black robe.”
Tiana was given pause. A brother, surely, to the werehawk she’d slain. “An assassin. Thank you. This pot would be enhanced by a gold coin — there. Has anyone sought to rob Turgumbruda — recently, I mean?”
“Two,” Marderun said, affecting not to notice the golden eagle she’d dropped into the brown-and-gilt pot. “Three, really. The first two climbed the wall — and vanished. I do not advise it.”
“The third?”
“A tax collector. Yesterday he forced his way past that obnoxious servant.” The old potter gestured. “He has not emerged. The Dark Gardener’s influence has run out, for the king is disturbed. He has ordered a troop of soldiers to arrest Turgumbruda. I would say… at sunset, today.”
“I would believe it, if you said it. Marderun. Excellent health. I will speak of you to Caranga. That hawkfaced man… is there a back way here?”
“Through this curtain. Farewell Captain Tiana Highrider, hero of Dark
Forest.”
Tiana hastened through Marderun’s living quarters and out the rear door. He does know all!
Walking among other, far less talkative denizens of the Rose District, she pondered. Turgumbruda’s house would shortly be plundered, first by soldiers and then a mob; such was the way of the world. She would be part of that mob. Her sudden smile sent the hand of a rat-faced passerby to his hilt, but she went on —
Until the sound came, from behind her. Harsh it was, resounding, intense, as if a great army of hawks was screaming in unison. The volume increased until she felt the street quiver, she and scores of others — who saw great cracks leap through the walls of the building she had just quit.
Marderun! She started back — and the cracks became gaping fissures. With a thunderous crash, the home of Marderun collapsed. Dust rose from a heap of rubble.
Surrounded by the most unsavoury of Escallas’s populace, Tiana spoke loud and clear.
“A baneful werehawk has done this, and slain a good man. I, Tiana Highrider who slew Maltar of Dark Forest, swear to avenge him.” As soon as I have Derramal’s body.
*
A troop of red tunics under shining steel corselets and surmounted by black-plumed helms filed through the door of the house of Turgumbruda. Already a mob had grown, sure of plunder but cautious of the king’s soldiers. The last of the troopers was through the wall’s gate just as the sun set. As if in warning omen, it died in a sky that went the colour of blood ere it greyed.
Never still, never silent, the crowd waited without patience. Twilight deepened. The house gave forth no sound. Words went about; the troopers had surely found rich booty indeed and were busy gathering it. Plenty, though, would be left… As twilight gave into night, the people of Escallas grew steadily more uneasy. Many slavemaidens had vanished into this house of the man called the Dark Gardener. And two thieves — and a tax collector. At last darkness was complete. No soldiers, no sound. A wave of panic ran through the muttering mob like a wind through com, touching every stalk. It grew to a gale — and the good townspeople fled in all directions.
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