Rohbe laughed. “I found them at last, young Martin. I found ruins of the”—his voice dipped—“malus. Do those fools in the Judica and the college still say the malus and the barrier are myths?”
Martin nodded, mute with shock.
Rohbe scurried down the jumble of broken steps. “Come, young Martin. I will show you something that would set the Judica and the college on end.”
“How can you be sure?” Martin asked. He had never sided with the mythologists who refused to believe the malus once walked the earth, but the existence of such evidence seemed impossible.
Rohbe stopped. “Think, young Martin. Have you so soon forgotten that admonition I commanded you?” He pointed behind them. “Look at the steps.”
Martin nodded. “They would have been elegant and grand once.”
Rohbe snorted through his nose. “They were nothing of the sort. They were functional!”
He couldn’t help but stare. “But that would mean . . .”
His former teacher nodded, his eyes alight. “Yes, yes. That’s right. They were quite large. Eight to nine feet, I should say. Some may have topped ten. We’re so small.”
“Impossible.”
A snap of fingers brought him up short, as if he were still a student under Rohbe’s instruction. “Foolish word. I taught you to dispense with it. Come. Interpret the evidence.” He pointed toward a ruin, hardly more than a pile of stone covered with vines a hundred paces away. “Are you hungry?” he asked.
Martin nodded.
“Come, my doubting student, I keep what food I can catch or grow in that building.” He quickened his pace, and Martin hurried to follow.
As Martin approached the huge entrance, the feeling of strangeness swept over him again.
“It took me a year to clear away enough of the vines to find the entrance,” Rohbe said. He stepped through an entrance five paces high.
Martin followed, his eyes trying to adjust to the gloom.
Rohbe paused to light a torch with flint. Then he moved around the room to light other torches that had been jammed into cracks in the mammoth walls. As the darkness fled, the indistinct shapes clarified. The hair on Martin’s neck stood on end.
Rohbe cackled. “As you can see, there are plenty of seats, though I doubt any of them will serve our purpose.”
Martin gaped, knew he must look foolish, but he couldn’t find the words to express his amazement. Everything he thought he knew about the ancient history of his world had just been obliterated. “How old is this place?”
Rohbe nodded. “When does our history begin?”
Martin shrugged. “Two thousand years ago with the scattering.”
The historian scratched his head. “Not possible to know. No. No. Twice as old, perhaps. Hard to date them. There are no reference points.”
Martin couldn’t help but look at the size of the chairs again. The malus had been . . . “Giants.”
His teacher nodded. “Come, there’s more. Bring a torch. Come.”
Martin followed. The trip through the chasm could wait. His birdlike teacher had made the most important historical discovery ever. Rohbe led him to a small room off what looked to be a great hall. Whatever door had been there had long since rotted away.
His teacher crossed to the far wall. “Look. This room might have been a storeroom of some kind, but I can’t be sure. It hardly matters. No, it doesn’t. What’s important is that the malus were possessed of artistic tastes, however twisted. Evidence.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look, young Martin, at the walls. Look. They’re covered in carvings.”
Martin held up his torch to get a better view. The builders had overlaid the walls with a pale yellow stone he recognized from Erinon and his time in Callowford—opaque corundum; durastone. He raised his torch. The room was laid out in a hexagon, and every wall had been sheathed with the rock. Even without the carvings, the room would be worth a fortune. It took hundreds of man-hours to quarry enough of the stone for the conclave’s most important casts.
The carvings. Martin held his torch back to look at them. He found himself confronted by faces of terrible beauty that, except for the dust, could have been carved yesterday. The corundum held the detail and gave the depictions a lifelike quality that disturbed him. In those eyes he saw nothing of mercy or compassion.
Male and female in strange, often revealing dress covered the walls, their beauty so perfect it seemed inhuman. Then he noticed the hands. Each hand had six fingers and each foot six toes.
“It took me months to clean out the chamber,” Rohbe said with almost-normal speech. “Yes, months.”
Martin ran his fingers on the bas-relief carvings, marveling at the skill that made the most adept reader’s work seem crude by comparison. Scenes of war dominated. The artist depicted the brutality of war in such intimate, even sensuous, detail that Martin was taken aback. The malus had gloried in killing, taken pride and pleasure in it. Gaping wounds were given even more attention than the frightening faces of the beings that inflicted them.
He stopped. The victims in the scenes were small, much smaller than their killers. They wore crude garments of homespun.
Humans.
Martin tore his gaze from the scene, forcing himself to move on. What he searched for he wouldn’t have been able to put into words. Perhaps it was some sign of a redeeming emotion in the countenance of that lost race. It never appeared. “What happened to them?”
His teacher gave a small squawk. “You know this, young Martin. Yes. What does your tradition tell you?”
Martin pulled his gaze from the carvings. “I know what our tradition says, but we lost Magis’s book hundreds of years ago. Even the existence of the book is little more than a myth now. You taught me to question everything. Legend says Eleison killed the malus, but if that’s so, where are their bones?”
Rohbe nodded. “Yes, yes. That would seem to be the question. But you must question everything. You must. Especially your assumptions.”
Martin turned to face him. “What do you mean?”
The historian shook his head. “I’ve dug through these ruins for years. I have. I’ve never found a burial ground, a mausoleum, or a crypt. There’s no evidence any of them died. Ever.” His eyes were intent, his face lit with unuttered secrets.
Martin exhaled. “Of course they died. They probably burned their dead.”
Rohbe nodded. “Possible, but I’ve seen no evidence of any kind of pyre. Not one.” He took a deep breath. “The legends are true. Eleison bound the malus away from our world.” He waved at the carvings. “I think this is what he’s holding back.”
Martin shook his head, adamant in denial. “No. That can’t be. The malus are twisted, ugly things.” His hand joined in his denunciation, thrusting the historian’s theory from him. He gestured at the walls again. “These creatures are inhuman, but they could never be described as hideous.”
Rohbe nodded, patient still. “Twisted by Magis’s time, yes, but remember, Magis fought the possessed, not the malus themselves. It seems logical. Eleison disembodied the malus. Magis barred their spirits from the kingdom. And that barrier has been with us for centuries.” His shoulders lifted. “Who knows what the malus look like now? Perhaps evil shows its true nature. It does.”
Martin stared at the carvings. Dear Deas in heaven, what would happen when Rodran died? “Teacher Rohbe, the Judica is at war with itself. Half of them do not see the threat in Merakh, do not even believe in the barrier or that the malus ever existed. You have to come with me.”
Rohbe shook his head, waved his hand to the south. “I’m sorry, Martin. There is no escape for us. No. I’ve been stranded here since my horse died. I’ve walked the length of this spit of land time and again. I have. No ships come to this coast, and the river is uncrossable. The barrier has some effect here, but it’s weakening. The ruins are no longer safe at night. Things prowl the mountains.” He shuddered and his voice diminished. “They do.”
; Rohbe’s words went through Martin’s midsection like a knife sliding through water. In the back of his head a desire grew to simply walk east, mountains or no, and a lassitude like a waking dream crept over him. He shook his head to clear his vision. This couldn’t be the compulsion—Errol was nowhere near. Then he knew. He’d sworn to share Karele’s amends.
He touched his teacher’s shoulder. “I have to get to the shadow lands.” In quick sentences he explained why.
Rohbe jerked his head from side to side. “You were always so full of passion, young Martin. So full. It is your gift and your curse.” He scuttled toward the door. “We must leave now. We must.”
A distant howl sounded, and Rohbe jerked, his face a mask of terror. “Quickly. The ruins aren’t safe after dusk.”
Martin followed Rohbe back through the oversized arch and toward the ruined fountain. Every line of his teacher’s posture urged haste, but they stopped to fill the waterskins Rohbe had brought before moving into the forest.
“I have a nest in one of the trees,” Rohbe said.
Martin looked at the giant oaks. “You live in a tree?”
Rohbe shrugged. “Yes. It is the only way to keep safe, the only way. The ferrals here can’t climb. You’ll understand.”
They came to a tree whose trunk must have been three spans across. The first branch, a full span in diameter, shadowed them from ten feet above. At its foot, Rohbe pointed to the trunk.
“Look there.”
Gashes so deep that sapwood showed cut the bole all the way around to a height of seven feet.
A howl sounded in the distance. Rohbe shook himself. “There’s a rope ladder on the far side. My nest is a goodly ways up, it is, but it’s big enough for both of us.”
With his teacher’s assistance, Martin managed to make it to the first branch, if barely. After that, the limbs grew closer together and provided access to the upper parts of the tree.
In his teacher’s nest they ate a meager dinner of dried fish and apples. When dusk settled, an oppressive stillness lay across the ruins and the ancient forest. Though the forest seemed empty enough, Martin spoke in low tones, fearful of being heard. “I will attempt the river to the north tomorrow.”
His teacher sighed. “No. I have tried, but the current is too strong.” He gave Martin a sidelong glance. “You are too big to fight the current. Yes, too big. There is only one way that offers a chance of success, only one, but we will have to move quickly.” A whine came from the back of his throat. “And trust luck.”
His teacher curled himself into a ball and immediately fell asleep.
Hours later, Martin shifted away from the knot that poked him in the back. Fatigue, emotional and physical, pulled at him, but he fought the urge to sleep. He stared into the unrelieved darkness, but the absence of any visual reference point undermined him. He stirred once, jerked awake by the sensation of noise, but he heard nothing over the sound of his panicked heartbeat.
A scratch, as of someone clawing at the base of the tree, came to him, and he held his breath. With slow, soundless movements he unsheathed his dagger and waited. Minutes passed without the sound being repeated, and Martin relaxed. His back and shoulders settled once again into the contours of the tree.
Then a howl from the ruins sent tremors coursing through him. His hands shook as he gripped the knife and waited. Rohbe cried next to him, his sobs thin and childlike.
“Dawn will come,” Martin whispered.
Rohbe nodded, shivering in the dark.
27
THE CUT
MORNING CAME gray and leaden under a blanket of clouds that withheld rain and blocked the light. Martin disbelieved his eyes, so gradual was the lessening of darkness. Tree trunks and branches resolved from the inky background with agonizing slowness. He peered into the gray light of dawn, searching for spawn. The same odd quiet still held the forest in its grip.
Rohbe sat up next to him, handed him a few strips of dried fish. “We must wait for full light before we set out. We must.”
Martin nodded his agreement. He didn’t need to be persuaded.
They clambered down an hour later. Scratch marks high on the trunk raised the hair on his neck. The owner of those claws could have ripped them apart without trouble. Praise Deas the thing couldn’t climb. The blanket of dead leaves on the ground obscured whatever tracks might have been left. Only smudged impressions remained. With or without Rohbe, he must leave. He would not spend another night in a place of such horror.
With his oak-branch staff in one hand and his dagger in the other, he followed his teacher to the ruins. The mountains loomed behind them. Old and worn by time, they created a seemingly impenetrable barrier to passage.
His teacher stopped and pointed. “There is a chasm that runs east through the mountains. Yes, east. I’ve never reached the end. Don’t know where it comes out or even if it comes out. We mustn’t get trapped in it. The spawn would get us, they would.”
“How far down it have you gone?”
Rohbe quivered at the memory. “Half a day’s walk. Only half a day. Do you understand?”
Martin nodded. “We could be trapped, unable to get back to safety before dark.”
Rohbe turned toward the ruins, his steps brisk. “We must pass through them to reach the chasm. Must. There are things we will need to take.”
Sudden curiosity prickled Martin’s skin. “What things?”
His teacher beckoned in answer.
Not for the first time Martin wished Cruk were with him. An overfed priest and an aging scholar were ill-suited to fighting spawn left behind millennia ago after the malus’s attempt to corrupt the earth.
They entered the chamber of carvings and collected a pair of torches, then returned to the gray light and made for a large mound of scree. When they moved behind it, Martin’s breath caught and he stopped. An array of six-sided columns that supported an enormous arch rose above him to a height of twenty spans. He looked left and right, his imagination filling in the parts of the building that time and debris had obscured.
Rohbe jostled his elbow. “Come, young Martin. More than anyone, I can appreciate your awe, but we cannot afford the time.”
With a shake he followed his teacher into the darkness. They lit torches but gloom fought the light, refusing to recede from the illumination of his torch. Martin tucked two more brands under his arm and prayed they wouldn’t stumble across the spawn’s den.
A doorway sized for giants loomed before them. Niel moved ahead, confident despite the gloom. Martin lowered his torch to see the footprints of his teacher’s previous passage. Beside them were the prints of pads twice the size of any dog’s he’d ever seen. With a shake of his head, Martin drew a deep breath and followed Niel through and found himself in another large room much like the first. The firelight struggled to reach the ceiling, creating the impression of great height. They moved left, circling the room.
At the back of the hall they came to another door. They stepped through into a small room, and for the first time something in the ruins was truly different. The room wasn’t empty.
Shadows moved across from him, and he gasped. His pulse roared in his ears.
But the shades that danced on the wall in his torchlight didn’t come from any living thing. Rather, Martin found himself in an ancient armory. He moved to a stone rack thick with dust. Gray weapons with cruel edges lined the stand. A sword that dwarfed any he’d ever seen stood at the end. Curious, he wiped the dirt from the blade with the edge of his cloak and then started, surprised at the cut on his hand. The blade gleamed as if newly oiled and sharpened.
His teacher smiled. “The Judica and the council of nobles will find these interesting. They will.”
Martin wiped his hand against his cloak. “That’s impossible. No metal holds an edge for that long.”
His teacher nodded. “I reacted similarly, I did. It is a good thing the malus in their physical form are interdicted from the earth. We should have no hope of defeating them.
None.”
The sword sliced through Martin’s cloak with the least effort. He moved down the wall past large hooked axes and pikes four strides long. He searched for a weapon he could use for defense as well as proof.
A handful of rods, pointed like javelins and a little taller than he, lay grouped at the end. He hefted one of them and stumbled in surprise at the unexpected lack of burden. The rod could have been made of parchment for all the weight it carried. Martin gave it a tentative swing. The whoosh of displaced air sounded loud in the stillness of the armory. With a grunt he braced one foot against the middle and pulled, trying to bend it. The metal flexed slightly, but as soon as he relented, it returned to its original perfection.
No metalsmith in the kingdom could have produced an object of such perfection. Only readers had the gift and skill to do so, and they only made spheres. Martin left his wooden staff in place of the metal one. His teacher took one of the rods as well and led him to a door in the back of the room.
How far into the ruins had they already come? Surely they should be at the base of the hills by now.
Niel paused. This was no open doorway. A metal door the color of the rod in his hand barred passage. A latch three handspans long protruded from one end. His teacher waved him forward. “You are stronger than I.”
Martin licked his dry lips, said a quick prayer, and pushed. The latch swung as if it had been greased the day before, but the door scraped through gravel. With an effort it opened to admit the gray light of an overcast sky. A noise—half sob and half sigh of relief—came from his throat. A path like a cut ran through mountains that rose up on either side toward the east.
A couple of steps along the path he turned to regard the door. On this side no latch or handle marred its blank, gray perfection. Once it closed, they would have no way back if the chasm proved to be a blind alley. If he closed the door and the passage to the east came to a dead end, they would die in this desolate land. Centuries would pass before anyone found their moldering bones. Yet if they left the door open to safeguard their return, the spawn could hunt them down. He held no illusions about their ability to outrun the beasts.
Hero's Lot, The (The Staff and the Sword Book #2) Page 27
