Elements 03 - Monsters of the Earth

by David Drake

  At least I know who massacred the villagers.

  She grasped the bottom of the idol and pulled it upward. It didn’t come out of the crack into which it was wedged. She jerked harder, lifting the fieldstone base from the ground for an instant before its own weight pulled it from the wood.

  Alphena danced away, holding the idol out in her left hand. It was the best choice she could see for a shield.

  She wouldn’t have thought she could lift the stone base left-handed. Her huge opponent had brought out the best in her.

  The Horsehead laughed again. He shuffled forward with his legs splayed widely apart, so that he could follow instantly if she tried to circle him.

  Without signaling his intention, the Horsehead made a mighty overarm thrust. Alphena sidestepped to the right but interposed the idol to the blow in case her opponent tried to hook his weapon into her. The spear struck like a battering ram, rotating Alphena widdershins, but the flint head shattered without scarring the black wood.

  Alphena stabbed the Horsehead through the lower chest. Her unintended pirouette added force to the blow. The sword drove so deep that she felt its point crunch into the giant’s spine.

  The Horsehead lurched backward. His bawl of pain turned into a wheeze. Alphena came with him because she wasn’t giving up the sword. Her grip was more a spasm than conscious thought; her mind was a blur of light and motion.

  She tried desperately, mindlessly to free the blade. It slid out ahead of more blood than she had ever imagined could come from a wound.

  The Horsehead’s arms flailed convulsively. Alphena saw the spear shaft coming at her through the corners of her eyes, but she was toppling and couldn’t dodge it.

  She felt the blow as a burst of white light. Then she felt nothing.

  * * *

  “ALL RIGHT,” SAID Corylus to the assemblage. “Where was Alphena when she disappeared?”

  He was working at keeping emotion out of his face, hoping that he didn’t look too grim. All those milling around—Alphena’s entourage, workers from the estate, and most particularly Collinus Ceutus himself—gabbled and twitched like a henyard immediately after a hawk has snatched its dinner.

  “Lady Alphena entered that cave,” said Pandareus. He not only pointed his right arm but also took a step in the direction of the hillside that had been eaten back by the recent excavation. “The tunnel, I suppose it is. Paris went in and she followed. The rest of us were behind her.”

  Except for the old scholar, those present were behaving like surviving villagers in the wake of a German raid: terrified, unsure of what just happened; mourning their losses and nervously certain that the disaster would be repeated as soon as they turned their backs.

  Corylus gazed around the crowd. He knew that what these people were most afraid of was him: Gaius Cispius Corylus, the young representative of the wealthy senator whose daughter had disappeared while in their company.

  In his heart of hearts, Corylus was glad they were afraid. They had let something happen to Alphena. His anger was irrational, so he would never let it show—but it pleased him that they were feeling the lash of the blame he was too reasonable to voice.

  “Sir, I was right behind her,” said Drago, who with his cousin led the escort. “The old guy—”

  He nodded to Pandareus.

  “—tried to get in ahead of me, but I dragged him back. He didn’t have a sword, and he didn’t look like he’d be much use with his bare hands, so I got him outta the way. Then I went in after her.”

  “Correct on all points,” said Pandareus. “Frankly, I wasn’t thinking of the possibility of danger.”

  “All right,” Corylus said. “How close to her were you, Drago?”

  “Dum near run up her ass, I was that close,” the Illyrian said, shaking his head. “I didn’t know how big the cave was inside and I was afraid I’d lose her in it. I went barreling in and there she was. She was following the priest close enough I could hear him mumbling something. Though I couldn’t see him at first.”

  “This was nothing to do with me,” said Ceutus, wringing his hands. He sounded desperate rather than defiant. “I didn’t even know that the tomb was there till Pandareus told me about it. I didn’t go in.”

  Corylus looked at him and said, “If you know nothing, then be silent until I ask you to speak.”

  The landowner cringed away. Corylus had sounded—even to himself—as though he were about to pronounce sentence of death. Ceutus isn’t at fault, but if he insists on calling attention to himself …

  Drago waited through the interruption with his mouth open. Corylus turned toward him again and said, “Did you have a light? Did anybody in the tunnel have a light or did it all come through the opening there?”

  “That’s a funny thing,” said Drago, frowning in concentration. “There wasn’t a light at first—that’s how I near run into Her Ladyship—but then the ceiling started to get light. Like there was a hole in it, but there wasn’t.”

  “That’s how it appeared to me as well, Master Corylus,” Pandareus said formally. His present attitude was that of a student to his teacher rather than the reverse, as it would have been during class. “I saw Lady Alphena and even Paris in silhouette—when I could see past Master Drago, that is. I was following him.”

  Pandareus pursed his lips as his eyes turned briefly toward his memories. Then he said, “It did seem to be coming from the tunnel roof. I couldn’t see the rock above Paris, just a glow. It was very faint at first.”

  “All right,” Corylus said as he digested the information. “We’ll go into the cave, then.”

  He glared around him. “Just the three of us, Drago and Pandareus with me. The rest of you keep away from the entrance. And—”

  To one of the estate servants.

  “—give me that lantern.”

  Corylus took a deep breath, then drew his dagger instead of the long sword. With that in his right hand and the lantern in his left, he said, “Drago, you first. I’ll follow you. You’ll follow me if you please, Master Pandareus.”

  Corylus had been afraid that the whole tunnel would be so low that he had to crawl, but he could stand upright once he was beyond the entrance. The ground level outside had risen with erosion from the slope above, but the stone door had kept all but seepage from entering the tunnel.

  The walls were coarsely finished, showing adze marks and a few drill holes, but there was no doubt that the tunnel was artificial or at least largely artificial. It was cut through living rock; an opening, even if blocked off again, would have been obvious from the shadows the lantern threw when Corylus held it close to first one wall, then the other.

  “Look, it was about here,” said Drago, squeezing against the side of the tunnel so that the lantern illuminated one wall and the floor ahead of him. He squiggled his broad, sickle-shaped sword toward the ceiling. “I know it wasn’t much farther in—”

  He was standing about ten feet from the entrance.

  “—and anyway, how much farther is there?”

  He waggled the sword again, this time toward the solid rock that ended the tunnel. It was closer to him than the entrance was.

  “You, old guy?” Drago said, bending to peer back past Corylus. “Don’t it seem about this far to you?”

  “Yes, it does, Master Drago,” said Pandareus. Only someone who knew the scholar as well as Corylus did could have heard the smile in his voice. “The light in the ceiling seemed brighter and there were tree roots growing out of the right sidewall.”

  He leaned forward and rubbed his fingertips over the stone.

  “Which is not the case now,” Pandareus said, straightening. “Master Corylus, I clearly saw Paris climb upward, using the roots as the rungs of a ladder. Lady Alphena followed him very closely—so closely one of her hands was on the same root as one of his feet, it seemed to me. They both faded as they went upward, but I thought they must be lost in the light.”

  “Sir, I tried to follow her,” Drago said. His face was bea
ded with sweat, the result of emotion, despite the tunnel’s relative coolness. “Zeus bugger me if I didn’t, I was afraid, but I tried. Only my hand couldn’t feel the roots and then the roots wasn’t there. And the light went out and Her Ladyship was gone and I tried!”

  Corylus lifted the lantern and ran his dagger lightly over the ceiling, hoping that the point would find a crack that his eyes had not. Like the walls, it was nothing more than roughly carved rock.

  “All right,” he said. “Master Pandareus, we’ll go back outside now.”

  Everyone was acting as though Corylus was here as the agent of Senator Saxa. Corylus hoped that Saxa would approve of what he was doing, but that was secondary to the need to act immediately. Corylus was the best person present to take charge; and on the frontiers, you learned not to wait for an order before doing what was necessary.

  The scholar turned and started back. Over his shoulder, Corylus said, “Drago, you and your fellows won’t be punished. I’ll assure Lord Saxa that there was nothing you could have done. The same thing would have happened if I had been there in your place.”

  Except that I would’ve been leading, he added silently. Though—as strong-willed as Alphena was, that might not have been possible even for him unless he’d been willing to grab her around the waist and carry her out of the tunnel.

  Corylus smiled wanly at that thought. He was fairly sure that Alphena’s escort would have killed him immediately even if they agreed with his decision. Saxa was a kindly man, but he would have had his servants crucified if he learned they had permitted a commoner to manhandle his daughter.

  The sunlight outdoors was a pleasant change, though Corylus had been sunk too deeply into the problem to think about the tunnel and its darkness as anything but factors to be considered. He handed the lantern back to the servant from whom he’d taken it, still lighted.

  For a moment, he stood in grim silence while everyone stared at him. If they’re expecting wisdom, they may have a long wait.

  He grinned in sudden realization and glanced up the slope. There was another witness: the ancient yew tree.

  “All right,” said Corylus. “Master Ceutus, get your men back to the house proper. At any rate, I don’t want you or any of your people any closer than that.”

  It didn’t matter to him whether the estate workers stood around watching, but it might matter to the dryad.

  “Rago and Drago, take Lady Alphena’s escort back to the carriages,” he continued. “Be ready to come if I call for you.”

  There was absolutely nothing useful that a gang of toughs could do in the present situation. Saying that to men like the cousins would invite the reply that they didn’t work for Corylus.

  “Pulto and Lycos, I want you fifty feet from the entrance to the tunnel,” Corylus said. “Don’t let anyone come past you, all right?”

  “You’re going into the tunnel again?” Pulto said, his hand on his sword hilt. There was a growl of challenge in the question.

  “No, I’m not going into the bloody tunnel!” Corylus said, feigning irritation that he didn’t feel. Pulto and Lycos would do what they thought his father would wish. They would be pretty sure that allowing Corylus to walk unaccompanied into danger would not be what the Old Man expected of them. “I’m going to go up that hill—”

  He pointed.

  “—and stand beside that bloody yew tree. There’s no danger at all, but I don’t want a bunch of yobs disturbing what I’m trying to do. And if you wonder if I mean you when I say a bunch of yobs, I bloody well do!”

  Lycos chuckled like pottery breaking. “Yes, sir, Prefect,” he said. He plucked Pulto’s sleeve with the hand that didn’t hold his narrow-bladed spade. “Come on, trooper. You heard that tone before, same as I done.”

  Pandareus watched the two old soldiers moving away, talking to each other in low voices. “I don’t understand what your driver meant,” he said.

  “Lycos told Pulto that I remind him of my father,” Corylus said, also watching the men. His eyes were threatening to go blurry. “Under the circumstances, there is no greater compliment.”

  He blinked and focused on Pandareus again. Before he could speak, the scholar said, “Master Corylus, I realize that I can’t help in what you plan to do; but if it were possible, I would like to walk to the tree with you. For knowledge’s sake.”

  Corylus paused. He’d planned to send Pandareus away also, but the scholar had nothing in common with anyone but him of the hundred or so people in the immediate vicinity.

  “Of course, teacher,” he said. “I’m not sure that there’ll be anything for you to see, but your company is welcome.”

  They walked up the slope together. Corylus chuckled. Before the scholar could turn and raise an eyebrow in question, Corylus said, “I feel safer having you with me now than I would having Pulto. Than I would with the whole Third Batavians.”

  “While I agree that the army is unlikely to be much help in the present circumstances,” Pandareus said with a dry smile, “I fail to see that I’m any better. I asked to accompany you for my own purposes, not because I could imagine my presence being of any benefit.”

  “Master?” said Corylus. “Are you afraid?”

  Pandareus looked puzzled. “Well, I don’t wish to die, if that’s what you mean,” he said. “But I’m not a young man, so my death is inevitable in the not too distant future no matter what I do.”

  They had reached the yew tree. Corylus grinned at his teacher and said, “Master, you probably live too much in your own world to understand how refreshing your example is to someone who is of a less philosophical bent. Someone like myself.”

  Pandareus pursed his lips. “So long as you don’t count on me to stop a charge of screaming Germans,” he said. “Or, in the present circumstances, Ethiopes.”

  Corylus reached for the tree trunk, laughing for the first time since they had arrived at Ceutus’ estate. Before he quite touched the thin, ragged bark, the dryad stepped into view.

  She was smiling, but Corylus noticed that she kept him between herself and Pandareus. “I suppose with all the magic from the priest’s spell,” she said, “your friend can see me as easily as you can, Cousin?”

  “Yes, mistress,” the scholar said, bowing. “I am Pandareus of Athens. In normal times I teach rhetoric to Master Corylus, here; but more recently, he has been teaching me.”

  “Taxus,” Corylus said, using the dryad’s name, “Pandareus is my friend and a friend to all those who wish to preserve life on Earth’s surface. We wish to find—to rescue—the young lady who vanished recently with the priest whom you mentioned. Can you help us?”

  Because the tree was over fifty feet tall and six feet in diameter, very large for a yew, Corylus had expected the dryad to be as aged as the spirit of the pine behind Melino’s dwelling. Instead, Taxus looked to be only a few years older than Hedia—and equally beautiful, though in a lusher, riper fashion. Her hair was a flowing black, and her lips were a red as vibrant as that of Serian lacquerware.

  Yews are very long-lived trees, Corylus thought. Then he thought, I wonder if her lips would poison me if I kissed them?

  Taxus gave him a slow smile. She reached out with her right hand, running her fingertips over his cheek as lightly as the touch of a butterfly’s wing. “You are a very pretty boy, Cousin,” she murmured.

  Corylus took her hand between both of his. He squeezed it, then firmly lowered her arm to her side again.

  “Please, Cousin,” he said. “The girl is the sister of my closest friend. Can you help us find her?”

  Dryads were whimsical, even beyond what Corylus had learned to expect from human women, but this yew spirit had an apparent presence that set her apart from her sisters. She could be cruel, he thought, but as a matter of cold deliberation—not whim.

  Taxus licked her lips as she considered him. “I don’t know where the female went,” she said at last. “I’m not a magician myself. But I can take you to a magician’s garden, and from there you can
go to him. He can help you further—if he chooses.”

  A number of questions ran through Corylus’ mind, starting with, Who is the magician?

  He didn’t ask them, because it didn’t matter. The dryad had offered a way of—possibly—reaching Alphena. That was more than he had expected, and much more than he would wind up with if he tried to press Taxus.

  “Thank you, Cousin,” he said. “I would appreciate that kindness on your part.”

  Taxus laughed. Her expression chilled. She said, “Does your friend come too?”

  “Yes, mistress,” Pandareus said. “If I may.”

  He looked at Corylus and added with a crooked smile, “For the same reason as before, of course.”

  “I don’t know a better reason than the pursuit of knowledge,” Corylus said. “Yes, Cousin. Both of us will go.”

  The dryad smiled again. She took each man by a hand and with them walked into a greenish fog.

  * * *

  VARUS HUDDLED IN THE BOW as the boat trembled through the dusk. They were nearing another island, but he felt as though his brain had turned to sludge; he had no interest in what would happen next nor in what was happening now. He was very tired.

  Varus didn’t feel hungry or thirsty, though he had eaten only his usual slight breakfast of bread soaked in wine lees before he joined Lucinus three days ago. He should be ravenous by now if they really had been at sea that long.

  Was this a dream while his body slept in Sulla’s garden? Or lay dead in Sulla’s garden? In the latter case his soul might journey for eternity like a more literate version of Tantalus, in search of an island and a book that it would never reach. Varus smiled at the speculation.

  The island was forested down to the sand beach, rosy in the sunset. The foliage of the trees themselves was ragged and dangling, like that of cypresses, but vines and other plants and even other trees grew on the branches. Fruit hung from some of the vines, rotating slowly in a breeze that Varus couldn’t feel.

  Those weren’t fruit: they were human heads hanging by their long hair. They stared at Varus with empty eyes.