Gangs of Antares

by Alan Burt Akers

  I acknowledged his greeting and we passed through the outer courtyards where the peace of this place could be felt as a tangible presence of the spirit. He conducted me to an inner chamber simply furnished where soft drinks and fruits lay appetizingly on a small table. “San Paynor and Tiri will be here shortly. Now I ask you to excuse me. I have duties.”

  “Certainly, San Logan. And thank you.”

  Whatever the young madam wanted, they were making an occasion of it, that was certain sure, by Opaz.

  Presently San Paynor appeared and with him Tiri. The san was dressed as I expected, in a long brown robe. He did not lean too heavily on his curiously carved staff. Surprising me, though, Tiri, instead of her attractive shape charmingly displayed in a shamlak, wore a brown robe down to her feet. When she walked I noticed her feet were bare. Every scrap of her hair was covered by a brown four-pointed cap. She wore no jewelry of any kind.

  After the polite greetings had been exchanged, San Paynor said: “I owe you not one but two thanks, Drajak.”

  “Oh?”

  “We of Cymbaro abhor fighting but will fight if it is just in the eyes of Cymbaro. Your actions here were praiseworthy—”

  “I chance interrupting you, san,” I said, interrupting. “These thanks are entirely unnecessary. My actions were necessary.”

  His thin face betrayed a quiver of a smile. “Indeed. You know San Padria?”

  San Padria I had met on the road with his protégé, Nath. A pair of shoes had exchanged feet. I nodded, guessing what was to come, and so was able to say: “Again thanks are unnecessary, as I indicated at the time. Rather, as I said, my thanks were due to San Padria for so graciously accepting the shoes.”

  Again he smiled. “I think Tiri has chosen wisely in you.”

  Some of the old Dray Prescot abruptness sharpened my words. “Yes. Just what is it you have in mind for me, young lady?”

  Before Tiri could speak, Paynor said: “There are many things about us you do not know. Tiri is a temple dancer, true. But she has a higher vocation.”

  Very soon after meeting Tiri I’d sensed there was a lot more to her than appeared. From the way she was dressed I’d had a sudden startled thought she was to be the victim in some pagan sacrifice. Still, that wouldn’t be in accordance with what I knew of Cymbaro the Just.

  San Paynor went on to tell me that certain women had strange powers. Well, by Vox! All women have strange powers over men. Paynor indicated that Tiri could become a mystic, which didn’t surprise me. He wouldn’t say more than that about her actual powers.

  Again I asked what she wanted me to do.

  There was to be a ceremony. The way they explained it, Tiri would have to undergo some complicated and extremely arcane rites. In this ritual pain was involved. From past experience the priests were aware that these young girls could not stand that pain. So they had champions who, in some spiritual way, linked up and drew off the pain leaving the girls free to concentrate on absorbing the knowledge of the keys to unlock the powers within their brains and spirits.

  “To choose as champion someone outside the temple is so unusual as not to have been heard of before. But Tiri insists.”

  “I do!” flared Tiri. So I saw there had been an unholy row before she’d got her own way.

  The whole business was somber and serious. Paynor warned me that if a champion failed his lady, then: “The full weight will fall on her. Her mind and ib will be blasted forever. This is a most serious responsibility, Drajak.”

  Tiri turned her head to look up at me appealingly.

  “You will agree, won’t you, Drajak?”

  There was no room in this place, it seemed to me, to call upon Makki Grodno or the Divine Lady of Belschutz. All the same—

  “Yes, Tiri, and thank you for the honor.”

  And if you want to call me a creep, then a Herrelldrin Hell take you!

  More surprises were to follow. The Temple of Cymbaro on the surface was indeed a small and insignificant structure compared to the grandiose temples and palaces around. I had penetrated into almost the whole of the ground area by now. A group of brown clad priests entered and bowed. They formed an escort for the san and Tiri as we left the chamber. We went down. By Vox! We went down all right.

  Spacious rooms were here piled one upon another connected by wide staircases. This subterranean temple was rather like an inverted skyscraper, an earthscraper, perhaps. Everything I saw appeared tasteful. There was no vulgar ostentation, as Sjames would say. Soft light from samphron oil lamps illuminated and enhanced the decorations. The air tasted sweet upon the tongue. I followed on, silently, down and down.

  Just about every hill in Oxonium was honeycombed with tunnels and secret chambers. In this the builders merely followed the custom of Kregen in providing palaces and temples with many secret passages. The color schemes soothed. Down we went. The gravity of the situation was not lost on me, yet I felt calm in face of the ordeal before me.

  We reached a chamber draped somberly in earth brown. Lamps glowed in chandeliers. At the far end an altar reared a single black block. I could see no ominous bloodstains there.

  There was no idol.

  Six girls were waiting, all dressed in brown gowns, with flowers woven into their hair and in loops and belts about their waists. They carried Tiri off through a side door. At the door she half-turned and favored me with a smile that trembled her lips. I nodded.

  A man approached San Paynor. His brown robe was tightly belted and he carried two swords and daggers. He was apim, with a face pale with passion, gaunt, the face of a man obsessed, driven by the needs of the spirit. His very intentness appalled.

  “San.” He bowed.

  “I have tried, Duven, as Cymbaro is my witness, I have tried.”

  Duven’s strong hands clenched, clenched and relaxed, shaking.

  “But it is against all tradition, all we believe in. Cymbaro the Just is the only true force in all the world! We cannot gainsay him! We are of Cymbaro. We are of the Just.”

  “Some of what you say is true, Duven. But not all. We do not gainsay Cymbaro, for we follow the precepts. The chosen girl has the right to choose her own champion.”

  The trembling passion in this Duven struck out like a physical force. He was controlling himself only by the exercise of will. His dark eyes surveyed me with a distant, all-encompassing look.

  “And this is the man, this is the champion. He is not of Cymbaro.”

  “He has proved himself.”

  “A pair of shoes!”

  “Aye. And in the battle for us all here.”

  Duven lifted a fist, helplessly. “I was on my way back from Farinsee!”

  “There is no blame attached to you, Duven.”

  San Paynor’s words were calm and strong. He would not be deflected. He had asked Tiri and she had insisted on having me. This Duven would have been Tiri’s champion had I not turned up. Then, and I felt with a genuine emotion, he acquiesced. He bowed his head.

  “It is the will of Cymbaro, before which everything — everything! — must bow. Cymbaro the Just must rule the world!”

  He took a few paces towards me and stuck out his hand. As we shook, he said: “I wish you well, in the sacred name. Bear yourself bravely. Tirivenswatha has the gifts. Do not fail her.”

  “All that I can do, that I shall do. I swear.”

  He nodded and stepped back, satisfied. His very fanaticism drove him on to the greater glory of Cymbaro, and in the grip of that over-riding passion he would do anything for Cymbaro.

  The priests took up positions around the walls, and Logan and Duven joined them. Paynor and I waited in the center. He said: “Duven is so unlike his twin brother, Drendi. He went off to be a paktun when Duven joined us in Cymbaro. One is intense and passionate, thin, the other easy-going and stout. Sometimes twins are like that, totally dissimilar.”

  I did not say that any paktun worth his salt is not too easygoing, and stout mercenaries slim down after a few battles, until they become
crumblies. I stood lightly, waiting for Tiri and what was to happen.

  Presently more dignitaries entered the room. They moved with the deliberate motions of people who knew exactly what they were doing and the reasons for each action. Other priests high in the hierarchy joined Paynor. Priestesses, too, formed in their allotted places. Paynor told me I must remove all my weapons and clothes. They put a long brown gown over me which was wrapped loosely across the front. A small orchestra trooped in and took station to the side. The preparations were made. The silence rang profoundly in all our ears.

  A trumpet blasted. The silver notes soared, hovered, died.

  A bevy of flower clad maidens entered, escorting Tiri.

  They opened out to allow her to glide gracefully into the central space. The music began, low at first, swirling, beating, growing in tempo and violence.

  And Tiri danced.

  She wore flowers. In any other circumstance the eroticism of her dance would have shrieked to the skies. Here, the dance expressed the true joy of Cymbaro, the flowering of life, of happiness, of a oneness with all created things upon Kregen. I watched as she moved, seductive, more voluptuous in her sinuous twinings than any Sylvie, enraptured within herself, beautiful.

  When at last the dance ended and Tiri sank down, head bowed, one leg tucked beneath her, the other extended, her arms reaching out before her, I felt emotionally purified.

  Not a sound disturbed the silence of that subterranean chamber.

  Like the astonishing smash of a bolt of lightning a flame leaped up beyond the altar. The trumpet pealed. I was led forward to the altar where Tiri was conducted by her handmaidens. We met.

  Stone steps were cut into the block. We two ascended. Many hands removed my gown and wove ropes of flowers about us. Tiri would not look at me. We stood, firmly pressed together, as the scented blooms formed their coils about us.

  Music continued to play in a slow languorous melody. The priests chanted in sonorous levels and the priestesses joined their voices to soar above the melodies like larks ascending into the blue.

  My surroundings became hazy. I knew I held Tiri in my arms, as she held me. I could hear the deep strong voices of priests chanting, and more felt than saw San Paynor and a sweet-faced woman laying their hands upon Tiri. The flame writhed silently. I felt heat, cold, dryness, dampness. Tiri moaned. Something like a red-hot sword drove cleanly through my midriff.

  The world turned corpse white before my face.

  I was standing on the quarterdeck of a little sixty-gun ship not fit to sail in the line and a monstrous great hundred and twenty-gun four-decker sailed effortlessly past our stern. In turn, gun after gun, he raked us. A stern rake, a destroying broadside that pulverized the ship, whirled in a conflagration of iron, smoke and flame.

  The deck under me changed to that of a small swifter of the Inner Sea of Turismond. Spray-glittering, the bronze bound ram of a powerful swifter smashed splintering into our beam, flinging the broken bodies of oarsmen aside, wrecking us in blood and horror.

  The background lurched and I saw Seg Segutorio drop his great Lohvian longbow and clutch futilely at the long black-fletched arrow through his throat. I saw Inch’s head fly from his shoulders under the lethal sweep of a Saxon-pattern axe. I saw Turko ripped into bloody fragments by a black-furred many-armed monstrosity. I saw Mevancy’s bindles ping harmlessly from plate armor and a swarm of flung darts shred her body. I saw Hap Loder trampled beneath the iron hooves of a stampeding herd of Voves. I saw — I saw...

  My friends and family paraded before me, destroyed in many gruesome ways. The physical pains attacked my body as though I was being stuck through by a thousand red-hot lances, as though my flesh was being plucked from me by a thousand white-hot pincers. I shook uncontrollably.

  But — but the physical pains were as nothing to the mental agony. I saw my children dismembered. My mind writhed and coiled and I lurched desperately close to complete insanity.

  I saw Delia. I saw Delia...

  “No!” I screamed, foaming. “No!”

  Ghostly blackness descended, blackness drilled through by darting scarlet streaks, each shaking me, each driving me closer to the brink of despair. Some tiny portion of my mind told me that I could not sustain this terror. Told me that I must give in, relax all my willpower, surrender myself to the ultimate darkness.

  In the roaring maelstrom I felt something move against me. I looked down, dazed, uncomprehending. Something pressed against my naked chest. Vaguely I made out Tiri’s pale body squeezed against me. I felt her arms clasping tightly around my neck, her finger nails digging into my flesh. I felt her smooth bare back under my hands.

  Even then no real comprehension hit me. The pain continued.

  Delia — My Delia had been — This softly firm body in my grasp was not that of Delia. It did not fit properly, did not mold with me, was not the same. No, of course not! This was young Tiri. This was not Delia, Delia of Delphond, Delia of the Blue Mountains. No. This trembling form was Tiri’s, and she was sobbing and shaking and the flowers draped us and light returned to the world and I could see again in reality. The grisly phantasms receded, dwindled and vanished.

  Hands gripped me, held me, steadied me.

  A soft yellow cloth was passed over my streaming body.

  The flowers were removed, light from the flame died and the samphron oil lamps beamed their mellow radiance.

  I just about fell rather than descended from the altar after Tiri.

  A pure white gown was flung about her. That gown was no whiter than her face. The tears were wiped from her eyes. She would not look at me. Assisted by her handmaids she was led away. I stood there like a loon, completely drained of emotion. I could still feel the hellish agony of the red-hot lances piercing my flesh, an echo of pain, as though poison seeped through me. That was nothing, now.

  Delia! I had seen and I had believed and I had welcomed insanity as a refuge.

  San Paynor did not smile. His thin grave face regarded me, his head a little to one side, calculating. His eyes were those of a mystic. The sudden sweet waft of flowers enveloped us.

  “In the name of Cymbaro the Just, I thank you, Drajak the Sudden.”

  “Is it over?”

  “It is.”

  “Thank Opaz for that.”

  “Ah, yes. Opaz. Of Opaz we have heard. There is much in common between Cymbaro and Opaz.”

  With the suddenness of a rashoon of the Eye of the World my knees gave way. I would have fallen had not Logan on one side and Duven on the other caught me under the armpits and supported me.

  “You must go to the Ibserrail Chamber for a time.” He was talking about a room where the spirit might find resuscitation. I hung in the priests’ grip.

  “Willingly,” I said. “And then I’d like to visit the Baths of the Nine.”

  They draped a cloak about me and led my tottering feet off to the Ibserrail Chamber. Every now and then my teeth chattered and I could not stop them. That was one experience I would never, ever, voluntarily undergo again.

  Just suppose—

  Delia...

  Chapter eleven

  They told me that Tiri, having had the knowledge of the keys vouchsafed her, must now go to a place — whose name and location they would not reveal — where she would learn to use the keys to unlock the mysticism born within her. I lay back in the warm scented water, grunted, and got on with trying to forget what had just taken place. Since my dip in the Sacred Pool my memory was such that I did not forget things, although, thankfully, some of the more horrendous evils that have tormented me I have managed if not to forget completely then to push to one side.

  When at last I felt as though I could face getting on with life once more I eased out of the water, donned a long yellow toweling robe and wandered off to the saloon.

  Oh, yes, by Vox. I was still the same Dray Prescot as ever was. I could still wrap the brave old scarlet breechclout about me and go swinging about Kregen in deeds of derring-do wielding a
great Krozair longsword — at least, I hoped I was.

  But a fellow knows when he’s been through something more than usually warm.

  In the saloon Sans Paynor, Logan and Duven joined me. Also the priestess who had assisted Paynor with Tiri came in, looking serene. She was Sana Lally. At least, that was what she was called now. I learned she had been the Vadni L’Lallistafuros. When we settled down to a delightful repast served by attentive acolytes, I brought up the intriguing subject of these double capital-lettered names. They weren’t exactly embarrassed by the remark as reserved. Eventually, by piecing bits of information gathered there and later, I now know that just about all the great families had the double capital letter. Some still used the form; some did not. Some said it was necessary for the dignity of their house, others that the form was old fashioned and cumbersome. In one vague sense it was somewhat like using a simple v for von.

  I might have guessed, by Krun! Young Tiri was, of course and naturally, really T’Tirivenswatha.

  “The fashion of use comes and goes,” explained Paynor, and he smiled upon Sana Lally.

  They talked upon inconsequential subjects for a time. I saw this small talk was designed to soothe me and ease me back into the real world from the nightmares that had nearly driven me insane.

  Presently Logan chanced on the subject of the spate of horrible murders of young girls.

  Sana Lally, a smooth-featured woman with a generous mouth, drew her eyebrows down, and lines appeared around that curved mouth.

  “It is disgusting. If the City Guard do not find the killer soon, who knows what will happen?”

  “The answer is plain enough.” Duven’s words ripped out like the sleeting hail of crossbow bolts. His intense face was drawn, hollowed, the eyes feverish. “Dokerty. It has to be.”

  “I do agree with that summation,” murmured Logan.

  Paynor nodded. “They practice revolting rites, it is true. But they take place in the privacy of their temples.” He passed a hand across his brow. “Why kill young girls out in the street?”