by Dave Morris
‘She means the Orient,’ realised Caelestis. ‘That would be the warlock, Icon or whatever his name is.’
‘If you say so, laddie,’ said the hag. ‘And there were two scurvy knaves who resisted all our blandishments—no, not you two. Your friend’s too strait-laced to be called a knave, and you’re both too young and wholesome to be called scurvy.’
Not liking to receive flattery from one so ugly, Caelestis said hurriedly: ‘And was that all?’
‘All but a single swordsman who survived the bridge crossing where his comrades died. He helped us with our cooking...’
She glanced significantly at one of the cauldrons. Altor and Caelestis, following her gaze, thought to see an unpleasantly recognisable titbit rise to the surface momentarily before sinking back into the stew.
Altor turned uncomfortably and looked out across the fiery vastness of the cavern. ‘Time we were on our way.’
They moved away, but one of the hags hobbled eagerly after them. ‘Don’t you want to know what the future will bring?’ she demanded.
‘This all started because I was fool enough to get my fortune told,’ grumbled Altor. ‘From now on I think I’ll let the future come to me.’
‘Very philosophical,’ said Caelestis, ‘but right now I wouldn’t mind a bit of forewarning. Go on, then, grandma.’
She extended a hand that looked like a badly mummified chicken claw. ‘Don’t you know the routine? You’ve got to cross my palm first with a bit of old silver.’
Caelestis took out the silver obol he had taken from the sarcophagus beside the lake. ‘I thought you gave that to the boatman?’ cried Altor in astonishment.
‘Nah. Oh, I showed it to him all right. Then I palmed it and slipped him a copper penny instead. He never knew the difference, and I thought this might come in useful.’
‘More likely you thought you could sell it to a coin collector!’ snorted Altor.
Caelestis shrugged. ‘Easy come...’
He flipped the coin into the air. The hag’s hand shot out and caught it. After making sure she had really been given the silver obol and not a substitute coin, she grinned up at Caelestis and said, ‘One question, then. Make it count.’
Altor was about to say they should think about the question very carefully, but by that time Caelestis had already opened his mouth. ‘What’s the worst thing we must face?’ he asked.
The hag scratched at her chin thoughtfully. In the process she detached a hairy wart which she popped into her mouth and sucked on with due deliberation. ‘Hmm, I will have to give you two answers, for there are two dangers you must face. One is the giant Skrymir, whom Magus Zyn will ask you to resurrect. However, to face that you must first cross the canyon of lava on the back of the dirge-man Droctar, and since he was transformed from a man into a dirge as punishment for his wickedness you would be right to expect treachery from him.’
‘I wonder if we’re any the wiser now,’ said Altor. ‘Oh well, let’s be on our way.’
‘Wait!’ cried the hag. ‘Have a sip of this tasty broth to set you up for the tasks ahead.’
She held out the ladle that she held in her other hand. Caelestis peered at it, not liking the way sticky bubbles rose to the surface where they popped like overfed grubs. ‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘Just a nice broth.’ Her eyes hardened. ‘Go on, drink!’
Without a word, Altor wrested the ladle away and tossed its contents over her. There was a hissing and the wretched hag took a step back, wailing as thick clouds of grey steam rose from her. In seconds she had dissolved leaving just a puddle of noxious slime. The other hags screamed and spat in rage, but as Altor and Caelestis moved away they scurried over to crouch around the puddle. Caelestis didn’t turn away quite quickly enough to avoid seeing them start to lap up the slime.
‘If she was so good at telling fortunes,’ said Altor, ‘I wonder why she didn’t see that coming.’
‘I guess you only get the future you pay for,’ said Caelestis. ‘And she looked like a skinflint.’
Skirting the temple, they found a narrow ridge leading off to another pinnacle. A ruined shrine painted in lurid red firelight squatted atop it, the pillars tilted and surrounded by fallen masonry. Beyond, pits of lava seethed and sputtered like the beacons of hell.
Altor and Caelestis exchanged a glance. The ridge looked precarious but with nowhere else to go they set out along it. The knife-edge path forced them to go slowly, Altor in the lead with his sword glittering icily in the furnace-red light. On either side, steep rock slopes plunged down into sulphurous mist. Ahead, the ruined shrine loomed in the ashen murk.
A scrabbling noise caused their pulses to quicken. Dislodged rocks went clattering off the path and were caught with muffled splashes by the lava below.
Caelestis looked back to see a flash of white against the gloomy red haze. Hunched shapes were clambering onto the path behind him. They moved like giant insects, stalking with gnarled limbs splayed, pallid bodies agleam in the fiery light. In their hands they carried shards of flint sharper than any sword.
More of them poured onto the path up ahead. Altor and Caelestis were surrounded.
Eleven:
The Lake of Fire
The figures resembled insects, but the truth was even more frightening—they were men whose humanity had been stripped away from them by terrible fanaticism. As they came closer Caelestis saw they were cultists who he recognized as worshipping the demon-god Balor. They were said to cut out their own tongues as a mark of devotion. Their bodies were daubed with funereal grey corpse-paint, their faces hidden under white skull masks which transformed them into impassive angels of death.
The nearest of the cultists lunged forwards. He seemed to uncoil from slow motion into in a grey blur. The dead silence of the attack almost caught Caelestis off guard. He ducked just in time, drawing his sword as the cultist’s flint knife whirred through the air over his head.
‘Trouble,’ said Caelestis as he speared the cultist on his sword.
‘Same here,’ replied Altor with equal economy. He was facing a man who must have been the cult champion, a burly warrior whose swollen muscles, flexing under his grey body paint, made him look like a corpse fished out of the water after drowning.
The man lowered his masked head and charged. Altor raised his silver sword, but the man took no notice. He came bearing down the path, eyes gleaming fanatically in the dark sockets of his mask. It looked like he would happily run straight onto the blade as long as he could get his hands on Altor’s throat.
Altor knew that if he let the first foe grab him he would swiftly be overwhelmed by the rest. Instead he crouched, then straightened up with all the strength in his back and legs just as his foe leaped at him. The big man was thrown over Altor’s head, went sailing above Caelestis as well, and cannoned into the other cultists who had attacked from behind. He lay sprawled for a second, looked around in amazement, and was just getting his bearings when Caelestis stepped forward and drove a sword blade through his neck.
‘Don’t you think I’ve got enough of my own to fight back here as it is?’ said Caelestis over his shoulder.
‘I thought you’d like a look at that one, seeing as how he was so big.’ Altor dispatched another cultist and was relieved to see bright red blood on his blade. Under the paint they were just living men after all.
The cultists fought with a ferocity and deadly speed born of fanaticism, but the same eagerness to serve their god made them careless. They seemed to welcome death, almost running to impale themselves in their eagerness to fight.
The rest of the battle was brief, fought in grim silence. Altor and Caelestis only realised it was over when no more white robed madmen came flinging themselves headlong out of the smoke. Slapping footfalls on the bare rock told them that one or two of the cultists, at least, valued self-preservation more than the demands of their god.
‘You’re injured,’ said Caelestis.
Altor glanced at the ribbon of blood runn
ing across his hand. There was a red rent in the padded leather of his sleeve. ‘Luckily flint makes a straight cut. I’ll sew it up when we stop for a breather... What are you looking for?’
Caelestis was peering down the slope. Tendrils of yellow mist crept across the grey rocks, but Altor could see nothing else. ‘I was just thinking those cultists must have had a lair nearby.’ Caelestis pointed. ‘See that little cave?’
Edging carefully down the pebble-strewn slope, he approached the cave. It was really no more than a rough fissure between two boulders. Volcanic fumes spewed out continually, drifting downwards to add to the swirling fog far below. Caelestis was about to give up and return to the ridge where Altor was waiting when something caught his eye. Holding his breath, he reached inside a little way and his hand encountered something hard and round. It was a copper tube covered with green patches of corrosion.
Caelestis scrambled back up the slope to show his find to Altor. ‘What do you think?’
‘It looks like a scroll-case.’ Altor took the tube and with some effort managed to unscrew the end. Carefully he extracted a piece of brittle parchment.
‘What does it say?’ asked Caelestis eagerly.
‘It’s written in Dakkandi, a debased variant of the language used by the True Magi in olden times. Er, let me see... “Skrymir, who was great—” ’
‘Skrymir? That’s the giant the witch told us about.’
‘ “...who was a giant,” then. “An enemy…” something... “slain and dismembered by the magi’s representatives.” ’
‘Or champions?’
‘Yeah, that’s more like it. ‘Lord Zyn…” Magus Zyn, that is... something I can’t read... “and therefore consigned to remain in fire.” That’s all I can make of it.’
‘The value of a good cloister education,’ said Caelestis. ‘I’ll bet you can work out compound interest as well.’
Altor smiled. ‘It doesn’t take an education to realise that there’s no profit in hanging around here. Let’s take a look at that shrine.’
They advanced along the ridge and between the ruined columns of the shrine. On the walls hung marble skulls, one gleaming white, which the volcanic mists had stained the colour of old tobacco. A copper dish stood in the centre of the floor, gleaming in the occasional spurts of fire from outside. Around it lay several discarded white robes and death-masks, but the remaining cultists had by now fled.
From the back of the shrine led another narrow path above a near-vertical precipice. They wended their way along the ridge, which rose like the sharp backbone of an ancient dragon out of the indistinct cavern floor. A murky sea of mist sat in the hollows below, now and again illuminated by lightning gouts of red fire.
The path brought them at last to a high-walled crater where a tall pylon of rugged stone rose above the steam. Entering the arch at the bottom, they climbed the staircase within until they emerged on a high balcony near the top of the pylon.
From here they had a spectacular view across the cavern, a view that showed them in one glance the immense size and frightening beauty of the Battlepits. Lit by flickering sparks and sporadic bursts of fire, it was like a depiction of the dying hours of Hell at the far end of eternity.
The crater swept away beneath them towards spires of sharp broken rock. In the middle distance was a plain carpeted with swirling mist where standing stones poked up from the ground like serried fangs. Beyond the plain, barely visible in the glimmering light, stood a squat atoll of dark rock.
‘That’s where the Emblem of Victory is,’ said Altor with firm conviction. ‘I sense it.’
Caelestis looked out across the fiery vista with a sinking sensation. ‘It’s a long way yet.’
‘It is,’ nodded Altor. ‘I suspect everything we’ve faced up till now is nothing compared to what lies ahead.’
‘A cheerful sentiment. Let’s snatch a few minutes’ rest while we can, in that case.’
They settled down with their backs to the stone battlements and few a few minutes neither said anything, each lost in his own thoughts. Caelestis looked up to see Altor examining the cut in his arm. It was a deep cut, still bleeding. Caelestis took out his handkerchief. It was a square of fine Khitan silk with a gold C embroidered on it. It had cost him twenty silver florins from a tailor in Ferromaine and a few hours ago he would have counted it as one of his most cherished possessions. He hesitated a moment and then handed it to Altor. ‘Here, use this.’
Altor looked up. ‘You’re sure?’
Caelestis nodded and pushed it into his hand. ‘Go on, while you’ve still got some blood to lose.’
Altor bound the handkerchief tightly around his arm. It looked awkward to manage with one hand, but he acted as if he was used to that kind of thing so Caelestis didn’t interfere.
Altor looked up thoughtfully. ‘We didn’t really get off on the right foot, did we, Caelestis? I know I thought you were a good-for-nothing wastrel at first—‘
‘Remind me never to ask you for a testimonial!’
‘No, what I mean is that it turns out you’re okay. I want you to know that I count you as my friend.’
‘A funny time to mention it,’ said Caelestis. ‘You can buy me that tankard of ale later, though.’
Altor finished knotting the handkerchief. ‘Well, I just wanted to say it now in case the worst comes to the worst.’
‘Worse than what?’ Caelestis stared at him as though he were demented. ‘Since this morning I’ve been half-drowned in a lake that smelled like bilge water, I’ve thrown up over my waistcoat, lost my hat and cloak, my shirt’s in such a state that I might just as well tear it up to make bandages, and my boots are so badly scuffed that I’d be ashamed to give them to a beggar! On top of all that, I submit, death would almost be a blessing.’
Altor seemed hardly to have heard his friend’s outburst. ‘I was thinking about the old musician.’
‘Who?’
‘The one who gave me the pommel stone.’
‘The pommel stone? Oh, right. Look, I’m sorry about that, Altor. Obviously if we’d known each other I’d have thought twice before robbing you, but you were a complete stranger at the time.’
‘Oh, I’m not blaming you. Not much, anyway. But I made the the musician a promise. ‘
‘If it turns out you can’t keep your promise on account of getting killed, then I think he’d understand.’
Altor abruptly got to his feet. As he flexed the bandaged arm Caelestis saw him wince, but rather than saying anything he just handed him the silver sword.
‘Ready to go on?’
Altor nodded. ‘We’re in this contest to win, aren’t we?’
‘Certainly. I need my share of the prize money for a new suit of clothes.’
‘Well, we won’t win anything sitting on our backsides.’ With a decisive stride Altor led the way back down the stairs.
They found a chamber whose huge wooden doors had fallen in, the hinges long since corroded by the volcanic exhalations of the place. The two friends stepped past and emerged again into the hot acrid air. Directly ahead of them, in the centre of the crater, lay a lake of boiling mud.
Altor pointed along the crater rim. ‘Maybe we could get around that way?’
Caelestis’ eyesight was sharper. ‘No. See there, where it’s collapsed? And on the other side of the crater too. We’ll have to somehow get across this mud.’
They walked down the steps in front of the pylon until the lake of mud was only a few metres below them. The heat rose of it in breath-stealing waves. All across the surface, bubbles blistered the surface and the slow swirl of current showed like creases in molten pitch.
‘I’m open to suggestions,’ said Altor hopefully.
Caelestis looked around thoughtfully, then his glance fell on the collapsed doors of the pylon and a sudden inspiration spurred him into action. Scrambling back up the steps, he bent and ran his fingers over the wood. Once the coating of dust was wiped away, the doors showed a dark reddish-black sheen.
<
br /> ‘Yggdras hardwood,’ Caelestis murmured to himself as Altor came up.
‘What does that mean?’
Caelestis looked up at his friend with a broad smile. ‘It means we can get across the lake! I’m talking about a raft, Altor.’
They set to work improvising a raft using a broken section of the huge wooden doors. Another shaft of wood, presumably the bolt that once held the doors shut, would serve as the oar. Between them, the two young adventurers manhandled the raft down the steps and pushed it out onto the lake. Globules of sizzling mud clung to the sides but the wood was buoyant enough that the upper surface of the raft stood well clear of the lake. Altor and Caelestis tested their weight on it. The raft lurched and a little mud spilled over the sides, but once they had planted themselves in the middle it seemed steady enough.
‘What do you think?’ said Altor.
Caelestis watched the boiling mud the way a canary studies a cat. It looked hot enough to bake the flesh off their bones in seconds. But there was no other choice. Even if they were to abandon any hope of winning the contest, they still had to cross this lake to get out of the Battlepits.
‘Let’s do it,’ he said.
Taking the makeshift oar in both hands, Altor began to scull across the lake. It was hard going. The mud sucked at their raft, allowing only the most sluggish motion, so that after only a few yards Altor’s shoulders were already aching with the effort. Still, he was keenly aware that the mud was scalding hot and he had to take care not to splash any onto their skin.
A flurry of motion drew their attention to the ridge encircling the crater. They squinted through the heat-haze to see two Coradian warriors whom they recognized as the champions of Magus Kito. The Coradians seemed to be caught in a frantic battle, but at first it was not clear what they were fighting. Balanced perilously on the rim of the crater, one of the two dropped his sword and pressed his hands to his face. A plume of white flame rose into the red gloom and the man’s cry of agony came faintly across the bubbling lake. He teetered for a moment on the brink, then plunged back into the mud where he writhed briefly and went still. Slowly the mud pulled his body down out of sight.
