Mariana swallowed hard and shut her eyes. “It’s gruesome,” she panted.
The Prince stepped down from the last of the steps, his feet crunching over bone as he sat himself firmly on the soft dirt. Spiders drew back from overhanging webs, and a small rodent dashed for safety under another pile of rotting bone.
“Are … are these Druid remains?” said Oro, his eyes fixed on the watching spiders.
“Slaves, no doubt,” replied the Prince with a shake of his head. “Their Druid masters must have a hundred graveyards like this.”
“Let’s get away from here,” said Oro, ill at the stench rushing up his nostrils.
The Prince was about to concur when Mariana hushed them both. They stood immobile, listening to the dim sound which came to their ears. All three exchanged puzzled glances.
“It sounds like… like chanting,” said the girl, perplexed.
The voices were distant and low, but a song it surely was. A choir of deep voices, chanting verse in an unknown tongue.
The Prince worked his way between mounds of rubble and crossed the cavern slowly, coming to a small arch set deep in the shadows. He beckoned to Mariana, and both she and the hunchback hastily made their way to his side.
“This doorway must lead to the tunnels!” gasped the Prince in sudden realization of their discovery. Then he stepped just over the threshold, letting his hand slip to his dagger, and carefully scrutinized the ill-lighted passage. It was very dim, but the walls of rock themselves eminated a dull glow, which would provide enough light for them to pass. He could also hear the chanting, louder than before, coming from some far off point. The very sound of it sent chills racing down his spine.
“This passage looks like it goes on forever,” said Mariana, inching her way beside him.
“And we’ll have to follow it until we’re sure where it leads,” added the Prince. The name of the Devil’s Tower remained unspoken, but was fully understood.
Stumbling, they moved on, away from the graveyard. It seemed as if they had been pressing onward for hours by the time they reached the first downward turn. Clinging to each other, unsure of their footing, they followed the sounds of the chant, growing ever closer and louder.
Unaccountably, the passageway grew lighter. The narrow tunnel widened, its ceiling rose. A grim reddish pall reflected off the walls; here and there runes had been etched into stone, Druid markings, a language far removed from those of the North or any the Prince was familiar with.
As they came to a wide opening, they realized that the tunnel turned off, and they were now at a crossroads, confronted by three new passages, each dark and long, each leading down far below the earth.
The grim song of the chanters suddenly diminished in tempo, if not in fervor. Holding breath, the travelers stopped in their tracks and listened while a solo voice rose above the others, a falsetto ringing in their ears an unholy wail.
Mariana shuddered, finding a mocking similarity to the calls to prayer chanted from minarets by the holy men of Kalimar. But these dark calls were not prayers to heaven. They could only be a plea to the powers of Evil, wizard priests conjuring some grim sorcery, asking for godless blessing in their profane rites.
“I’ll examine the tunnel on the right, you take the left,” said the Prince. “Meet me back here in five minutes to report what you see.”
Mariana nodded.
“What am I supposed to do?” cried Oro, shaken at the thought of being left by himself under such dire circumstances.
“You wait here.” The Prince smiled at the dancing girl. “Ready?”
“Ready.” And she moved on alone, cautiously slinking along the downward spiral into the darkness. After long minutes she became aware of the passage’s end. And there they were, perhaps a hundred of them, dark-robed and hooded men, all gathered in a great torchlit cavern beyond the edge of the tunnel.
She moved very slowly now, keeping her back as close to the wall as possible, strangely attracted by the subdued colors glowing from the chamber. And it was cold, curiously cold. Clenching her chattering teeth, she boldly moved from her place to a slight recess in the wall at the very edge of the pas sage. There, she knelt and stared out into the unusual proceedings, her eyes wide in disbelief.
The ornate cavern was humming with the low song of the wizards. Holding their arms high into the air, rustling the fabric of their richly embroidered robes, they sang in unison while another priest stood at an altar and lifted a small basket above his head.
The simply woven basket was filled with what Mariana took at first to be eggs; quickly she realized that they were stones, multicolored rocks that cast an eerie glow of dark, oppressing color across the walls and ceiling. And the wild thumping of her heart assured her that these Stones were samples of the Seeds. Seeds of Destruction were here being prepared for scattering into Speca’s black skies.
A sudden gong sent thrumming waves through the incense-laden air. The chant ceased, and the hundred worshipers fell to their knees as another wizard entered majestically from the secret door behind the altar. This man stood taller than the others, his air one of arrogance and authority.
“Hail the Vizier!” cried the priest with the basket, lowering his gaze in the man’s presence. “Hail the Grand Vizier!”
And the cry was picked up by every other robed man in the chamber.
The Grand Vizier swept his glance across the hall. He mumbled an incantation that left Mariana trembling, then took hold of an ornamental incense brazier and placed it gently inside the basket of Seeds. Immediately the glow of the Stones increased, and a wine-tinted hue was cast over the cavern, changing slowly into a fiery red.
Mariana held her breath; the scene was frighteningly familiar. She recalled the glow of Blue Fire and the way it also had shrouded the world around it in color. Only the dagger had given her a sense of tranquillity and peace; these Stones made her cringe with fear. And then she understood. The dagger had brought forth the forces of Good; the red glow of the Seeds was Evil.
A slight, wicked smile cracked the Vizier’s thin lips; he stepped to one side and bowed his head. The incense-filled chamber was becoming foggy; Mariana had to strain her eyes to see what was happening. She heard great creaks and moans, and looked on in wonder while the far wall slowly slid open and a procession of instrument-carrying priests marched somberly into the chamber. Grim pipes played an unhappy tune, followed by the shrill cry of ebony trumpets heralding the arrival of someone of importance. But who?
The girl gasped; she put a hand to her mouth and tried to control her shaking.
It was a little man who entered, slightly deformed, rotund, with round squat features; he reminded her of Oro. But this man walked with haughty airs of self-importance, and his jeweled silk garments attested to the incredible wealth with which he adorned his person. Behind him, carrying a golden pillow, came a servant; and upon the pillow sat a crown, a jewel-studded crown so magnificent that the blaze of the precious stones almost hurt her eyes.
Mariana felt a wave of apprehension overtake her; she leaned back into the shadows, ready to run as fast as she could. But the sight of the little man left her intrigued, and it was not long until she realized that she looked upon the Dwarfking himself, the Druid man/god whose satanic power was rivaled only by that of the Grand Vizier himself. He was the scion of a line of dwarfs whose ancestral vendettas, assassinations, and regicides had assured their line its power to rule forever.
The Dwarfking stood in silence while the Vizier placed the crown upon his liege’s head. There was fire in the king’s crimson eyes. As one demented he peered from priest to priest, smilingly witlessly and glowing with satisfaction. Then he clapped his hands—once.
To Mariana’s horror, a young girl was brought forth, Specian, if her blond hair and blue eyes were any indication. Clad only in a simple, loose tunic, she stood as though transfixed before the Vizier, her eyes drugged and glassy.
The Dwarfking grinned maniacally; fondling her, he slipped the dre
ss from her shapely form, and taking her by the hand led her to lie upon the altar. The girl complied without a murmur.
The chamber returned to silence. The Vizier stretched out his hand and sprinkled her naked body with a blue powder. The drugged girl began to writhe and shiver, as if the powder were as cold as ice.
Then the Vizier handed the king a dagger, a black dagger encrusted with rubies at the hilt. The Dwarfking smiled; he played with the blade for a moment as though it were a special toy. Then he lifted it high and brought it down with a furious thrust, tearing it through the girl’s flesh. Blood splattered across the grinning liege’s finery and crazed face. She moaned, arms clutching into the air, and fell back dead. Thin lines of blood trickled down her arms and onto the floor.
The Dwarfking was shaking; he bent over the corpse and kissed the dead girl’s lips. At this the host of priests began to cheer, boldly shouting of their liege’s skill and prowess.
Mariana looked away in terrified awe. Her heart was broken for the poor victim of this horrible murder. How many times had this terrible ritual taken place in the past? How many other victims had fallen prey to the abhorrent rites of the evil Druids? Mariana clutched her arms around herself to stop her trembling.
The wizards began their chant again; the Dwarfking waited while his crown was removed, and then he strode from the chamber in the same fashion in which he had come. Mariana watched in revulsion while the dead girl was lifted and carried behind him, followed first by the Grand Vizier, and then by the priest with the basket of Seeds. Soon all the others began to leave, filing out in grim procession while the soft unholy music of the pipes continued to play.
Mariana turned to run back. She had stayed far too long, and the Prince would be worried. She must get back as quickly as possible and tell him what she had witnessed. But would he believe her? Although she had seen it herself, she still wasn’t sure it had all really happened. The haze, the incense, the Seeds, had they all somehow combined to warp her mind? Could this have been nothing more than a nightmarish hallucination?
Running as fast as she could, stumbling up the tunnel passage, she knew all too well that it was real. And she prayed that somehow she could make certain it never happened again.
25
Ramagar lay sprawled on the foul straw mat and allowed his half-opened eyes to close again. They stung with the residue of sulphur, burned and teared every bit as much as they had in the mine. To save his sight he had found a rag and carefully wrapped it around his head, making sure his eyes were well covered. In the depths of the shaft there was little need to see; one needed only his pick or shovel and a strong back to carry the fruits of the day’s labor up to the top in heavy sacks.
The sadistic taskmaster had laughed as the new arrivals were shunted below for their first shift; he had held his fat belly with both hands and chortled while young Homer falling from the weight of his tools, was flogged nearly unconscious by a dim-witted overseer intent on punishing the lad for his inability. And then down they were brought, forced to march a thousand meters beneath the earth where a breath of fresh air was considered a luxury and a swallow of water a prize over which a man might kill another.
It was here that they toiled, side by side with the dozens of silent, drugged Specian slaves, while other overseers watched from their posts, eager to whip or beat any laborer who so much as turned his head.
It was grueling work they faced; Ramagar wondered how the slaves managed to last through even a week of such hardship. Sixteen hours with only the briefest period of rest allowed, during which time a group of kitchen slaves brought down a bucket of slimy water and doled out a tiny allotment to each of the workers. The haj had tasted his swill and spit it out, so offending the guards that ten lashes of the bullwhip assured he would never show such impertinence again.
As for Argyle and Thorhall, they had subdued their defiance, completing their tasks without question and biding their time while Thorhall plotted escape. It was a most unlikely possibility, Ramagar knew, but still a chance to cling to. Without it, despair would be total.
At long last the shift was done. Cloth sacks loaded, they carried them over their backs step by painful step until the overseer put the burdens on the scales to see if each man had done his apportioned day’s work. Everyone had, or so it seemed, for the new arrivals were at last allowed to come back out into the light and enjoy the single meal.
Unshackled for the night, each was handed a metal bowl of cold mealie stew and a single slice of hard bread. The haj had taken his fare thankfully and put the crust to his mouth, but when he saw the host of maggots working their way from the center he put the bread down in revulsion. As for the mealie, it was hardly any better. The foul lumps that passed for meat had turned green with mold; the thin soup in which they sat crawled with insects both large and small. Meanwhile, as the slaves were forced to exist on this sustenance, the Druid guards taunted them with slabs of fresh beef and hot mutton cooked especially for the camp’s warders.
Disgusted, Ramagar had given his own supper to another, an unspeaking Specian whose months of malnutrition had withered his body until his frame looked as though it would snap like a twig.
While the hideous vats boiled outside and permeated the air with a terrible heat, the prisoners were at last allowed to go to their hovels for sleep. A loud whistle signaled the time for all talk to cease, although in truth there was hardly a word passed between any of the camp’s prisoners.
And so in the dank darkness Ramagar lay alone with these thoughts, his heart filled with worry and sorrow for his lost Mariana. He rued the bleak day they had all landed upon these sorry shores, and now could think of only one thing—somehow finding a way to break loose and find the dancing girl.
“Are you asleep, Ramagar?”
The whispered voice was raspy and tense; Ramagar twisted his frame slowly around, careful not to arouse the curiosity of the watching sentries. The thief opened his eyes and looked into Thorhall’s agitated visage.
“I’m awake,” he whispered back. “What is it? What’s the matter?”
“Do you know what the morrow is?” said the Aranian.
Ramagar nodded slowly. “The first day of Moon Time …”
Thorhall sighed, bobbing his head sourly. Like the rest of the band, he had remained acutely aware of the hours left until the Druid Dark Rites were to be held. Shifting closer to Ramagar, he said, “The day of commemoration will be celebrated in full—even here in the camp.”
“So?”
“So, this time is revered by them as no other. I can recall the occasions well, during my former imprisonment…”
Ramagar looked at him impatiently. “What are you getting at?”
A dark frown crossed Thorhall’s thin mouth. “There will be a celebration once the sky has been seeded. All labors shall cease, a priest will likely come from the citadel, and our masters shall revere him while the period of Ritual is sung throughout the land.”
“I still don’t know why you’re telling me all this,” said the thief. “What has any of this to do with us?”
Here Thorhall smiled; he sucked in a deep breath and peered at his companion with twinkling eyes. “Escape, Ramagar! That’s what I’m talking about! Tomorrow will provide us with an opportunity that may never come again.”
“But won’t we still be shackled and sent down into the mine?”
“Shackled, yes, but not to toil below. All prisoners will be drugged during Holy Time, chained to our places while the Rites are celebrated. Often I have seen priestesses—whores—brought from the temples to offer their pleasures to the taskmasters. And the Druids will partake of every known sin that—”
The harsh patter of boots on the hard floor broke off the conversation. Ramagar quickly turned back to his sleeping position and feigned deep slumber while a lone guard passed among the rows of prisoners. The guard lingered a moment beside the thief and peered down with intent, watchful eyes. Then, convinced that the thief was actually asleep, he
glanced at Thorhall and moved on.
It was some time until the sentry was out of sight, and when they were certain he was out of earshot, Thorhall pushed at Ramagar’s shoulder, saying, “What do you say? Are you with me? The religious rituals will take hours, and the overseers will be too involved to miss a handful of laborers until the count is taken before mealtime.”
Ramagar grunted warily. “And what about these shackles they put on us? How far do you think we can run with chains around our legs?”
The wily Thorhall grinned; reaching inside his dirty shirt, he pulled out a long jagged rock—a rock whose edges had been honed into razorsharp fineness.
“How did you get that?” marveled the thief.
“I found it yesterday while we were below. I worked it for hours, testing its edge, even trying to loosen the links of my chains. Then just before they brought us up for weighing the sulphur I tried it out. It cuts, Ramagar! Not as well as a hacksaw, perhaps, but well enough! I’m positive that once the festivities begin I can free us both.”
“What about the others?”
“Don’t worry. Once you and I are unchained we can steal better tools from our praying masters. Weapons as well. I’ve been keeping my eyes open, Ramagar; I know exactly where the overseers store their blades …”
The thief of Kalimar laughed soundlessly; he also had made careful note of such matters. All they would need were a few simple tools: a pick, a chisel, and a few good steel swords. With such as these in his hands a whole cohort of Druid soldiers couldn’t keep him pinned down in this godless place.
Thorhall’s cold eyes glinted in the dark. “What do you say, then? Are you with me?”
The cunning smile etched into Ramagar’s rugged features left no need for words. Come tomorrow, one way or another, he would pay a few debts that could no longer wait.
26
THE THIEF OF KALIMAR (Graham Diamond's Arabian Nights Adventures) Page 39
