The Prince stood silently at the edge of the shadows, looking about him in the dark, cavernous hall that Mariana had found. It was as grim and barbaric a temple of human sacrifice as he had even imagined—a painful reminder of the bitter tyranny which his land was forced to endure.
Because of the dim light he had to strain his eyes as he peered from icon to icon, noting the devilish statues and artifacts, then letting his glance wander back toward the altar itself, where tiny pools of unwashed blood still lay upon the floor.
Torches had been fixed in metal brackets, and several were aflame, streaking shadows across the high ceiling. In the poisonous air the yellow flames lolled this way and that, with a spurt of resin now and then flaring off or a knot in a torch’s wood exploding with a crack.
The ruby eyes of the icons stared at the visitors, their carved, twisted mouths mocking and scornful. On the wall behind the altar hung a serpent’s head, and at its side images of great carrion, Death-Stalkers, with wings fully spread and talons projected. This room was the Druid world in miniature: evil surrounded by evil.
“Do you believe me now?” said Mariana, shivering as the memory of the death rite she had witnessed came flooding back at her.
The Prince nodded; he took her hand and squeezed it firmly. “I never doubted you,” he replied. Then he crossed behind the altar and examined the slab wall for the hidden passage from which the Dwarfking had made his splendorous entrance.
Oro meekly came beside the girl, his teeth clattering loudly. “What … what do you suppose we’ll find on the other side?” he said, imagining a host of devils ready to fly at them the moment the door was opened.
“I expect we’ll find the passage to the tower,” replied Mariana.
The hunchback shuddered. “Maybe we should go back and look for another tunnel—”
Something gave way at the touch of the Prince’s fingertips. The wall began to creak and groan, and as the Prince stood back in awe, the thick slab of rock began to slide off to the side, exposing a winding corridor filled with glowing red light and leading off into a rabbit warren of passages.
Mariana gulped. A strong residue of incense came rushing at her and she felt sickened again.
“Come on,” said the Prince, yanking her by the arm and pulling her across the threshold. “We don’t know how long the door will remain open.”
Mariana turned back toward Oro, whose knees were quivering so badly that he couldn’t walk. “Are you coming?” she said sharply. “Or do you want to stay behind?”
The hunchback wiped his sweaty brow and took a single step forward. Then reluctantly he halted, hesitating over whether to venture forth and face this new hell, or remain behind in the hell he already knew. The rumble of the wall beginning to slide back into place made up his mind for him. He took a single leap and passed into the corridor, just as the slab door was about to slam shut. A hollow clang echoed down the passage and the three intruders stood glued to their tracks, holding breath, listening and watching for the presence of priests or Druid sentries patrolling the labyrinth.
The passage remained empty and silent. The Prince drew his magic scimitar, the blade slipping from its scabbard and glimmering in the red light. Without a word he moved forward and signaled the others to follow.
It was a smooth marble floor they raced across, with walls so fine and polished that they almost reflected the images of the three strangers.
“Which way now?” asked Mariana as they came to a series of smaller passages.
The Prince chose the one whose incline became steadily sharper as it worked its way to ground level. There was a bright glowing light at the end, and the low chanting of priests.
“We must be near the Holy Temple,” said the Prince, pointing to where the tunnel ended and opened into a vestibule. As the song of the wizards grew louder, the Prince inched his way to the entrance, looking on while three hooded priests kneeled with clasped hands in prayer as they mumbled their incantations. A smoking brazier sent thin clouds of incense streaming toward the low ceiling. Behind a small altar stood a huge arched doorway with a wide row of stone steps leading on an upward spiral. And from far away they could all hear more chanting, a chorus of voices in unison.
“It’s begun,” mumbled the Prince. “The hour is at hand. The priests must be carrying the Seeds up to the tower.”
Mariana swallowed and nodded; she wiped perspiring hands onto the folds of her tunic and narrowed her eyes at the three priests blocking the way to the arched door. Within the folds of their dark robes she could see the outlines of swords.
“They’re armed!” she gasped.
The Prince gloomily fondled Blue Fire. “As I suspected. They must be guarding the vestibule …”
“We’ll never get past them,” ruminated Oro.
Passing the dagger from hand to hand, the Prince smiled coldly. “Get down, both of you. Stay put until I signal.” Then he fell to his knees and crawled from the tunnel into the chamber.
The wizards were lost in their song; the first hardly groaned as the Prince silently sneaked behind him, swept up his head, and slit his throat.
Like cats his two companions were up, faces ashen, crimson eyes ablaze. The Prince knocked the first one down with a balled fist. The second drew his long curved sword and thrust it in a broad sweep. Deftly the Prince dodged to the side; the edge of the weapon cut into the side of the wooden altar. Blue Fire swung up as the priest made to charge. The dagger cut through the robe; the wizard staggered, his hands to his belly as his sword clattered onto the floor. The last of the wizards jumped to his feet and slammed at the Prince with all his weight. The Prince rolled to the floor, and both men grappled for the sword.
Mariana raced into the chamber; she grabbed hold of a small emerald-encrusted stone icon, and while the priest pinned the Prince to the ground she heaved it over his head. A low gurgling sound rose from the wizard’s throat. Slowly he loosened his grip, eyes rolling in their sockets, and fell prostrate, the side of his head caved in like a crushed grape.
The Prince briefly examined the corpses and then quickly stripped the first priest of his robe. “Here, put this on,” he called to the surprised girl.
Mariana donned the dark garment, carefully fitting it over the hem of her tunic. The Prince meanwhile had stolen the robes from the other corpses. He threw one over his own body and handed the second to Oro.
“Why are we doing this?” asked Mariana, as she secured the belt and placed her own dagger inside the folds of the long sleeve.
The Prince eyed her coolly. “We’re going to slip past the procession—dressed as wizards. Be sure to keep your hoods tightly around your faces. And don’t look at anyone! Our eyes aren’t crimson like theirs; they’ll give us away the moment we’re spotted. Now, is everyone ready?”
After hurried nods they scrambled through the arched door and up the long flight of winding steps until they could see the gathering of wizard priests as they filed solemnly into the Shrine Chamber of the Holy Temple, at the base of the Thirty Thousand Steps.
In grim array the wizards came, literally hundreds of them, with heads bowed low, arms at their sides, and a ghoulish song upon their lips. Behind them came the Carriers—wizards also, but muted, sorcerers whose tongues had been wrenched from their mouths so they could never speak of the secrets they knew. It was these Carriers, heads shaven and bodies hairless, who brought forth the baskets from which the Seeds of Destruction would be thrown. And it was they whom the Prince knew they must foil, for in their hands at this very moment lay the Seeds, prepared and tested, waiting only for the time to arrive.
Hiding in a recess at the foot of the Shrine Chamber, Mariana watched and then gasped. In the forefront of the gruesome procession came none other than the feared Grand Vizier himself. Adorned in black silken finery, wearing jewelry of ebony and flaming crimson, he walked slowly toward the icon-infested altar, sprinkling a dark powder this way and that, mysteriously creating a thin haze all around him.
The walls of th
e chamber were slanted, the high ceiling a pyramid. Grisly paintings covered the walls: demons, dragons, and devils, which in the haze seemed to come to life while the singers completed their chant.
And again the hideous Dwarfking appeared, and Mariana trembled at the sight. The Grand Vizier greeted his liege with a deep bow, and the grim song of the priests ceased. Pipes blared and a drum beat slowly; the demented king grinned as he peered above the heads of his multitude. The Carriers knelt before him; they placed down their Seed-filled baskets and lay prostrate at his feet. It was then that the Vizier invoked a new incantation. From a vial he poured a thick red liquid into the baskets, a liquid Mariana knew to be blood. The Dwarfking cupped his hands and held them out, letting blood pour over his palms and between his fingers and drip down his golden-seamed black robes.
The Grand Vizier cried out to the black powers of hell. Mutes silently brought another basket and held it before him. This one, though, held no Seeds. Mariana retched at the sight of the organs—human organs that could only have belonged to the sacrificed girl. The Vizier held up the blood-soaked heart and quietly let the liquid pour over the Seeds. His incantation grew louder; his chant was picked up by the masses in attendance until the din became frightening and terrible.
Joined by the sacred instruments, the swelling music had a strange, pungent sweetness about it that lulled both mind and soul. It sounded like no song that Mariana had ever heard before, so ethereal, so powerful was the pull of the unholy symphony.
Suddenly there was a hissing noise and swirling bands of color lowering from the ceiling. The prince saw it and watched in horror. “Poison!” he gasped. “They’re spewing poisons into the air!”
And the noxious gas slowly descended upon the gathered crowd. But the priests did not run from it, nor even turn their faces. They seemed to welcome the fumes, inhaling deeply, smiling as they continued to sing, opening their arms in acceptance while the gas filled their lungs.
“Fall to the floor quickly!” cried the Prince. “Cover your mouths and noses—and hold your breath for as long as you can!”
The spreading mist permeated the air in radiant color, swirling and twisting as it was piped in from hidden vents near the ceiling. And all the while the Druid chant continued to rise in pitch. The drums, the pipes, all were swelling to a life-shattering fervor. Glassy-eyed, the host of priest-wizards hailed the foul gods of the Dark, calling many by name and shuddering in reverence as the Vizier hailed their Dwarfking as the savior of the world.
With her lungs bursting and her head swimming, Mariana watched the scintillating forms of color and substance dance before her eyes. She could feel a sickening lack of orientation; it was as if time, distance, depth, and sound were all now somehow meaningless. Reality had ceased to exist. There was the music, oh yes, above all there was the music. Soft and loud, harsh yet gentle, subtle yet poignant, lifting her from this plane onto one higher, one which she dreaded yet welcomed.
Drifting. The world was drifting. The Prince had also felt the effects. Gasping for fresh air, he fought for control of his mind. The pull of the magic was strong—stronger than he had realized, and he damned the Vizier for this insidious attack.
And then a gusty wind was upon them all. Sweeping down from above, it cleared the air of the gases and sent the colors shattering, fading into oblivion. The priests fell to their knees, still chanting, still glorifying their liege as a god.
Mariana rested with her back against the wall, struggling to regain her senses. Her forehead was beaded with sweat and she put her head in her hands. Besides the entrance to the chamber Oro lay in a stupor; as always the effects of Speca seemed to have a firmer grip on him than the others.
“Are … are you all right?” wheezed the Prince, crawling close to the dazed girl.
Mariana nodded. “I … I will be … soon …”
The soft voices of the choir again drew her attention. She saw the throng of priests standing, now in salutation to the Carriers before them. The mutes had picked up their charges like mothers fondling their infants, and began to march in a single file from the hall. The Vizier’s incantation was done; both he and the Dwarfking marched behind. And slowly the rows of followers did likewise.
“They’re preparing to climb the steps!” cried the Prince, jolted out of his light-headedness.
Mariana pulled herself up and cleared her thoughts. “We’ve got to hurry! They mustn’t reach the top before we do—it’s our only hope!”
Oro stirred; he drew back in revulsion at the very mention of the dreaded Devil’s Tower and its Thirty Thousand Steps. Facing an army of hallucinating ghouls was more than he was prepared for.
“Dressed as we are, we can probably slip past the sentries at the landing,” said the Prince. “But from then on it’s going to be a race—and the Vizier will know we’re coming…”
“Then we’d best be quick,” replied Mariana. She swung around and entered the emptying hall, easily mingling with the last group of drugged wizards.
At the side of the exit guards had been posted. The Prince covered his eyes with his hands and walked grimly past, the droning song of the Druids upon his lips. Stoic and silent, the sentries paid scant heed to the last three priests leaving the hall.
The procession of pipes led the way; the sorcerers had entered a wide, open plaza outside the Holy Temple’s labyrinth of chambers. It was a dismal morning even for Speca. The wind was blowing with ferocity; the sky was as lifeless and threatening as Mariana had ever seen it. From the narrow walkway leading past the Holy Temple’s grounds, the three disguised adventurers made all haste away from the looming buttressed walls where horn-helmeted Druids kept careful watch on the sweeping plain below. Beyond the sacred grounds lay the road to the citadel and the Dwarfking’s keep. Mariana let her gaze carry beyond the walls, along the sharp slope of hills to the dark roofs of the lower city—once majestic and beautiful, a city whose renown crossed every border and danced on every tongue.
Speca—the fabled land of myth and history whose glories spanned millennia, whose deeds filled volumes during times when the rest of the world dwelled in its darkest ages. Speca of a thousand tales lay before Mariana now: a crumbling city, wasted and forlorn, its paved streets cracked and broken, its alleys and byways haunted by ghosts of ages past, its splendor turned to ashes heaped upon the rubble of its fallen might.
Mariana gazed in wonder, her inner self trembling at the sunless panorama of neglect; a city lying dormant, its people ravished and broken, while Evil forced itself upon the once proud nation, and prevailed. For league upon league the great walls still stood, but they were decayed and broken for as far as she could see. The harbor, where once the world’s finest ships sailed with banners aflutter, now lay grim and barren, empty wharves decaying, rotting into the tepid black waters. It was an awesome sight, not to be believed except by the beholder. And the reality of it made her cringe.
A bell began its morbid toll; the wizards gathered at the foot of the tower to recite once more their vile incantation before the trek to the sky began. Mariana stood close beside the Prince; she could feel the bite of the wind through her black sorcerer’s robes. The Prince stood with head bowed, his eyes closed to stop the tears. The sight of his ravished home had been a crueler blow than expected; it was all he could do to hold back his anger and not use Blue Fire right now to slay the wicked Dwarf and his Vizier.
The Vizier extolled his followers with promises of glories yet to come. He spoke of the North, of the fair islands that lay ripe for the taking. He spoke of war and of war machines that would run rampant in the name of the Darkness; of the powerful armies that would sweep the land and crush its peoples; of new spells yet to be cast, and of heinous Dragon Ships that even now prepared to sail.
Mariana listened with growing horror as the monotone voice condemned half a world to its demise. Aran would be first, she knew. Then Cenulam and all the other seafaring lands. How much time was left before the Druid hordes descended upon the East itsel
f?
The mutes stood in a single line and proudly held high their baskets, offering the Seeds to the heavens as a gift from the gods below. Mariana looked at the granite tower, the terrible tower whose pinnacle reached so far into the clouds that no man on the ground had ever seen it. And the bell rang again. It was almost time. Moon Time.
The crowd had been worked into a frenzy. The Prince saw that the priests, who stood with blazing eyes, had given their very souls for their god/king and his Vizier. Drugged and fanatical, they hailed the Forces of Darkness in a cry so loud that its echo vibrated across the fortified citadel and through out the dead city.
“Death to all infidels!” cried the Vizier, his arms outstretched.
“Death to those who would alter our destiny!” chimed in the sadistic Dwarf, his face twisting into a hideous mask.
The priests picked up the cry, over and over, shouting at the top of their lungs as veins bulged from their throats.
The Vizier smiled cruelly; he put out his arm and pointed toward the far edge of the crowd, right to where Mariana and the Prince were standing.
Mariana felt her heart leap into her throat as the Vizier cried, “Death to those who would betray us! The infidels are among us now!”
“He knows who we are!” rasped the girl. And a tremendous roar of anger rose from the gathering, intent on murder for the three strangers in their midst.
With the speed of a lizard the Prince grabbed Mariana by the arm and jerked her away as three frenzied priests drew long daggers from the folds of their robes and attacked. Bolting for the entrance to the steps, the Prince slashed wildly with Blue Fire, fighting off a host of screaming wizards who had charged across the stone floor of the plaza. The scimitar cut high into the air; a priest caught the edge of the blade squarely across his face. Pulsing dark blood spouted like a fountain; as he staggered, the Prince pushed him back, toppling him into a group of raging oncomers.
“To the steps!” shouted the Prince, working his way from one side of the mob to the other.
THE THIEF OF KALIMAR (Graham Diamond's Arabian Nights Adventures) Page 40
