One by one the men shook off the sleep spell, waking to see for themselves where the pool had led. As ever, they looked to Rúga for answers.
“What devil’s pit is this?” hissed Volga, a veteran of the group. “I’d sooner be slain in battle than rot alive in a crypt.”
“Aye, this is no warrior’s end,” agreed Dargor the tall Thurnian, ever Volga’s ally. Their complaints echoed sullenly around the chamber.
“Return to your coffin-holes if you deem your journeys ended!” responded Rúga venomously. “Me? I have not travelled this far to lie corpse-like and waste away. I would seek out he who dares to garb me in funeral robes and rob me of my blade. I would see an end to this wretched quest, and spill the blood of any beast that slows my homecoming. I would die on my feet, in a manner worthy of song! If any here feels different, then consider this farewell.” With these words he strode through the great arched doorway, desecrating its darkness with his lamp.
The murky passage sloped deeper and deeper through the damp rock, squirming this way and that like the innards of a horrible worm. Shamed by Rúga’s fighting talk, the whole troop followed behind him.
Finally the tunnel opened out into a vast glistening cave. Pearls of phosphorescent water dripped from countless stalactites, splashing into pools and streams which filled the cave with an unearthly half-light.
The warriors picked their way further into the great hall of stone, edging around crags and stalagmites, gullies and sheer chasms. They noticed precious gems twinkling in the rocks around them; small and sparse at first, but growing more frequent and sizeable with each step. Verdant emeralds shimmered alongside huge studs of sapphire and turquoise, and, further on, shocking seams of diamond mimicked the trickling waters.
Unable to resist the tangible bounty before him, Dargor the Thurnian reached out to dislodge a chunk of diamond from the rock.
The moment his fingers touched the jewel a great thunder-clap filled the cavern, and the soft half-light of the waters plunged to a deep crimson. Through this new darkness the men saw a mighty form rise shudderingly upward, as though a segment of the cave-floor itself had broken loose and come to life. With cruel inevitability the warriors’ eyes adjusted to the gloom, until they saw that which loomed before them.
The thing was massive in size, towering almost to the cavern’s roof; a hulking, saurian form, stooped in gait, clad in scales which had in them the light of unknown constellations. With each shift of its posture these lights seemed to ripple and realign, as though they rehearsed some cosmic narrative charted by no stargazer. But there was no light in its eyes; only two blank sockets in an ox-sized skull, as black as primordial chaos. With the creature’s coming a great reek filled the air, as of sulphur and blood and incense, combined to herald an ineffable power.
“At last my guests awake, and find their way to the World’s Tomb. Welcome Rúga Hawkhand, and your attendant mortals.” Tremors shook the rocks as the beast spoke, its voice a chilling blend of serpent and man, nightmare and reality.
Many of the warriors cowered in awe, primal fear overcoming their usual bravado. But Rúga stood firm, weaponless and draped in the ragged linen of the grave, an avatar of defiant mortality. “Explain yourself, beast! If you are he named Arath, then our miserable hunt is over, and I demand answers. What breed of creature dwells in deathlike caves beneath the world, guarded by blasphemies in smoke? And where are our stolen weapons?”
While Rúga spoke the reptile’s blank eye-holes gaped towards him, as though they drank in not light but sound, or some more vital essence.
“Indeed I am Arath,” it continued sonorously, “though I prefer the names bestowed on me by my kin, long before your pallid sun was kindled. Once I was Abouelauthargon, and Tzaagthaal, and Crestyzin-Ka, and other names not for human ears. These dark caves have been my abode of late, but I once bestrode the firmament, and reigned in spheres too lofty for man’s reckoning.”
Arath’s scaly hide shimmered mysteriously as he spoke of his past, but he was soon back to the present. “It pleases me that you have come; my faith in your temerity was well-placed. You have braved ice and smoke and death to seek out that which was merely rumoured to you by an inferior, risking everything to conquer the unknown. Such is the doom of the hero, is it not?”
Rúga was unsatisfied. “You speak as one who expected us… how is this so? What do you know of our cause and he who sent us?”
Rumbling laughter filled the cavern, and Arath’s huge form shook with mirth as he relished in his guest’s confusion. At length he answered: “Perhaps I can offer you… clarity.”
Before the echoes of Arath’s words had died, an impossible scene unfolded. At no apparent signal the water dripping from the cave roof surged in intensity, and instead of falling straight as gravity would dictate, the droplets flew obliquely through the air and came to a stop in front of Arath, joining with countless others until a floating disc of water was formed, defying all natural law.
“Behold, the true Mirror Beguiling,” Arath announced proudly. “It has many imitators throughout the world; many pale reflections, many scattered shards that speak treacherously to the foolish. All of them are slaves to my will. Allow me to demonstrate…”
The watery disc shimmered like molten pewter, and then the men saw a strange vision appear. The face of a haggard old man came into view, smiling with evil satisfaction. At random intervals he broke down into convulsive cackling, although the scene remained eerily soundless.
“Here at last you see Telekir, the craven architect of your quest,” Arath resumed. “See how he stares into his own Mirror Beguiling—a deceitful mockery of its namesake—and sees therein sights that greatly please him. But the lesser mirrors are mine to command, and reveal only what my whim dictates. Telekir thinks he witnesses the triumph of his designs and the fall of Kuwatash; in fact he is a powerless thread in a tapestry of my weaving, and has gleaned nothing of my true purpose.”
The Mirror shimmered again, and the vision changed. Rúga instantly recognised Stasha. She appeared to be seated in an ornate ship’s cabin, and wore fine courtly robes.
“See now the true face of courage and perseverance,” continued Arath. “She sails for her homeland, laden with the riches given to her in exchange for the Huhraan Ruby. She saw her freedom in that gemstone Rúga, and fled with it on your fastest steed when you were too drunk to notice.” A mixture of anger and admiration welled up in Rúga, conceding an act bravely committed.
“But enough delay. Telekir’s delusions are now at an end.” At these words the old sorcerer’s wicked face filled the Mirror once more, though now he wore an expression of shock, followed by despair. For the first time his Mirror revealed a truthful sight; the terrible eyeless visage of Arath the Exile leering back at him, with Rúga Hawkhand and his surviving men visible behind.
The old man’s mind quickly pieced together this new revelation—no plagues had been delivered to the streets of Kuwatash, and the monster Arath had known all, manipulating him like a tattered puppet—but his realisation was too late.
Telekir let out a panicked scream as Arath pushed his gargantuan arm straight through the rippling surface of the Mirror and closed his talons around the wretched man’s neck. Then Arath pulled back, and along with his arm there came a billowing black vapour, identical to the hellish guardians of the pool. Telekir’s very soul had been dragged through the Mirror to become yet another smoke-servant of Arath; yet another blackened spirit undeserving of rest.
As the evil cloud faded into the shadows of its new prison, the Mirror Beguiling at last surrendered itself to gravity, losing its shape and crashing to the cave floor in a single watery mass.
For all his fearlessness, Rúga knew when he was beaten, and this serpent from the stars whose claws could claim a man’s very soul was an adversary too far. With no weaponry in his men’s hands, assaulting the beast would be insanity. Instead he stepped forward, seeking answers if nothing more.
“Arath, your mighty powe
r is clear. We are simple mortals who do not wrong the undeserving; tell me, what doom have you deemed we deserve that has caused you to bring us here and strip us of all that defines the warrior?”
Arath towered over Rúga, his scales now gently twinkling like the first stars of evening. “You are free to go,” he said simply, and gestured behind him to the mouth of an upward-sloping tunnel. “Like you, my quarrel is not with the innocent; their earthly lives are tiresome to spectate, and their souls make feeble and humourless minions.” He lumbered aside to allow passage to the tunnel.
The steppe-men stood still, baffled by Arath’s words. Overcome with anger, Rúga’s lieutenant Octar suddenly spoke for the group. “Why then did you bring us here, beast? You could have claimed Telekir’s soul whenever you pleased, and now you expect us to face the frozen mountains in nothing but rags. Our sacrifices have been for nought!”
“You will find all the necessary furs, boots, and food at the end of the tunnel,” Arath said. “Your weapons and armour I shall keep, however. These were the reason for your visit; my soul-pets are playful things, and they like some variety in the trinkets they amuse themselves with. I allow them this small boon, but it requires me to replenish my stocks from time to time. I assure you your wargear will be put to good use, like that of all my other visitors through the centuries.
“Now go, for I am sure your faithful hawk is waiting—and as you do, claim from this cave whatever jewels you can carry by way of payment. But remember this, Rúga Hawkhand: a warrior is not defined by the blade he carries or the riches he hoards; it is only the deathless flame in his heart that burns his name into eternity.”
* * *
In the dank cellar of Wistwood Tor, Grubbin was awoken by a terrible scream. He raced up to his master’s chamber, and there he found the empty robes of Telekir lying crumpled at the foot of the Mirror Beguiling. The sinister frame of the Mirror still hung on the wall, but its dreadful black glass lay in smithereens on the floor, each shard smouldering as though struck by lightning.
As Grubbin stared at the scene in bewilderment he felt the iron torc around his neck slacken and then disintegrate, falling away as a fine dust.
It was several moments more before Grubbin smiled, then laughed, then danced and skipped ecstatically round the chamber. He was free at last from Telekir’s cruel dominion; free to return to the forest, and never again fear the icy wrath of the torc.
With a final glance around Telekir’s empty lair, he set a blaze in the evil place with what remained of his master’s candles, and bounded off into the night, shouting a triumphant salute to Rúga Hawkhand, wherever he might be.
“The survivor has prevailed!”
The Heart of the Betrayer
By Howie K. Bentley
Chapter I
The Hero and the Wolf
The clangor of steel on steel resounded across the battlefield. A few of the remaining villagers crossed swords with a handful of the invaders as three of the local men gathered around a large wolf that was tearing a man’s throat out on the ground. Man after man had fallen before the wolf. Before any of the beast’s victims could strike a blow with their swords and spears, the monster had darted out of their midst and back in, hitting one man like a lightning bolt before jumping on another and savaging his face. One of the fallen man’s eyes was torn out of its socket and lying on the ground as he held his hand to his bloody face and screamed in agony. The next man struck at the wolf with his sword, but the creature was already behind him, crushing the back of the villager’s head with its powerful jaws. The man’s brains oozed out onto the ground. The last villager to face the beast realized that this was no ordinary wolf, while he watched the monster stand on its back legs like a man, towering over him as it snarled its razor-sharp fangs into a rictus—casting its cruel arrogant gaze on the horrified villager. Before the man could raise his spear, the monster leaped, dragging his human foe down to his death on the cold earth.
Argantyr was surrounded by four warriors. His long black hair and lengthy beard were speckled with blood, and his steel sinews rippled as he stepped into a fighting stance, holding his large broadsword in both hands. His emerald eyes sparkled, and he grinned as the first man rushed in and brought his blade up and down at Argantyr’s head. Argantyr blocked the blow with his sword and made a quick arc with his blade, coming back around to slit the man’s throat. Another foe moved in quickly, thinking that he would have time to sink his dagger into Argantyr’s ribs while he was regaining his balance from the blow he had just dealt. Argantyr’s blade came through and cut down his adversary with the return. A third man came in with a short axe, but Argantyr was on him and quickly cut him down before the man knew what was happening. The blade made a thumping sound as it sliced through the man’s abdomen, and his innards spilled on the ground.
There was a loud growling as a bear-of-a-man came into Argantyr’s view. Argantyr gritted his teeth and braced himself as the giant came wading through the dead bodies of his enemies. The large man’s braided beard and square-cut brown mane were caked with the blood of those who had the misfortune to step into the path of his battle-axe as it had wheeled and spun out the fates of Argantyr’s falling comrades. The man stood at least a whole head taller than Argantyr. A deep booming command issued forth from the bellowing giant, “Tell your companions that Ursas sent you to join them in Hel!”
Argantyr barely ducked the blow of the giant’s axe in time and heard the whistling of the steel as it went over the top of his head. Ursas was deceptively fast for a man nearly the size of a bear, but Argantyr moved at twice the speed of the giant and drove upward with his sword into the man’s guts while he used his left hand to cut the big man’s throat with his long dagger. This man was defending his village, but Argantyr had killed men for as long as he could remember. The remaining villagers fell before the swords and axes of the marauders. The battle was over.
Where the huge supernatural wolf had been, there now stood a man with a grizzled red beard and a shock of dirty tangled hair. His head was cocked to the left, and his icy-blue eyes were void of sanity while he leaned on his axe and stared into cosmic vistas undreamt of by anyone save the fey—those touched by the twisted and unclean things that rule the outer gulfs. His mouth, mocking human flesh, formed into a lopsided grin. Foam gushed from his mouth. He wore the hide of an oversized wolf like a cape on his back. The skin of the beast’s head and its ears came up and fit over his head like a cap. The man’s name was Klak, but those who followed him called him “the Wolf.” He was the leader of the band of marauders who had just taken the city of Horan. Horan was like so many other settlements in the far western corner of Gorn, barely ruled by feuding nobles, since Gorn had been torn apart by civil war. Horan was like all of the rest—a ripe fruit for the plucking for a marauding band of seasoned fighters made up of murderers, criminals and sell-swords like Argantyr.
Argantyr’s companions who yet lived gathered round him and fell behind him. Since Argantyr had joined the Wolf’s band of marauders, he had quickly earned their respect, not only by his skills in battle but by the amount of wine and ale he could imbibe, his skills at gambling with dice, and his ability to wench all night and fell his foes like chaff before the sickle the next day.
The men had their backs turned to Klak as they bragged about how many men they had killed to each other. Klak heard one man say loudly, “…and Argantyr slew that tree-of-a-man like Donar felling an Ice Giant.”
Klak wrinkled his nose and spat. “This will all change when I reach Aroon-Joon,” he mumbled.
* * *
The scene before the sorceress receded as she drew back from the glowing green scrying orb in which she had just viewed the battle where Klak and his mercenaries had taken Horan. A beast-like sound of heavy breathing issued from behind her. She spoke to the horned figure who sat languorously in the darkness, “Soon we shall have the Talisman, my love.” She looked to be no more than a maiden, but her deeply resonating, husky voice and confiden
t mien betrayed her years. “Soon you shall taste the essence of gods and the souls of men again, and you will revel in the bloodshed of war. Know this thing and persevere, Witch-Maker!”
Chapter II
Conspiracy
Klak handed the crying infant to Tharat as the wizard told Klak, “You will need to get this powder into his wine cup. It will turn the bravest champion into a cowering cur.” Tharat held up the vial of white powder for Klak to see. “He won’t be able to lay a hand on a weapon without emptying his stomach and groveling before you.” The old wizard had thin white hair, and his filmy blue eyes shifted when he talked. He looked at Klak and snapped his teeth. His right eye was larger than the other and looked off to the far right. He was wearing a dirty brown robe and his tiny, sharp teeth were white as ivory. “This thing will not be easy. The problem will be getting the powder in his cup without him noticing.” The dirty little wizard snapped his teeth again after speaking.
Klak glared at Tharat, his voice becoming deeper as he told the little man, “You will stop snapping your teeth at me like an old fox getting ready to go into a hen house if you value your life, wizard!” Klak knew that Tharat ate human flesh, but he didn’t care. Klak himself had consumed the flesh of another human being on several occasions when he was changed into the werewolf but had no taste for it when he went about on two legs as a man. He would have long ago dispatched the corrupt little wizard to Hel had it not been for Tharat’s usefulness as a dealer in magickal items and potions that truly worked. The dirty little man fell silent, fearing the Wolf’s ire.
Klak broke the silence. “I don’t care to hear your tales, wizard. I have already taken care of arrangements to get Argantyr to drink the powder.” Klak made a cruel barking sound as he laughed. “His woman is a sloe-eyed slut we took in a raid to the Far East. She is called Arju-Lao. He hasn’t wenched a night since we took her. He tried to set her free, but she wouldn’t go. He thinks that he saved her from me and my men taking her and doing what we want with her, but when Argantyr is deep in slumber or away, she comes to my sleeping quarters and asks me to do as I like. She likes to be treated rough. Once Argantyr is out of the way, I will give her a good beating and put some cuts and bruises on her. She told me how much she likes it. If that fool only knew! He trusts her. She will have no problem getting him to drink the powder.” Klak barked out another laugh. “Once I am shed of Argantyr, I might even brand Arju-Lao and keep her around for a while.”
Swords of Steel Omnibus Page 9
