Angus Wells - The God Wars 01 (81 page)

 
          
When
they awoke they found their clothing miraculously clean and food once again set
out. They broke then- fast and filled their canteens, then started across the
enormous lily meadow, no longer concerned with the dragons that roared all
about, but pressing hard onward, the sun at their left shoulder, agog to know
if its imminent descent into night should mark the ending of their journey, or
merely the dying of the magical day: the prospect of a night so long was
daunting.

 
          
Time,
or distance, or perhaps both, contracted now: it seemed they walked but a
single day, though the sun did not shift, before they came to a third marker.

 
          
No
hostel this, but a dolmen of black stone, two upright pillars rising massy from
the fabric of the road, supporting a great cross-member, the passage between
narrow, barely so wide as to allow the three to pass together. Beyond that
portal was darkness, a voidance of light so total it seemed solid. They halted,
wary of that negation.

 
          
There
was, however, no way around the monument, or, when Calandryll retraced his
steps to peer past the obstacle, further sign of the road. It ended there,
beyond the dolmen only the lily meadow and the dragons.

 
          
"There
is no other way," he said, studying the great black pillars dubiously.
"This must be a second gate."

 
          
"The
elders sang us through the first," said Bracht. "Shall we pass
unscathed without their aid?"

 
          
"We
must," Katya said. "Or turn back."

 
          
Bracht's
face assumed a pained expression as he shook his head, vigorously. "Ahrd,
no! No more walking, I beg you."

 
          
Katya
laughed and said, "Then onward—to Tezin-dar, I hope."

 
          
"Aye,"
Calandryll declared, "To Tezin-dar and the Arcanum."

 
          
He
moved to Katya's right, Bracht to her left, and together they stepped into the
void between the stones.

 
          
Dark
so cold it cut like knives of ice
_;
and cold so dark it leeched
breath. Falling: a soft missile flung through eternity. To crash on the hard
stone of reality?

 
          
Or
some softer landing?

 
          
Grass?

 
          
Aye,
sweet-scented grass, and small flowers, their petals a delicate white, veined
through with purple, crushed beneath boots translucent with rime of ice that
melted, glowing, in the warmth of a new sun suspended in a sky of purest azure,
ribboned with pennants of white cloud. Bird song, and the lazy buzz of
pollen-weighted bees, the chirrup of crickets. Calandryll looked about, mouth
open, words lost in wonder. Surely not Gessyth? Not reeking, swamp-filled
Gessyth, this fabulous place.

 
          
He
rose from the grass where he had fallen, seeing his companions no less amazed
as they, like he, looked on the meadow that surrounded them, the dolmen
standing stark behind, bleak monument in that green sward all decked with
little blossoms. His head swung, eyes blinking at the vision that flickered in
and out of sight, like a fragmented dream. He saw the spires of a great city,
stately and tall, unwalled, serene; and tumbled ruins, the towers bare-ribbed
and fallen, the halls rendered down into rubble that spilled over wide avenues
filled with laughing, handsome folk; or empty, the stones grave markers of
forgotten splendor.

 
          
He
sighed and shook his head and the vision faltered, shimmering like sunlit water
rippled by a breeze, or a pebble thrown by younger sight. It faded, dreamy as
evaporating mist, and was gone, in its place that other vision, less welcome
but more real: across the meadow—that, at least, corporeal—stood the ruins of
Tezin-dar. It must be Tezin-dar, he told himself, and sighed afresh, for this
place was ancient and wrecked, and held no sign of Old Ones; or of men, or Syfalheen,
or any other folk. And yet, he wondered as he stared in silence at the fallen
walls of once-great halls, the shattered bulk of spires, the road had brought
them here; the Old One, back in the village of the Syfalheen, had sent them
here; the syfaba had directed them down that long path to this place: it must
be Tezin-dar, and somewhere within its jumbled confusion must be the Arcanum.

 
          
“I
thought I saw,” he heard Katya whisper, her grey eyes wide, wondering, "I
thought I saw . .

 
          
"What
was?" he asked, no louder. "The city that was once and is no
more?"

 
          
She
nodded, speechless.

 
          
"Yssym
said the Old Ones dwell here still," said Bracht, "yet this is but a
ruin ... For all I saw folk parade its streets."

 
          
"Naught
but stones," Katya said sadly.

 
          
"We
saw a memory, I think," said Calandryll. "The Tezin-dar that once
stood here, before the gods fell to

 
          
"And
the Old Ones?" Bracht asked. "Those who shall bring us to the
Arcanum—where are they?"

 
          
"Yssym
also said the city is forbidden the Syfalheen " Calandryll murmured,
"And none have seen the Old Ones."

           
"Then must we search
all this?" Bracht's hand flung out to encompass the dead city. "Ahrd,
we might spend a lifetune at this task!"

           
Varent said the stone would guide
me," Calandryll reminded, touching the pendant at his throat. "That
it would lead me to the Arcanum."

 
          
"And
Varent said the walls stood still," Bracht retorted, "and believed
Orwen's map would guide us here— and he was wrong."

 
          
"It
must be here," Katya said, "and we must find it."

 
          
“In
all of that?" Bracht gestured again at the ruined city. Save that in this
one thing Varent did not lie we have no hope."

 
          
Katya's
eyes grew stormy then, and she clenched her nsts so that the Kem raised
protesting hands and smiled an apology for his skepticism, saying, "I had
not thought to put my trust in Varent, but so be it—fetch out your magic stone,
Calandryll, and let us begin."

 
          
Calandryll
nodded, bringing the stone out from beneath his shirt. It hung lifeless upon
his chest, no sorcerous fire shining, nor scent of almonds to alert his
nostrils to wizardry.

 
          
"Likely
we must come closer," he said cautiously.

 
          
"Then
come," Bracht answered, starting toward the ruins.

 
          
They
drew nearer, finding the grass-grown memory of an avenue leading to a shattered
arch, the sundered remnants of the outer buildings beyond, all driven in as if
catapults, or thunderbolts, had struck against the walls, stones fused and run
in glistening snail tracks, melted by unimaginable powers. They skirted a
barricade of jagged blocks and climbed another, finding themselves in a plaza
where once a fountain had stood, now a crack-lipped pit awash with sour water
on which green algae floated. About the plaza stood walls like broken teeth,
angled chaotically at the cloud-decked sky, the streets between the broken
buildings all pocked and pitted, grass and weeds and some few flowers finding
purchase among the desolation. They wandered at random, for it was no longer
possible to discern logical pattern in that confusion where the wreckage of
once-proud buildings covered whole streets and avenues ended in gaping chasms
too wide to jump. They clambered over walls and crossed courtyards; found paths
through houses where charred timber spoke of burned furniture and melted metal
glittered, surprised—for all that they were, too, relieved—to find no evidence
of human remains amid the waste. The sun, that had been not long risen when
they began, traversed the sky and moved toward the west, casting ragged shadows
that hid the pitfalls of the broken streets and gaping cellars, threatening
broken bones did they continue searching: they agreed, reluctantly, to cease
and find shelter for the night.

 
          
Beneath
the overhang of an arched door, what was left of its surrounding wall some
further shelter, they built a fire, its flames small comfort to their dampening
hope. They huddled miserable about the glow, chewing on the cured meat the
Syfalheen had given them as the sickle of a quarter-full moon rose and filled
the dead city with eerie silver light. A wind got up, sighing through the
ruins: a lament for lost Tezin-dar.

 
          
And
Bracht sprang to his feet, falchion gleaming m the fire glow as unexpected
sound intruded on their contemplation.

 
          
Katya
and Calandryll rose beside him, each with sword in hand, moving instinctively
away from the revealing flames, eyes probing the shadows as ears picked out the
slow drag of footsteps in the susurration of the wind.

 
          
"Back,"
the freesword urged softly, "where we may use our blades unhindered."

 
          
They
paced warily to the center of what had once been a stately hall, standing
shoulder to shoulder, their blades extended to meet whatever menace should
appear. The fire shivered in the breeze, sending dancing shadows over the
tumbled walls; cloud drifted to obscure the moon, pooling darkness within the
hall. Calandryll felt a prickling against his chest and saw the red stone
pulse, thrusting it beneath his shirt lest it betray them all. The footsteps
came closer, paused, then came on, and a shape filled the arch, halting there.

 
          
Eyes
pale-lit by moon and uncountable years surveyed the three, the fire's flames
lending shadow to a face sunk in on itself, dry lips drawn back from yellow
teeth in time's ancient smile, the cheeks hollows, parchment skin stretched
thin over clear-etched bones. White hair curtained the narrow shoulders,
falling lank over a robe of blue, skeletal hands all mottled with age thrust
from the sleeves, one rising to beckon.

 
          
Two
more figures shuffled slowly into the mined hall, one robed in blue, the other
in white, both old; so old as to seem beyond age. They aligned themselves
before the three newcomers. Calandryll lowered his blade as the central figure
spoke.

 
          
“Put
up your swords, this place has seen enough of bloodshed.”

 
          
The
voice was dusted with the weight of ages, rustling and dry, and sad as the wind
mourning through the city.

 
          
"Old
Ones," Bracht said softly. "Yssym spoke the tmth."

 
          
"So
the Syfalheen name us," said the ancient... man, Calandryll saw as the
cloud cleared the moon and he was able to discern the features: both those in
blue were men, the white-robed figure a woman. "And they speak tme. This
Yssym—he was the appointed Watcher?"

 
          
"Aye,"
Calandryll said, his voice unreasonably loud against the other's whisper.
"He brought us to his village, where the elders—the syfaba—brought us to
judgment by one of yours."

 
          
"Sennethym."
The death's-head face ducked in confirmation. "His was the hardest part—to
wait alone."

 
          
"He
sent you out," said the female of the three, "to take the road?"

 
          
"How
else might they come here?" asked the second man.

 
          
"By
wizardry, perhaps," she replied. "Long and long have we waited, and how
might we know what magicks pertain in that world now?"

 
          
"None
to find the road," replied the man. "On that I'd wager. Were that
knowledge abroad there'd be others come ere these."

 
          
The
central figure raised a hand, stilling their debate. "You took the
road?" he asked.

 
          
"We
did," said Calandryll. "After .. . Sennethym? . . . sent us forth,
the elders of the Syfalheen brought us to a dolmen, through which we passed
onto the road. That, we walked to a hostel, and then another, and thence to a
second dolmen that brought us here."