The Weaver's Lament (39 page)

He looked at them from different angles, confused.

I wonder if this was once Hector,
he mused.
I am almost certain this must have been him, given how MacQuieth had described him.

They had built seawalls, levies, in the last days, in the vain attempt to hold back the inevitable,
the great hero had said sadly.
That must have been Hector. My son would have been filling bags of sand to the last.

The thought that, in addition to having to hold the abandoned Island together in the last days before the eruption of the Sleeping Child, Hector might have had to hold the Vault of the Underworld closed with his arms was more than Achmed could bring himself to think about.

He carefully removed the arms, which broke apart easily in his hands, and placed them in a hole within the rocks beside the enormous doors, then found another, larger stone to seal the hole as if it were a grave or a columbarium.

He turned away from the doors, remembering the time he had been escorted here, with an invisible chain around his neck, or, more precisely, his name, the true name that was being held prisoner inside the stone altar from which he had recently retrieved Kirsdarke.

He had been shown these very doors, and allowed to look inside through the keyhole long enough to meet the creature that was waiting to exit through them.

Get the key,
the beast had whispered in a voice that scratched his brain.
Get it. Bring it here. You alone, Child of Blood. The key will be alive when it is pulled from the rib cage of the Child of Earth, but will die before it reaches this place unless it is in your hand. You must be the one to bring it to me.

And then you will be the one to free us all. Our liberator.

Achmed turned to his right and looked behind him.

Then he bent down and plucked the sand-and-ash-covered piece of driftwood from the barely dry ocean floor. He brushed it off, scratching the ash from it.

He was not particularly surprised to discover that it was an ancient key, dark of shaft, resembling a rib bone of a Child of Earth.

Because it was.

He had never fully explained to Rhapsody the reason for his stalwart vigil of the Earthchild, because he tried whenever possible not to recall the time he had been brought here previously. The thought of a conjured child of Living Earth being harvested for a single bone made his gorge rise at the sheer depravity and cruelty of it, like the planned eating of Meridion's heart had seemed to him when Talquist, the long-dead Merchant Emperor of Sorbold, had planned to do so.

Carefully he held it next to the keyhole, trying to ascertain the angle at which it would fit.

Achmed cast a glance at the sky, so seemingly far above him. He thought of Grunthor, and Rhapsody, and wondered where they were, if they could see him or at least know what he was about to do.

He decided they couldn't.

He hoped they couldn't.

He remembered how sick and nervous Rhapsody had been within the depths of the Earth, particularly when they were crawling along the Root of Sagia that wrapped around the Axis Mundi, the centerline of power that bisected the Earth. He recalled how relieved she had always been to be out beneath the sheltering sky once more whenever she left the Bolglands, or any other underground place that he and Grunthor had found comforting, the dark, warm tunnels of the Earth.

He held the key in his hand, contemplating where it would take him, knowing that he would very likely never see the sky again.

Then, taking a breath, he fit the key into the hole in the massive door.

 

37

The glyphs on the doors glowed with life.

The calcified ash began to fall from the bone key, sliding off in white chunks.

Achmed drew Tysterisk, then pushed the key into the lock and slowly turned it counterclockwise.

Beneath his hand he more felt than heard an echoing
thunk
.

Ever-so-slightly, the crack between the stone doors widened.

He pushed carefully on the rightmost of the two, but could see very little.

The darkness was devouring in its depth, the immensity of the place even more than Achmed could fathom. There seemed to be no border to it, no walls below limiting it to edges, but rather it was more like opening a door into the night sky, or the depths of the universe.

Achmed patted his Mythlin armor, finding it reassuringly wet, then opened the vault and stepped inside.

It was silent and utterly dark.

Quickly and carefully he pulled the key from the latch and shut the door.

The noise of closing it, or the breath of sea air that slid in, caused a disturbance he could feel.

The dead air of the massive enclosure thudded loudly and echoed throughout the enormous vault.

At first he saw nothing move. Then, at the most distant edge of his vision, he thought he could make out tiny flames which began to flicker, then surge forward. Achmed felt suddenly weak, dizzy, as his head was assaulted from within by the cacophony of a thousand rushing voices, cackling and screeching with delight.

Like fire on pine, the living flames began to sweep down distant ledges within the mammoth pit, some nearer, some farther, all dashing toward the door, churning the air with the destructive chaos of mayhem.

Achmed, whose head was throbbing now with the gleeful screaming that was drawing rapidly closer, put Tysterisk behind his back, waiting as a legion of individual flames scrambled down the dark walls toward the doors.

From the floor of the place a figure rose, almost human of shape, and began stiffly charging toward him.

As it came, seven or so of the faster screeching flames leapt upon it, whirling about it wildly in cackling fire, followed by a galaxy of stars all roaring toward him.

The enormous chamber rocked with the sound, the hissing, screaming, laughing, sobbing, bellowing, whispering, and hooting of a thousand or more individual voices.

Steady,
Achmed told himself.
Steady, now.

The figure was almost upon him, being egged on, it seemed, by the half dozen or so flames whipping around it. Achmed saw its dark eyes sight on him, its skeletal bones clad in rotten cloth reaching for him.

Just as it was upon him, he drew forth the ancient sword of elemental air and, rather than slashing, impaled the charging beast where he believed its heart would have been, holding it as steady as he could.

For a moment he was engulfed in white flashes of searing heat as the pure air of Tysterisk swept the flames into even hotter fire, exploding them into bright white blinding light, singeing the backs of Achmed's forearms while blasting the human-like creature's arm and shoulder off.

The seven fastest flames, hooting and catcalling in glee a moment before, let loose agonizing wails of anger and pain, and expanded violently until they winked out, as more behind them disappeared into the darkness, the rest fleeing until their noise could be heard no more.

Both he and the humanoid creature were tossed back in the directions from which they came, both of them impacting walls of stone.

Silence, encompassing and menacing, filled the enormous prison once more.

Slowly Achmed rose to a stand, using the wall against which he had fallen for cover of his back, and sheathed the sword. It appeared as if the skeletal creature had been blown apart, its shoulder and arm lying separate from the rest of its body.

The Bolg king pulled his pack from his back, keeping one hand free to draw the sword again. When nothing approached, he opened the pack and did a quick check of the supplies closest to the top and the gear in his bandolier.

The swords and the cwellan were all intact, as were the herbs and potions that Rhapsody had made, tonics of health and healing, as well as many capsules of lightning-bug fluid which, when shaken, cast a gentle light. He cursed quietly when he discovered that several of the fungi similar to the ones they had used long ago when traveling the Root, which also emitted a glow when crushed, had already been activated by the impact of his pack against the titanic doors. He moved those to the top of the pack, and the black liquid tincture of silence he had originally planned to poison the Sea Mages with to the bottom.

He also had a supply of Tanist Root, which would keep him hydrated without the need for water, and Vigil Root, which would allow him to remain awake without the need for sleep, a small still to turn seawater drinkable, food rations, several skins of water, and the poles of potable drink he had purchased from Barney.

Finally, tucked away at the very bottom of the bag was the key of bone.

Mostly satisfied with the condition of his supplies, Achmed turned to the gigantic doors one last time and secured them again, assuring himself of their solid closure. He had laid his hand on the door in the course of his check and so knew that the sea had returned; the pressure was palpable, and the thudding of the Deep echoed off the entranceway and the ceiling above, so high up that he could not even see it for the darkness.

As he was finishing the check of his equipment, he noticed a terrible hissing sound coming from the pile of rags and bones that had been the creature the flames had ridden to attack him.

He spun, sword in hand, and pointed it at the pile of human refuse.

He heard the hissing sound again, louder this time, dry and brittle, and realized suddenly what he was hearing.

The creature was chuckling.

“Thank you,” it said, its voice waterless on the verge of cracking. “Good to have 'em off me.”

The Bolg king came closer. The creature appeared scorched and damaged, but purged of its flame passengers, at least temporarily.

“Don't move too quickly, if you value your life,” he said to the rags and skin-wrapped bones.

A hissing sound erupted again, stinging the sensitive nerves on any exposed area of Achmed's skin.

“No worries about that,” it rasped. “Been dead a
very
long time. Wish they'd let me stay that way permanently, but they use me; they need me. If I'd valued my life, I never would have stayed behind to guard the Island for my king. So, clearly you can see that I didn't value it much.”

The Bolg king squinted in the dark. “Hector?” he asked.

A wheezing sound answered him, echoing in the oddly angled cave. He had the momentary impression that the sound was a full-blown laugh, but the concept of laughter existing in this place disappeared the instant it occurred.

“I was never Hector,” the creature hissed. It had still not risen, but lay where it had fallen after the blast.

“Who, then, are you?”

“Not who I was.”

Achmed scanned the cave, looking for movement or light, but saw nothing, heard nothing, except the faint rustling where the creature moved slightly against the earth.

The creature seemed to at one time have been human, being in possession of one remaining arm, two shriveled legs, and a human head covered only partially with what resembled hair. There was something about it that reminded Achmed strongly of a mummy, all except for the dark eyes, which were still set in the hollow face, eyes that burned angrily, even when it had been recovering from the shock of the air sword. It pulled itself up, slowly and deliberately, struggling to make use of only one arm, until it was sitting, leaning back against the heat-baked wall of the cavern.

“What do you have for me?” it demanded.

Achmed still did not answer. He noticed that the floor seemed natural, formed from some mineral other than basalt or clay or anthracite, but that there was not a single rock or stone or broken piece to be seen, nothing to kick, scatter, or throw.

“What do you want from me?” he asked in reply.

“I hope,” the creature coughed, “you brought beer.”

“Beer?” Achmed gave a short chuckle. “No beer. Sorry. Would have obliged if I had known I'd be making your acquaintance.”

The creature spun slowly, like a snake, raising itself up a little higher. “Show some respect in the presence of a mighty desolation,” it said, puffing raggedly in the dry, airless place. “Twenty-five or more centuries of thirst gaze upon you at this moment.”

“I do have this.” Achmed reached into his pack and withdrew one of the poles of Canderian brandy he had purchased from Old Barney what felt already like a lifetime ago.

Guardedly he approached the creature, which seemed to have trouble righting itself between its stiffness and the loss of its arm. “Brandy—of a quality vintage. Will this do?”

The remaining arm shot out, quivering. “Give. Give.
Give-give-give.
”

Achmed hesitated, then removed the seal and cork and handed it down to the seated creature, which he then had a chance to examine.

It might once have been a man. Few clothes remained, of indeterminate color or shape.

It snatched the flask from his hand, waved it in front of its face, as if it could smell, then poured the dark liquid into its mouth. Achmed could almost trace the path of the drink down the gullet into its leathern belly.

It paused, took another long drink, holding the brandy in its mouth for some moments before tilting its head back.

“Ahhhh,” it said, its voice greatly warmed and wetter than it had been. “Bless you.”

The Bolg king bowed his head slightly, making note of the word
bless
.

The desiccated man, if it had been a man, took another swig, then opened its mouth in a long
aaaahhhhhhh
again. The sound seemed to come from the depths of its body, down to its twisted feet.

“It is dry here,” it said wistfully. “Dry as the heart of a sandstorm. Dry as—well, dry.”

“Indeed. Who are you, and what can you tell me about the remaining F'dor?”

For the first time, the creature smiled, revealing sunken teeth and gums.

“Everything,” it said.

 

38

THE VAULT OF THE UNDERWORLD