To Rescue Tanelorn (53 page)

“Tonight the moon will still be strong enough to move the forest,” she said. “So we must do what we can during the day. Come nightfall, it will be more dangerous. We should act quickly. I will lead you to the Place of the Seed.” She stretched out her hand.

Rackhir took the soft fingers in his own hard, suspicious grasp. He wondered how many warriors like him had been lured to their deaths or worse by this sorceress…

“Tell me,” he said, as she led him past all the corpses of those he had slain in last night’s battle. They were black with the same golden-eyed birds which filled the trees, no doubt waiting their own turn to feast. “Tell me, lady. How many others sought to help you find this seed?”

“Oh, I forget,” she replied. “A score, maybe. Two score?”

“And they have all perished?”

“They were not archer-priests of Phum,” she told him. Her reply gave him little comfort as he padded beside her, looking hard at the old trunks and wondering if they had any means of harming him. More than once, he felt he saw a branch move in an unnatural way, but when he stared back, there seemed nothing amiss.

“Who are these warriors who move with the forest?” he asked her. “What’s their bargain with it?”

“They guard and feed the Seed and for this they are repaid with a form of life. Did you pass through a village a night or so ago?”

“I did.”

“Few of those villagers lived. They became the most recent Feast of Blood. It was my fault, I fear. I saw you from the trees and thought to seek your help. I had hoped the forest would not follow, that I could reach you before my form faded to nothing. But the forest did follow. And she dined, sparing some who elected to serve her and were amongst the warriors who attacked you.” O’Indura’s voice broke and she stopped speaking, lowering her head. But Rackhir had seen what he thought was genuine agony in her eyes. For the first time, he let himself be convinced by what she told him.

The undergrowth grew thick and the two of them were forced to use their captured broadswords to cut a way through. A path became faintly visible beneath the shrubs and saplings.

“We are almost at the Barrow of the Seed,” she murmured. “A few days ago this path was cleared. That’s how quickly the forest grows when it has blood to feed it.”

And then they had passed through a narrow gap and entered a gloomy glade, an arena of heaped earthworks in which red clay lay exposed from the turf like the wounds of battle and on which low bushes grew, like patches of hair.

“This is the Barrow,” she said. “Now we go underground.”

But Rackhir hesitated, every instinct in him refusing further movement. Surely, once he descended into the earth, into the very bowels of this beast that adopted the appearance of a forest, he would be trapped for ever?

“I am not certain—” he began.

She lifted her silvery arm and put soft fingers to his lips, staring hard into his face. “You must be certain, Red Archer. Your eye must be as steady as never before. Your aim must be true and your confidence complete. For unless we possess the Seed we shall both of us doubtless die here today. My faith in you causes me to risk all the life I have left. We cannot hold off such a weight of fighting men for more than another night. And if we fail? We die and are already buried. But if we succeed, we walk the moonbeam roads. I will lead you back to your own realm—our own world—and set you on the path to Tana Lorn. This I promise.”

So he took hold of his strength and his courage and he said: “Lady, I believe your promise and my heart aches for home. So I will do this thing.”

At her bidding they approached the tallest part of the earthworks and there, hidden from casual view, they found a mouth of a cave into which a great stone arch had been built. The arch was fitted with ancient oaken gates. He guessed this was a familiar action for her as she leaned to push upon the gates. They swung back with an unnatural slithering sound. A profound, impenetrable lightlessness was revealed. A horrible, waiting blackness.

This time Rackhir did not hesitate, but, while the woman held tight to his arm, strode forward with an almost animal growl. He smelled blood and filth—the stink of men and other, fouler, things—and again he was forced to control his fear. Then the gates swung shut behind them and they stood in pitchy silence. He realized with surprise that her scent was stronger than all the terrible stenches assailing his nostrils. Her warm softness pressed against him and he knew suddenly that even if this were, indeed, an inescapable hell, he would follow her anywhere. But he took a tighter grip on his captured broadsword and was glad he had decided to stick that captured war-axe in his belt.

The tunnel twisted like a beast in pain, back and forth. The Red Archer knew that, should he have to find his way back alone, he would be lost here for ever. A new, unidentifiable stink blended with that of men, damp, rooty soil and ordure until every breath he caught was thick in his throat, threatening to choke him. Yet her soft hand led him further and further into the belly of the earth.

At last he sensed rather than saw light ahead and he began to identify the smell. He had not experienced it on this island, but it was yet familiar and the strongest he had ever known. The stink was reptilian. And it raised his hackles. What was the story? That Melnibonéans were part-reptile, blood brothers to the legendary Ph’oorn? Every instinct told him to turn back. But he knew he could not. His only choice was to continue and pray the Melnibonéan woman had not lied to him.

She was hissing in his ear now. “We are nearing the Chamber of the Seed. Remember that its guardians know only how to die protecting it. There will be no parleying with them. But you are an archer. This is your advantage over all the others who have come here. The first chance you have you must string your bow and let fly three arrows.”

“Three? Why…”

“You will see.”

Then they were in the chamber, a sphere whose walls curved beneath their feet. The source of the light came from three spots near the centre—a steady, greenish glow. But now, emerging from the floor were the silhouettes of men and the archer readied himself as they began to lumber towards him. He glimpsed glittering green eyes, open green mouths, bared green-grey teeth and he knew these were the hardened warriors who had sent the others forward to be killed during his first fight.

Reaching for the axe, he prepared to stand against them, but she murmured in his ear. “Quick! Your bow. Those three points of light! While you can. Three arrows!”

And reluctantly he stuck the axe in his belt and strung his bow, nocking one arrow to the string, the other two held against the staff. In that darkness he wondered how he could possibly strike his targets. The first arrow flew and, to his astonished relief, struck true in the central glowing orb. Immediately the chamber was filled with an horrific shrieking and wailing, a hissing and thrashing. Rackhir wanted to cover his ears, but did not dare. That warm hand touched him, strengthening his resolve. The green warriors paused, as if uncertain.

“Let fly!” she cried. “Now! Now!”

He obeyed.

A second arrow whispered from the thrumming string, and a second orb was pierced. Again came that terrible noise, half-howl, half-shriek. And the darkness of the barrow shook to the thing’s massive convulsions. The noise grew, at once deafening and deep, shrill as the cry of some enormous seabird.

Then the warriors were upon him and he was forced to tug the axe free of his belt and strike two down, ducking beneath the sweep of their swords. A third fell, head split in two by the bright, bronze blade. He grew aware of her back against his as her own deadly sword and poignard whispered and shivered in the darkness. Blood spattered against the Red Archer’s face. He spat it out in disgust, carrying the attack to two more of the warriors. He was encouraged suddenly by the realization that they could see hardly better than he could. The pressure on his back was gone, however. He had lost contact with the woman. Where was she? Had she betrayed him? Had she left him to his death? Was this what she had done with all the others who had ventured here to steal what she called the Original Seed?

Again, he had no time to call out, to demand her continuing aid. With astonishing speed, one brilliant viridian orb came closer and closer. It was almost upon him. Yet still all around him he felt the press of the warriors defending the Seed. Stinking breath struck his face. He continued to hack blindly, this way and that. His arm cut an arc of death. He was soaked in that thick, green, unnatural blood.

“Rackhir!” She no longer whispered. There was tangible terror in her voice. “Shoot! Shoot! If you do not, we are both doomed!”

He stepped to one side, slammed his battle axe into another body and, using it as a temporary shield, raised his bow and his remaining arrow.

“Rackhir! Let fly!”

Drawing the long shaft back, he aimed and loosed in one fluid, instinctive movement.

There came a pause. A terrible, threatening silence.

Now an unhuman scream shrilled loud enough to threaten both his hearing and his sanity. He saw the outline of the arrow quivering above him, then to his right, then his left, then below. Light streamed behind it, veining the darkness everywhere. Filthy liquid stung his skin. The stench grew stronger and stronger and he staggered, retching, fearing he must surely pass out. Then he would certainly die…

“Now, Ronan! Guard my back!”

Black shadows moved towards him and he sensed red rage threatening again. He had a glimpse of her lithe body against the failing light and once more resisted an urge to clap his hand over his ears. Again his hand gripped the long-shafted war-axe. Again he buried the blade deep into flesh, then swung backwards to catch the warrior threatening him from behind. He feared he might strike her by mistake. There arose a strange, pulsing green fog, outlining the huge, reptilian body thrashing from side to side now, flinging corpses and living men indiscriminately about the earthern sphere. And all the while came the noise, that deafening, hellish screaming.

Then she was beside him and he smelled something infinitely sweet. In the dying light of the last orb he saw her pale features and knew she had succeeded in getting what she sought.

“They are distracted by the beast’s death-throes now, if indeed she does die. They hardly know whether to fight or flee. This is our moment—our only moment—to leave.”

She took his arm and he backed along the serpentine corridor, striking out at more shadows as they approached.

The labyrinth narrowed, becoming marginally easier to defend. His eyes were better accustomed to the gloom. He could glimpse his enemies by the faint, reflected green light in their eyes.

And then at last they had reached the oaken gates. She pulled them open and they burst from the mound into air that was heavy with dense rain. Rackhir was glad of the rain. It washed the worst of the viridian blood from his body. He lifted his head and let the water pour down on him. But she was still in haste. He saw that she cradled in her arms a tall, wooden beaker carved with strange, alien forms. The thing did not appear to have been designed for human hands.

Now the remaining warriors were gathering under the stone arch of the entrance. Rackhir felt almost sorry for them as they looked in wonder at the cup O’Indura held. They could not believe it was being taken from them by the woman they had worshipped as its spirit. He nocked another arrow to his bow and shot an attacker through the throat. This did not stop the warrior at once. He came stumbling forward, bronze sword raised, his free hand reaching for the beaker, then his feet gradually moved faster and faster over the ground as his body fell and he died sprawling at Ronan’s feet. But more warriors were pouring from the entrance. Too many for him to fight in this natural arena.

The archer still did not wholly trust the Melnibonéan woman. He kept half an eye on her as he watched the warriors. He had no arrows left in his quiver. He felt a knot in his stomach, a sense of deep failure. Had he done all this just to become a meal for some predatory supernatural?

Then she was at his side again, clutching his arm and leading him backwards. “We have the Seed,” she said. “With it we can return to our home realm.” She reached into the beaker and took out something about the size of a walnut.

“What’s that?” He flung a battle-axe. A green-skinned warrior fell. How many more had filled that horrible chamber?

“The Seed,” she said. “Put it into your mouth. But be sure not to swallow.”

He could hardly believe what he heard. “Put that in my mouth? Why, by Krim, would I do that?”

“Have I failed you yet, Red Archer?”

“Why don’t you—?”

“I am not a man, nor a warrior. Nor am I human as you are human. Do it, Priest of Phum. You’ll not regret this!”

So, against all reason, he took the Seed and placed it gingerly in his mouth. He expected the taste to be unpleasant, but it was strangely sweet and delicate. He began to feel an entirely unfamiliar energy coursing through him. He recalled how he had felt, almost dying of thirst, as he crossed the Sighing Desert, questing for Tana Lorn. He had seen mirage after mirage as his fevered brain imposed its visions on the barren wastes. He was hallucinating again, surely?

He felt a sudden, euphoric kinship with the surrounding trees. He was one of them. He had more than two legs, more than two arms. He had instead countless numbers of sturdy roots and branches. And each branch ended in something like a weapon. He swung one of his branches, knowing at once that if he were hallucinating, then so were the green warriors. Clubbed, the man went flying back towards the entrance of the barrow. He swung again. Another warrior was sent hurtling backwards. He sensed that the silver Melnibonéan had climbed onto his back as he gradually moved out of the glade, killing and scattering warriors as a terrier killed rats, until at last their antagonists became afraid and followed them no longer. As he paused, resting, her long, warm fingers reached into his mouth. He thought to resist, but it was too late…

And he was a mortal man again, standing beside her as she replaced the Seed in the cup and then spat into it. Suddenly her other hand, which did not hold the cup, shot out and in it was her silver knife.