Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 02 (42 page)

           
Kedryn rose, clutching Wynett’s
hand, smiling at Tepshen.

           
“May your Lady be with you,” said
the kyo gravely, his face unmoving.

           
“Aye,” Kedryn answered. “And should
we not return, remember my promises to Cord.”

           
The easterner nodded his agreement
and Cord said, “You have courage. Both of you. May your gods and mine look on
you with favor. ”

           
They went out of the lodge then, to
find the Gehrim, full- armored and clutching spears, lined to form a narrow
avenue between the hogan and the smaller structure, beyond them the watching,
anticipatory mass of forest folk. The shamans stood at the entrance to the
smaller construction and save for the noise of their rattles and the ululation
there was no sound, even the roaring of the bonfire atop the mound seeming
dimmed. Kedryn felt Wynett’s hand tighten and he smiled at her.

           
“Lady bless us,” she whispered as
they walked between the Gehrim toward the waiting medicine men.

           
The shamans were painted now, their
faces decorated in semblance of the beasts they took as spirit kin, their
torsos bare and striped with bars of yellow, green, red, white and black. They
ceased their wailing as the two drew close, then moved with shuffling,
terpsichorean steps to surround them, shaking the rattles close to their faces,
then down, and up again, in a movement akin to sweeping. Kedryn and Wynett
stood silent, awaiting instruction, and the man wearing the guise of the bull
beckoned them forward as the wolf-skinned man held back the entrance flap.

           
Inside the lodge a fire burned in a
low metal brazier, giving off a hear fiercer than was natural for the amount of
coals therein, the flames granting the pictograms on the inner walls a life of
then- own, so that the cat and the bear, the bull, the wolf and the boar
painted there seemed to move, prowling restlessly. The shamans entered behind
them, the last drawing the flap tight, and each one delved in his belt pouch to
produce a handful of powdery leaves that they scattered into the brazier.

           
The fire flared then, long tongues
of incandescent red and yellow lapping toward the roof, and a sickly-sweet odor
filled the confined space. Kedryn and Wynett were motioned to the far side of
the lodge, facing the entrance, and ordered by gestures to sit. Sweat began to
course down Kedryn’s cheeks, his eyes stinging as aromatic smoke coiled about
his head. He felt Wynett’s palm grow slick, and from the comer of his eye saw
her brush strands of darkened blond hair from her face.

           
The five shamans settled
cross-legged around the brazier, the cat-man to Kedryn’s right, the bull to Wynett’s
left. Again they fumbled in their pouches, this time producing sticks of dyed
wood that they used to mark the cheeks and foreheads of the nervous pair. Then
each in turn chanted in high-pitched syllables, dropping the sticks into the
fire, the chant taken up by the next man until they sang in unison.

           
The strange singing ceased as though
cut off in midsentence and five fists thrust toward the initiates, the fingers
opening slowly, like the petals of a flower at dawn, to reveal tiny mushrooms,
the pale flesh blotched with red. The bull-man nudged Wynett, touching his
lips, and she took the mushroom he offered, swallowing the fungus with an
expression of distaste. Kedryn followed suit, seeing that the bear-shaman
facing him across the fire held two of the growths. He took one, Wynett the
other. The mushrooms were slimy on the tongue, faintly bitter, but there was no
immediately noticeable effect. He waited, aware of the painted faces watching
him, wondering what would happen, how they would pass from this corporeal world
into the insubstantiality of the netherworld.

           
The shamans began to sing again, but
now it was a low, crooning sound, dirgelike and soporific. The heat seemed to
grow, and the cloying odor filled his nostrils, extending tendrils of scent
that became colors that danced before his eyes. He felt Wynett slump against
him but could not turn his head because his gaze was fastened on the boar
painted on the flap of the lodge, fascinated by its movements, by the way it
raised its head and flung up its tusks. He turned his head slowly, the effort
tremendous, but before Wynett came within his line of vision he became caught
by the sporting of the painted wolf and heard it howl as it threw back its
head, the jaws opening wide. Dimly, feeling that he should be surprised but was
not, he realized that he could no longer see the fire; it was a faint glow at
the lower periphery of his vision, a dull redness that barely marked the
shadowy darkness that now appeared to roil and shift of its own accord within
the tent. He blinked but it did nothing to clear his sight, though, as if
dreaming, he grew aware that he no longer held Wynett’s hand, feeling her slump
lower against him, her head a faraway pressure on his thighs.

           
He tried to shake his head, but his
neck seemed held, too solid to move, and all his attention was caught by the
shifting of the shadows, the weird dance that slowly resolved into shapes he
recognized, yet could not define.

           
Across the fire sat a bear. Not a
man dressed in the creature’s hide, but a massive, ivory-fanged bear, thick
brown hair flowing over huge shoulders that extended into short arms ending in
taloned paws. Next to it a wolf crouched on its hindquarters, studying him
through cold, yellow eyes, a pink tongue lolling from jaws lined with wicked
fangs. On the bear’s other side sat a forest cat, all reddish yellow fur and
slitted eyes, the blunt muzzle whiskered and toothed, the canines curving over
black lips, a paw reaching as though in salute, claws extended toward him, His
eyes flickered sideways and saw a grizzled, gray boar, tiny red orbs implacable
as death behind the upthrust tusks, the flattened snout pulsing pinkly, one
blunt-toed hoof pawing at the ground. Beside that was a bull, seated but still
massive, all glistening black hide and swooping horns, its bovine gaze fixed
solemnly on his face.

           
It said, “Come,” and the sound was
thunder that dinned against his ears, ringing in his head, allowing no refusal.

           
He rose and felt Wynett take his
hand, knowing that it was for comfort rather than the granting of sight, for he
was aware that they both realized he could see, or had no need of eyes in this
place, or that to which the beasts took them.

           
The bull lurched to its feet and he
saw that it stood on its hind legs, a minotaur, a human hand gesturing that
they follow. He obeyed, Wynett moving beside him, the animals that were also
men forming about them as though a guard of honor, or protective, for he sensed
awe in them, and fear.

           
“Come,” said the bull again, and
they began to walk through the darkness, through the shadows, to where a light
burned very bright, so radiant it seemed they approached the sun itself, though
it gave no heat.

           
As they drew close the brilliance
diffused, spreading and softening like the sun at dawn, driving back the
shadows so that when the bull creature halted they stood in a penumbra, the
half-light hinting at the contours of a cavern, or a tomb, the outlines not
quite clear, lost in the mists that swirled restlessly at the edges of their
sight. Before them was a dais of stone, on it a sarcophagus, ancient runes
marking the sides. The light was brighter there and the were-creatures stood
before it, respectfully.

           
“We ask entry to the portal.”

           
Again it was the bull that spoke,
though now the booming voice was echoed by the others, each in turn, their
request ringing from whatever walls confined the place, echoing into dying
whispers that hissed away into silence.

           
From the sarcophagus there came a
creaking as of ancient armor stirring, of unoiled leather stretched close to
breaking point, and something rose, slowly at first, as if brought from a long
sleep, but then swifter as it flung a hand to the stone and hauled itself clear
of the kist It stepped to the ground, if ground it was on which they stood, and
faced them. Kedryn stared at it, seeing a harness of a style unknown in long
ages. The helm descended in sweeping wings to the metaled shoulders of a
brigandine, curving forward to encompass the face, leaving only a lightless gap
where nose and eyes and mouth should have shown. Vambraces molded with
indiscernible, eroded figures were belted to the arms, extending into gauntlets
that hid most of the hands, save that no hands were visible, only a darkness
that gripped a massive, wide-bladed glaive. Beneath the brigandine the legs
were warded by greaves latched over boots to which plates of rusted metal were
sewn. Of physical feature there was no sign: it was as though the creature
consisted of shadow, blackness where flesh should be.

           
It spoke, and its voice was rusted
as its armor, sending a waft of putrescence billowing noisome across the
strange chamber.

           
“Who would enter that is not dead?”

           
“These two,” the bull-man answered,
gesturing briefly at Kedryn and Wynett.

           
“Living flesh.” It seemed a condemnation.
“What business has living flesh here in the realm of the dead?”

           
The great sword rose as the thing
spoke, swinging ponderously to its shoulder, poising there as the empty helm
turned eyeless gaze on the intruders.

           
“He is the hef-Alador,” the bull-man
said, his voice nervous, his own eyes flickering toward the upraised blade. “He
lost his sight to one dead, and would ask its return. She is his boon
companion, and needful to his quest.”

           
“You have no need of eyes in this
place. Stay and help me guard the gate. ”

           
Kedryn felt the power of the
creature as the blank casque faced him. He felt fear, and Wynett’s hand tight
in his. He said, “I have a duty to those still living, and my time is not yet
done. I was blinded by one now dead and would ask him for my eyes that I might
dispense that duty. Wynett stands with me because I need her. Let us go by. I
ask as hef-Alador.”

           
Noxious laughter rang through the
chamber and the thing said, “The one you slew is here. And many others. Perhaps
some you would rather not face. I know you, hef-Alador, and I tell you—go
back!”

           
“I cannot,” Kedryn answered, not
sure where the words came from, knowing only that they were right and that he
must say them. “I have traveled far to come to this place, and lost good
friends in the coming. Did I go back now it would betray their trust, and that
I will not do.”

           
“Said well,” declared the shadow
creature, “but know that if I grant you passage, you may not return. He who
rules here is not a friendly master. A price may be demanded. Will you pay it?”

           
“I do not know what that price may
be,” Kedryn replied, “so I cannot say that I will pay it.”

           
“You tread dangerous ground,” the
thing warned.

           
“All ground is dangerous to the
blind,” said Kedryn. “I would have back my sight—and I will risk much for
that.”

           
Again the laughter echoed, foul
stench reeking, the corruption of flesh, the words coming thick through it.

           
“You are brave, and you are the
hef-Alador. For those things I will let you by. Though you may regret the
passing. And you may not return.”

           
“I will chance that,” Kedryn said.

           
“Then go.” The thing nodded its
ornate helm, the great blade lowering, the shadow-filled armor turning back to
the sarcophagus, clambering heavily into the stone coffin.

           
“You have passed the first test,”
said the bull-shaman. “It is not the hardest, and we can go no farther. We
return now to await you; you go there.”

           
Kedryn followed the direction of the
pointing arm and saw beyond the kist an opening. “My thanks for what you have
done,” he said and moved with Wynett toward the orifice.

           
It seemed no more than a gap in the
rock of the funerary chamber and he halted before it, looking back. The shamans
were gone and the light began to fade, darkness creeping oily about the dais,
no exit visible. He experienced a flood of panic, hope evaporating. From the
opening before him came the nauseating stink of corruption, of decayed flesh
and ordure, a growing, susurrating sound as if a myriad blowflies feasted on
corpses. It rang in his ears, filling his head as the charnel reek filled his
nostrils, and he felt his legs weaken beneath him.

           
“The talisman!” Wynett said, her
voice thick as she gagged on the stink. “Trust in the talisman and the Lady!”