Darkness Weaves (3 page)

Arbas's voice was edged. "Following us! Now, Imel, that makes me look sort of gullible." He dug the dagger point deeper. Imel's breath came in ragged gasps as he attempted to contract his throat from the stinging blade.

"This is a Mycean blade," the assassin explained in Imel's ear. "Those mountain clansmen spend weeks forging their steel, shaping it just so. They say the steel will grow weak and brittle like a lowland blade--unless it takes a long drink of an enemy's warm blood every ten days or so." "From here I'd say the workmanship was Pellinite," Kane observed.

"That's because it was a Pellinite craftsman who fitted the haft for me," rejoined Arbas in an offended manner. "Anyway, the nobleman who owned the knife before I killed him had always sworn it was a Mycean blade. The steel is unmistakable--watch how it glides through Imel's throat."

Kane shook his head and stood up. "Later, perhaps. Let him breathe now, though. As it happened, there was only one man who followed you, and I was waiting for him. I think Imel will talk freely now." His eyes held Imel in their deadly stare, now burning bright with anger. Imel knew he was very close to death. "Who was he? Why was he following you?" Kane did not waste adding a warning not to lie, and Imel probably couldn't have anyway--held in the cold grip of those eyes.

"An officer who accompanied me from Thovnos. He was my bodyguard. I've been through the slums of Nostoblet trying to find you, and I felt it necessary to have him accompany me at a discreet distance. Tonight I ordered him to follow me when I went with Arbas."

Kane considered him at length. "Yes; because you didn't trust him--and with good reason. Once he got you alone, Arbas would have killed you without compunction for whatever valuables you carried--had I not told him to bring you here. Curiosity on my part. All friend Bindoff could tell me was that you were a younger offshoot of somewhat impoverished Thovnosian gentry, a man of dubious integrity but reputedly adroit--and that you came to him with rather curious credentials and asked where to find me.

"So you are justified, but not pardoned. With every good soul in all South Lartroxia thirsting for my blood, I can take no chances. Your coming here was a risk; your coming with an escort was a worse risk. Maybe luck favors me this night, for I could discover no evidence that your friend was followed. At any rate, I was forced to wait in the rain even longer after I'd dealt with One-Ear, to be certain he wasn't followed. You see, I didn't trust you either, Imel. So I was waiting out there in the rocks beside the path. Watched you and Arbas go by, and then met your friend. I think I may have given him a bad fright. He did have an interesting ring, though."

With deceptive carelessness he tossed the ring onto the pile of odds and ends pilfered from the tombs. He signed the disappointed assassin to release the Thovnosian, then demanded, "Once again, What's your business?"

Imel slowly let out his breath as the dagger point withdrew. Trickles of sweat stung as they slid aver the scarlet line across his throat. His neck felt dry where the assassin's hot breath had hit. Gathering his shaken wits for an effort on which he knew his life hung, Imel began, "I was sent here by one who desires your services--and who is willing to pay for them royally."

"Really? That's a bit vague, but it has a nice ring. Be more precise, though. In what form?"

"Wealth, power, position--a kingdom, perhaps."

"Now you begin to interest me. Let's hear details. Particularly with regard to my 'services,' as you put it."

"Certainly. But first, what do you know of the affairs of the Thovnosian Empire?"

"Of its current affairs very little. It has been some years since I visited the islands." "In that event, you will pardon me if I embark upon a somewhat lengthy tale to explain my mission."

"If I find it interesting," Kane murmured--then exclaimed softly, "Damn! Look here!" An evil-hued tomb beetle clattered to the table and lumbered determinedly toward the flickering lamp. Kane caught the large scarab up and fascinatedly watched it crawl from hand to hand. "Messenger from the dead. They love to burrow inside a rotting skull." He glanced up at Imel's strained face.

"Go ahead. I'm listening."

Netisten Maril today rules as Monarch of Thovnos, from which throne he is also Emperor of the Thovnosian Empire--an island federation south and east of the Lartroxian coast, beyond the Middle Sea that separates the continents of Lartroxia and the Southern Lands. As you may be aware, the Empire was formed two centuries ago from this broken subcontinent of eight major islands, some 2000 to 3000 square miles each--along with a dozen or so smaller islands and countless bits of land too small for mention. As the largest and most powerful island, Thovnos has been the seat of empire for most of the Empire's history, and Netisten Maril is a true descendant of a line that has long bred strong, capable rulers.

When his father, Netisten Sirrome, died, there was but one other claimant to the throne--Netisten Maril's older half-brother, Leyan, who was the bastard son of Netisten Sirrome and a seductive noblewoman from Tresli. Because he was illegitimate, Leyan did not bear the dynastic name and had no chance of succession--unless Maril should die without male heir. Thus he was dismayed when at an early age his younger brother married a distant cousin from Quarnora and soon had her with child.

His young wife bore him a daughter, M'Cori by name, and soon after became pregnant again. But as her time again drew near, she sickened and died without giving birth. Gossip suggests that Leyan had her poisoned to prevent a new heir, but she was always known to be a frail child, and perhaps the strain of bearing two children in quick succession proved more than she could endure.

Maril was unapproachable for months thereafter, his spirit tormented by several strong passions. First was a terrible fit of frustrated rage--for he himself had laid her womb open and wrenched out the son who lacked only a few weeks of natural birth. But he had loved her deeply, and as his rage subsided to despair, he was, tortured with guilt--blaming himself for forcing his young wife too hard to bring him a son. Time slowly healed the passions that tore at him, but he was left a hard and loveless man--with a temper made worse that had never been mild. He seemed to push all thought of past or future marriage from his mind, and the child M'Cori suffered from neglect. It was Leyan who cared for her needs--not so much from pity, but because he himself had fathered two sturdy sons, Lages and Roget, and favored the idea of marrying a son to their cousin, M'Cori--thus securing the succession for his line if not for himself.

The passing years favored his enterprise, as Maril remained unwed, and M'Cori grew into girlhood--a child of startling beauty and a lack of guile that bordered on simple-mindedness. She felt a touching gratitude toward her uncle and a clinging devotion toward his sons. Lages and Roget grew into strong young men and were their father's pride--skilled in arms and leadership, well-favored in appearance, adept in the graces of nobility. Leyan saw them as true princes of the blood. He was stricken when Roget, the older and less rash of his sons, died a hero's death at twenty-two while leading his uncle's army against rebels on the island Fisitia. He was avenged by his brother, Lages, who made up with quick temper what he lacked of Roget's quick wit. M'Cori shared in the mourning for Roget, for the three had grown up together as brothers and sister. But when mourning was done, she and Lages had become lovers.

Then four years ago Leyan saw happen that which threatened all his carefully laid plans. Netisten Maril was in love again.

From the ill-starred northern island of Pellin came a woman of unearthly beauty. Efrel was her name. She was of the best blood; her family had given their name to the island kingdom where they had ruled for long centuries. When the Empire was formed, it was thought that the Pellin lords would be its rulers, as their blood was the oldest and most noble. But Pellin had fallen on dark days, and the aged kingdom was no match for the younger, stronger kingdoms to the south. Indeed, all threats to Thovnos's domination have come from its young neighbors and not from remote Pellin--although it is no secret that the lords of Pellin have always dreamed of someday holding the reins of empire.

But the island Pellin has had an evil reputation since the earliest days when man first crossed the Western Sea to settle in this region. Our history is old, and very much of the centuries preceding the Empire's foundation has become obscured by myth and legend. Nonetheless, the strange stone ruins that are to be found mouldering in certain shunned locations among the islands defy all understanding. Of the race that built these monolithic citadels we know nothing. Legend insists that these ruins were here before the coming of man to the islands. Certainly the crumbling stones are of marvelous antiquity, and no man can guess what ages have passed since these cyclopean fortresses were raised, nor at whose hand they were destroyed. There are curious myths that hint of frightful carvings depicting colossal scenes of combat among monstrous sea beasts from a mad god's nightmare. The first seafarers who settled the islands left unsavory rumors of things carvers upon certain of the eroded stones--hideous scenes they took pains to obliterate forever with frightened blows of hammer and chisel. No such carvings today remain to verify these myths. It is on the island of Pellin that these lichen-covered ruins are to be found in greatest concentration--nor are they in so advanced a state of decay as those on the southern islands.

Certainly it is not solely due to the immeasurably deep waters to the north of Pellin that no fisherman will cast nets there, that merchants sail many leagues off course to avoid the region. This area of the Western Sea is named the Sorn-Ellyn, which is said to mean "bottomless sea" in an archaic tongue. Its depths have never been plumbed. Legend says that the Earth has split asunder there, and that the waters of the Sorn-Ellyn flow down into the cosmic ocean upon which our world floats. A pretty concept, of course, and derived from folk myths of our universe's creation--though philosophers have since learned more bewildering theories to dispute.

Less easy to dismiss are the wild and unsettling stories told over the years by those few men who have ventured across the Sorn-Ellyn and returned--or so they claim. They spread fantastic tales of ghostly lights glimpsed at night from far down beneath the sea, of weird shapes only half seen that moved about on the black waves on nights of the full moon. Some claim they have heard an eerie whining sound that echoes from under the sea--a droning that makes men cry out in agony and drives ships' dogs insane with fear. Horrible sea monsters are said to haunt the Sorn-Ellyn as they lurk in the waters of no other sea--loathsome creatures that can drag beneath the waves an entire ship and her crew. The oldest legends speak of an elder race of demons who dwell in the black depths of the Sorn-Ellyn, eager to destroy all fools who dare trespass within their sunken realm.

And with these dark legends of the past there are mingled more recent tales that seamen speak of with fear yet in their eyes. Such reports are scoffed at by day, or told for a safe shudder over alecups--but not mentioned at night and at sea.

One such: A few years back a captain from Tresli was sailing home with a rich cargo of Lartroxian grain. Wishing to expose his cargo to the ocean damp no longer than necessary--and to make port ahead of his competitors--he chose to sail north across the Sorn-Ellyn, rather than take the circuitous route through the islands south of Pellin. His crew was uneasy, but the captain bribed them with extra pay--knowing the higher prices his grain could command if he returned before his rivals.

As they entered the Sorn-Ellyn, the lookout sighted wreckage. Sailing closer, they discovered a splintered section of hull from an Ammurian vessel, and tied to the half-submerged timbers was a lone survivor. The sailor had been adrift for days after his ship was lost, but it was not only exposure and lack of food and water that had reduced him to a screaming, mindless madman. He went berserk when they lifted him aboard. Throwing off those who tried to minister to tortured flesh, he shrieked insanely of slimy black tentacles and faceless demons from the sea. As they tied him to a bed, the crewmen were sickened by the horrible scars that pitted his shrunken body--as if the man had been wrapped with links of red-hot chain.

Little could be made of his pitiful raving, but enough came through so that the captain was forced to turn his ship and speed away to avoid certain mutiny. And strangest to tell, during the first night after his rescue the castaway suddenly awoke from nightmare-tortured sleep, threw off the bonds that restrained him, and with maniacal strength burst past those who tried to hold him. Laughing and gibbering, he threw himself into the sea. A seaman who watched him swim out of sight swore he saw a strange light glowing beneath the dark waters, and several others claimed to have faintly heard an eerie humming sound coming from far below.

There are many other strange stories--enough to indicate that there is something unwholesome about Pellin and the sea around it. And this same shadow of evil hovers over the royal family, for it is acknowledged that the Pellin lords have long delved into mysteries best left unsounded. It is commonly known that Efrel's great-grandfather murdered his youngest granddaughter and bathed in her blood to restore his youth. Of his success we shall never know, as his angry son eviscerated him shortly thereafter.

Deep beneath the cellars and dungeons of Dan-Legeh, black citadel of the Pellin lords, there is said to lie a great subterranean chamber. Within this vast cavern the Pellin lords have for centuries tortured their enemies and pursued their infamous study of sorcerous lore. The few outsiders to enter this chamber and emerge again with whole mind have told of a great pool in the floor of the cavern--whose waters rise and ebb with the tides. Into this pool's black depths have disappeared many of those secrets Pellin has not deigned to share.

But to bring my tale back to matters of the present day, and to Efrel: