The Barrow (4 page)

“What the fuck is it?” she finally asked. It was the first time she'd spoken in hours, and she forgot to pitch her voice low as she usually did. She glanced around quickly, mentally kicking herself, but she saw that the others were so busy that they must not have noticed. Harvald and Stjepan were already hauling themselves up the side of the great bronze idol, and about half of Guilford's crew were excitedly but quickly overturning urns and pots scattered along the walls and corners of the chamber, emptying the temple offerings into their bags and satchels, while the other half stood guard at dark entryways.

But Guilford heard her and responded, though if he noticed that she sounded more like a woman than usual he gave no sign. “One of the
Rahabi
, the evil spirits of the Underworld,” he said as he walked over to watch Harvald and Stjepan's progress up the idol. He'd moved quick and one of his satchels was already heavy with coin and metal, poured out of one of the offering urns. “Might be a
Bharab Dzerek
, if I'm not mistaken. Spirits of iron and fire, amongst the guardians of the Six Hells, and often they are patrons to those in the Nameless Cults who worship Nymarga, the Mask of the Devil. For we are indeed in one of their temples.” He made a sign to ward off Evil, and she followed suit.

Harvald paused midway up the statue, using one of its spiked nipples as a foothold, and turned back toward them. “I've read about how they use an idol like this,” he said casually. “Some of their victims are slaughtered on the altar there. But for their special rituals, they impale their victims alive on this giant spear of a cock right here, and light the brazier up all nice and hot, and roast them over the fire.” He grinned, waving up at a set of chains and ropes and pulleys that hung in the dark up by the ceiling. “Barbaric, don't you agree?” Something in his voice made her think that he didn't really find it all that barbaric.

It was not hard to remember what she'd heard as a little girl about the Six Hells, back when she listened to the old wise women whispering in the herb gardens, back when she still went to the Divine King's temples. The Old Religion of Yhera, the Queen of Heaven, did not agree on much with the younger cult of the Divine King, but they both agreed that there were Six Hells in the Underworld. They both agreed that Hathhalla, the lion-headed goddess of vengeance, had created and ruled the Six Hells, and that she had appointed Servant-Rulers for each of the Six Hells to act on her behalf.

On the first Five Hells there was common agreement about who ruled them and whom they were for. The Servant-Ruler of the First Hell was Amaymon, the Whisperer, the Prince of Intrigue and Secret Power. He was served in turn by the
Baalhazor
, great barbed and horned demons, and he ruled over a Hell reserved for the greedy and corrupted, such as thieves and grave robbers. The Servant-Ruler of the Second Hell was Geteema, who was once the beloved sister of Geniché, the Queen of the Earth and the Dead, before Geteema turned on the Queen of Heaven and waged war against the ancient people of Düréa. She was served by the
Golodriel
, winged demons with vulture heads, and ruled over a Hell reserved for the jealous, the covetous, and the ambitious. The Servant-Ruler of the Third Hell was Ishraha, the Rebel Angel, who had rebelled against the Divine King and been thrown down for his impudence. He was served by the
Nephilim
, great giants and hell-goblins, and ruled over a Hell reserved for betrayers, oath-breakers, and usurpers. The Servant-Ruler of the Fifth Hell was Irré, the Black Goat of the Wilderness, the Black Sun, the bow-bearer of plague and fire. He was served by the
Bharab Dzerek
, great demons of fire and iron (a statue of one of which she was apparently standing before), and ruled over a Hell reserved for the merciless, callous, and savage, such as murderers, pillagers, warmongers, and destroyers.

Most of the men she was with were destined for either the First or Fifth Hells, she would guess.

Both the Old Religion and the cult of the Divine King agreed that the Sixth Hell had no ruler, just an empty throne reserved for Nymarga the Devil for when his spirit finally passed into the Underworld. But after that they parted company a bit. In the folk lore of the Old Religion, Hathhalla had set a pack of the
Tiranhim
and
Iyyim
, wolf and jackal demons, to rule a Hell reserved for the eaters of unsanctified meat until Nymarga arrived to take his rightful place. But the temple priests of the Divine King rejected that interpretation of the Sixth Hell, as they rejected sacrificing meat to the old gods, and so they said instead that the Sixth Hell was for apostates, idolaters, and heretics who rejected the divinity of the King of Heaven and made sacrifices in the old way.

She'd eaten unsanctified meat in her time, so she sort of hoped the Divine King's priests were right, but in Erim's mind this argument was strictly for the temple priests and hidden priestesses; none of those Hells really mattered to her. The only Hell she cared about was the Fourth Hell, ruled by Ligrid, the Queen of Perversion. Ligrid was served by the
Gamezhiel
, demons of lust and sex that could seduce or rape the unwitting and unwilling, and Ligrid ruled over a Hell reserved for the depraved and lecherous, such as rapists and molesters. For the perverted, the licentious, and the wicked.

For people like her.

She stared at the phallic spear. She couldn't help but wonder what it would feel like to be suspended spread-eagled in the air and lowered onto that evil-looking tip. Which hole would they use as their entry point? Would it feel good at first, then turn to pain? And then the fire would come . . .
if only they didn't roast you in the fire
. . .

Erim shuddered, and almost sobbed, and she shook herself out of her fear and wonderment.
Do something
, she thought.
Set yourself a task
. She was about to go collect some loot—it was why she was there, after all—but then a glint of light off the altar top caught her eye. She stepped forward and inspected the altar before the huge idol; the surface of the altar was smeared and splattered with black ichors and dark dried liquid, but some of it looked fresh. She reached out with a finger to test some smears of liquid on the stone surface, and she experimentally tasted a drop off her finger. She spat to the side.

“Black-Heart. This altar's been used recently. Blood. Probably human. This temple's still active,” she called out huskily. Old Jon and Smitt perked up their ears at that and walked over, nervously standing beside their captain as they looked over the altar.

“I thought you said this temple was desanctified and purified by the priests during their raid,” said old Jon. “And that they'd left all the temple offerings behind, refusing to take the blood money.”

Stjepan had managed to work himself up on top of the idol's head, and he was leaning over its brow, trying to get the gemstone out of its right eye with a small curved metal pry bar. He didn't look away from his work as he responded. “Aye, so it said in the archives. But that was two hundred years ago. Plenty of time for the Nameless Cults to rededicate it. And to add to the offerings in the meantime.”

“Fuck me,” said Smitt angrily. “Boys, hurry it up!” he called out, and the men ransacking the temple offerings started to move faster.

“Shit, Harvald,” said Guilford. “I told you someone was watching us come in here.” He looked around in disdain. “Fucking hill people. All sorts of forbidden shit hidden up here in their caves and chasms, where the sunlight of our Divine King does not shine so brightly. An active temple? Getting in here was too easy. Where are the fucking guards? Where are the priests? Why no new guardian spirits?”

Harvald grinned casually down at them, perched on the shoulder of the great idol. “Come now, Guilford,” he called down. “The Nameless Cults might be forbidden but they can be found anywhere, even in the bright, prettily decayed streets of our beloved capital.”

“Aye,” agreed Stjepan, though he didn't bother looking up from his work. “Even amongst the priests of the Sun Court of your Divine King.”

“You're a heathen fucking Athairi bastard, Black-Heart,” Guilford replied, though there was no heat in his words and he grinned amiably. “You keep your Old Religion shit to yourself.”

“Stjepan may be Athairi and a heathen, but he's our heathen,” said Harvald. He was the only one amongst them to always call Stjepan by his real name, Erim had noted.

Guilford gave a short bow. “Aye, one of the High King's own fucking cartographers, at our service.”

“Aye, as long as all this remains our little secret,” Stjepan said. And with another grunt he succeeded in prying out the gemstone eye with a loud
pop
.

They moved in the dark with her now, her Nameless. Sharpened bone spears dipped in shit and poison, curved swords and wicked implements of pain and war, fierce masks of horn and brass, short horn bows pulled with fire-sharpened arrows; pride and despair filled her again. The roll of the bones had been bad, very bad, and so she whispered still, promising fresh blood and meat and spirits bound in chains, promising herself to her Liege for Him to do with as He pleased. She hoped that He heard her, hoped so very much that He did.

Harvald hefted the gem in his hand while Stjepan stuck his hand into the empty eye socket of the idol, searching.

“Look at the size of that gem,” Guilford said quietly.

Harvald smiled down at him. “Here, catch,” he said. He tossed the gemstone down to Guilford, and Erim's eyes went wide and her heart leapt into her throat as it caught the torchlight in its blood-red facets tumbling through the air. In a flash she pictured it shattering against the stone floor, but it landed smoothly (albeit heavily) in Guilford's hands. He grunted in surprise but didn't drop it. Guilford weighed it for a second with a grin, then wrapped it in a soft cloth and slipped it into his shoulder bag, already crammed with cooper, silver, and gold coins. “As per our agreement,” Harvald called down.

“What, you're just giving it to him?” Erim said, her mind boggled.

Harvald laughed. “Ah, young impressionable Erim. Things are never what they seem. Never get distracted by the obvious bright bauble.” Stjepan, having not found anything in the hollow space behind the right eye gem, scrambled across the top of the idol's head to its left gemstone eye and he began working to pry it out; Harvald followed across the idol's face as he spoke, using its nose and teeth and brow as hand and foot holds. “There's treasure, and then there's treasure. The real treasure here isn't these gems, but what we hope to find behind them.”

Guilford leaned closer to Erim. “Don't listen to the University boys, kid,” he said conspiratorially. “They'll just get you deep in the shit. Better to stick to the simple things in life. Gold, wine, women . . . and gems the size of your fucking head.” He winked at her and she felt a little warm inside.

“Maybe the gems are fake?” she asked him. “You know, made of paste or something?” She'd heard of clever men who could do that back in Therapoli.

“No, I'm pretty sure they're real,” Guilford said. “Red
topakh
crystals out of the mountains on the other side of the Red Wastes. They're not as valuable as you might think, but these two specimens will fetch a high enough price for me to be able to buy myself a house back in Vesslos' Free Quarter.”

Stjepan pried out the second gemstone with another loud
pop
.