THE THIEF OF KALIMAR (Graham Diamond's Arabian Nights Adventures) (47 page)

Rain was still falling and a storm growled and cackled above the dark mountains when they came upon the marking. It was Oro who had seen it first; quite by accident, the hunchback had noticed a peculiar formation of rocks set beside a dark patch at the end of a field. Hurrying to examine it, the Prince stared in wonder. At his feet, partially buried by an accumulation of weed and gravel, was a stone slab. Bending to his knees, he cleared away as much of the debris as possible and stared at the runes embedded into the stone.

Mariana stood at his side while the Prince translated aloud:
“Let no man cross this gate unwarned. Within these bowels the ravishes of hell shall be found.”

Mariana kneeled and ran her fingers lightly across the ancient letters. “Who might have written then?” she asked.

The Prince shook his head gloomily. “Perhaps some runaway slave, or maybe a lost soul who never—”

Mariana’s hand on the Prince’s shoulder stopped him mid-sentence. Scattered amid the nearby weeds and moss lay an assortment of bones, human bones, devoid of marrow and brittle to the touch. The Prince leaned over and picked one up in his hand; the bone crumbled.

“Poor, poor fellow,” mumbled the Prince sadly. “The carrion must have found him and done this …”

Pushing down her sickness, Mariana returned her attention to the message. “What does it mean, ‘let no man cross this gate’?” she said.

“This must be an entrance,” replied the Prince. He looked about uneasily. “But where it leads, I don’t know.”

“Seems more like a grave,” grunted Oro with a shiver. And a grim smile crossed the Prince’s face.

“For once, you’re probably right. Mariana, lend a hand.” And he dug his own hands under the stone, straining to move it.

With the dancing girl adding her own weight, and even Oro helping to push, the slab of dark rock began to slide to the side, exposing a narrow set of crumbling steps leading down into a black abyss. A putrid smell of death filled their nostrils as fresh air entered the hidden cavern for the first time in centuries. Mariana put her hand to cover her mouth and nose and peered inside.

Can you see anything?” asked the Prince.

She shook her head. Then, without waiting, she swung her lithe body over the side and gingerly stepped onto the first landing of steps. Then the second, then the third.

“Be careful, Mariana!” cried the Prince.

Nodding, she descended farther until she was almost gone from their sight. Soon she stopped, and her voice echoed off the walls as she called for the others to follow.

When the Prince reached her he stared in shock. “A graveyard, indeed,” he whispered to the stunned Oro. Both men gasped at the gaping cavern before them. As wide as a river, the soft dirt floor was littered with skeletons, thousands of them, scattered from wall to wall and piled high atop one another. Skulls peered up at the strangers from their resting places, and greeted the intruders with sardonic smiles.

Mariana swallowed hard and shut her eyes. “It’s gruesome,” she panted.

The Prince stepped down from the last of the steps, his feet crunching over bone as he sat himself firmly on the soft dirt. Spiders drew back from overhanging webs, and a small rodent dashed for safety under another pile of rotting bone.

“Are … are these Druid remains?” said Oro, his eyes fixed on the watching spiders.

“Slaves, no doubt,” replied the Prince with a shake of his head. “Their Druid masters must have a hundred graveyards like this.”

“Let’s get away from here,” said Oro, ill at the stench rushing up his nostrils.

The Prince was about to concur when Mariana hushed them both. They stood immobile, listening to the dim sound which came to their ears. All three exchanged puzzled glances.

“It sounds like… like chanting,” said the girl, perplexed.

The voices were distant and low, but a song it surely was. A choir of deep voices, chanting verse in an unknown tongue.

The Prince worked his way between mounds of rubble and crossed the cavern slowly, coming to a small arch set deep in the shadows. He beckoned to Mariana, and both she and the hunchback hastily made their way to his side.

“This doorway must lead to the tunnels!” gasped the Prince in sudden realization of their discovery. Then he stepped just over the threshold, letting his hand slip to his dagger, and carefully scrutinized the ill-lighted passage. It was very dim, but the walls of rock themselves eminated a dull glow, which would provide enough light for them to pass. He could also hear the chanting, louder than before, coming from some far off point. The very sound of it sent chills racing down his spine.

“This passage looks like it goes on forever,” said Mariana, inching her way beside him.

“And we’ll have to follow it until we’re sure where it leads,” added the Prince. The name of the Devil’s Tower remained unspoken, but was fully understood.

Stumbling, they moved on, away from the graveyard. It seemed as if they had been pressing onward for hours by the time they reached the first downward turn. Clinging to each other, unsure of their footing, they followed the sounds of the chant, growing ever closer and louder.

Unaccountably, the passageway grew lighter. The narrow tunnel widened, its ceiling rose. A grim reddish pall reflected off the walls; here and there runes had been etched into stone, Druid markings, a language far removed from those of the North or any the Prince was familiar with.

As they came to a wide opening, they realized that the tunnel turned off, and they were now at a crossroads, confronted by three new passages, each dark and long, each leading down far below the earth.

The grim song of the chanters suddenly diminished in tempo, if not in fervor. Holding breath, the travelers stopped in their tracks and listened while a solo voice rose above the others, a falsetto ringing in their ears an unholy wail.

Mariana shuddered, finding a mocking similarity to the calls to prayer chanted from minarets by the holy men of Kalimar. But these dark calls were not prayers to heaven. They could only be a plea to the powers of Evil, wizard priests conjuring some grim sorcery, asking for godless blessing in their profane rites.

“I’ll examine the tunnel on the right, you take the left,” said the Prince. “Meet me back here in five minutes to report what you see.”

Mariana nodded.

“What am I supposed to do?” cried Oro, shaken at the thought of being left by himself under such dire circumstances.

“You wait here.” The Prince smiled at the dancing girl. “Ready?”

“Ready.” And she moved on alone, cautiously slinking along the downward spiral into the darkness. After long minutes she became aware of the passage’s end. And there they were, perhaps a hundred of them, dark-robed and hooded men, all gathered in a great torchlit cavern beyond the edge of the tunnel.

She moved very slowly now, keeping her back as close to the wall as possible, strangely attracted by the subdued colors glowing from the chamber. And it was cold, curiously cold. Clenching her chattering teeth, she boldly moved from her place to a slight recess in the wall at the very edge of the pas sage. There, she knelt and stared out into the unusual proceedings, her eyes wide in disbelief.

The ornate cavern was humming with the low song of the wizards. Holding their arms high into the air, rustling the fabric of their richly embroidered robes, they sang in unison while another priest stood at an altar and lifted a small basket above his head.

The simply woven basket was filled with what Mariana took at first to be eggs; quickly she realized that they were stones, multicolored rocks that cast an eerie glow of dark, oppressing color across the walls and ceiling. And the wild thumping of her heart assured her that these Stones were samples of the Seeds. Seeds of Destruction were here being prepared for scattering into Speca’s black skies.

A sudden gong sent thrumming waves through the incense-laden air. The chant ceased, and the hundred worshipers fell to their knees as another wizard entered majestically from the secret door behind the altar. This man stood taller than the others, his air one of arrogance and authority.

“Hail the Vizier!” cried the priest with the basket, lowering his gaze in the man’s presence. “Hail the Grand Vizier!”

And the cry was picked up by every other robed man in the chamber.

The Grand Vizier swept his glance across the hall. He mumbled an incantation that left Mariana trembling, then took hold of an ornamental incense brazier and placed it gently inside the basket of Seeds. Immediately the glow of the Stones increased, and a wine-tinted hue was cast over the cavern, changing slowly into a fiery red.

Mariana held her breath; the scene was frighteningly familiar. She recalled the glow of Blue Fire and the way it also had shrouded the world around it in color. Only the dagger had given her a sense of tranquillity and peace; these Stones made her cringe with fear. And then she understood. The dagger had brought forth the forces of Good; the red glow of the Seeds was Evil.

A slight, wicked smile cracked the Vizier’s thin lips; he stepped to one side and bowed his head. The incense-filled chamber was becoming foggy; Mariana had to strain her eyes to see what was happening. She heard great creaks and moans, and looked on in wonder while the far wall slowly slid open and a procession of instrument-carrying priests marched somberly into the chamber. Grim pipes played an unhappy tune, followed by the shrill cry of ebony trumpets heralding the arrival of someone of importance. But who?

The girl gasped; she put a hand to her mouth and tried to control her shaking.

It was a little man who entered, slightly deformed, rotund, with round squat features; he reminded her of Oro. But this man walked with haughty airs of self-importance, and his jeweled silk garments attested to the incredible wealth with which he adorned his person. Behind him, carrying a golden pillow, came a servant; and upon the pillow sat a crown, a jewel-studded crown so magnificent that the blaze of the precious stones almost hurt her eyes.

Mariana felt a wave of apprehension overtake her; she leaned back into the shadows, ready to run as fast as she could. But the sight of the little man left her intrigued, and it was not long until she realized that she looked upon the Dwarfking himself, the Druid man/god whose satanic power was rivaled only by that of the Grand Vizier himself. He was the scion of a line of dwarfs whose ancestral vendettas, assassinations, and regicides had assured their line its power to rule forever.

The Dwarfking stood in silence while the Vizier placed the crown upon his liege’s head. There was fire in the king’s crimson eyes. As one demented he peered from priest to priest, smilingly witlessly and glowing with satisfaction. Then he clapped his hands—once.

To Mariana’s horror, a young girl was brought forth, Specian, if her blond hair and blue eyes were any indication. Clad only in a simple, loose tunic, she stood as though transfixed before the Vizier, her eyes drugged and glassy.

The Dwarfking grinned maniacally; fondling her, he slipped the dress from her shapely form, and taking her by the hand led her to lie upon the altar. The girl complied without a murmur.

The chamber returned to silence. The Vizier stretched out his hand and sprinkled her naked body with a blue powder. The drugged girl began to writhe and shiver, as if the powder were as cold as ice.

Then the Vizier handed the king a dagger, a black dagger encrusted with rubies at the hilt. The Dwarfking smiled; he played with the blade for a moment as though it were a special toy. Then he lifted it high and brought it down with a furious thrust, tearing it through the girl’s flesh. Blood splattered across the grinning liege’s finery and crazed face. She moaned, arms clutching into the air, and fell back dead. Thin lines of blood trickled down her arms and onto the floor.

The Dwarfking was shaking; he bent over the corpse and kissed the dead girl’s lips. At this the host of priests began to cheer, boldly shouting of their liege’s skill and prowess.

Mariana looked away in terrified awe. Her heart was broken for the poor victim of this horrible murder. How many times had this terrible ritual taken place in the past? How many other victims had fallen prey to the abhorrent rites of the evil Druids? Mariana clutched her arms around herself to stop her trembling.

The wizards began their chant again; the Dwarfking waited while his crown was removed, and then he strode from the chamber in the same fashion in which he had come. Mariana watched in revulsion while the dead girl was lifted and carried behind him, followed first by the Grand Vizier, and then by the priest with the basket of Seeds. Soon all the others began to leave, filing out in grim procession while the soft unholy music of the pipes continued to play.

Mariana turned to run back. She had stayed far too long, and the Prince would be worried. She must get back as quickly as possible and tell him what she had witnessed. But would he believe her? Although she had seen it herself, she still wasn’t sure it had all really happened. The haze, the incense, the Seeds, had they all somehow combined to warp her mind? Could this have been nothing more than a nightmarish hallucination?

Running as fast as she could, stumbling up the tunnel passage, she knew all too well that it was real. And she prayed that somehow she could make certain it never happened again.

25

Ramagar lay sprawled on the foul straw mat and allowed his half-opened eyes to close again. They stung with the residue of sulphur, burned and teared every bit as much as they had in the mine. To save his sight he had found a rag and carefully wrapped it around his head, making sure his eyes were well covered. In the depths of the shaft there was little need to see; one needed only his pick or shovel and a strong back to carry the fruits of the day’s labor up to the top in heavy sacks.

The sadistic taskmaster had laughed as the new arrivals were shunted below for their first shift; he had held his fat belly with both hands and chortled while young Homer falling from the weight of his tools, was flogged nearly unconscious by a dim-witted overseer intent on punishing the lad for his inability. And then down they were brought, forced to march a thousand meters beneath the earth where a breath of fresh air was considered a luxury and a swallow of water a prize over which a man might kill another.