THE THIEF OF KALIMAR (Graham Diamond's Arabian Nights Adventures) (48 page)

It was here that they toiled, side by side with the dozens of silent, drugged Specian slaves, while other overseers watched from their posts, eager to whip or beat any laborer who so much as turned his head.

It was grueling work they faced; Ramagar wondered how the slaves managed to last through even a week of such hardship. Sixteen hours with only the briefest period of rest allowed, during which time a group of kitchen slaves brought down a bucket of slimy water and doled out a tiny allotment to each of the workers. The haj had tasted his swill and spit it out, so offending the guards that ten lashes of the bullwhip assured he would never show such impertinence again.

As for Argyle and Thorhall, they had subdued their defiance, completing their tasks without question and biding their time while Thorhall plotted escape. It was a most unlikely possibility, Ramagar knew, but still a chance to cling to. Without it, despair would be total.

At long last the shift was done. Cloth sacks loaded, they carried them over their backs step by painful step until the overseer put the burdens on the scales to see if each man had done his apportioned day’s work. Everyone had, or so it seemed, for the new arrivals were at last allowed to come back out into the light and enjoy the single meal.

Unshackled for the night, each was handed a metal bowl of cold mealie stew and a single slice of hard bread. The haj had taken his fare thankfully and put the crust to his mouth, but when he saw the host of maggots working their way from the center he put the bread down in revulsion. As for the mealie, it was hardly any better. The foul lumps that passed for meat had turned green with mold; the thin soup in which they sat crawled with insects both large and small. Meanwhile, as the slaves were forced to exist on this sustenance, the Druid guards taunted them with slabs of fresh beef and hot mutton cooked especially for the camp’s warders.

Disgusted, Ramagar had given his own supper to another, an unspeaking Specian whose months of malnutrition had withered his body until his frame looked as though it would snap like a twig.

While the hideous vats boiled outside and permeated the air with a terrible heat, the prisoners were at last allowed to go to their hovels for sleep. A loud whistle signaled the time for all talk to cease, although in truth there was hardly a word passed between any of the camp’s prisoners.

And so in the dank darkness Ramagar lay alone with these thoughts, his heart filled with worry and sorrow for his lost Mariana. He rued the bleak day they had all landed upon these sorry shores, and now could think of only one thing—somehow finding a way to break loose and find the dancing girl.

“Are you asleep, Ramagar?”

The whispered voice was raspy and tense; Ramagar twisted his frame slowly around, careful not to arouse the curiosity of the watching sentries. The thief opened his eyes and looked into Thorhall’s agitated visage.

“I’m awake,” he whispered back. “What is it? What’s the matter?”

“Do you know what the morrow is?” said the Aranian.

Ramagar nodded slowly. “The first day of Moon Time …”

Thorhall sighed, bobbing his head sourly. Like the rest of the band, he had remained acutely aware of the hours left until the Druid Dark Rites were to be held. Shifting closer to Ramagar, he said, “The day of commemoration will be celebrated in full—even here in the camp.”

“So?”

“So, this time is revered by them as no other. I can recall the occasions well, during my former imprisonment…”

Ramagar looked at him impatiently. “What are you getting at?”

A dark frown crossed Thorhall’s thin mouth. “There will be a celebration once the sky has been seeded. All labors shall cease, a priest will likely come from the citadel, and our masters shall revere him while the period of Ritual is sung throughout the land.”

“I still don’t know why you’re telling me all this,” said the thief. “What has any of this to do with us?”

Here Thorhall smiled; he sucked in a deep breath and peered at his companion with twinkling eyes. “Escape, Ramagar! That’s what I’m talking about! Tomorrow will provide us with an opportunity that may never come again.”

“But won’t we still be shackled and sent down into the mine?”

“Shackled, yes, but not to toil below. All prisoners will be drugged during Holy Time, chained to our places while the Rites are celebrated. Often I have seen priestesses—whores—brought from the temples to offer their pleasures to the taskmasters. And the Druids will partake of every known sin that—”

The harsh patter of boots on the hard floor broke off the conversation. Ramagar quickly turned back to his sleeping position and feigned deep slumber while a lone guard passed among the rows of prisoners. The guard lingered a moment beside the thief and peered down with intent, watchful eyes. Then, convinced that the thief was actually asleep, he glanced at Thorhall and moved on.

It was some time until the sentry was out of sight, and when they were certain he was out of earshot, Thorhall pushed at Ramagar’s shoulder, saying, “What do you say? Are you with me? The religious rituals will take hours, and the overseers will be too involved to miss a handful of laborers until the count is taken before mealtime.”

Ramagar grunted warily. “And what about these shackles they put on us? How far do you think we can run with chains around our legs?”

The wily Thorhall grinned; reaching inside his dirty shirt, he pulled out a long jagged rock—a rock whose edges had been honed into razorsharp fineness.

“How did you get that?” marveled the thief.

“I found it yesterday while we were below. I worked it for hours, testing its edge, even trying to loosen the links of my chains. Then just before they brought us up for weighing the sulphur I tried it out. It cuts, Ramagar! Not as well as a hacksaw, perhaps, but well enough! I’m positive that once the festivities begin I can free us both.”

“What about the others?”

“Don’t worry. Once you and I are unchained we can steal better tools from our praying masters. Weapons as well. I’ve been keeping my eyes open, Ramagar; I know exactly where the overseers store their blades …”

The thief of Kalimar laughed soundlessly; he also had made careful note of such matters. All they would need were a few simple tools: a pick, a chisel, and a few good steel swords. With such as these in his hands a whole cohort of Druid soldiers couldn’t keep him pinned down in this godless place.

Thorhall’s cold eyes glinted in the dark. “What do you say, then? Are you with me?”

The cunning smile etched into Ramagar’s rugged features left no need for words. Come tomorrow, one way or another, he would pay a few debts that could no longer wait.

26

The Prince stood silently at the edge of the shadows, looking about him in the dark, cavernous hall that Mariana had found. It was as grim and barbaric a temple of human sacrifice as he had even imagined—a painful reminder of the bitter tyranny which his land was forced to endure.

Because of the dim light he had to strain his eyes as he peered from icon to icon, noting the devilish statues and artifacts, then letting his glance wander back toward the altar itself, where tiny pools of unwashed blood still lay upon the floor.

Torches had been fixed in metal brackets, and several were aflame, streaking shadows across the high ceiling. In the poisonous air the yellow flames lolled this way and that, with a spurt of resin now and then flaring off or a knot in a torch’s wood exploding with a crack.

The ruby eyes of the icons stared at the visitors, their carved, twisted mouths mocking and scornful. On the wall behind the altar hung a serpent’s head, and at its side images of great carrion, Death-Stalkers, with wings fully spread and talons projected. This room was the Druid world in miniature: evil surrounded by evil.

“Do you believe me now?” said Mariana, shivering as the memory of the death rite she had witnessed came flooding back at her.

The Prince nodded; he took her hand and squeezed it firmly. “I never doubted you,” he replied. Then he crossed behind the altar and examined the slab wall for the hidden passage from which the Dwarfking had made his splendorous entrance.

Oro meekly came beside the girl, his teeth clattering loudly. “What … what do you suppose we’ll find on the other side?” he said, imagining a host of devils ready to fly at them the moment the door was opened.

“I expect we’ll find the passage to the tower,” replied Mariana.

The hunchback shuddered. “Maybe we should go back and look for another tunnel—”

Something gave way at the touch of the Prince’s fingertips. The wall began to creak and groan, and as the Prince stood back in awe, the thick slab of rock began to slide off to the side, exposing a winding corridor filled with glowing red light and leading off into a rabbit warren of passages.

Mariana gulped. A strong residue of incense came rushing at her and she felt sickened again.

“Come on,” said the Prince, yanking her by the arm and pulling her across the threshold. “We don’t know how long the door will remain open.”

Mariana turned back toward Oro, whose knees were quivering so badly that he couldn’t walk. “Are you coming?” she said sharply. “Or do you want to stay behind?”

The hunchback wiped his sweaty brow and took a single step forward. Then reluctantly he halted, hesitating over whether to venture forth and face this new hell, or remain behind in the hell he already knew. The rumble of the wall beginning to slide back into place made up his mind for him. He took a single leap and passed into the corridor, just as the slab door was about to slam shut. A hollow clang echoed down the passage and the three intruders stood glued to their tracks, holding breath, listening and watching for the presence of priests or Druid sentries patrolling the labyrinth.

The passage remained empty and silent. The Prince drew his magic scimitar, the blade slipping from its scabbard and glimmering in the red light. Without a word he moved forward and signaled the others to follow.

It was a smooth marble floor they raced across, with walls so fine and polished that they almost reflected the images of the three strangers.

“Which way now?” asked Mariana as they came to a series of smaller passages.

The Prince chose the one whose incline became steadily sharper as it worked its way to ground level. There was a bright glowing light at the end, and the low chanting of priests.

“We must be near the Holy Temple,” said the Prince, pointing to where the tunnel ended and opened into a vestibule. As the song of the wizards grew louder, the Prince inched his way to the entrance, looking on while three hooded priests kneeled with clasped hands in prayer as they mumbled their incantations. A smoking brazier sent thin clouds of incense streaming toward the low ceiling. Behind a small altar stood a huge arched doorway with a wide row of stone steps leading on an upward spiral. And from far away they could all hear more chanting, a chorus of voices in unison.

“It’s begun,” mumbled the Prince. “The hour is at hand. The priests must be carrying the Seeds up to the tower.”

Mariana swallowed and nodded; she wiped perspiring hands onto the folds of her tunic and narrowed her eyes at the three priests blocking the way to the arched door. Within the folds of their dark robes she could see the outlines of swords.

“They’re armed!” she gasped.

The Prince gloomily fondled Blue Fire. “As I suspected. They must be guarding the vestibule …”

“We’ll never get past them,” ruminated Oro.

Passing the dagger from hand to hand, the Prince smiled coldly. “Get down, both of you. Stay put until I signal.” Then he fell to his knees and crawled from the tunnel into the chamber.

The wizards were lost in their song; the first hardly groaned as the Prince silently sneaked behind him, swept up his head, and slit his throat.

Like cats his two companions were up, faces ashen, crimson eyes ablaze. The Prince knocked the first one down with a balled fist. The second drew his long curved sword and thrust it in a broad sweep. Deftly the Prince dodged to the side; the edge of the weapon cut into the side of the wooden altar. Blue Fire swung up as the priest made to charge. The dagger cut through the robe; the wizard staggered, his hands to his belly as his sword clattered onto the floor. The last of the wizards jumped to his feet and slammed at the Prince with all his weight. The Prince rolled to the floor, and both men grappled for the sword.

Mariana raced into the chamber; she grabbed hold of a small emerald-encrusted stone icon, and while the priest pinned the Prince to the ground she heaved it over his head. A low gurgling sound rose from the wizard’s throat. Slowly he loosened his grip, eyes rolling in their sockets, and fell prostrate, the side of his head caved in like a crushed grape.

The Prince briefly examined the corpses and then quickly stripped the first priest of his robe. “Here, put this on,” he called to the surprised girl.

Mariana donned the dark garment, carefully fitting it over the hem of her tunic. The Prince meanwhile had stolen the robes from the other corpses. He threw one over his own body and handed the second to Oro.

“Why are we doing this?” asked Mariana, as she secured the belt and placed her own dagger inside the folds of the long sleeve.

The Prince eyed her coolly. “We’re going to slip past the procession—dressed as wizards. Be sure to keep your hoods tightly around your faces. And don’t look at anyone! Our eyes aren’t crimson like theirs; they’ll give us away the moment we’re spotted. Now, is everyone ready?”

After hurried nods they scrambled through the arched door and up the long flight of winding steps until they could see the gathering of wizard priests as they filed solemnly into the Shrine Chamber of the Holy Temple, at the base of the Thirty Thousand Steps.

In grim array the wizards came, literally hundreds of them, with heads bowed low, arms at their sides, and a ghoulish song upon their lips. Behind them came the Carriers—wizards also, but muted, sorcerers whose tongues had been wrenched from their mouths so they could never speak of the secrets they knew. It was these Carriers, heads shaven and bodies hairless, who brought forth the baskets from which the Seeds of Destruction would be thrown. And it was they whom the Prince knew they must foil, for in their hands at this very moment lay the Seeds, prepared and tested, waiting only for the time to arrive.