THE THIEF OF KALIMAR (Graham Diamond's Arabian Nights Adventures) (49 page)

Hiding in a recess at the foot of the Shrine Chamber, Mariana watched and then gasped. In the forefront of the gruesome procession came none other than the feared Grand Vizier himself. Adorned in black silken finery, wearing jewelry of ebony and flaming crimson, he walked slowly toward the icon-infested altar, sprinkling a dark powder this way and that, mysteriously creating a thin haze all around him.

The walls of the chamber were slanted, the high ceiling a pyramid. Grisly paintings covered the walls: demons, dragons, and devils, which in the haze seemed to come to life while the singers completed their chant.

And again the hideous Dwarfking appeared, and Mariana trembled at the sight. The Grand Vizier greeted his liege with a deep bow, and the grim song of the priests ceased. Pipes blared and a drum beat slowly; the demented king grinned as he peered above the heads of his multitude. The Carriers knelt before him; they placed down their Seed-filled baskets and lay prostrate at his feet. It was then that the Vizier invoked a new incantation. From a vial he poured a thick red liquid into the baskets, a liquid Mariana knew to be blood. The Dwarfking cupped his hands and held them out, letting blood pour over his palms and between his fingers and drip down his golden-seamed black robes.

The Grand Vizier cried out to the black powers of hell. Mutes silently brought another basket and held it before him. This one, though, held no Seeds. Mariana retched at the sight of the organs—human organs that could only have belonged to the sacrificed girl. The Vizier held up the blood-soaked heart and quietly let the liquid pour over the Seeds. His incantation grew louder; his chant was picked up by the masses in attendance until the din became frightening and terrible.

Joined by the sacred instruments, the swelling music had a strange, pungent sweetness about it that lulled both mind and soul. It sounded like no song that Mariana had ever heard before, so ethereal, so powerful was the pull of the unholy symphony.

Suddenly there was a hissing noise and swirling bands of color lowering from the ceiling. The prince saw it and watched in horror. “Poison!” he gasped. “They’re spewing poisons into the air!”

And the noxious gas slowly descended upon the gathered crowd. But the priests did not run from it, nor even turn their faces. They seemed to welcome the fumes, inhaling deeply, smiling as they continued to sing, opening their arms in acceptance while the gas filled their lungs.

“Fall to the floor quickly!” cried the Prince. “Cover your mouths and noses—and hold your breath for as long as you can!”

The spreading mist permeated the air in radiant color, swirling and twisting as it was piped in from hidden vents near the ceiling. And all the while the Druid chant continued to rise in pitch. The drums, the pipes, all were swelling to a life-shattering fervor. Glassy-eyed, the host of priest-wizards hailed the foul gods of the Dark, calling many by name and shuddering in reverence as the Vizier hailed their Dwarfking as the savior of the world.

With her lungs bursting and her head swimming, Mariana watched the scintillating forms of color and substance dance before her eyes. She could feel a sickening lack of orientation; it was as if time, distance, depth, and sound were all now somehow meaningless. Reality had ceased to exist. There was the music, oh yes, above all there was the music. Soft and loud, harsh yet gentle, subtle yet poignant, lifting her from this plane onto one higher, one which she dreaded yet welcomed.

Drifting. The world was drifting. The Prince had also felt the effects. Gasping for fresh air, he fought for control of his mind. The pull of the magic was strong—stronger than he had realized, and he damned the Vizier for this insidious attack.

And then a gusty wind was upon them all. Sweeping down from above, it cleared the air of the gases and sent the colors shattering, fading into oblivion. The priests fell to their knees, still chanting, still glorifying their liege as a god.

Mariana rested with her back against the wall, struggling to regain her senses. Her forehead was beaded with sweat and she put her head in her hands. Besides the entrance to the chamber Oro lay in a stupor; as always the effects of Speca seemed to have a firmer grip on him than the others.

“Are … are you all right?” wheezed the Prince, crawling close to the dazed girl.

Mariana nodded. “I … I will be … soon …”

The soft voices of the choir again drew her attention. She saw the throng of priests standing, now in salutation to the Carriers before them. The mutes had picked up their charges like mothers fondling their infants, and began to march in a single file from the hall. The Vizier’s incantation was done; both he and the Dwarfking marched behind. And slowly the rows of followers did likewise.

“They’re preparing to climb the steps!” cried the Prince, jolted out of his light-headedness.

Mariana pulled herself up and cleared her thoughts. “We’ve got to hurry! They mustn’t reach the top before we do—it’s our only hope!”

Oro stirred; he drew back in revulsion at the very mention of the dreaded Devil’s Tower and its Thirty Thousand Steps. Facing an army of hallucinating ghouls was more than he was prepared for.

“Dressed as we are, we can probably slip past the sentries at the landing,” said the Prince. “But from then on it’s going to be a race—and the Vizier will know we’re coming…”

“Then we’d best be quick,” replied Mariana. She swung around and entered the emptying hall, easily mingling with the last group of drugged wizards.

At the side of the exit guards had been posted. The Prince covered his eyes with his hands and walked grimly past, the droning song of the Druids upon his lips. Stoic and silent, the sentries paid scant heed to the last three priests leaving the hall.

The procession of pipes led the way; the sorcerers had entered a wide, open plaza outside the Holy Temple’s labyrinth of chambers. It was a dismal morning even for Speca. The wind was blowing with ferocity; the sky was as lifeless and threatening as Mariana had ever seen it. From the narrow walkway leading past the Holy Temple’s grounds, the three disguised adventurers made all haste away from the looming buttressed walls where horn-helmeted Druids kept careful watch on the sweeping plain below. Beyond the sacred grounds lay the road to the citadel and the Dwarfking’s keep. Mariana let her gaze carry beyond the walls, along the sharp slope of hills to the dark roofs of the lower city—once majestic and beautiful, a city whose renown crossed every border and danced on every tongue.

Speca—the fabled land of myth and history whose glories spanned millennia, whose deeds filled volumes during times when the rest of the world dwelled in its darkest ages. Speca of a thousand tales lay before Mariana now: a crumbling city, wasted and forlorn, its paved streets cracked and broken, its alleys and byways haunted by ghosts of ages past, its splendor turned to ashes heaped upon the rubble of its fallen might.

Mariana gazed in wonder, her inner self trembling at the sunless panorama of neglect; a city lying dormant, its people ravished and broken, while Evil forced itself upon the once proud nation, and prevailed. For league upon league the great walls still stood, but they were decayed and broken for as far as she could see. The harbor, where once the world’s finest ships sailed with banners aflutter, now lay grim and barren, empty wharves decaying, rotting into the tepid black waters. It was an awesome sight, not to be believed except by the beholder. And the reality of it made her cringe.

A bell began its morbid toll; the wizards gathered at the foot of the tower to recite once more their vile incantation before the trek to the sky began. Mariana stood close beside the Prince; she could feel the bite of the wind through her black sorcerer’s robes. The Prince stood with head bowed, his eyes closed to stop the tears. The sight of his ravished home had been a crueler blow than expected; it was all he could do to hold back his anger and not use Blue Fire right now to slay the wicked Dwarf and his Vizier.

The Vizier extolled his followers with promises of glories yet to come. He spoke of the North, of the fair islands that lay ripe for the taking. He spoke of war and of war machines that would run rampant in the name of the Darkness; of the powerful armies that would sweep the land and crush its peoples; of new spells yet to be cast, and of heinous Dragon Ships that even now prepared to sail.

Mariana listened with growing horror as the monotone voice condemned half a world to its demise. Aran would be first, she knew. Then Cenulam and all the other seafaring lands. How much time was left before the Druid hordes descended upon the East itself?

The mutes stood in a single line and proudly held high their baskets, offering the Seeds to the heavens as a gift from the gods below. Mariana looked at the granite tower, the terrible tower whose pinnacle reached so far into the clouds that no man on the ground had ever seen it. And the bell rang again. It was almost time. Moon Time.

The crowd had been worked into a frenzy. The Prince saw that the priests, who stood with blazing eyes, had given their very souls for their god/king and his Vizier. Drugged and fanatical, they hailed the Forces of Darkness in a cry so loud that its echo vibrated across the fortified citadel and through out the dead city.

“Death to all infidels!” cried the Vizier, his arms outstretched.

“Death to those who would alter our destiny!” chimed in the sadistic Dwarf, his face twisting into a hideous mask.

The priests picked up the cry, over and over, shouting at the top of their lungs as veins bulged from their throats.

The Vizier smiled cruelly; he put out his arm and pointed toward the far edge of the crowd, right to where Mariana and the Prince were standing.

Mariana felt her heart leap into her throat as the Vizier cried, “Death to those who would betray us! The infidels are among us
now!”

“He knows who we are!” rasped the girl. And a tremendous roar of anger rose from the gathering, intent on murder for the three strangers in their midst.

With the speed of a lizard the Prince grabbed Mariana by the arm and jerked her away as three frenzied priests drew long daggers from the folds of their robes and attacked. Bolting for the entrance to the steps, the Prince slashed wildly with Blue Fire, fighting off a host of screaming wizards who had charged across the stone floor of the plaza. The scimitar cut high into the air; a priest caught the edge of the blade squarely across his face. Pulsing dark blood spouted like a fountain; as he staggered, the Prince pushed him back, toppling him into a group of raging oncomers.

“To the steps!” shouted the Prince, working his way from one side of the mob to the other.

Witless and wild, the drugged priests began to press the besieged strangers. Oro deftly flung off his robe, swinging it madly and momentarily blocking the thrust of a brutish mute who had jumped down from the line of Seed-Bearers.

“Catch them!” thundered the Grand Vizier, his crimson eyes smoldering with rage.

The Prince fended off blow after blow. Mariana, too, her own knife in her hand, cut a frenzied path to the bottom of the steps. And up the first flight they raced. A burly sentry came leaping down, sword singing from his hand. The Prince sidestepped and brought the dagger up. Midflight the soldier groaned as Blue Fire tore through his belly.

Mariana scrambled past, Oro right behind. A demented host of priests yapped at their heels like dogs. The Prince urged his companions on, then turned and, flinging his cloak in their faces, pushed the first assailant backward with all his might. Sprawling, the wizard slammed into his companions and halted their advance.

“Run, Mariana!” shouted the Prince. “And don’t stop!”

The race had begun. The dancing girl was scrambling up the twisting spiral, never once glancing over her shoulder to see the foaming multitudes in pursuit. The stairway narrowed, then broadened. Straining and panting she glanced upward, only to feel her heart sink with the realization of how far there was to go. The steps seemingly had no end. Up and up they climbed, a coarse defile of stone surrounded by the concave walls of granite that pressed in on all sides.

From recessed windows the wind blew, tossing her hair wildly before her face. Exhausted, she had to fight for every breath.

Suddenly a side door sprang open; Mariana spun in shock as another soldier darted at her from the hidden stairwell. With an evil grin the Druid lunged, his steel sword slashing savagely through the air. Mariana ducked; sparks flew as the weapon scraped against granite. The girl rolled on the steps; the Prince was close behind, Oro just a few paces farther back. But both were still too far to come to her aid.

The Druid laughed sadistically at the girl’s plight. Drawing the curved blade with both hands, he made to plunge it through her breast. Mariana lunged forward, yanking the soldier’s leg and pulling him slightly off balance. In that split second before he could right himself, her knife was up—and into the Druid’s groin. His scream echoed up and down the lower flights, a scream so awful she put her hands to her ears to block it out. And then he fell, tumbling, tumbling down the steps.

Mariana stood up gasping. Her head was reeling and she fought to fight off the waves of nausea sweeping over her. “Take the side stairway!” she heard the Prince shout, and without time to think she did as he asked. Seconds later there was a terrible commotion at the door. Oro had slipped through without any trouble, but the Prince had to fend off the first rank of the mob who were desperately trying to work their way inside.

Crazed priests hacked and slashed with all manner of weaponry. And from far out across the citadel came the deep tones of the great brass bells, the Druid signal that infidels were on the loose. It was a sound so chilling that it filled Mariana’s heart with new dread. The whole of the Druid empire was now in pursuit, and no force on earth was powerful enough to stop them.

The Prince whirled about, Blue Fire dancing in his hands. The bitter fight had barely begun; body after body choked the small threshold to the side stairwell, and the Prince knew he could not hold out much longer.

“We must shut the door!” he cried to the petrified girl. “Mariana, close it behind me!”