The upper nave was chaos. So thick was the press that the troops of the Legion of Ketl used their halberds to clear a way for the Prince and his entourage. They reached the brink of the broad staircase and looked down through swirling incense smoke into the packed mass of celebrants below. Prince Dhich’une stood for a moment to peer out into the shouting, chanting maelstrom, apparently seeking someone. Vridekka took up a position beside him.
Harsan looked around. The priest who had helped him carry Eyil up from the worm-demon’s shrine was gone, perhaps to join in the revelry. The Lector Priests and the other officiants had broken up into small groups and were scattered about behind them, talking. The guardsmen focussed their attention upon their master. No one was now nearby!
It was perhaps thirty or forty paces across the width of the upper colonnade to the entrance of the balcony by which they had come. If he could reach that, then navigate the dizzy gallery- then leave the temple, traverse the labyrinth, get out into the world above…
What was he thinking of? Improbable, to say the least! Yet there was no other way to cheat the Prince of the Man of Gold. If death came, at least it would be as a consequence of “noble action.”
He glanced down at Eyil. She seemed dazed and only half conscious, staring with tear-smudged eyes into the lamplit uproar below. What to do with her? She would hinder any escape. If he did the logical thing and abandoned her, the Prince might well let her go; why harm her once Harsan had flown from his net? On the other hand, he might well slay her, for now she knew too much of his scheming.
Harsan made up his mind. He shrugged out of the heavy cloak Vridekka had laid over his shoulders, pulled Eyil’s away as well. Such garments would only be in the way. With Eyil nude and himself attired only in his stained and crumpled kilt, they might pass as somebody’s slaves. He took Eyil’s arm in his manacled hands and half-dragged, half-guided her toward the inviting balcony entrance.
Thirty nervous paces later he looked back. The Prince and the Mind-seer were hidden now by a score of beast-masked worshippers bearing black and copper symbols upon tall poles. A few steps more. Now he was there… within… and out upon the narrow walkway!
Shadows clawed up from below. Plumes of oily yellow smoke enveloped him. He ducked involuntarily to avoid the ponderous ribbing of the ceiling arches. The reeling dance of lamplight and corpse-candles, the racking, rhythmic thunder of drums and chanting, the sick-sweet stench, all turned the long gallery before him into a swooping, undulating tightrope, hard enough to cross alone, much less burdened as he was with Eyil. He steeled himself and took a cautious look at the footing. He had often carried game along the lofty avenues of the trees of the Pe Choi forests, and now he could only pray that his childhood reflexes would not desert him. He set off as fast as he dared.
Someone approached from the other end: a temple guard by the gleam of his burnished copper cuirass! There was no retreat. He let Eyil go and saw that she had become fully aware of her surroundings. He motioned her to lean against the wall beside him.
The man came up, a broad-shouldered, thickset soldier with features that appeared carven of brown lava. He stopped a pace away and looked them up and down.
“Slaves? What do you here?”
“I–I return to my master, — With his bondmaiden,” Harsan improvised. “She ran away-afraid of those below. She is young and untrained.” He hoped he sounded credible.
The soldier peered. “You both wear manacles. How is this? To whom do you belong?”
“My master punishes me for-” Harsan began.
Eyil smiled then. Smoothly she broke in, “Sir, I-we-are taught to accept, nay, to prefer-punishment. And I admit to an enjoyment of the embraces of the living over those of the dead.” She ran her hands up from the velvety shadows between her thighs over her belly to cup her breasts.
The soldier stared. He reached past Harsan to touch a fingertip to one dark nipple. “Ohe, your owner must be more a lover of Lady Dlamelish than of the Worm Lord!” He grinned at Harsan. “Go back to your master, slave. I shall send this bit of property along to you presently. He-or she-will not miss her for a few minutes more.”
There was nothing to be said. Harsan could not return to the upper colonnade-nor did he really want to leave Eyil to the mercies of this stone-faced guardsman. (She might not mind all that much, a little thought whispered, since priestesses of Hrihayal were supposed to exercise good taste in such matters but little reticence otherwise…)
Harsan decided. His hand shot out to seize the soldier’s outstretched arm, to topple him over into the abyss below. Astounded, the man teetered, yelled, flailed with his other hand. They grappled for a long moment, swaying this way and that, struggling as much for balance as for victory. Then the guardsman heaved himself backward to fall with an audible crack of muscles upon the balcony floor. Harsan sprawled on top of him, rolled, tumbled, flung up a hand to clutch only empty space-and fell head downward over the railing toward the nave far beneath!
Calloused fingers grasped at his calf, slid down to clamp upon his ankle. Harsan swung down to smash with blinding force against the frieze of worm lords carved on the outside of the balcony railing. The soldier shouted hoarsely, and his hand slipped but caught again. Harsan dangled by one leg, scrabbling with his hands at the stony eyes and pitted teeth of the bas-reliefs. He did not know whether he wanted the man to save his life or to let him fall to a quick and final death. The chandeliers whirled before his vision; the crowds of devotees were black and ochre beetles below. His shins scraped stone as the guardsman-and possibly Eyil-hauled his legs back up over the balustrade to safety.
A crunching crack sounded above him. Pebbles, crumbling mortar, and a fist-sized chunk of rock struck his shoulders and went plummeting on past him into the nave. The balustrade! He heard a curse, a panting cry, Eyil’s voice screaming. The hand on his ankle slipped away entirely, and he knew that he must fall.
A strange and easy peace overcame him. This was the last knot of his Skein. No more decisions, no more pain. No more desiring. Nothing was left but that last burst of agony before he joined the concourse of the Dead on their way to BeiVhanu’s Isles.
He fell free.
There was a clattering in the air all around, wind beat at his face, and he thrashed out wildly with his arms. Clbws dug into the flesh of his back, raked along his ribs, his thighs, encircled his waist. Something chittered in his ear, smelling of mouldy leather and death and carrion. He was lifted horizontally out over nothingness, drawn entirely away from the balcony to kick his heels above that fearsome drop! He must have screamed, but he could not hear his own voice. Blood pounded in his ears. A great bronze chandelier hurtled toward him. He snatched at it instinctively, only to have the claws drag him away again and carry him on upward, so close under the roof that he could see the peeling paint and the webbing of cracks in the murals there.
Behind him he heard a shriek. He caught a glimpse of a figure, arms windmilling, tumbling over and over to disappear amongst the little insects below. Was it Eyil? He could see no more. Blood rushed to his head. Wings of clammy leather flapped in his face. The stairs and columns of the colonnade swooped up at him. Tiny dolls there pointed and gesticulated as he was brought down to a jouncing, painful landing.
Prince Dhich’une waited upon the steps, once again skullfaced and rigid as Harsan had first seen him. The pupilless eyes glowed yellow in the fires of the lamps.
“So, little priestling, you have learned to fly? Were it not for our Vorodla here you might have joined the Worm Lord all too soon.”
Harsan rolled over and saw for the first time the things that had rescued him: three tall, dingy ^: black, bat-winged beings with powerfully muscled torsos, elongated limbs, and narrow, triangular faces. They had never been spawned of living flesh, however; their eyes were the pallid white of the Undead. Somehow he knew that they-or parts of them-had been human once; now they were numbered among Lord Sarku’s legions. The Vorodla were mentioned in the Epic of Hrugga, but he had never dreamed that they existed in fact!
The Prince addressed the creatures. “Go,” he said, “and harry the girl to one end of the gallery or the other. I do not think she will find the courage to hurl herself down as this priest almost did.” He turned back to Harsan. “As it is, you have cost the Temple of Sarku a soldier this night. Perhaps I shall let you live long enough to pay Shamtla in kind for that offence! I grow impatient with you, priest, and I freely confess that you try my skills as a teacher. The lessons I can yet impart are severe ones indeed!”
“Mighty Prince,” he panted, “if you would let the Lady Eyil go free-”
“No. No more of your logicking and bargaining! I should make your Eyil our guest at the next Giving of Praise to the One of Mouths!” He leaned down over Harsan. “Note well, priest: not only will your priestess suffer if you again seek to escape or to betray me, but you have witnessed my power over the Undead. Even were you to succeed in suicide, I can resurrect your body and enough of your mind to make you guide me to the Man of Gold. You are not needed alive, only in somewhat undamaged form! Slower and less responsive would you be, but far more pliable if your soul were gone…”
One of the Legion of Ketl approached and murmured something. Prince Dhich’une nodded and spoke again:
“My original purpose in bringing you here still holds. Since you shall soon journey to Purdimal in my service, I would have you meet your escort.”
An officer in. blue and brown livery was making his way through the crowd. At first Harsan thought him one of the Undead as well, for he was thin and gaunt, shaven-headed, his face wrinkled as a corpse dried in the sun. The man halted and saluted, fist to breast.
‘ ‘This is Lord Qurrumu hiKhanuma, Commander of the Battalions of the Seal of the Worm, my father’s Ninth Legion of Medium Infantry, a unit devoted to the Empire-and also to our Temple of Sarku.” He turned to the officer. “You have a Cohort marching to Khirgar within a six-day?”
“It is so, my Lord. The First Cohort.”
“You shall prepare space within your baggage wagons for two guests. Neither shall come to any harm, but let no one speak to them. I shall send attendants to care for their needs. When you reach Purdimal you will hand them over to a priest of our sect, one Jayargo.”
“I know the man, mighty Prince. Was he not at Tumissa a year back?”
“The same. I have had him reassigned. He will be waiting in Purdimal for these whom you bring.”
“Shall I take custody of your guests now, Lord?”
The still features gazed down upon Harsan once more. “I think not. I would teach one further lesson to this obstreperous little priest.” He cast about for Vridekka. “Is the girl retaken, old man?”
“She is, mighty Prince. As she fled down the spiral stair.” “Then do you transport these two back to the Tolek Kana Pits and find accommodation for them in one of the Chalices of Silence. When Lord Qurrumu sends to say that his troops are ready, you will accompany them to Purdimal. You alone can be counted upon to squeeze the truth out of this grey-robe.”
“My Lord, I am too old! My place is here, with Lord Arkhane-my own work-”
“A baggage cart will be splendidly appointed for you, old one. Your scrawny feet need not touch the earth all the way, and you shall be wined and coddled until you are as fat as a Hmelu- calf. The weather grows cooler, and you may enjoy the change.” The mouth did not smile.
“I must obey…”
“Indeed. To do otherwise would be disappointing.”
Prince Dhich’une turned his back and departed.
The worshippers were leaving as well, the service over. The Undead were no longer to be seen. Had they descended again into their catacombs, or had they ever really existed at all? The Vorodla were assuredly real enough!
The soldiers of the Legion of Ketl escorted Harsan down across the emptying nave to where Eyil hung limply between two temple-guards. Vridekka did not allow them to speak to one another but formed up his party, gestured sharply to its subaltern, and led the way back through the subterranean labyrinth.
The journey was uneventful.
The captives were led through the silent corridors of the Pits. At length they stopped before a row of little ladders of four steps apiece. Each of these led up to a square metal door, much like the mouth of a potter’s kiln. One of these hung ajar, and Harsan saw a black shaft slanting down into the rock. He and Eyil were unbound, and a soldier took away the remains of his stained and tattered kilt. Two guardsmen then wrestled him up the ladder and thrust his legs into the shaft.
“I would not have ordered this for you, boy,” Vridekka said, not unkindly, “but my master has commanded it. The Chalice of Silence is a cell barely large enough to lie at full length, no room to rise or to sit up, and barely enough to turn over. Food and water are poured down to you through this hole in the door, and your wastes pass out through a grating at your feet, for the cell slopes somewhat.” He twisted a finger in his straggling beard. “Sometimes the keepers of this place pour down filth or boiling water in lieu of sustenance, but I shall see that this is not done to you. At least you may be consoled that this condition will last only for a day or two-some there are who have lived in these holes for as long as a year. Most are insane within a month.”
“And the girl, master Vridekka?” one of the soldiers asked.
The Mind-seer sighed. “She will probably fare better with her priest here than alone without him. More, I see no other Chalice vacant at present. Put her in with him.”
Arms wrestled Harsan into the narrow aperture. He fought, scrabbled at the smooth sides of the shaft, found no purchase, and slipped down within. His feet jarred against bars of slime-encrusted metal, and he came to a stop in blackness. He tried to flex his knees but only bruised them against the low roof. There was a little room at the sides to extend his arms, but as he did so Eyil’s legs struck his shoulder, and he had to press himself against the slimy wall to let her slip down into the cell beside him. His arms went around her automatically, and she came to a halt panting against his breast.
The cell door clanged shut above.
Smothering darkness closed in upon him. All was silent.
Slowly, insidiously, the terror of being buried alive seeped in to fill him with icy fear. The nightmare of being wedged into a black box to suffocate-the terror of a small boy left alone in the dark, the memory of a near-fatality during a boisterous cave exploration in his childhood-arose to overwhelm him. He gasped, struggled, and fought to gain control of himself. His temple training helped.
Then Eyil stirred, thrust her hands against the stone walls of their coffin, kicked out, and screamed.
It was a long time before they were calm again.