Swordmistress of Chaos (16 page)

‘Or we quit this stinking hole,’ snarled Tom ‘Already we’ve lost half our men. And for what?’

‘An oath,’ said Spellbinder quietly. ‘An oath given in good faith.’

‘To find the Skull of Quez?’ Tom’s voice was a harsh snarl. ‘If the thing were here, how can we hope to find it? Better, say I, to retreat now while we still have our lives.’

‘I gave my word!’ Gondar Lifebane’s voice cracked like a striking arrow through the sudden silence. ‘And my word, once given, is not questioned. We go on, though every demon in this place oppose us. And you, Toril Gruntson, you will march with us.’

Toril made an angry gesture with his right hand. ‘You know I shall, Gondar. I say only that we risk all on a fool’s gambit. What word have we that the skull is here? How can we know?’

‘The bird brought us here,’ answered Spellbinder. ‘That alone is sufficient guidance.’

‘And,’ added Gondar, ‘I’d lief come to blows with the monsters again. They’ve killed enough good men to make my blade thirsty for vengeance. I say we press on to their holding and lay it waste before we talk of running.’

‘Decide as you will.’ Raven’s voice was a cool whiplash of contempt that reddened Toril’s cheeks. ‘But I go on. Alone if I must, for I shall find the Skull of Quez or die in the trying.’

Toril shrugged, a reluctant smile of admiration crossing his weathered features.

‘So be it, lady. I’ll go with you though we all die for it.’

‘Trust to the All-Mother and your blade,’ said Raven, injecting a confident tone into her voice. ‘We’ll take the Skull of Quez and quit this place with honour.’

Wearily, they came to their feet and continued down the tunnel-like pathway. The jungle, now, was oddly quiet, as though the fight and their passage sent the brush crawlers into hiding and the only signs of life came from the spiders and the many-legged things that sped from beneath their feet. Now and again they glimpsed side tracks so narrow that a broad-shouldered man would find it difficult to walk them straight. These they ignored, pressing on with a purpose that was close to desperation. There were no further attacks, though prickling scalps told of hidden watchers, and the rievers went swiftly, eager to end this venture into the dripping obscenity of rotten jungle.

Then, abruptly, the trail ended in a great clearing that spread out around a decaying structure of vine-clad stone.

Man-made—or, rather, worked by Beastmen—was that clearing, the jagged, moss-covered stumps of trees attesting the plan of it. The ground itself was turned and rooted so that no bushes grew in the black, loam-rich soil. The building stood higher than Gondar’s war hall, its aged stone shining green and grey and blue with the same putrescent gloss that lit the jungle. The vines that writhed over buttresses and window-slits were red rather than green, resembling thick veins through which pulsed an unnatural life. Its outlines were near impossible to define, for the structure appeared to weld with the soil and the vegetation, partaking of their life so that it seemed alive, waiting.

The sea-wolves went forward cautiously, expecting attack. None came, but the
thing
that emerged from the shadowy entrance to the place stopped them as surely as a hail of spears.

It was tall, a head at least above Gondar’s height, and built as massive as the lord of Kragg. Legs, straight and corded with muscle, supported a torso such as sculptors fashioned when they shaped a god. Arms, sinewed and powerful, were folded over that chest, ending in hands perfectly formed. The body was that of a man, a man such as women yearned for. The head was that of a wolf. Huge and grey it was, great yellow fangs leering at them, red eyes staring as though irritated by their presence.

Raven shuddered, for this blending of human beauty with animal kind was somehow more revolting than the hunched and twisted ugliness of the other Beastmen, as though some omnipotent power fashioned grace and loveliness only to twist it back upon itself to jar the eye, offend the senses. And from the wolf-headed thing there radiated an aura of palpable malevolence.

‘You dare much.’ The voice was fluting, sibilant, as though the creature spoke the tongue of man with difficulty. ‘Think you to leave this place?’

‘In peace if we may.’ Raven answered whilst the others gaped. ‘There is a thing we seek. We must take it to its due owner. Let us do that and we shall quit your domain’

‘The Skull of Quez.’ The wolf-lips parted, baying a laugh that chilled blood and tightened hands upon sword hilts. ‘Though surely the dead belong to the dead. Quez rests here; I doubt you puny men can take him from us.’

A growl burst from the rievers and Gondar’s axe lifted as though he would charge the wolf-man to separate animal skull from human shoulders.

‘It is written.’ Spellbinder spoke fast, weaving words that sought to avoid a confrontation. ‘The skull was first taken by Kragg, now it must go back to Karhsaam.’

‘Written, you say?’ Again that awful laughter. ‘By whom? Men? Or your lost and lonely gods? We have our own gods here in Ishkar, and they bow not to your beliefs. They skull stays. With others to bear it company.’

From the jungle there emerged a mighty pack of Beastmen swelling from the shadows to ring the sea-wolves with a living wall of fangs and horns and tusks. The rievers closed ranks, shields lifting to guard bodies tensed for battle.

‘It
is
written,’ shouted Spellbinder, ‘in the Books of Kharwhan. And your own law grants battle-right to the taker. I claim that right.’

There was a pause, a sudden stilling of movement as though the jungle itself drew in its breath. Then a howling, screeching laugh brayed over the clearing.

The wolf-head tilted back, wide-spread lips slavering in amusement, curved fangs clashing together with bone-breaking force.

‘You claim battle-right of lost Quez? You think to defeat me?’

Spellbinder nodded, his pale blue eyes fixed upon the wolf-thing’s red gaze. ‘Aye. I claim that right now before both our peoples.’

‘Poor little man, how foolish you are,’ murmured the Beastman. ‘Your pride outstrips your strength as ever it did.’ Then, loud enough for all to hear, he called out. ‘This one claims battle-right against me. We shall fight in the temple before the face of the god. The one to return here enjoys the favour of the god.’

The announcement was repeated in a gutteral snarl that drew a howling bellowing shout of approval from the waiting pack. The sea-wolves were startled, Raven clutching Spellbinder’s arm.

‘By the Mother, my friend!’ Her voice was low, concerned. ‘How can you fight that? I’d think twice of challenging such a creature. Can you hope to defeat it?’

‘A charge,’ urged Gondar, ‘to get us inside that place. Kill the thing on the way and get inside. Use it as a fort. We could slaughter the others in the doorways.’

‘The Skull of Quez is my quest,’ said Raven. ‘Why should you risk all on my behalf? Let us attack and take the thing by storm.’

Spellbinder smiled. ‘So it goes.’

He rose from the circle, stepping out across the clearing towards the dark entrance where the wolf-creature waited, still laughing. Halfway across he paused, turning to call back.

‘Wait. There will be no attack, for the law binds them as it does you. If I emerge you are free to go. If not...’

He left the sentence unfinished. There was little to explain, for the murmur of sound that growled from the throats of the surrounding Beastmen was indication enough of the result of failure. They watched him mount the steps leading into the building, black armour fading into blacker shadow, the wolfman turning to follow.

And a great silence fell upon the clearing.

Raven’s eye was caught by an unusual movement, and she looked up, seeing the sky for the first time in days. High enough that it appeared no more than a dim speck against the azure was a dark shape that spiralled downwards as though intent upon their drama. Larger it grew, until she could make out the delineations of wide-spread wings and pale beak. Then, silent as a ghost, the black bird settled atop a spire of the Beastmen’s hold, watching, waiting.

‘In a venture of any importance risks must be taken, hence a bold spirit and quick mind are vital to success.’

The Books of Kharwhan

They waited through the long afternoon, watching the shadows lengthen as twilight approached, uneasily aware of the encircling Beastmen. The creatures remained on the edge of the clearing, held in check by their own strange laws, but obviously eager to overwhelm the sea-wolves in a rush of fangs and claws. For their part the rievers kept a wary guard, trying to rest behind a ring of shields.

Though some slept—the more battle-hardened, or perhaps more callous—Raven was unable to relax. She kept her sword unsheathed, close by her hand while she attempted to massage tension from her aching limbs. Her eyes were fixed upon the gloomy entrance to the vine-hung building as though the very intensity of her gaze could penetrate to the interior. No sound came from that place, nor any sign of movement; there were no birds nesting among its crannies and creepers, no tree-climbers swinging over its darkening exterior. It was as though the place brooded, waiting to take the rievers into its evil embrace. Even the black bird seemed to wait, so still that it appeared a carved ornament, only the occasional flash of a sun-bright eye attesting to its silent watchfulness.

Again, Raven shuddered at the weird malignancy of the place, waiting, hoping against hope, for Spellbinder’s return.

Night fell and the moon showed in a sky blue-black as the ink of a sea-spider. Huge and full it was, the shadowing of its surface giving it the appearance of an impassive face staring down upon the petty struggles of man. It glowed bright as ever, but within the confines of this strange Ishkarian jungle its light was diffused, bleached bone-white where it fell upon cleared ground, glowing green and blood red, dripping yellow and ashen grey where it met the phosphorescence of vine and tree trunk. The bristling hair that covered the Beastmen became tinged with silver, their tusks and teeth glowing yellow between curled lips. A soft murmuring rose from them, growing stronger as they craned back obscenely-fashioned heads to stare upwards, eyes wide and jaws agape.

Instinctively, the rievers shifted closer together, hands tightening on sword hilts and axe hafts. Sleepers awoke as though sensing the tension even through their dreams, and here and there a man mumbled a prayer to the All-Mother. Raven paced amongst them, a hand curling about her sword hilt, too nervous to rest, waiting.

Slowly, so slowly that it seemed a deliberate tantalisation, the moon crept towards the centre of the sky above the clearing. Radiance played over the surfaces of the building, creeping gently over vines that glowed with the dark richness of spilled blood, stone that wore the weathered grey-yellow of old tombs. It outlined windows like staring eye-sockets, moved down to pool-black darkness about the portal.

And within that shadow something moved.

Raven started, coming to her feet with sword in hand, while around her the sea-wolves came to battle-readiness.

Slowly, a gigantic figure came down the steps from the great building. Light shone first on legs massive as young tree trunks, rising over genitals and thighs to illumine a god-like chest, corded, out-flung arms. Then a great ferine head was bathed in moon-glow. Wide gaped those mighty jaws, the ivory curves of the fangs stained with sheening crimson. Saliva dribbled thickly from the curled lips, and a deep, rumbling growl echoed over the clearing, matched by the mounting snarls of the watching Beastmen. Ponderously the wolf-creature strode out from the brooding edifice of pustulent stone, pacing towards the waiting rievers.

One step, matched by a shuffling, inwards movement of the Beastmen; a second, and shields lifted, axes glinted in the pale light; a third, and the creature paused. The growling ceased, replaced by a bubbling sound that came up from its chest, filled its throat, erupted from between the parted jowls in great flood of moonlit crimson. Blood like a bursting dam gushed over torso and loins as though some internal organ, strained beyond physical limits, exploded, and with it life essence gushed from the wolf-creature.

Like a tree that has been chopped through, so that the merest shove is needed to topple it, the thing keeled over. The thud of its body against the ground was audible in the silence, for human and Beastman alike paused, throats dry, eyes wide. Painfully, whimpering now, the wolf-leader twisted one great hand around, reaching towards its back where a sword of the dark Quwhon steel protruded from between ribs washed dark with spilled blood. The fingers of that hand clenched tight around the blade, fresh wellings spouting as flesh severed and split beneath the grip. Then a screaming like the cry that had called the Beastmen from the earlier fight rang out. The hand tore loose from the blade and blood-stained fingers dug into earth as soiled jaws foamed and snapped in the death agony.

The howling ceased on a choking, bubbling note; the god-like body jerked and was stiff. The only sound was the turgid drip of blood.

‘The king is dead!’

From behind the corpse there came a radiance that outshone the moon. It emanated from the skull held high above Spellbinder’s stained helmet. It bathed the black armour of the dark warrior in unnatural brilliance, lighting the rents and gashes covering his armour with a light that showed pale flesh beneath myriad rips, darker stains on the darkness of mail and cuirasse. His helm was dented, dark brown stark upon the silvered metal, but his eyes shone bright, his voice was firm.

He turned, circling the tensed and waiting rievers, so that the weird glow of the thing he carried was clear to all the surrounding Beastmen. Slowly, a low keening whistling from their mouths, the creatures drew back into the jungle. Spellbinder watched them depart, still holding the glowing object high over his head.

‘Pack law!’ he shouted. ‘The word was given! The god favours me and you must let us go free. In fair fight I won the favour of the god. Remember the word!’

There was no answer from the silent jungle, only the muted sounds of padding feet, of bodies pushing through undergrowth. The moon reached towards the farthest quarter of the clearing, its light seeming stronger now, the pale radiance bathing the frontage of the great stone building enough that the pulsing, blood-coloured vines were dark, green as they should be. The building itself seemed diminished somehow, smaller, less ominous, as though something powerful had gone from it.