As He stepped down from the lowest of the stairs leading up to the walls of the temple, his foot striking soft earth, he whispered.
"May
Thylosson
bless us."
The caravan was making good time.
Better time, in fact, than any such caravan
Barsinious
had ridden with.
None wanted to tarry, or to camp early.
None wanted to dally around the fires and drink toasts to women or adventure.
The final wagon in the line trailed back several hundred feet from the rest.
Not by the desire of the driver, a small, sallow fellow with rheumy eyes and a crazed aspect that did not speak of complete sanity, but by the wish of all others who traveled with them.
The creaking of those wheels sounded to
Barsinious
like the whining dirge of an endless funeral procession.
The wagon's cargo was somewhat of a mystery, but there were enough rumors floating up and down the line of horses and wagons to fill in many of the blanks.
Whether the blanks were filled in properly, or with truth, made no difference.
Idols.
The wagon was said to be loaded with the most sacred idols of the temple of
Sethran
, blood hungry stealer of the strength of dark
Klaa's
enemies.
Of course,
Klaa
had fallen, the temple lay in ruins.
The idols were those of vanquished gods, and they were being transported to
Xenocydes
, and the temple of
Thylosson
, The Captor.
None would bend their knee or prostrate themselves before the shadowed relics in that cart again.
So it seemed. And yet....
Barsinious
turned away, an icy stab of fear lancing through his heart, but receding as his gaze swept out and over the bleak landscape.
Days only, between himself and the release of his burden.
He had not slept these past three days, halting the caravan only when begged by those who followed him, and up with the first hint of warmth, he'd gotten the wagons rolling before the sun had fully kissed the skyline.
While riding he felt safer, felt the miles rolling away, and could feel that some end was in sight.
It was the darkness, the time spent in front of his fire, staring into the dancing flames, that ate at his soul.
He would find his gaze sliding off down the line of wagons, drawn to that damnable cart.
He would hear whispered voices, chanting.
If he spun too quickly back to the fire, figures danced in the flames.
No matter that he pulled his cloak more tightly about himself, or closed his eyes.
Always the shrouded forms would call to him.
He feared to sleep.
With his eyes wide, staring, he could be certain the dancing figures remained trapped in the flames, that the tarps did not slip free of their bundled captives, and that the voices did not become any clearer.
As the huge walls of the temple of
Thylosson
slipped into sight over the horizon,
Barsinious
nearly wept from relief and exhaustion.
They were still many miles distant.
So huge was the edifice that it appeared as a small mountain from afar, whittled to the sharp, severe edges of the temple by the passing miles.
So many years in the building,
Barsinious
thought...so many lives ground to dust in the construction.
And what gods had those men worshiped?
What powers called out for their revenge?
Were their gods captured as they fell to
Thylosson's
temple, or were their souls chinks in the armor of the great monument?
Barsinious
found that even the coming dealings with
Xenocydes
and
Dendra
did not fill him with the same dread that had now latched onto his heels like a second shadow, leeching his strength.
Gladly would he turn over the wagon, and its contents, and if they allowed it, he would remain until each of the idols had been contained.
He would watch as
Dendra
and her minions swarmed around and over the pieces, securing them with stone and spell, incanting the cryptic prayers to
Thylosson
that would seal the nightmares from his mind.
That would remove the dancers from the fire and the voices from his head.
He would then leave an offering on
Thylosson's
altar, and depart.
Forever.
There were other trade routes, other cargoes.
Thylosson
would have to be content with a single offering, and a lifetime of fear.
Calling out to the drivers, exhorting them to greater speed, he continued down the dreary road.
As soon as he heard the first cry of the watchman announcing that the caravan had been spotted on the horizon,
Xenocydes
summoned
Dendra
.
The work was coming along more quickly, as if all involved, down to the lowest of the slaves, felt the imminence of danger.
A single day.
The wagons would roll into the city the following morning, and once the preliminary bargaining was completed, the one wagon that mattered would roll through the framework of the temple's huge gates.
Three.
The king was almost certain that taking so many, so quickly, was a mistake.
If he could have spread them out, found a way to concentrate on one at a time, he would have done so gladly.
Dendra
would not hear of it.
Xenocydes
had been on the verge of begging, had babbled a scheme for spreading the deliveries over three caravans, but that would have taken months, could have spread over the course of a year.
War would not stand still, so
Dendra
explained patiently.
Other temples would fall, and what would become of their treasures?
Their gods?
And she had persuaded him, not with words alone, but with her eyes, ancient, lovely eyes that glittered with energy, slender thighs and strong arms that drew him down to his own bed and fingers that stole sensations from his heart and mind, pressing them back through his skin with such intensity that he walked the thin line of madness.
Her caress dangled him over the edge of endless chasms, dragged him back again, and each time he returned she was there, lips pressed tightly to his ear, whispering commands, and suggestions, incanting prayers to dark
Thylosson
, and winding the tendrils of her spells through his veins.
He knew this, and yet could not turn her away.
As his lips would move to deny her, his body drew hers closer.
As his reason screamed that she was a hag, hundreds of years old and decayed as dust, his passion would bind his ears and prevent understanding.
Even when he awakened from their dark liaisons to find her, not at his side, but seated across the room, staring into the distance at the temple, he did not draw back.
Did it matter if she actually touched him?
Dendra
entered the throne room in silence, as always, standing at
Xenocydes
' shoulder before he knew he was not alone, her breath chilly on his throat.
"My liege?"
The king could never figure out if her words were meant to mock him.
Her voice was so husky, so melodic and charismatic, that it dimmed thought each time she spoke.
"They have spotted the caravan,"
Xenocydes
said softly.
"The wagons will arrive by morning."
He turned to her slowly.
"How long have you
known
?"
Her laughter rolled over him like rancid butter.
"I have known since you told me, my liege.
Your visions were the first indication, and I have charted the course by them each night as you related them to me.
The idols of
Klaa
will indeed arrive tomorrow.
I have been waiting for this moment a long time.
Thylosson
thirsts."
"Are the containments complete?"
Xenocydes
asked?
"Will they hold?"
"Our efforts will only grow in speed once the idols are in our power, my lord.
Thylosson
will feed off of their energy, and I in turn will feed.
The Temple will grow as if blown from glass by the mouth of our God Himself.".
"
Sethran
was a thirsty god,"
Xenocydes
breathed softly.
"Will he be so easily checked because a city of men has fallen?"
"You doubt
Thylosson
?"
Dendra
asked, eyes darkening.
"I doubt myself," the king answered slowly, "and though I have seen you work wonders, you are no goddess,
Dendra
.
What if we are wrong?"
Her eyes were dark and unreadable, and she spoke softly the words he'd dreaded.
"Then our souls will fall to eternal anguish, and the Temple will fall."
Xenocydes
turned away then, to the window overlooking the city below, and the nearly finished south wall of the temple, jutting like a small cliff from the sand and stone of the surrounding desert.
His eyes could pierce little of the darkness, and the longer he stared, the dimmer his perception became. He was vaguely aware of
Dendra's
fingers tracing icy trails up and down his neck, slipping to his back....patterns.
The symbols were etched patiently into his flesh with each stroke of long nails, his soul drawn on like a parchment, or an oracle.
His eyes clouded, the city and the temple replaced by other visions, darker images.
He looked out over another land, hills rolling off into the distance where moments before sand had stretched endlessly, and the crumbed remains of a city laid out before him in a panoramic nightmare image of destruction.
The stench of death permeated the air, vultures circling and feeding, their cries and those of the jackals the only sounds of life.
He focused on the largest of the toppled buildings.
One wall still stood, the others had crumbled inward, the deep black scorch-marks of
sorcerous
flame.
He heard words, distant and too soft to be made out, but nearing.
Dendra
, the decadent melody that was her voice working its way into the tapestry of destruction.
"You see," she crooned.
"Gone.
All gone.
Klaa
lies in ruins, and
Sethran
?
Mighty
Sethran
, who stole his strength from the vanquished has fed upon himself.
His temple is fallen, his idols are stolen, captured....ours."
The vision shifted...and
Xenocydes
felt that
Dendra's
hands had slipped from his back, sliding around to pull him against her breasts, her nails tracing nearer to his heart...and down.
His mouth was very dry, but he found that he could not even gather the strength or control of his own body to lick his lips.
All of his blood seeped in slow trails down his body, following her stroking fingers downward.
His face was damp, coated in a sheen of chilly sweat.
He saw the wagons again, saw them gathered, camped for the night, not far from the temple, but too far to have been seen by daylight, too far to be seen so clearly.
Dendra's
fingers wrapped around his erection and despite his lethargy, he gasped.
The fire in the center of the camp jumped into view.
A single figure sat, staring into those dancing flames as if mesmerized.
Xenocydes
looked more deeply into those flames.
He could just make out what appeared to be shadows, dancing in the flames, arms thrown wild to the sky.
He could hear
Dendra's
voice, still, but could not make out the words.
Instead he heard a dark, rhythmic chanting that slipped into his soul, drawing him out toward the flames, toward the wagons.
He did not understand the words, but his ignorance did nothing to lessen their power.
Suddenly he lurched, slapped from behind, and
Dendra's
words came to him with sudden clarity.
"Enough!"
Age crackled for that one second in her voice.
A chink in her ancient armor.
Glancing down in shock, shock that melted to icy terror, he felt the flaccid remnant of the erection that had threatened moments (hours?) before to stain his robes.
Seeing him move,
Dendra
fell silent.
She did not touch him again, but watched in silence.
He could detect no emotion in her eyes, but somehow he knew what had just happened had not been her doing, nor that of
Thylosson
.
If she was frightened, there was no way to detect that fear.