Angus Wells - The Kingdoms 03 (43 page)

 
          
They
labored on throughout the day, knowing that the moon, when it rose, would be a
little broader of girth, their time a little less.
Then, when
the blue-silver orb was almost to its zenith, Kedryn’s pick jarred in his
hands, striking something far harder than earth.
He tossed it out and
took the spade Brannoc handed him, scraping at the soil to reveal grey stone.
He cursed, flinging the shovel from him in frustration.

 
          
“Stone!
The tomb is ceilinged! There is no entrance here.”

 
          
“Calm
yourself
,” urged Tepshen. “Likely a block was set in
place to seal the hole.”

 
          
He
began to clear the bottom of the pit. It was slow work, for now the excavation
was deeper than their height and they must haul the loose soil clear in
makeshift slings fashioned from saddle blankets and rope, but as the sun once
more pierced the opalescence of the dawn a slab showed, a square block a pace
wide, lined with dark earth where it fitted between its fellows.

 
          
Kedryn
was persuaded to rest and eat, and then all three bathed in the stream before
commencing the final assault.

 
          
Tepshen’s
advice seemed sound, for the jointures of the block with its fellows were wider
than those indentations connecting its neighbors, and the dirt that filled the
gaps came free easily under the application of knife points and fingers.
Noon
saw clear space all around the slab—and
brought the revelation that it was angled to fit wedgelike into the hole.

 
          
Tepshen
probed with his dirk and shook his head.
“Stone against
stone.
Its own weight seals it in place.”

 
          
Rank
frustration plunged a swordpoint deep in Kedryn’s soul. He stared wildly at the
unyielding stone,
then
turned hopeless eyes to his
comrades.

 
          
“A scaffold?
We could use the horses to lift it clear.”

 
          
“No.”
Tepshen shook his head sadly. “We cannot gain purchase for the ropes.”

 
          
“The
sides!” moaned Kedryn. “We dig to the sides!”

 
          
“There
is no time,” said Brannoc, his swarthy features grim. “A tunnel would require
propping, and we have no more than a day, two at the most.”

 
          
“No!”
Kedryn’s voice rose in a wail. “It cannot be!”

 
          
His
face was stark-planed with grief and rage and he fell to his knees, pounding
the slab as though he sought to drive through it with his fists, seeking to
achieve with flesh and bone what could not be accomplished with metal tools.
Tears misted his vision and he moaned.
“Wynett!
Oh,
Wynett, I have failed you.”

 
          
Tepshen
placed a helplessly consoling hand upon Kedryn’s shoulder and he fell forward
on all fours, weeping. The talisman hung about his throat fell loose, dangling
down to touch the stone. “Kyrie,” he implored, "do not forsake me now.”

 
          
And
the block groaned and collapsed inward, pitching him down into the darkness of
Drul’s tomb.

 
          
Kedryn
landed heavily, so shocked by the sudden removal of that last, apparently
insuperable, obstacle that he was at first unaware of the force with which he
struck the floor of the tomb. The slab that had given way under him shattered
at the impact with the floor and he lay on his back among the shards, winded,
coughing as dust and dirt cascaded from the illuminated rectangle directly
above. He spat earth from his mouth and blinked dust from his watering eyes,
staring up at the hole, his blurred vision gradually clearing to reveal the
anxious faces of Tepshen Lahl and Brannoc peering down at him.

 
          
“Kedryn?”
He heard alarm in the kyo’s voice. “How fare you?”

 
          
“Well
enough,” he answered, rising gingerly to a sitting position,
then
climbing as carefully to his feet. “Nothing is broken, I think.”

 
          
“Wait,”
urged Tepshen as Brannoc’s head disappeared from view, to return moments later
with torches.

 
          
The
half-breed struck flint to tinder and lit a flambeau while Kedryn assessed his
condition and decided that nothing worse than bruises had accrued from his
abrupt descent into the tomb. He caught the torch Brannoc dropped and raised it
high, turning in a slow circle to examine the confines of the place. It was as
he remembered and at the same time different, as though he saw through his eyes
what previously he had observed in a dream. He stood upon a floor of gray stone
thirty or forty paces across, great blocks arching to form a dome above him,
his entry point overhead, a rectangle of brilliance against the shadowy slabs.
Beside him, so close he touched it as he turned, was a dais carved from a
single massive stone, waist- high and surmounted with a sarcophagus carved with
ancient runes thrown into stark relief by the torch’s flickering glare. There was
an odor of must, of stale, long-stilled air redolent of antiquity that was
thankfully replaced by the fresher draft entering from above. Faded pictograms
decorated the walls, and the ancient webs of long-dead spiders. There was no
other exit point than the hole overhead. He was about to examine the contents
of the cist, remembering how before the occupant had risen to protest his
intrusion, when Tepshen called again.

 
          
“Stand
clear!”

 
          
Kedryn
stood back as a rope uncoiled downward, steadying the cord as Tepshen
descended,
limber
as a squirrel. Brannoc dropped more
torches and lowered three satchels packed with food, three canteens, then swung
down
himself
.

 
          
The
kyo handed Kedryn his sword and the younger man buckled the familiar weight
about his waist as Brannoc ignited the flambeaux, finding niches and crevices
in the surrounding walls so that the tomb was soon lit well.

 
          
“We
are here,” he declared, more than a little nervously. “What next?”

 
          
“Drul
rose before,” Kedryn replied. “But then the shamans of the Drott summoned his
shade.”

 
          
He
stepped toward the sarcophagus, flanked by his companions, each of them holding
a torch so that the mortal remains of the first hef-Ulan were shown clear. They
lay within the cist, unmoving and ancient, accoutred in the armor Drul had worn
when he fell storming the walls of High Fort. The sallet was furnished with
sweeping wings that curved protectively before the yellowed bone of the skull,
revealing only the empty sockets and the upper jaw, descending to the metaled
shoulders of a brigandine, loops and leather fused by the innumerable years,
blackened like the helm by time. Vambraces girded the arms and gauntlets of
link-sewn leather, cracked and husk- dry, the hands. Beneath the brigandine the
legs were warded by grieves latched over boots reinforced with plates of metal.
Aged bone showed through where leather had rotted, and the dessicated relics of
long-dead beetles lay wasted among the ossifications. The gauntleted hands
rested upon the chest, folded about the hilt of a massive glaive. The pommel
was a globe cast in the shape of a skull held in a taloned hand, thf hilt
wrapped round with wire, the quillons wide,
downswept
and forward-curving at their outer extremities. The blade was close on a
handspan across where it fused with the guards, tapering to a spear point, with
a fuller running the length from ricasso almost to the tip. It was a sword of
epic proportions, such as had not been seen in long ages.

 
          
“Drul’s
blade,” whispered Brannoc, his voice awed. “See how it gleams? It is unaged.”

 
          
“It
is what I need, if Gerat is correct,” said Kedryn, staring at the glaive.

 
          
“It
is cumbersome,” Tepshen remarked.

 
          
“No matter.”
Kedryn transferred his torch to his left hand.
“If all goes well it will slay a god.”

 
          
He
reached toward the sword, warily, for he knew not what to expect, save that,
before, the corpse had risen, aware that then the shamans of the Drott had Seen
present to intercede on his behalf. He voiced a silent prayer to the Lady. And
gasped as bone and leather creaked, protesting the movement that fastened one
skeletal hand about his wrist. The torch he held dropped unnoticed to the
floor. Tepshen and Brannoc sprang back, blades sliding from scabbards. Kedryn
felt himself held in a grip strong as if sinew and muscle still girdled the dry
bones that showed through the rotted gauntlet and heard Tepshen shout, “Stand
back! Afford me room to cut!”

 
          
Laughter
like a winter wind rattling the stripped limbs of withered trees rustled then,
gusting
the noxious odor of decay against his offended
nostrils, and a voice empty of human resonance said, “Do you think to harm the
dead? You are a fool.”

 
          
The
grip on Kedryn’s wrist was released and he staggered back as though driven by a
blow, caroming against Tepshen so that both he and the kyo were flung to the
far side of the chamber.

 
          
The
ancient armor creaked as it was lifted by the bones within, rising from the
cist to land upon the flags of the tomb. Dried beetle bodies cascaded from the
brigandine, metal and leather groaning as the glaive was lifted, battle-ready,
the sallet turning slowly from side to side, the empty sockets of the skull
beneath staring blankly at each man in turn, fastening finally on Kedryn.

 
          
“You
have disturbed my rest before, why do you come again?”

 
          
“I
have need of your blade.” Kedryn disentangled himself from
Tepshen,
stepping in front of the kyo for fear the easterner would attack the corpse,
convinced that such would prove useless action.

 
          
Laughter
sent a fresh waft of putrescence through the still air.

 
          
“My sword?
Why should the living steal from the dead? What
do we dead have to give you, save notice of life’s ending?”

 
          
“Not
steal,” Kedryn said quickly, extemporizing. “I have a need of your blade, for
only that may serve the purpose I pursue. Grant me its use and I shall return
it; and leave my own in place the while.”

 
          
The
helm cocked slightly to the side, as if Drul’s remains considered the
suggestion. Then: “What is this purpose?”

           
“My wife is taken into the
underworld and I go after her. Your blade has power there.”

           
“Aye,” the corpse confirmed, “this
sword has great power. Forged in Ashar’s fires by the smith,
Taziel,
was this blade. Entrusted to
me,
and me alone.”

 
          
The
great sword lowered slowly until the tip rested on the floor of the sepulcher
and the sightless orbs of the skull swung ponderously to transfix Tepshen with
their blank gaze.

 
          
“What
is your part in this?”

 
          
“Where
Kedryn goes, go
I
,” answered the kyo.

 
          
“Even
into that place I guard? Death waits there.”

 
          
“Even
unto death,” said Tepshen.

 
          
“And
you?” The sallet moved to Brannoc. “Are you, too, so tired of life?”

 
          
“Of
life, no,” came the answer, “but I am sworn to aid my companions.”

 
          
“Why?
The woman is not yours.”

 
          
“No,”
Brannoc agreed, his voice dry with tension, “but I should be a poor friend were
I to refuse my comrades help.”

           
“Your loyalty is commendable,” the
corpse allowed, “but foolish.”

           
“We are sworn,” said Tepshen, “and
we are not fools.”

           
“Any man who thinks to take my
sword is a fool.”

           
“Is it foolish to seek that which
renders a quest attainable?”

 
          
Kedryn
demanded. “I am guided by the holy women of the Kingdoms, whose word is that I
need your blade to save my wife.”

 
          
“Your
wife is taken to the netherworld,” said Drul. “She is lost.”

 
          
“No!”
Kedryn drew the talisman from beneath his shirt, clutching the stone, thrusting
it on its chain toward the armor. ‘This tells me she lives.”

 
          
The
helm lifted at sight of the jewel, the boots rustling as Drul’s corpse stepped
back a pace. “You brought that token here before,” it said, “and I told you
then that should you pass me you might not return. Was it that carried you
again to the domains of the living?”

 
          
“Aye,
it was,” said Kedryn, seeing that the power of the stone swayed the shade.
“This talisman and the love of Kyrie.”

 
          
“The
Lady’s power wanes beyond these portals,” warned the corpse.

 
          
“But
still it is there.” Kedryn took a pace forward, still holding the talisman
outthrust. “It brought me back then and it will again.”

 
          
“I
think that this time you quest beyond the shore.” The bone-filled armor moved
another reluctant step back. “I think that this time you seek more than your
sight.”

 
          
“I
seek my wife,” Kedryn declared.

 
          
“And
you would face Ashar himself to win her back?”

 
          
“Aye,”
was the simple
answer.

 
          
“So
that is why you need my blade. You think to defend yourself against the god.”

 
          
“I
think to slay him if he opposes me.”

 
          
A
gale of laughter that was obscene in die reek it projected answered his
declaration. “A brave boast,” said Drul, “but foolhardy. Ashar’s smith forged
his glaive: shall you use the weapon against the god himself?”

 
          
“If
the Lady decrees it,” said Kedryn, venturing another step toward the awful
thing, aware of the vibration of the talisman against his palm.
Finding courage therein.

 
          
“She
may shelter you,” the corpse acknowledged, “but these others bear lesser
protections. I sense magics about them, but weaker than that you carry.”

 
          
“Yet
still we go with him,” said Tepshen. “And we shall not be deterred by a suit of
stinking armor.”

 
          
“You
are brave,” allowed the corpse. “But I think your comrade less sanguine.”

 
          
“I
stand by my friends,” declared Brannoc.