The Hunter (33 page)

The air at the top of the tunnel had become too hot to breathe and after a moment’s thought Carn returned to his discarded
possessions and retrieved his robe. Using his dagger, he ripped and sliced at the tightly woven fabric until he had reduced
it to a number of broad strips. He wrapped several strips around his hands and up the length of his arm as far as the elbow.
He did the same to his knees, cushioning them with folded thicknesses of fabric wrapped with additional strips and tied firmly
behind the knee. Now he was able to crawl along the floor of the passage, scuttling like one of the shadows. The air was cooler
there, although still hot enough to feel his body hair shriveling wherever it was exposed. He warily drank the last of his
water and the empty pouch was left behind as he continued on toward the ultimate goal.

The end came sooner than he had anticipated, although his muddled mind had not truly formulated what it was that he thought
he would find. The passage began to rise, gently at first and then more steeply, until he was forced to use hands and feet
to climb rather than crawl. The fiery wall faded to a dull angry orange and then suddenly vanished, leaving Carn in darkness,
or near darkness, for there was a shimmering edge of brightness somewhere above him. He missed a step as a chunk of rock broke
away beneath the weight of his body and for a moment he hung free, feeling the black emptiness yawning beneath him as he desperately
sought to regain his footing.

Heart pounding against his ribs, he rested his head against the rough rock for a moment, closing his eyes to
shut out both the ever-present darkness as well as the awful glow that trembled above him at the edge of his vision.

With his ear pressed against the rock he felt and heard the pulse of the mountain, not the silence of dead rock, but the throbbing
heartbeat of a living entity. The streaming rush of superheated rock had become a deep, pulsating, rhythmic turbulence, a
feeling calling to him, drawing him onward like the pull of Mother Moon as she called to the waters at the height of her cycle.

Carn pressed his forehead against the hot rock and wept, the tears channeling through the grime on his cheeks. Somehow he
knew in his heart that Mother Moon, the mother of them all, had allowed him and him alone to hear her heartbeat. He had been
chosen above all others. He had been blessed, chosen for some special deed. He knew it was so.

Carn began to climb again, ignoring the pain in shoulders and hands and the deep, burning ache of his lungs. The great Mother
was calling to him and he was hers to command. The bright, shimmering light drew ever nearer as he climbed with renewed fervor,
feet and hands unerringly finding their way to safe holds. The higher he rose, the hotter it became, until he was breathing
with open mouth, deep, rasping breaths that made him dizzy with each inhalation.

He had climbed as far as he could go, the rock tapering in toward the bright cloud that hung in the air, ending in a large
flat rock. He took a short breath and doubled over, choking as burning air filled his chest, singeing his nostrils and throat.
Collapsing forward, he rested the top half of his body on the rock, feeling the heat of it burning through the layers of cloth
that protected his arms.

The sound was louder now, easily heard without pressing his ear against the rock, a deep, growling sound that vibrated through
his body until he felt that it was a part of him, an audible extension of his physical being.

A bright, glowing iridescence lit the air around him, a shining corolla too hot to touch or breathe, a symbol of Mother Moon
close enough to touch, drawing him on. It was close now, whatever it was that he had come so far to
see. Closer, dragging himself forward, the cloth smoking where it touched the scorched rock. Carn shielded his eyes against
the heat and the ever-increasing brilliance, his heart pounding inside his chest from anticipation rather than fear, somehow
certain that he was about to see that which no man had ever been allowed to see before.

Then it was there before him, so dazzling, so huge, so impossible that it was all he could do to bear it, to comprehend what
he was seeing. He knew without a doubt that he was looking into the very heart of Mother Moon. She was not a cold, dead rock
circling in a lifeless void, existing only to reflect Sun the Giver as the lying karks had said. Here, here was all the proof
he needed to refute that lie, to prove to Keri and Braldt that Mother Moon was alive, here on their world, a part of them
that could not be denied.

The Duroni had never been able to answer the question of where Mother Moon went when Sun the Giver returned to claim the sky,
or how she renewed herself after she sacrificed herself each cycle. Now he knew. He alone had been permitted to learn the
truth, in order to save them in their time of crisis. It was a test. The gods were testing them to see if they were true believers.
They had been given this task to see if they were worthy of their gods. The karks and their lies had been placed in their
path to separate the true believers from those of little faith. Keri and Braldt had faltered. Only he, Carn, had remained
true. The fate of the tribe and their very world depended on his actions.

Carn felt the tears rise up again and burn away before they could fall as he stared upon the glorious sight. He knew in some
dim portion of his mind that he should look away, that this was not a sight that mortal eyes could comprehend for more than
a brief moment, but he could not turn aside and might not have done so had an especially violent tremor not thrown him sideways,
breaking the dangerous hold.

Still the vision remained imprinted on his mind and once again he saw the swirling vortex in shades of light and brilliance
rather than color. Below him was a giant cauldron, larger, much, much larger than the dark lake, and as
the lake had been dark as death, here was all the light in the world, surely the source of all power, for there was a sense
of primal might rising from the sea of light that exceeded anything Carn had ever known before.

The seething, churning molten mass lay far below him, circling round and round in a slow spiral. A layer of darkened slag
streaked the bright surface. Bits and pieces of this dark crust merged to form dark islands only to break apart and float
away to rejoin elsewhere or be dragged beneath the surface and integrated into the whole once more.

It was not a static scene, but one filled with sudden violence that illustrated the strength of the gods. Huge geysers of
molten stone were periodically hurled up out of the molten sea, spurting great gouts of liquid rock high into the air where
they hung until falling back into the swirling sea.

All along the outer edges of the flaming sea, tall waves flung themselves against the walls that contained them, sizzling
and hissing with a frightening violence. The imprint of their attack was clearly visible for in many places it had hardened
on contact, thickening the walls, while elsewhere it had succeeded in ripping out immense chunks of rock, enlarging its area
as well as consuming that which it had acquired. As the gods consumed and destroyed those who did not believe in them.

And the noise. The noise alone would have convinced Carn of the presence of the gods had he had any doubts, for it was a sound
unlike anything he had ever heard before. It was very nearly beyond sound, a different dimension, for even as he felt it quivering
in his bones, he heard it echoing inside his head, and saw it trembling in the air, and tasted and smelled the scorched stink
of it as well. After a time, Carn ceased to hear it for the deep soul-grinding rumbling had become a part of him.

Carn never knew how long he remained there, for time ceased to have any meaning. Was it not enough that he was in the presence
of the gods? But after a while, he knew that he must go. The gods were telling him so, for the earth was
now shuddering constantly; some of the more violent spasms were easily capable of throwing him into the flaming pit. And while
he did not believe that Mother Moon would take his life, after revealing unto him her secret, he knew that he must leave in
order to fulfill her dictates.

He did not remember the long, difficult retreat down the face of the steep cliff, nor did he have any memory of retrieving
his water sack and the pouch that held his possessions. Nor did he ever recall retracing his footsteps and seeking out the
tunnel that led toward the surface.

Somehow, perhaps aided by his gods, he ate, slept, found water, and avoided the many dangers that lurked within the dark mountain.
When he wakened, racked with the pain of burned and sloughing skin, his flesh reddened and too tender to bear even the slightest
touch of his tattered robes, he did not know where he was. Somehow he had taken a wrong turn. Cool air no longer blew upon
his face and the tunnel that sheltered him appeared to lead down rather than up.

His face was bloated and swollen, his eyelids twice their normal size, allowing him only a narrow band of sight. His lips
were blistered and deeply fissured, rolled back upon themselves exposing the cracked enamel of his teeth. His eyebrows were
gone, as was his hair, which had shriveled and frizzed with the stink of burning feathers. His scalp and his face, having
endured the worst of the heat, were a deep purple-red beneath the puckered welter of blisters. He would bear the scars of
his divine vision for the rest of his life… but none of it mattered, for he alone had been chosen by the gods.

Carn staggered to his feet, grimacing with pain, filled with the need to find his companions. Somehow he managed to light
a torch cube and fitted it onto the end of his sword. He could but pray that he met no more dangers during the course of his
search. His faith sustained him for he could not believe that Mother Moon would take him so far only to allow him to be killed
by a shadow or one of the creeping stingers.

He wandered through dark tunnels, eating when his
body required fuel, sleeping when it demanded rest. He sang snippets of prayers and hymns sometimes, even though it hurt and
his voice emerged a hoarse croak, the vocal cords forever damaged by the intense heat that had seared his throat.

His eyes had suffered permanent injury as well, the tender flesh at the outer corners of his eyes scarring, the new skin fusing
so that his lids appeared thickened and hooded, giving him a brooding, ominous air.

The blisters on his head, face, and body broke, scabbed, and peeled, revealing a patchwork of thickened crimson flesh, twisted
and distorted in places, permanent testimony to the anguish his tortured flesh had endured.

Carn had no mirror but he was aware of the changes that had transformed him from a handsome young man to a thing of horror.
Never again would a maiden look upon him with favor. Never again would the quirk of his lips invite a gentle stolen kiss.
Never again would the sight of him cause hearts to beat fast beneath gentle bosoms. But such matters did not cause him despair,
if he even thought of them, for he had gladly suffered his stigmata for the greater glory of his god.

“Danger! Danger!” The metallic voice continued to
blare out its message as Keri and Braldt crouched back-to-back, holding their swords at the ready, searching for the bodies
that went with the voice. But no one appeared even though the message was repeated over and over and over, and after a short
time Braldt began to wonder if they would. Perhaps it was but one sentry who was giving the alarm but dared not attack on
his own. But how did he make his voice so loud and why did the words sound exactly the same each time they were spoken? And
why did they sound so strange as though they were being spoken through a brass tube? Braldt looked around him, rising from
his battle stance, wondering where the enemy could be hiding.

Following his lead, Keri rose too. To her amazement, she saw Batta Flor casually walking down the corridor, apparently unconcerned
by the dire warnings. Reaching up, he opened a panel high on the wall, and after a brief examination of its contents, his
nimble fingers tapped out a short sequence, the lights flickered, returned to full strength, and the metallic voice stopped
in midword.

“Canned message, a tape,” said Batta Flor, uttering the strange foreign words with a wide grin. “Scared you, huh?”

Braldt did not reply, merely watched the Madrelli carefully as though suspecting that he might have some further mischief
to perform.

“What do you mean, ‘canned message, a tape’?” Keri asked as she lowered her sword, feeling somewhat foolish in light of Batta
Flor’s nonchalant attitude.

“Of course, no way you could know,” Batta Flor said
more to himself than to his companions. “It’s a message that was prepared in anticipation of an attack and set to go off under
certain circumstances.”

“What circumstances?” Keri demanded suspiciously, wondering if Batta Flor could be making it all up. “How can a message be
made in advance and where is the speaker?”

“You don’t understand,” Batta Flor said with a patient smile that did nothing to make Keri feel better. “There is no speaker,
the message is played by a machine.” He held his hand up quickly as Keri opened her mouth. “Wait, just wait and I will show
you machines. They are things made by the masters and the hard ones to carry out the masters’ orders in their absence. They
do work that Madrelli and Duroni would otherwise have to do themselves. Please wait and I will show you. You have already
met one such machine, the lifter.”