Distant Worlds Volume 2 Page 13

  When Bahadur woke up the next morning, he learned that four members of their company had vanished during the night.

  There was no sign of a struggle, no footprints leading away from the camp. None of the men who took a watch shift during the night recalled anything unusual occurring.

  After a brief search, Asad sent Ceren to scout the surrounding area for any trace of the missing men and ordered the others to prepare to continue up the trail. Then he pulled Petros aside and had an animated discussion with him.

  Bahadur watched the conversation closely, though he stood too far away to hear what was said. Abd al-Qadir joined him, grumbling loudly as he pulled his pack over his shoulder.

  “We should never have brought that one with us,” the Berber said.

  “Petros? Seems harmless enough.”

  “He knows much, but says little. Asad ibn Musin is a fool to trust such an infidel.”

  Bahadur laughed.

  “What about an infidel like me?”

  Abd al-Qadir glared at him.

  “That is different, Bahadur Sampour. We have faced battle together, spilled blood together. Your heathen courage is beyond doubt, even if you disgrace your family by selling it to the service of another.”

  The remark carried just enough truth to sting him. He thought about asking whether it was less disgraceful to take money from one’s conquerors than it was to become one of them, but the morning was going badly enough without starting a brawl.

  “We all have to serve someone,” he said.

  The Berber smiled.

  “On this, my friend, we agree.”

  Asad was still arguing with Petros when Ceren trotted down the hillside trail to rejoin the group. She skirted around the argument and approached Bahadur instead.

  “I’ve found something you should see,” she said, using her native Turkish tongue so only Bahadur would understand. His grasp of the language was not strong, but he knew enough to hold his end of a conversation.

  Whatever she’d found, Bahadur realized, she didn’t want the Arabs to know about it.

  “Best see to your prayers,” he said to Abd al-Qadir. “You may not have another chance before nightfall.”

  Leaving the Berber and the others behind, Bahadur followed Ceren through the stunted cluster of trees west of the encampment.

  “What is it?” he asked. “Why the secrecy?”

  “The kneelers are frightened enough. They may be brave in battle, but they tremble at their shadows beneath the moon in this country.”

  She led him over a small hill and around a formation of sharp rocks before she stopped.

  “Here,” she said, pointing to an impression in the snow.

  At first, Bahadur thought some animal had slept there, but he saw no tracks around the spot. The center of the impression was about the size of a man’s chest and torso. Seven thick spokes, each one as long as a javelin, radiated unevenly from the center. Looking closely, he saw that the impression’s edges were sharp and distinct, as if created by a single, swift downward motion.

  It had all the characteristics of a footprint.

  “What do you make of it?” he asked, trying his best to hide his discomfort.

  The Turk shook her head.

  “My people tell stories of foul creatures that stand watch over this mountain. They are said to be one with the winds, and no blade forged by man can harm them.”

  Bahadur shivered.

  “What lies up the trail?”

  Ceren looked off to the north. The mountain ridgeline loomed over the countryside like the spine of some slumbering behemoth.

  “The peak,” she said. “And the fortress.”

  Her last word stuck in Bahadur’s mind. He wondered why anybody would bother erecting fortifications in so desolate a place.

  “Petros said something about Shahid searching for a citadel in this country. Could they be the same?”

  Ceren shrugged.

  “Perhaps. It is an forbidden place, only ignorant foreigners dare approach it.”

  “Do any return?”

  She looked at him like he was a child asking what would happen if he put his hand in a lion’s mouth.

  “We should get back,” she said. “Say nothing of what you’ve seen here.”

  Bahadur took one final look at the bizarre print before turning and following Ceren back to the encampment.

  The weather turned against them as sunset approached, with heavy snowfall obscuring the path ahead and strong winds threatening to cast them off the mountainside. One of the Arabs lost his footing on a narrow pass and tumbled to his death. The company paused long enough to offer a prayer on behalf of the dead man before pressing onward.

  They caught a glimpse of the fortress in the last few moments of daylight, jutting out from the rock like a purulent boil below the mountain’s peak. Much of the outer wall had crumbled away to expose the smooth black stone behind. Only one of the towers remained erect, the others having toppled some time ago. The great iron doors had rusted off their hinges, and much of the doorway had crumbled over them. Even in the dying light, Bahadur could see the gaping maw beyond the entrance that led into the heart of the mountain’s black rock. A large tent stood just outside the outer gate, hemmed in on all sides by the deep snow.

  Visibility worsened after the sun dipped below the horizon. The wind proved too fierce for torches, but Asad insisted that they push ahead. Ceren traced an agonizingly slow path toward the fortress, finding her way more by feel than by sight. Once they reached the outskirts of the ruined towers, the wind finally died down. After enduring the roaring gusts for several hours, Bahadur found the sudden stillness unsettling. A few of the Arabs lit torches and the group proceeded toward the fortress gate.

  The tent was large enough to sleep half a dozen men comfortably, but judging by its tattered condition, it had not been occupied for some time. Bahadur peered inside and found no signs of a struggle or sudden flight. The tent reeked of wet ash.

  Asad stood before the crumbling fortress gate, his hand gripping his sheathed sword.

  “Perhaps a storm drove them inside.”

  Bahadur exchanged a glance with Ceren. The wind picked up again, though much of it seemed to swirl above them.

  “Or they fell victim to whatever took our own men last night.”

  A strong gust of air threw up a cloud of snow and extinguished one of the torches, cutting their visibility in half.

  “What—”

  Before Asad could finish, one of the Arabs screamed.

  Bahadur turned in time to see the shrieking man lurch upward and vanish into the darkness. Another blast of wind hit them, this one strong enough to knock them to the ground. The remaining torch went out with a pathetic flicker.

  Before the darkness enveloped him, Bahadur saw a bulbous mass of writhing flesh swoop down from the sky and ensnare another man with its misshapen tendrils.

  He scrambled to his feet and ran blindly through the dark. More cries went up around him, but the attackers made no sound. Amidst the confusion, he heard Petros call out in a language he didn’t understand. When the scribe finished, a great burst of light as bright as a dozen torches illuminated the area, allowing them to see their monstrous attackers in full.

  They did not so much fly as drift through the air, undulating sporadically like a twitching mass of ooze and worms. The things seemed to blink in and out of sight, each time reappearing in a slightly different shape. When they landed to attack, they balanced upon a single, ropy stalk that left behind a spoked footprint. They had no eyes or even mouths, nothing to even give the impression of which end was the front and which the rear. Nor did their movements suggest a proper orientation, as they darted first one direction, then another without bothering to turn around.

  Petros stood a few yards away, holding aloft a pendant that radiated a brilliant, silver light. The light did not faze the writhing monstrosities. They continued to pounce on the fleeing men, snatching them up and disappearing into the s
ky.

  “Run, you fools!” Petros said. “Get inside!”

  Bahadur ran for the crumbling doorway, fighting against the swirling winds. Before he could reach the safety of the citadel, one of the things swooped down at him, spilling forth a mass of grasping appendages to seize him. He managed to duck away, draw his sword and slash at the tendrils. The horror flickered just before he struck its flesh and the blade passed through harmlessly as if cutting empty air.

  Abd al-Qadir shoved him toward the fortress before the nightmare could lunge at him again. The Berber tried to follow, but the foul creature’s limbs coiled around his neck and torso before he could get clear of its reach. He managed to let out a single scream before the tendril tightened around his windpipe. The skittering thing vaulted skyward with its prey, vanishing into the blackness above.

  Bahadur dove through the gaping hole cut into the mountainside, joining Ceren, Asad, and Petros. He looked back to see if the flying things were giving chase, but the light from Petros’s medallion did not extend far beyond the entrance. The wind died down again, but the stench of wet ash still hung in the air.

  “Quickly,” Petros said. “They could return at any moment.”

  “What are those things?” Bahadur asked.

  “Demons, no doubt,” Asad said. “Called forth by Shahid’s sorcery.”

  Petros shook his head.

  “Something far worse, I fear. And much older.”

  “What does it matter?” Asad said. “We must find the apostate and end this madness.”

  Petros followed Asad deeper into the mountain, his medallion still shining brightly enough to illuminate their way. Bahadur and Ceren trailed behind them, weapons drawn and ready. The corridor leading into the black rock was far too large to have been cut by human hands, but its surfaces were too precise to have been formed by natural means. At first, Bahadur wondered if some long vanished race of giants dug the passageway. Later, he came to suspect that the mountain itself had been constructed by some monstrous power. Perhaps it once loomed alone over the land, a terrible and lonesome obelisk of black stone casting its wicked shadow over man and beast alike before the mountains piled up around it, concealing its loathsome nature beneath tons of rock.

  The passageway sloped gently upward until it ended at a massive, stone door. Taller than several men, it had been pried open just wide enough for one person to squeeze through at a time. Hushed, rhythmic voices carried through the opening.

  “Bahadur, with me,” Asad said. “Ceren, cover us.”

  Bahadur followed the Arab through the opening.

  The great door led onto a huge balcony that overlooked the entire mountain range. A series of ancient columns looked to have once supported a roof, but the balcony now stood uncovered beneath the vastness of the sky above. The mountain’s peak vaulted up directly over the entrance, casting its shadow over the floor. Two rows of braziers ran down the center of the room, filling the area with an orange glow. Strangely, the air felt still. Despite the altitude, there was no trace of wind.

  At the far end of the balcony, a group of seven figures clustered around a circular stone archway. Facing the eastern horizon, the archway framed the faint spears of moonlight puncturing the snow-bloated clouds. The figures wore black robes trimmed with red and silver symbols. One of them carried a crooked staff, which he held aloft before him.

  Asad strode forward.

  “Shahid ibn Zahir!”

  The robed figures turned, but shadow concealed their faces. Each one carried a long, curved blade that looked like a cross between a sword and a sickle. The figure with the staff turned last. Something seemed to move just beneath the shoulders of his robe.

  “Asad ibn-Musin. You are a long way from Medina, old friend.”

  “You no longer have the right to name me friend, apostate.”

  “A pity, then. I had hoped to let you live long enough to see me step across the great threshold. But I suppose your simple mind never saw far beyond childish displays of violence.”

  Shahid waved at the robed figures before him.

  “Kill them.”

  The figures threw back their hoods to reveal faces marred by bulbous growths that shimmered with bluish-green light. They rushed forward with frightful speed, snarling like wild animals. Asad and Bahadur braced to meet them when three of the attackers suddenly vanished and rematerialized behind them.

  Bahadur spun around to swat away one attack and duck beneath another. The third blade struck his chest, but glanced off his armor. Shifting his footing, Bahadur shoved the nearest figure aside and slashed at the apostate behind him. His blade cut through the black robe easily and splayed the figure’s torso open to spill his entrails onto the floor.

  One of Ceren’s arrows whistled through the air and lodged itself in another attacker’s throat. He fell to his knees choking, and Bahadur lopped off his head with a sure-handed slash.

  The remaining figure feinted right before shifting to strike from the left. Bahadur raised his sword to parry the blow, already planning to land his counterattack. Then the air around the figure shimmered, and his blade passed through empty air. Pain shot through his left side as the attacker reappeared behind him and slashed at the gap in his armor.

  He smashed his elbow into the figure’s face, breaking several of the colored boils on the man’s skin. The foul smelling liquid splashed all over his sleeve, mixing with blood and spittle. Howling, the apostate vanished again and reappeared to Bahadur’s left. This time the teleportation was imperfect, distorting his face so that his mouth replaced his left eye and his broken nose sprouted from his chin. Bahadur took advantage of the wretched soul’s confusion and drove his blade through its heart.

  Asad had dispatched one of his attackers and Ceren’s arrows had taken down another. Bahadur rushed over to help and hacked the last assailant across the chest when he teleported to avoid one of Asad’s blows. The Arab nodded in thanks, then turned back to Shahid.

  “Surrender, blasphemer, and I promise to grant you a swift death.”

  Shahid pulled his hood back. As he did, two snakes, each one as wide as a man’s arm, rose up from his shoulders. A large silver key dangled from the apostate’s neck.

  The clouds parted enough for the moonlight to shine through the archway in full. Behind Shahid, Bahadur could make out the silhouette of a huge, robed figure.

  “You and your false god’s promises mean nothing to me,” Shahid said. “Soon I will take Tawil At-‘Umr’s outstretched hand and pass beyond the threshold to become more than anything your pitiful faith can offer. He is the gate and the key, and I will be rewarded beyond measure for guiding him out of the cold abyss between all that was and all that shall ever be.”

  Ceren loosed an arrow at the apostate, but one of the snake heads darted out and caught the projectile in its jaws. Shahid laughed and struck his staff against the stone floor. Blue sparks crackled along its length.

  “The elder beings that guard this place cannot stand against my power. What chance does that give you?”

  A bolt of lightning shot from the staff’s crooked head, streaking between Bahadur and Asad to strike Ceren. The blast flung her back against the stone door, and her body dropped to the ground convulsing.

  Asad charged the apostate, but Shahid easily dodged the attack. One of the snake heads snapped forward and sank its fangs into the Arab’s arm. Before Asad could hack at the serpent, the other head struck at his exposed neck. Blood gushed from the puncture wounds as the snake shredded his flesh with rapid succession of bites.

  Shahid tossed the Arab’s limb body aside with a mirthless chuckle. Then his gaze, and those of the bloody-mouthed snakes, turned to Bahadur. The silhouette in the archway had grown larger, shifting now between the robed figure and a bloated, inhuman shape of roiling chaos.

  “You are not familiar to me. What is your name?”

  “I am Bahadur Sampour Bukhari.”

  The apostate shrugged.

  “No one of importance, th
en. Fool though he was, Asad ibn Musin was a man of great renown. Tales will be told of his life and his passing. Men like you, however, die forgotten deaths in the dark corners of the Earth. There will be no songs in your honor.”

  Shahid struck the staff against the floor.

  “Pity.”

  Lighting leapt from the tip of the staff toward Bahadur, who threw up his free arm in desperation. But when the bolt reached him, it did not burn him. The mixture of bluish-green liquid smeared across his sleeve absorbed the crackling energy and reflected it back to its source, causing the staff to explode in Shahid’s hands.

  Bahadur seized his chance, charging the reeling sorcerer. He hacked one of the snakes from the apostate’s shoulder and sliced off most of the other head’s mouth.

  But before he could land a killing blow, a great burst of light flooded through the archway, almost blinding him. Shahid found his balance, shoved Bahadur to the ground, and kicked his sword away.

  “Wretched fool!”

  The sorcerer drew a dagger from his belt and knelt down, pinning Bahadur to the floor with his knee. He pressed the blade against Bahadur’s neck.

  Bahadur’s vision came back into focus just as a faint breeze swept over his face. Shahid’s eyes widened.

  “No!”

  The wind hit them with the fury of a howling blizzard, throwing the sorcerer off Bahadur and all but pinning both men to the ground. Glancing at the sky, Bahadur caught glimpses of flickering, black shapes undulating toward them. They fell upon Shahid seconds later, hoisting him into the air as he shrieked with terror. The shapeless terrors set upon him with a ravenous hate, ripping his body apart inch by bloody inch.

  The wind relented as the creatures tore at the sorcerer, allowing Bahadur to get to his feet. As he stood, the silver key that had hung from Shahid’s neck clattered to the ground nearby.

  “Bahadur! The key! Get the key!”

  Bahadur had nearly forgotten about Petros. He turned to find the Christian rushing toward him.

  “The key!”