The Book of Kane (17 page)

“The mountains of Halbrosn seem haunted with all manner of inhuman fiends,” Dordron remarked with a shiver. “Jarcos, why did you insist we make this journey to Rader? You know the wool market there has been dead for years.”

“My astrologer agreed this was a wise venture. Let me worry about our business, little brother.” Jarcos contrived to shape his rolls of chins into a resolute expression.

“Not only ‘inhuman fiends’ to watch for,” Ranvyas commented, jerking a gnarled thumb toward his prisoner. “Up until two days ago there was Mad Hef here. Thoem knows how many poor travellers he’s waylaid and murdered. Had a favorite trick of crawling out onto the road all covered with blood and moaning he was one of Mad Hef’s victims. Too damn many good-hearted folks left their bones in the rocks for the mice to nest in. And I’d as soon forget if I could some of the things I seen back in that cave where he was laired.”
Hef snickered and shook his chains against the post. “Got a special niche for your skull there, Ranvyas dear. Old man like you should’ve brought help along, ’stead of trying to sneak after me all alone. You’re just too brave for your—”

Ranvyas raised his fist; Hef broke off in an angry mutter.

“There have been human monsters in these mountains worse than this carrion-eater,” the abbot said.

“Oh? Do you know this region, eminence?” asked the innkeeper, who had joined them at the fire.

“Only from my learning. I dare say that the old provinces of the Halbros kings have figured so prominently in our history and literature that all of us know some tale of their mountains—though we are all strangers here.”

He glanced around at the others. “Perhaps you observed the stone ruins that crest the ridge along the gap ahead. Quite striking against the sunset, I thought. That was the fortress from which Kane held these mountains in thrall for a hundred years. He ruled the land with a bloody fist, exacted tribute from all who passed through, fought back every expedition led against him. Some say he had made a pact with the forces of evil by which they granted him eternal youth and victory in return for the innocent blood he sacrificed each dark of the moon.

“For a while he aided Halbros-Serrantho in the imperial wars, but even the great emperor sickened of Kane’s depravity and finally used the combined armies of the new empire to pull the tyrant’s citadel down on his head. They say his evil ghost haunts the ruins to this day.”

“A tale somewhat garbled by popular superstition,” Claesna remarked. “Actually the legend of Kane has far darker implications. His name, I have observed, reappears in all ages and all lands. The literature of the occult recurrently alludes to him. In fact, there is an ancient compendium of prehuman glyphics that Kane is said to have authored. If it exists, I’d give a fortune to read it.”

“A rather long-lived villain, this Kane,” said Passlo drily .

“Some occult authors contend that Kane was one of the first true men, damned to eternal wandering for some dark act of rebellion against mankind’s creator.”

“I doubt Thoem would have damned a blasphemer to immortality,” scoffed the abbot. “Doubtless his legend appeals to certain evil types who take his name for their own.”

“Then they steal his physical appearance, as well,” Claesna countered. “Legend describes him as a man of powerful build, seemingly a warrior in his prime years. His hair is red and he is left-handed.”

“So are many others.”

“But his eyes are his mark. The eyes of Kane are blue, and in them glows the mad gaze of a ruthless killer. No man may look into Kane’s eyes and not know him.”

Ranvyas started. “There’s talk of an assassin who’s behind these murders that are pushing the empire into civil war. Said to be an outlander brought in by Eypurin to remove those who oppose his false claim to the throne. His name is reportedly Kane, and what little is known of him answers to your description. Did this Kane die in the fall of his citadel?”
Passlo looked startled. “Why, of course… I suppose. Yes, he must have. That was centuries ago, man!”

“I had been warned against staying the night in the open,” suggested the priest. “While nothing definite was said, I can see that these mountains have more sinister legends than the road has turns.”

“That’s so, Revered Callistratis,” affirmed the ranger, running a hand over his short-cropped hair. “You say you lost your horse on the trail? Lucky for you you didn’t meet Valdese while you was limping along in the dark.”

“Valdese?”

“A lamia, reverence,” explained the innkeeper. “A most beautiful spectre, Valdese is—and most malevolent. Legend says she haunts the mountain trails at night. Entices travellers into her arms and leaves them bloodless beneath the moon.”

Suddenly it had grown very quiet. Leaves rustled against the frosted windowpanes.

The innkeeper sensed the unease of his guests. “Had you not heard that legend, gentlemen? But I forget—you’re strangers here, all of you. Still I thought you must have heard her song. Do you know the Song of Valdese?” He raised a black-gloved hand. “Come out, Bodger. Sing Valdese’s song for our guests.”

The dwarf scuttled out of the shadow with his mandolin. Bowing to his audience, he began to sing, his voice comic no longer.

In the dark hills of Halbros’ land,

There dwelled a lovely maid—

The brightest flower, the rarest jewel,

Shone dull in Valdese’s hand.

Her father’s inn stood beside the road,

Great was his wealth of gold—

But the choicest treasure of the land,

Was the heart of fair Valdese.

Then came brash suitors to her door,

Six bright and bold young men— Said they bad come to win the hand,

Of the maiden called Valdese.

“Sirs,” she said, “don’t think me cruel,

For I love another youth—

He must be gone for seven long years,

To study in a hidden school.”

And when she told them the suitors laughed,

“Oh, your beauty is not for him—

Choose instead from one of our band,

And not some wizard’s fool.”

Then came her lover in a cloak of grey,

Returning from the hidden school—

Said, “I’ve been gone these seven long years,

Now I’ve come for the love of Valdese.”

“Oh no,” swore the suitors in jealousy,

“You’ll not steal our prize”—

And with cruel knives they took his life,

And the heart of Valdese after.

Now Valdese lies in the cold, cold ground,

And her spirit haunts these hills— But her lover was sworn in the Grey Lord’s name,

To serve seven times seven years.

“That’s terrifying!” breathed Dordron, when the dwarf stopped singing. “So uncanny an ending, that last verse!”

“Perhaps the last verse hasn’t been written,” the innkeeper suggested. “Bodger, see how things are upstairs. It’s grown strangely quiet up there.”

“Well, at least we servants of Thoem have nothing to fear from lamiae!” muttered the abbot stoutly. “Do we not, Revered Callistratis?”

“To be certain, eminence,” the priest assured him. “Thoem protects his servants from all creatures of evil.”

Passlo suddenly drew a crystal-hilted dagger from the folds of his cassock. “And for added protection in these shadow-haunted hills I carry with me this sacred blade. It was shaped from star-metal by priests long dead, and the runes on its blade give it power over evil’s foul servants.” He did not add that he had stolen the blade from the abbey vaults.

“Seven years in a hidden school,” mused the priest. “That can only mean one thing.”

Claesna nodded. “He was apprenticed to the cult of the Seven Nameless—and sworn to the Grey Lord.”

“Thoem grant that we someday see the extinction of that black cult of devil worshippers!” growled Passlo.

“The cult is far older than your own religion,” Claesna informed him. “And it isn’t devil worship, strictly speaking.”

“Well, they’re devils they worship!” Jarcos said shrilly.

“No. The Seven Nameless are elder gods. Or ‘ protogods,’ more accurately, since they exist beyond the ordered universe of good and evil forces. Their realm is one of timeless chaos, a limbo of unformed creation and ultimate dissolution—opposite forces that somehow exist simultaneously.”

Claesna preened his beard. “Their entire worship is structured on the energy of opposing systems. Little is known of the cult, since its devotees worship in secret. New initiates must study seven years in a ‘hidden school’ to master the secret powers of the cult; then each is sworn to one of the Seven for the space of forty-nine years. The names of the Seven are secret, for should the uninitiate utter them he would evoke the god without having power over him. A rather hideous fate, it’s said. Korjonos was sworn to the Grey Lord, who is the most feared of the Seven.”

“Korjonos? Was that the young wizard’s name?” the priest inquired.

Claesna bit his pipestem testily. “Yes, I believe so. After all, the ballad was based on true events. Happened a century ago, I believe.”

“Not at all,” corrected the innkeeper. “Not quite fifty years ago. And very near here.”

“Indeed?” Dordron’s voice was strained.

“In fact, at this very inn.”

The eyes of the travellers bored back into their host’s smiling face.

“Why, yes. But I forgot you gentlemen are strangers here. Would you like to know the story behind Valdese’s song?”

No one spoke. He went on as if there were no tension in the room.

“Valdese and Korjonos were childhood lovers. She was the daughter of one of the richest men in Halbrosn, while he was the son of a servant at his inn. They were both barely past ten when Korjonos was orphaned. Penniless, be left the inn to study at a hidden school and vowed to return for her in seven years, with the wealth and power that his wisdom would bring him.

“Valdese waited for him. But there were others. Six coarse young louts from the settlements close by. They lusted for her beauty, and more for the gold she would inherit. Valdese would not have them, but they argued and waited, for the time was near when Korjonos had promised to return.

“And after seven years he did return. To their brutish anger, Valdese’s love for the young wizard had not diminished with time. They were married that night at her father’s inn.

“But hate was black in the hearts of her rejected suitors, and they drank long into the night.”

A log burst apart in a shower of sparks, cast light over the circle of nervous faces.

“The guests were gone; her father they slew with the few others who were there. They took his gold, and they dragged the lovers from their wedding chamber.

“They hung Korjonos between two trees. Valdese they threw to the ground.

“ ‘He’ll not curse us,’ said one, and they cut out his tongue.

“ ‘He’ll not cast spells against us,’ said another; and they cut off his hands.

“ ‘Nor seek to follow after us,’ and they cut off his feet.

“Then they cut away his manhood and told her, ‘He’s not fit to lie with.’

“And they cut away his face and told her, ‘He’s not fit to look at.’

“But they spared him his eyes so that he might watch what they did to her, and they spared him his ears so lie might listen to her screams.

“When they were finished… she died. Korjonos they left hanging. Then they divided the gold and fled, each choosing a separate path to follow. And while the infamy of their deed shamed the land, not one of them was ever punished.”
“Korjonos?” asked the priest

“Did not die. He was sworn to the Grey Lord for seven times seven years, and death could not claim him. His familiar demon cut him down and carried him away. And the rage of the sorcerer waited years upon painful years for fitting vengeance to transpire.”

A chair crashed as Claesna leaped to his feet. “Gods! Don’t you see? It’s been near fifty years, and our faces and names were otherwise! But I thought several of your faces seemed familiar to me! Don’t deny it! It’s no coincidence that all six of us have returned to this inn tonight! Sorcery has drawn us here! But who…?”

The innkeeper smiled in secret mirth as their startled voices shouted in protest. He crossed over to in front of the fire. Still smiling, he peeled off the black gloves.

And they saw what manner of hands were grafted to his wrists.

With these hands he dug at the flesh of his face.

The smiling lips peeled away with the rest, and they saw the noseless horror that had been a face, saw the black reptilian tongue that lashed between broken teeth.

They sat frozen in shock. The dwarf entered unnoticed, a tiny corpse in his hairy hands.

“Stillborn, master,” he snickered, holding by its heels the blue-skinned infant. “Strangled by her cord, and the mother died giving forth.” He stepped into the center of their circle.

Then the chill of the autumn night bore down upon them, a chill greater than that of any natural darkness.

“Seven years time seven,” hissed Korjonos. “So long have I plotted for this. I’ve shaped your lives from the day of your crime, let you fatten like cattle, let you live for the day when you would pay as no man has ever paid!

“Callistratis,” he called aside, “this isn’t for you! I don’t know how you came here, but go now if you still can.”

Faces set in fear, they stared at the wizard. Invisible bonds held them in their places about the circle.

Korjonos chanted and gestured. “Holy man, evil man. Wise man, fool. Brave man, coward. Six corners of the heptagon, and I, a dead man who lives, make the seventh. Contradicting opposites that invoke the chaos lords—and the final paradox is the focus of the spell: an innocent soul who has never lived, a damned soul who can never die!

“Seven times seven years have passed, and when the Grey Lord comes for me, you six shall follow into his realm!”

Suddenly Ranvyas sprang to life. “The dagger!”

The abbot stared dumbly, then fumbled at his cassock. He seemed to move at a dreamlike pace.

Hissing in rage, Korjonos rushed into the incantation. Passlo clumsily extended the dagger, but the ranger was faster.

Tearing the dagger from Passlo’s trembling fingers, he hurled it at the grinning dwarf.