The Companion (24 page)

Independent of their lamps, the ambient light in the chamber slowly rose, blue from a thousand glowing sapphires. It was not the large chamber he expected. Nor was it dusty. In the slowly growing light he saw rich carpets and vibrant wall hangings stitched with scenes of figures not quite men hunting a large beast like an elephant, only with long hair and tusks that curved in giant swirls. The figure they saw hunched in a throne chair at the far end of the room, perhaps ten feet tall, wasn’t human, either
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Ian gasped even as he heard the general intake of breath around him
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The being in front of him was rail-thin and too tall: seven feet, or eight. It was dressed in a close-fitting black garment. Man or woman, it was hard to tell. Its head was bent, its hands laid along the arms of the great throne. But what hands! The fingers were thin, each joint standing out clear, dead white and too long, with no sign of nails. At first, all he could see of the figure itself was that it was bald. Its pate was shining white, as though no hair had ever been. Slowly, it raised its head. Ian felt the stone walls recede as his stomach dropped. The unhuman nature of its countenance washed over him. The eyes were large and oval, dead black as human eyes can never be. The nose was so small as to be almost invisible, the mouth a mere slit, the chin pointed, all under a dome of forehead that dwarfed the other features
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Behind him, he heard some kind of scuffle. He tore his stare from the figure and glanced behind him. One of the slaves had broken away and tried to dash back through the doorway. He bounced back as though there were a thick oak door across the portal, though Ian could see the passage beyond the blackness. Several slaves whimpered. Someone had closed the door
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Ian turned back toward the being. Asharti stepped forward to stand in front of it. Ian prayed she wouldn’t take him with her, but she had firm hold of the rope and he staggered forward against his will. The revulsion he suddenly felt for the throbbing and the overwhelming aroma of the place made his stomach rebel
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“Ancient One,” Asharti said in a voice that banged against the walls and was returned. “I have sought you for years.” She spoke in Arabic
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The being said nothing. Its flat black eyes surveyed the intruders as from a great distance, slowly moving from one side of the room to the other
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Asharti waited, then repeated her address in French. Still the not-human did not respond. The great almond eyes came back to rest on her
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“You . . . have . . . the . . . bloooooood compaaaaanion,” it said, so slowly it was difficult to understand it. It spoke Latin
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“Yes,” Asharti said, relieved, in Latin. “I have the blood companion.”

“From . . . my . . . fountain?” Ian strained to piece together the sense of that immensely slow and sonorous voice
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“Yes. The fountain we call The Source. In the Carpathian Mountains.”

It blinked once and its head moved from side to side very slowly. “Why . . . do you . . . torture . . . me . . . with blood?”

“I have brought a gift of blood to He Who Waits.”

The tiny nostrils flared. The narrow chest sucked in breath. “Bloooood.” The voice sped up a trifle. “So looong since I had blood . . .”

Asharti motioned to Fedeyah. “Bring a slave.”

Fedeyah took the nearest slave in an iron grip and dragged him forward, struggling
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“I want no blood,” the being said without conviction. His eyes were fixed on the slave
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“Open him,” Asharti hissed
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Fedeyah drew a pointed fingernail across the slave’s carotid artery. A spurt of blood spattered the Arab’s face. The Ancient One’s gaze fixed itself on the gushing wound. The black eyes went burgundy red. Fedeyah brought the spurting, grunting slave forward, pushed the wailing man down, and then backed away to stand beside Asharti
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The Ancient One’s burgundy gaze shone down upon the slave, who crawled, bleeding, to his feet. With infinite slowness, the right, impossibly attenuated hand left the arm of the throne and drew the whimpering slave up by his neck, nearer to the tiny slit of a mouth
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Ian watched in horror. Without warning, the Old One’s mouth opened to reveal fanged canines, like Asharti’s, only sharper, longer needles, like a cat’s. The creature broke the slave’s neck and held the artery in his throat to that tiny mouth. Three immense sucking sounds and an animal growl, and the slave was dry, his flesh collapsing around bones and muscle
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The Ancient One tossed the body into the corner of the room and raised his eyes to Asharti. Ian shuddered. Several slaves screamed. The eyes had come alive. They flickered with an animation not there before the blood. They were old, impossibly old. They had known places and experiences no human ever had. Was this evil? Surely, if ever evil there was. The Ancient One raised his hand and beckoned with a long bony finger. Fedeyah brought another slave. This time the Ancient One did not wait for Fedeyah to open the carotid but took the screaming slave, buried fangs in his throat, and sucked. It was over in seconds
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Ian found himself trembling. The thrumming in the stone at their feet had grown more rapid. The finger beckoned. Again Fedeyah grabbed a slave and offered him. Again the man was slashed and drained. Ian could practically feel those needle teeth in his own throat, sharper than Asharti’s, death quicker. He had longed for death, and this was certainly quick. Yet he wanted nothing more than to escape this den of horror. He stared wildly around, knowing the entrance had been sealed behind them. Slaves clung to one another, their wails echoing around the chamber. The throbbing in the stone floor notched up another point
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Then the slaves went silent. The Ancient One had fixed them with his glowing red-black eyes. He turned to Asharti. “Why do you come here, with this blood?” The voice was nearly normally paced, though it was much too sonorous to issue from such a narrow chest
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“A gift,” Asharti said, “for one who has waited a long time for his kind to return and take him to his homeland.” She, too, trembled
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“I can take this blood without your consent.” The voice was devoid of emotion
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“And you can kill me. But then who will bring you more?” Asharti was using all her power just to answer those glowing, inhuman eyes. Some little part of Ian reveled in the fact that she had to fight to keep her will her own
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“You cannot leave this place,” Asharti gasped, her breasts heaving. “What if you were not here when your fellows returned?”

The Ancient One considered this from whatever remote place he dwelt
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“But I will bring you blood to sate your Companion,” Asharti promised
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“What do you want in return?” The red-black eyes flared, and the Ancient One waited
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“I want your blood,” Asharti said, under the influence of those eyes. “I will supply you with an endless stream of offerings, if you will but give me a drop of yours.”

The eyes examined Asharti. “You over-reach.”

“A single gulp each time I bring you blood to slake the thirst of deprivation.”

Again no expression crossed the strange face, no emotion
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“As a mark of my intentions I bring you these score of slaves, full of blood, and I bring my own favorite, in return for your blood tonight.” Asharti gestured to Ian
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The eyes wandered over Ian’s body and came to rest on his face. Ian felt cold strike to his marrow. The gaze moved on, dismissing
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“Bring them. I will consider.”

The keepers brought the slaves up one by one, and one by one they were drained and cast aside. The horror went on and on, slaves shrieking, the Old One growling as he sucked at them. The throbbing in Ian’s chest had not so much disappeared as it had been transformed into a vibration just at the edges of his comprehension. It became a hum of energy, instead of the slow throb of a heartbeat. It was a more pronounced version of the vibrating energy that surrounded Asharti and, in lesser form, Fedeyah
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At the last there were only the two keepers, Fedeyah, Asharti, and Ian
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“I am still thirsty,” the Old One rumbled. “Such a long fast.” He looked at the keepers. Asharti shrugged. The keepers walked forward, under the compulsion of the Old One’s eyes, and soon they were cast, drained, upon the heap. That left three
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“Now, Ancient One, for my share,” Asharti whispered. “A drop of your blood, and I give you my favorite. I have starved myself that he might please you. His will is strong. His abasement to you will be satisfying. Drain him now, or keep him to sip at your leisure. In a month’s time, I will bring you another score of spurting veins, and you will grant me your blood again.”

The small head cocked. “You are more ambitious than others of this world.”

Asharti nodded, unapologetic
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The Old One contemplated. “Who knows what is good? Perhaps it was written thus. I have drunk. I will need more.” Then he used one of his needle canines to open his forefinger. He held it down and beckoned to Asharti. She knelt at his feet and opened her mouth. A single drop oozed from his finger. She focused on it with such a single purpose, time seemed to stop
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The drop fell. She caught it eagerly, swallowed. “More,” she breathed
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“One drop is enough. Unless you relish pain, or even death.”

“Very well.” She wore a triumphant expression. “A bargain. You will not be sorry.”

“Already I grieve.”

“Slave!” Asharti jerked Ian’s rope, her eyes glowing. “Kneel and offer yourself. This one’s will is very strong, Ancient One. Consider enjoying him slowly for maximum satisfaction.”

Ian walked forward under the compulsion of her eyes, all thought of escape gone. He knelt. He could not help himself but stared up at the inhuman countenance. The creature’s gaze bored through him, as flat black as the garment the Old One wore. Yet something sparked behind those ancient eyes. Were they really so emotionless? Ian saw regret swimming in them; loss, yearning. The Old One had been separated from his kind for centuries, millennia even. Could he yet hope? Almost, no, and yet he waited. . . . He exuded the same breath of despair that had dogged Ian’s steps across the desert. How did one hope when it was folly to continue and hope should long since have vanished? One hand snaked out to cup the nape of Ian’s neck. Ian could feel the compulsion to tilt his head back and bare his throat, and yet he held the Old One’s gaze for another moment, a final act of rebellion against inevitability
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Abruptly the Old One looked away. “You are right, woman. He fights against yielding.” He cast Ian aside. Ian collapsed, sinking to all fours. “I do not want your leavings,” he heard the Old One say. He could not tell whether the words were spoken aloud or only echoed in his mind. “You have sucked at this one. Take him away.”

Asharti bowed and snapped, “To me, slave!”

Ian dragged himself to her side, unsure whether to regret his rejection. Would the Old One have killed him immediately, or would he have tormented Ian in ways even more foul than Asharti’s? Asharti picked up Ian’s rope, bowed once to the figure on the throne, now vibrating with energy. She backed from the room, Fedeyah behind her and Ian scrambling after them
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The vortex was open. They thrust through to the passage beyond, their two remaining lanterns swinging wild shadows on the wall, up the sloping corridor, into the treasure room. Here Asharti stopped abruptly and motioned to Fedeyah
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“Take enough to fuel our war against men,” she growled. “But don’t look at them. We can have them broken up in Marrakech.”

Fedeyah retrieved several small leather sacks from the sleeves of his burnoose and quickly scooped handfuls of the huge stones into each, pulling the strings tight. Asharti pushed through the farther door with Ian in tow. They ran up the next passage, Ian gasping, until they reached the antechamber with the two huge ibis-dog guardians
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In the echoing hall Asharti again halted. She bent double, wheezing, laughing with reckless abandon. “Fedeyah, I have done it! Ancient blood! Already I feel it burning in my veins!” Straightening, she fairly shone
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Ian stared at her. She had taken but a single drop of the Old One’s blood, yet already he could detect a difference in her. It was as if the angles of her face were smoothed. She was made of alabaster, glowing from within. It was sheer power that lit her eyes and her flesh
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“I am alive!” she hissed. “One drop and my power is doubled. Where will this end?”

She flung aside her cloak. Ian saw her nipples beneath her gossamer gown, tense with excitement or desire. She cast about the chamber, her gaze roving over the hieroglyphics and the guardian statues. Her eyes came to rest on Fedeyah, who studied her anxiously. “Life flows in me, Fedeyah,” she whispered, stalking up to him. “I have never regretted the loss of your manhood more. You alone are of my kind. Yet you are useless as a consort.”

Fedeyah contracted, though he kept his features almost as impassive as the Old One’s. Asharti hurt him and his pain made no difference to her
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She turned, holding her arms out, mirth bubbling up through her chest and her throat into a rich laugh. Her gaze fell on Ian, moved on, paused, and returned. Their glow changed its character. “Life flows in me,” she repeated slowly, “and must be released.”

Ian shook his head in dumb resistance. “Must go . . .” he managed. Not here! Not now! Her eyes glowed more intensely than he had ever seen them. He fell to his knees on the stones
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