Chapter 27 The Black Hall of Purgos
Metuza did as she was told, walking down the moldy, dusty passageway until they came to a long section of collapsed wall on the right. Through this great gap they could see a very large room, the ceiling of which had collapsed along with tons of debris from above. It appeared that the buried floor was far lower than that of the passage in which they stood, but the debris had filled it almost to the same height. Out of the middle of the rubble rose a gigantic statue, or rather the upper parts of it. A huge globe, covered with astrological symbols, was lifted on the shoulders of a giant. Above the dirt and rubble his right arm and left hand were visible, supporting the globe, and his face from the nose up. To Clay the effect was almost comic, as if the globe had fallen on him and driven him into the ground like a nail. ‘Suffocation’ he would have titled it.
Still holding his sword, he lifted the camera and took a picture of it, one handed. The flash startled Metuza, but she did not ask what he had done. He took another of her.
“One for the album,” he said in English and grinned. Then returning to Gellene, “So what’s this statue about? Is he Midras that I heard you praying to?”
She nodded.
“Some god,” he laughed. “How’s he going to help you if he can’t even get himself out of the dirt?”
She avoided looking at him.
“So why was this mess never cleaned up?”
“I will tell you if you tell me something.”
“What?”
“What became of Ven Zeezur.”
“Was that his last name? I guess Magus was just his title. Anyway, he and Icky were killed by Ulrigs in my world, and good riddance.”
She considered this. “Are you going to kill me?”
“Hey, it’s my turn. Answer my question.”
“Oh, hadris! It wasn’t cleaned up because, for secrecy’s sake, we can only come here now and then and in small numbers. When the Midraeum was built, Purgos city stood above it, a city of witches; so they could build and repair as they liked in those days. But then the cursed Sampson Genbas came and razed Purgos to the ground.”
“Now that’s my kind of guy. I’d like to shake his hand.”
“You’re sure the Magus died?” she pressed. “They all died?”
“I don’t know about all—a woman was supposed to be alive somewhere—but I saw him dead. Now let’s go on.”
Further down the passage, and still on the right, was an entrance to another vast room, and here the ceiling was intact. Clay directed Metuza down a stone stairway to the floor, and they stood astonished as Clay played his flashlight back and forth and up and down over the skeleton of some immense animal. The bones filled the room. The skull alone was the size of a fire truck. Nothing else was here.
“What is it?” he whispered.
“I had heard—but they were only rumors—”
“What?”
“That long ago our people found the bones of the great Dragon Zeel. My uncle hinted to me once that they were brought here.”
Fascinated, Clay kept bringing the light beam back to the skull with its sharp, yard-long teeth. Finally, he remembered the camera and took several pictures, carefully including Metuza in them for perspective.
Metuza had had about all she could take of light beams and flashes.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing. Is this the Black Hall people tell stories about?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.”
“No, I’d tell you if I did! I’ll tell you anything because I know you’ll never, ever leave here alive. You may have the Power of light, but you’ve desecrated the Great Midraeum with your presence. The Powers here are angry, I can feel it.”
Clay waved this away. “Just tell me something. How can something that’s filthy and evil get desecrated? I thought holy stuff got desecrated.”
“You could not possibly understand, Pretender. And I’m not afraid of you anymore, not for my own life. If you enter the Black Hall, you’ll be destroyed by the Immortals who dwell there, do you know that?” Metuza’s eyes flashed and she licked her perfect lips. “And I too am an Immortal. You can’t kill me! I’m not your prisoner anymore. I’ll only come along to watch them destroy you. Don’t you hear them? Their howls?”
Metuza really did seem to hear something.
“You’re crazy, I don’t hear a thing.”
Metuza bent over with her hands to her ears, trembling.
“Look, cut it out,” said Clay. “There’s another door into the passage down there at the middle of the room. See the stair? So move your immortal body over there.”
After a walk along half the length of Zeel’s skeleton, they ascended the stairs and paused to look back.
“I’ve heard about Zeel, you know,” Clay said. “He lost. Beaten by a little old Fijata.”
“Nonsense,” she said.
“No, it’s true. Is he a big hero on your side?”
She did not answer.
“Well, your people did a tremendous job of grave robbing just to dig up a loser.”
They returned to the passageway, which soon turned left. No more openings appeared for a space until they came to tall, imposing double doors on their left. The doors were wooden, inlaid with ivory, and double-leafed—made to fold to the sides. Clay stepped onto the stone sill and touched one of the heavy leaves.
“Yes,” said Metuza with gloating joy. “Go in. The Powers are waiting for you.”
“Now, let’s be practical about this,” Clay said, more to himself than to her. “Only the Smoke Hag is down here with us. The place obviously hasn’t been visited for a long time, so anyone else would have starved to death before we got here. So who are you talking about?”
Metuza bowed before the door. “The Immortals.”
“Cut it out. There’s nobody in there.”
Metuza laughed. “Can’t you hear them, feel them?”
“No, my sister says I’m about as sensitive as an anvil.” He snapped a picture of the door. “She feels things, you know, like the spirits of places, or so she says, but I—”
He paused, for Metuza was again bent over with her ears covered.
“They’re screaming,” she said. “They know you’re here—outside—their door. They are—afraid. Afraid? They’re telling me to kill you. Kill him. Slay the Lila-me. Slay him.”
Clay tried hard to feel something, but he wasn’t even properly scared. What was there to be afraid of? He gripped the door panels and pulled them apart, folding them back on both sides. His flashlight illumined a stone-walled chamber with arched ceiling. In the wall facing him was a niche containing a white statue about two feet high: a man slaying a bull. Between Clay and this wall were several life-size statues made of some crumbling black stuff like charcoal. And that was all. Dreary, damp remnants of blue paint on the ceiling; grimy stones; battered statues. It was nothing but an out-of-repair cult sanctuary.
But Metuza was going mad. Her eyes wild, she rolled in the dust and howled like an animal. Clay thought of trying to do something for her, but considered that if the fit killed her, the world would be better off; so he went in and looked at the statues.
Far, far off to the west, in the Forest Argura, Zatel woke from a sound sleep. The old Fijat stretched upward in his wooden walled bed, feeling the pain in his four stiff legs, and tried to understand why he felt so excited, yet unalarmed. He had not felt like this in decades, not since he had crossed the Atlantic Ocean of the Old World and had found Susan Tanner, proving that the true line still existed there in Viola, Indiana. He hobbled to a window in his tree and looked out on the peaceful Nasseelkir. Yellow leaves, black limbs everywhere in the gathering dusk. Lights showed in the windows of other trees. Everything normal here. This feeling must have to do with the coming of the Lila-mes, Susan Tanner’s son and daughter that Razabera had gone to fetch. Somewhere, some
thing momentous was happening.
Clay looked closer at the first of the four statues. This one only was seated (on a block of stone), and it was in the worst condition. Of the face, little remained but a gaping mouth. No fingers. No ears.
“Why would they keep such a piece of junk in here?” he asked Metuza, who had more or less crawled into the room behind him.
“I am—I am Howdan,” she moaned. “I rule all. I was the First, the Only. The Hand of Fowroz. I am immortal....” She trailed off into sobs.
Even Clay’s non-intuitive mind began to catch a hint. He remembered that Zendor had once described Monophthalmos as a ‘stinking, thousand year-old witch.’ And Jules called such people Crumblies, saying they were burnt all black. The Smoke Hag’s hand, which he had seen from hiding, had been burnt black as these statues and was missing fingers. The truth filled him with revulsion and scorn.
“Metuza, this isn’t a sanctuary, it’s a tomb. These are dead people.”
“I live forever,” she cried. “Howdan commands you to bow down. Bow down before the ruler of the Fold. I was the First, I am the Only.”
Clay looked at his sword in his hand. This was the opportunity of a lifetime, maybe of a thousand lifetimes. These things were apparently still alive—sort of—and they seemed to be at the nerve center of the witch cult. Why not whack them and see what would happen? (He lifted the blade.) But what if they blew up or something? What if their charcoal eyes opened or some ghastly, ghoulish thing flew out of them? He must not think like that.
“A nose that was keen and a coat that was white,” he began to chant cheerfully. He brought the blade edge down on Howdan, splitting his head in a burst of black dust. “A heart that was gracious and true.” Every stroke of the sword bit deep, and the dust filled the air. “And she hum-hummed whatever by day and by night.” Two more strokes and Howdan tumbled and shattered on the floor. “The Fijata Imalda Lusu!”
As Susan Tanner abruptly pulled the Dart onto the highway shoulder, May Tyler stopped chattering and reached forward to grip the dashboard.
“Why did you do that?”
Susan slumped in her seat and stared out at the night traffic. “I—I don’t know. It’s Clay. No, it isn’t. I don’t know what I’m talking about.”
“Clay? Out here? What do you mean, Susan?”
“I don’t mean anything. He was doing something. Just a thought that went through my head.” She rubbed her forehead. “I don’t know.”
“You’re not getting enough sleep,” May said. “And you worry all the time about Clay and Simone. Why don’t you let me drive us the rest of the way to my place, and then you can rest a while before you drive home?”
“No, no, I’m fine,” Susan insisted as she put the car back in gear.
Clay turned to another Crumbly. This one stood upright, taller than himself, and the features, though worn, were clearer. Metuza knelt nearby, her white hands in the dust.
“I’m Anthrakos, so much cleverer than any of them. I stole the eighteen eggs from the Fijats of Argura, and so to them I’m like Fowroz himself. I—”
Clay lopped off the lump of head, and Metuza stopped speaking. Another blow toppled Anthrakos and he broke in pieces.
On the benighted plains of the Areo-phar, Dramun the Dragon’s open eye cleared as he heard someone thrashing around. He lifted his grotesque head. What was it? Oh, it was only the Lady Simone, having a bad dream. She had kicked away her blanket and one thin arm was moving back and forth as if she were fighting. She gibbered a bit, gradually slowed down, and finally returned to rest. None of the others seemed to have heard. Dramun took the blanket in his claws and draped it back over her.
Clay stood before the third Crumbly.
“I am the learned Neckersof,” Metuza said. “Why do you not hear me? I plotted the Great Rebellion in Meschor; I chose the Immortals who would lead it; and I myself inserted the knives into their chests. It wasn’t my fault that March betrayed us! I would have done what Howdan could not do—conquered the East. I would have—aaah!” Clay had smashed the sword into Neckersof’s giving body.
“I would have—” Metuza gasped. “I would have ruled all. I—”
Clay cut off Neckersof’s head.
“I fear no harm or pain,” he sang, remembering a little of the Pidemoi song, “though I am led before...the mega-lions of the plain (whatever they are)...” Crack, crunch! “...the Dragons of Notoschor (wherever that is).” Crunch!
Neckersof toppled.
In a small room in a dark house in Kulismos, three sisters were sleeping in one bed. The eldest, Bekah, sat up. Such noise! And yet no noise. She had thought for a moment that the High King’s soldiers were breaking in to arrest them. No, that wasn’t it. Zuz was speaking to her heart, telling her that the Emperor needed prayer. She got up and stood barefoot on the cold floor with upraised arms.
“Don’t let him be weak,” she said. “Don’t let him listen to his enemies.”
One crumbly still stood, gaunt and stoop-shouldered, leaning on two canes. Clay paused to get his breath. Metuza sat on the floor, hunched over her knees. Her voice was exhausted.
“Spare me,” she begged. “I was Doron. Neckersof made me a Crumbly—I never knew what it meant till he had done it. Then they made me breed the Blue Ulrigs that were meant to conquer the East. When the Rebellion failed, I fled away to the North, but Frear found me even there and forced me to make the burning machines. Spare me. I’m here against my will. I’m only Doron who wanted nothing but peace. Spare me.”
Clay did hesitate while Metuza wept pitiably. He looked around in the weakening beam of the flashlight.
“You can’t mean that you want to live like this?” he said, feeling stupid for talking back to it.
“Yes, I want to live,” Metuza said. “Life at any cost. Because—I know I’m in flames, but still a little of me lives. Spare me, I beg you.”
Clay stared at the Crumbly as his sword blade insensibly lowered. Then he shook himself. How could he think for a minute that this thing would tell the truth?
“Sorry, pal, but you’re known by the company you keep,” Clay said.
He hacked through one of the canes. Slowly, Doron leaned, he fell, he broke to pieces. For good measure, Clay yanked the statue of the Bull-Slayer from its niche and shattered it on the floor.
“I have a lion’s heart,” he sang. “Tra-la-la-la-la.”
With blood-chilling howling in his ears, Dom Chalice sat up in bed. What was breaking the stillness of the Farjan night? He pulled a robe over his ancient body and followed his slave to the concealed door of a secret chamber under the atrium of the house. Only Monophthalmos was within, and Old One Eye had never, that Dom knew, made such sounds. But it was he, behind the door, keening and wailing. Dom laid a shaking hand against the door and waited, afraid to go in. In his heart he felt that some dread judgement had occurred, for a terrible fear and weakness was upon him as if Fowroz himself had sustained great wounds.
Clay took several pictures of the carnage in the Black Hall and then looked to Metuza. She was on her back with her eyes open. Yes, breathing.
He leaned over her. “Well, it’s all over and I’m still alive. Guess your so-called Powers were slinging chaff.” (This was the Gellene equivalent of ‘shooting blanks.’) “Are you all right? Can I help you up?”
Metuza snarled out a string of execrations so shocking that Clay backed away from her with his mouth open. She only seemed undecided as to which horrible, wasting disease she wished to gradually choke off his miserable life. He backed out the doorway and quickly made his way back down the passage, not pausing this time to look at Zeel’s bones or the buried statue.
When he came to the court of sacrifice, he found lamps still burning around Castor’s corpse. On her face by the altar lay the Smoke Hag. He could just hear the rattle of her breath. Unfortunately. Why couldn’t she h
ave died? But he left her as she was, because he had no wish to kill someone who could still talk and move.
He crossed the court, climbed the stairs, and turning off his flashlight, emerged under the night sky and the swaying branches of trees.
“Thank Thoz,” he thought, breathing the fresh, warm air. The slab of stone that had covered the opening was still propped up. He kicked it, and it slammed down into place. Too heavy for Zavira and Metuza to move, it would have to await the other witches. Then he put away his camera and flashlight and fumbled his way back toward the river as best he could, guided by the sound of the flowing water. Both ships were still anchored, but only the Athena’s boat remained on the riverbank, a lantern swinging over her on a pole.
Clay strode up and discovered a few crewmen, the Captain, and a pale and angry Zendor. The Unknown King took the lantern in one hand and gripping Clay with the other, pulled him aside down the beach.
“Perhaps you forgot where we were going?”
“Sorry, Zendor, but I just had this opportunity.”
“Opportunity! To do what?”
“Well, actually, I just desecrated the Black Hall of Purgos. Really.”
Zendor’s sweaty face grew taut. “You did?”
“Yeah, I chopped up Howdan and some other guys.” He drew his sword and showed Zendor the traces of gray dust still on it.
For once Zendor had no quick answer. He looked from the blade to Clay’s face and chewed his lower lip.
“That’s—pretty good.”
“Don’t fall all over yourself praising me,” Clay laughed.
He told Zendor the rest.
“Right,” Zendor said at last. “Let’s get back to the ship.” He laid a warning hand on Clay’s shoulder. “Just tell them you were lost. And listen, we’re not going east anymore.” Clay wondered why. “Think, boy. When the Hag finally gets back to the Cerberus, it’ll be the same chase we had on the Olympus. That is, unless we have Captain Quirinus put us on the first ship we meet going back to Farja. We’ll trick them again. The last thing they’d expect.”
“But back to Farja? What’ll we do there?”
“Just cross town and take passage on the Olympus again.”
“Oh, all right. And then what?”
Zendor looked very tired. “Ask me when we get that far.”