The Canyons of Unib
FOR FIVE DAYS the Batthsloci company had dogged Malik through a maddening maze of copper coloured canyons. A man named Meezel, a Stalker of unyielding zeal and questionable skill, led these trackers. His aggressive nature had cost him the lives of his death hunt companions as often as it had earned him his quarry. On this very campaign ten others set out with him, and of them only four remained. Malik had taken four by sword; the unrelenting heat of this inhospitable land had claimed the rest.
Here, the days were stagnant and endless. Even in the shadowy depths of the chasms between sheer towering cliffs the heat was overwhelming. Traveling in this oppressive clime reminded Malik of traversing the desert Shumek by day. Late at night, when one hoped for a brief reprieve, scorching winds whipped through the dusty channels of rock and tortured men as they tried to rest.
Water was scarce. Only the narrow, mud caked ditches which crisscrossed the bottoms of this hellish place offered any hope of refreshment, and that was but a sour swill one might hope was water.
Late on that fifth day, Malik concluded that he had successfully distanced himself from his pursuers. He stopped alongside a ribbon of muck which bisected a craggy hollow enveloped on three sides by reddish brown sandstone ridges. Collected within this bowl of land were millions of smooth stones, ranging in size from delicate pebbles to immense boulders. Once upon a time, this narrow gutter must have raged as a mammoth river through this valley, and from its belly these stones had been cast. Now, it was nothing more than a slow moving river of mud, flanked by perilously sodden ground much akin to quicksand.
Malik’s steed showed the strain of excessive flight. Its ribs had begun to prod through its thin hide. Malik cast off the cumbersome sack which burdened the animal, tossing it heavily onto the ground. The horse shuddered and sighed heavily. Malik knew death would claim it before he had cleared the canyons.
The renegade sought shelter in a shadow shed by a tall rock formation soaring skyward from the centre of the valley. He sat down, set his sword across his knees and closed his eyes.
The canyons taunted Malik as he strove to meditate, carrying unrecognizable sounds to his ears from distant quarters. He remained anxious and alert as he sat cross legged on a flat boulder. He was well aware that those who pursued him might come upon him at any moment, and that his thirst for a brief respite might have caused him to misjudge his position.
No, he trusted his instincts. The Stalkers had lost his trail a day ago.
The Blackrock Priesthood drove those men. The Priests’ wrath pushed this death hunt far from the borders Batthsloc, even while the kingdom wrestled with internal chaos as it tried to wash away the stains of a bloody revolution. The Priesthood longed to see Malik fall beneath the blade of a Stalker; Durksair—self-proclaimed priest king—would not rest until Malik’s soul had been dispatched to Neparatata of the soulseas.
Durksair had branded Malik a traitor, and a deserter.
He had abandoned soldiers under his charge. He had forsaken his title and his rank as an officer in the Batthsloci army. He had left his soulmate behind. He had done all this, and severed all ties to his past, to pursue an obscure legend.
But his quest had turned sour. He failed to find the wealth and power that lured him into the adventure, and the price he paid for indulging his fantasies had been high.
After his sobering defeat, Malik had blazed a trail through eastern Todatia, then north into lands no Westerner had ever before ventured. These were the forbidden lands of the east, lands even the imperialistic Naobi shunned. The barren lowlands were known only as Unib, which meant ‘brutal hide of the world.’ According to Eastern legends, only the feral half human Rassiks dwelled in this place. The Rassik clan was said to be the only member of the original Tribes of Urr which never passed into civilization.
Since entering these accursed canyons, Malik had seen no trace of life other than his own foes. He had, however, heard strange sounds frequently. These clatterings and shufflings might have been natural occurrences; or, they might have been sounds issued by someone or thing living in amid the age old wind eroded cliffs.
Malik carelessly drifted into sleep as he sat there, and the day sank away behind the tall, stone turrets. When he awoke, he found himself staring at the corpse of his steed, which had sunk slightly into the soft muck bordering the creek. He was shocked at the amount of time he had lost, and fearful that Meezel’s party might be nearby.
But it was not Batthsloci Stalkers that Malik saw charging out of the shadows toward him.
From across the breadth of the valley, they came. In the cryptic moonlight a band of brutish people—both men and women in their number—raced toward Malik, their intentions as clear and keen as the weapons they held on high. Malik counted ten of them. He quickly scanned the shadows for more but found none.
Two of the savages brandished swords clumsily, but most carried nothing more than stones. On either end of the line was a spearman. They howled wildly as they approached.
Malik knew at once that he faced members of the ancient tribe of Rassiks.
The people rushing toward him were red skinned, their flesh being almost the same colour as the cliffs around them. Each was crowned by a cap of curly black hair. Their faces were coloured by blue and black paints which were arranged in several unique designs. Aside from the loincloths about their midsections, they were naked.
Malik stood ground and waited.
His sword was unsheathed by the time the mob had crossed the ditch, and it was shredding through flesh only an instant later. The Rassiks screamed and wailed as they hurled stones at the outlander who dared to set foot on their sacred lands. The futility of their assault was not clear until all but one lay silent upon that sacred ground, entrails spewing forth from gaping wounds.
The last Rassik must have realized that it was wiser for him to retreat—perhaps to secure support—than to remain and attack this formidable opponent. He fled back across the ditch and across the rock field, sprinting as quickly as his legs would allow.
Malik gave chase.
He followed not to stalk and kill the survivor, but to seek out his people. He hoped that he could reason with the Rassiks, and that they might provide him with temporary shelter and aid against those hunting him. Retrieving only the most dire items from his sack he set out after the savage, wary that his bid to garner aid from these primitives might only give rise to more deadly peril.
City in the Stones
Whether the Rassik was unaware of Malik or was simply not concerned with his presence, he made no attempt to guise his trail or dupe his tracker. In and out of seemingly dead end recesses and gulches, and down through ravines he darted, descending ever farther into the labyrinth of cliffs. Never, Malik knew, would he alone be able to navigate through the wastes to arrive in a more welcome environment; and this concern kept him close to the Rassik though his feet blistered in his sandal boots and the normally solid muscles of his legs strained.
With his legs practically ready to collapse beneath him, and with his lungs billowing the dry, torrid air, Malik shot about a pass the Rassik had traversed moments earlier. A wide, flat plain spread out before him...a perfectly level, glassy surface uncluttered by any objects, including stones, and of the same reddish brown hue of this country’s mountains. It extended some distance, appearing from his vantage point to be circular. Surrounding this glossy floor was the steep wall of a cloud capped cliff, taller than Malik had ever seen. It was a practically uninterrupted palisade, the only opening being the vast archway where he was now poised.
The Rassik had disappeared, and Malik scanned vainly to find him, or even a clue as to where he had vanished. There were no visible caves in the vicinity where he might have ducked, nor any objects for him to hide behind. Malik cautiously set foot on the uncommon surface, half expecting it to give way beneath him.
As he walked further toward the centre of the canyon, he heard the distorted echoes of what he thought to be voices. The ground upon which he trod he studied curiously... it was as if a broad sheet of thick glass had been set down in the valley. At twenty paces in, the hair on his neck bristled as he detected movement behind him. Whirling about, he barely caught sight of the Rassik withdrawing into an entrance halfway up the cliff’s face. The hole was in the side of the mountain, almost directly above the opening both the Rassik and Malik had passed through.
It took Malik some moments to shift his attention from the small portal through which the Rassik had climbed, to focus instead on the grander view. There sprawled before him, tucked neatly away in a massive cleft in the rock, was a city of extensive size cut from the stone of the mountain. Row after row of windowed shelters were connected by ladders. Tapestries hung from every opening, it seemed, and there were colossal, though crude, sculptures framing each level. Encircling the network of chambers, painted all around the city, was an enormous serpent adorning the rock face... the colours were unnaturally bright, from the green of its scaled body, to the crimson red fire in its eyes.
Malik saw standing on the multi-tiered dwelling a number of Rassiks, including a handful which he took to be guards by their dress and weaponry. Many scurried about, retreating from the open ledges into doorways, obviously not anticipating the lone invader. Malik was standing on their land, and he expected an attack.
He did not expect, however, what happened next. From some corner of the city, a greeting came... in a language he could understand.
‘Salutations, friend,’ the call bellowed out. ‘You have chanced upon Bodra of the Rassik clan... it is not often this city welcomes visitors.’
Malik did not respond. He searched for the speaker in the openings and on the floors of the eight stories he counted. The guards stood rigid, immobile sentries of stone like their statue counterparts. The words did not issue forth from one of these men.
‘Are these your companions, I wonder.’ As the question was asked, three corpses were dangled out of separate, triangular apertures set in the lowest level. The grimacing, pale faces of three Batthsloc soldiers stared down at Malik... their bodies had been stripped of clothing and coloured with blue and black paints, and the almost imperceptible incisions lining each carcasses’ abdomen was evidence that the savages had stripped them of their innards. Malik wondered to himself what had become of the other remaining Batthsloci.
‘They are not my allies,’ Malik did not care so much that it was the truth he spoke as he was concerned with distancing himself from the dead men. ‘Indeed, they sought to kill me.’
‘If that should be the case, then we have done you a great service by sacrificing them. It seems to me that you owe us for our labour. What do you have to offer us?’
‘I have no money to repay you... I would gladly barter my services for yours. I am a skilled warrior, I can train your soldiers for battle.’
‘Our fighters are capable... as you can see they made quick work of your foes...’
‘True, but I cut down nine of them in instants... and I wonder how many were lost slaying these three soldiers you now proudly display?’ Malik was stern, his patience limited. The Rassiks had the advantage, and he had no other hope of survival then to make of them comrades.
‘I will meet with you, stranger. Your proposal is not without merit... it interests me.’ Tossed from a portal on the fifth floor, a rope tumbled down to snap the ground. With no further dialogue, Malik approached the line, and commenced his ascent into Bodra.
Cullimmanari of the Rassiks
Upon reaching the portal, Malik was met and escorted by two stern guards. Their faces were solemn under the bluish paint, their eyes stared solidly forward. Each carried spears tipped by flintheads, and wore at their sides a small satchels made from animal hide. Tightly strung, orange beads circled one’s neck, accompanied by another necklace which was comprised mostly of small bones.
They walked along a narrow ledge for a short distance, then entered a modest chamber set back from the cliff face. Adjoining this room were three others: Two small cells, apparently storage areas, were to the left and right; directly ahead was a wide opening into a much larger hall, decorated extensively. In contrast to the bare antechamber, not a trifle of the walls in the far room were void of design. As they approached and passed through the broad archway, the Batthsloci gazed at the intricate system of depictions painted across all surfaces of the room, including the floor and ceiling. All colours were used in the sketches, though it was the recurring blue and black which was predominant outlining human as well as animal representations.
Malik did not search long for reason to the rudimentary artwork of overwhelming... he detected a pattern easily running from one rounded corner to another opposite it. A history, he judged it to be, of this tribe, from their arrival in Unib to some unknown end date. He read of hunts and wars, famine and plague... all was there in their primitive chronology, painted on the hidden walls of their concealed city.
Two access tunnels, scarcely large enough to allow a man passage, were cut into the back wall near its centre, one above the other. About the circumference of these holes set into the rock were the skulls of small rodents, arranged so that the jaws jutted out and into the portal.
Malik was left alone in the room, his escorts turned and retraced their path. He studied the drawings only minutes more before another figure, a tall, staunch man, paraded into the room. This man was no Rassik: He stood far taller than the rest, and his skin was not reddish brown, but dark—darker even than the Islanders’ skin which Malik was oft’ said to have. He wore a loose fitting, black waistcoat and yellow breeches tied by a red sash about his waist. Strapped to his midsection was an enormous scimitar, its scabbard adorned by large red and green jewels.
‘I am Cullimmanari’Ra Turen. As you can observe, I am not one of these people... but I have become their guide and overseer. You have stumbled across the tribe of the Rassik, reputed to be a Tribe of Urr.’ The well-muscled, self-proclaimed leader of the Rassiks circled Malik, gauging his strength and ability. ‘I would ask your name and origin, stranger.’
‘My name is Malik, and I once was a soldier of Batthsloc. Now I am hunted by my countrymen. You have my thanks for ridding me of the three outside your city.’ Malik wondered how long the bloated corpses hanging at the ends of the Rassiks’ ropes would swing, how long before weather and animal would diminish them to bones. Cullimmanari came to rest facing Malik, only an arm’s length away. The eyes of this king of savages’ were bulging and streaked with blood vessels. Matted and glistening with sweat, his short, black hair was strictly cut to cover a circular patch not dipping below the top of his brow, and perfectly even all around his head. ‘What is your heritage, Cullimmanari’Ra Turen?’
‘I could tell you the name of my country, but you would not recognize it. It was across that great ocean that the people of the continent seem unfit to span... you are all so helpless on the open seas.’ Cullimmanari had taken a decidedly superior tone speaking with Malik, and the Batthsloci was notably irritated. ‘Do not take offence, I cannot help it that your wooden ships cannot endure the battering squalls of the West Sea, nor the jagged teeth of the Shifting Reefs. When I sailed here ages ago, I saw the wrecks of a dozen such vessels, splayed out on invisible crags.’
‘Why did you come to this land? Were you exiled from your own?’ Malik sought to lessen Cullimmanari’s dominance of the dialogue.
‘I came to this land,’ he spoke sharply, ‘to plunder its riches, as would any adventurer... as would you, I wager.’
‘And you became instead the potentate of this race of primitives? These are not the riches an adventurer such as I seeks.’
‘There is more to Bodra than you might imagine, Malik.’ Cullimmanari allowed himself to smile, and his as he spoke, he turned toward the archway and motioned for Malik to follow. ‘The most precious treasures of the world are locked not in the gilded palaces of long dead kings... they are swept into remote, undeveloped countries and guarded by barbaric people, who are unaware of the fortune which lies within their grasp. If you follow, I shall explain further, Malik. I may have use for you.’
The League of Firehearts
Cullimmanari’Ra Turen conducted Malik to more private chambers through long winding and tapering tunnels, so cramped toward the end that both men had to crouch awkwardly to continue. By many rooms they trod, some having narrow, barred windows which Malik took to be dungeons. The further they descended down the slender channels, they colder the air became... more pleasing than the insufferable, choking breath of the Unib canyons.
Malik saw no Rassiks as they hurried along, and thought that Cullimmanari must have forbade them entrance to these lower regions. In these deep recesses, there was no sign of Rassik culture... no wall paintings, no sculptures, no tapestries... even the cut of the passageway contrasted what he witnessed elsewhere. This region was Cullimmanari’s own, Malik realized, not just home to, but constructed by this odd individual.
Inside his personal chamber, Cullimmanari seated himself on a chair of polished aconite. His hands rested snugly about the serpent forms which were carved from the stone to form armrests. Malik, finding no other place to sit, squatted on the floor, leaning against a wall. Here, there were articles that were clearly not Rassiki: On a wooden table there rested a clear, crystal sphere in the centre of which was a smaller, blue coloured orb; elsewhere, suspended from the ceiling by four strands of rope, the skull of elcer fish hanged, the surface decorated by odd gems and symmetric designs of divers colours; and, a pale blue tapestry was fixed to the wall, its face bearing the symbols of a language Malik did not recognize.
‘I bring you here that we may speak in private. The Rassiks worship me as their leader and their god, and on the upper levels it is rare that their eyes are not directed toward me. Here, in these lower levels, however, they will not wander. Because I created this area alone, to them it is a holy land, and they forbade themselves to enter it.’
‘And they built the rest of Bodra?’
‘Certainly not... from what I can comprehend of the painted history in the Uchmal Chamber, and from what I perceive is truth in their ceremonial chants, I believe their tribe stumbled across this site sometime during the First Age of Dawning, about the time that the One Dynasty was born in your lands. Finding it abandoned by its founders, they settled here.’
‘And the treasure of which you spoke,’ Malik asked, uninterested in the history of these savages, ‘I expect that the people who built this place hid a their cache of spoils somewhere in these canyons?’
‘No, quite the contrary.’ Cullimmanari stood and walked to the tapestry. ‘The narrative upon this hanging, in the language of my race, describes a time when our ancestors tried to colonize this land. Not a peaceful migration from one coast to another... but a violent invasion, employing the powers of a band of Dassmen, sorcerers more skilled than any I have seen on this continent... so deadly each one commanded a host of demi gods.’ Cullimmanari paused, studying the words. ‘The League of Firehearts, twelve Dassmen, tore the barriers between this world and the Inner World asunder, and marched a war caravan through the nether regions and into this very country.’
‘Through Tomec an army travelled?’ Malik scoffed, ‘That is ludicrous. There is no air in Tomec...’
‘That is fable... there is air enough, though it is stagnant and stale, and it gives birth to the most base breeds, the foulest things of this realm. And though those beasts of Tomec may be vile and wild, they yet have the knowledge to wage war... and that they did. The League of Firehearts had no intention of conquering the Inner World; they meant to use it as a channel by which their army could reach your continent. But hideous legions arose at the encroachment, and my ancestors were chased around the dark pit for many seasons.’
‘Yet they reached this land?’
‘But few survived. A handful of warriors escaped, along with one Dassman. The Dassman, the legacy of the League of Firehearts, was drained of energy and could not defend himself against his own soldiers; outrage overtook them shortly after they emerged from Tomec, and they slew him to avenge the deaths of the ten thousand others flayed and boiled alive by the war barrens of the Inner World.’
‘What of riches?’ Malik stood, growing impatient. He tramped over next to Cullimmanari, his hand fastened around a corner of the tapestry, ‘I do not care about Rassiks, and I do not care about your people. If there is a treasure to be found, and you wish my aid in securing it, tell me now... I do not intend to spend the remainder of my days being lectured to.’
‘Very well, the treasure: Located in this very place are the vast fortunes of the surviving warriors. They spent the balance of their lives raiding the dwellings in these canyons, wiping out whatever race built Bodra and its sister cities. They also campaigned in lands east of here, always returning to this place... the first settlement they conquered. Here, they deposited their pillage... and when the last one died, they left no one to guard the loot except the remains of the Dassman.’
‘Why didn’t another band from your country come to their aid... or at least to claim the treasure?’
‘My country fell to ruin shortly after the Unwanted War of Tomec. Now, most of the territory that was my homeland is inhabited by tribes of nomads, no more civilized than the Rassiks.’ Cullimmanari looked at the objects adorning his chamber. Along with him, they were all that remained of his empire. ‘I know where the treasure lies,’ he continued, his voice noticeably more grim, ‘the Rassiks have no idea. I need you to help me retrieve it and defend me from the Rassik... they will not be as determined to steal the loot as they will be to keep me their godhead from finally escaping Bodra.’
‘I cannot take on the whole of their forces! Was I able to, I’d not be here now.’
‘I am not without power, Malik. I, too, will fight... as you see, I carry a sword; I am a fine swordsman. Likewise, I carry a hishima,’ he produced a small, silvery cube which he quickly closed his fist over, ‘A tool of Dassmen; I am an adept Dassman.’
Malik could see the glint of madness in his eyes. How long, wondered the Batthsloci, had this sorcerer been imprisoned here, by both his own greed, and by the truculent zealots that believed him a deity. Such a duration, spent as a recluse amongst a throng of uneducated brutes, was sufficient to make any mortal man mad... and Cullimmanari was a sorcerer, no doubt capable of extending life to an abnormal measure. To follow one of such unreliable character was unwise. But Malik, requiring the funds to travel further east, was impaled on the hook of treasure.
‘I shall assist you, for half of hoard we find.’ Malik expected argument, but none was given. ‘When does our looting begin, then?’
The Dassman’s Crypt
Malik rested for some time in the chamber of Cullimmanari’Ra Turen. His host provided him with wine served in golden chalice, followed by a roasted cuurak which Malik devoured wolfishly, gnawing the meat and sucking the marrow out of the bones. Sometime after the feast, the thin tone of a jingling bell stole into the room. Cullimmanari rose, marched to the doorway where a small bell hung, previously unnoticed by Malik. The king of savages struck it three times with a short, metallic wand.
Soon, Malik traced the advance of sandaled feet down the corridor, and he looked to Cullimmanari. ‘Who approaches at your call?’
‘One of my wives, Beechaka. The Rassiks appoint a new mate for my needs at the onset of each season; most of them are dull and thick, as is most of the tribe. Beechaka, though, is quite different. She has learned much of my native tongue, she is the only Rassik who ever made the attempt.’
‘Are our languages the same, Cullimmanari? I have been meaning to ask you that...’ Malik, against his judgment and nature, had become interested in Cullimmanari’s origins. The Batthsloci had dreamed before of sailing to the shores of this man’s lands.
‘No, I had to learn your language just as I had to learn the Rassik’s. Neither was particularly challenging.’
A female Rassik, dressed in a wraparound garment, appeared at the doorway. Her head was bowed in reverence to Cullimmanari, revealing her long, black hair secured in a tail not unlike Malik’s own. Her bare arms were crossed and pressed to her bosom, so that her hands clung to her shoulders. While her arms looked frail, her legs—exposed from the knee down—were thick with muscle. She raised her face and from her lips came the words, ‘Csinnah, Cullimmanari aka ebre mocha.’
‘Beechaka, akani tuk mocha,’ responded Cullimmanari. The woman entered, and drew near to her mate. He turned again to Malik, and continued, ‘She will accompany us. I take her when I leave Bodra.’
‘Can she be trusted not to warn her fellow tribesmen?’
‘I trust her. She will not be a burden, she served the tribe in her youth as a runner scout.’
‘So be it,’ Malik agreed warily. ‘What is our course, then?’
Cullimmanari, with Beechaka kneeling at his side, presented Malik a diagram of Bodra, a detailed etching on stone mapping the city and a system of passages running through the adjacent cliffs. ‘The shaft that runs deepest on that chart,’ he paused allowing Malik’s eyes to fix on it, ‘is the path we take. We enter it by one of the two venting channels in the Uchmal Chamber, and descend down a slender flue using footholds dug by the builders. There will be not one measure of light below us, and we dare not use torches in such a confined space. How far we drop, I cannot say, as you see on the map the shaft runs down to the edge of the map, where its ends are left open. I believe that means it continues further.’
‘At its bed we find our goal?’
‘No; the shaft opens into a cavern. Somewhere here the treasure is hidden.’
‘Are you certain that our efforts will be rewarded? There is no spoils room on this map... it seems you depend on your legend to guide us,’ said Malik, well aware of the deceptions of legend and fable. ‘And should there be treasure, how do we remove it?’
‘That is something yet to be determined.’
The two adventurous plunderers of Bodra’s hidden cache waited little time to return to the Uchmal Chamber, the painted room. Cullimmanari dove first through the lower of the two skull rimmed portals. As Malik sought to follow, the god king’s voice shouted from the hole.
‘Malik, I forgot to warn you: These animal jaws which line these openings are not merely ornamental... the teeth have been dipped in dagnaberry poison. Take heed not to touch them, for if even one were to dig into your flesh, you’d fall dead in instants.’
Malik ran from the centre of the room and plunged into the entrance. He lit upon a puny ledge, scarcely large enough to accommodate his feet. Cullimmanari he found a short length down the pit, his hands and feet inserted into small, dugout notches. There were such notches as far down as Malik could see, which was no great distance in the well of darkness.
Both men laboured as the descended, weighted by their weapons, torches for later use, and empty sacks to carry out their find. They felt that they had gone unseen into the room and into the shaft, and they left Beechaka behind in Cullimmanari’s chamber... and this at least left them unburdened by the threat of detection. Cullimmanari assured Malik that even if they were seen entering the channel that no Rassik would follow... for in their own beliefs, this very pit was the path to haunted netherworld of their dead ancestors. Malik himself began to believe as the unmistakable stench of rotting carcasses grew chokingly powerful.
Their climb lasted longer than either anticipated, and the speck of light above them that reminded them of the city had long since vanished when finally Cullimmanari’s foot touched bottom. He felt about uneasily at first, making certain that the ground was solid, then jumped backward, laughing.
‘At last, off that accursed wall! We’ve found the floor, Malik!’
‘Light us a torch then, man... let us see where we’ve landed.’
Cullimmanari’s torch ignited, and the base of the shaft was illuminated. Strewn about were rotting organs and entrails, splayed out over a level of bones. Rats, their eyes reflecting the glowing red of the torch, scattered from their feast as the light was cast. ‘Once this pit devoured the sacrificed,’ answered Cullimmanari to Malik’s unspoken inquiry. The puzzlement on his face had asked for him. ‘The bodies were tossed here to appease the ghosts of the Rassik forefathers.’
‘But this,’ Malik nudged a shimmering heap of partially eaten innards, ‘This is fresh.’
‘The Batthsloci soldiers, your trackers.’ Cullimmanari paused. ‘They slew four or five Rassik warriors. The war chief had them captured, slit open and drained. They collected blood and scooped guts into three bowls, which were dumped down the pit, where they believe their ancestors will devour them.’ Once again, the recollection of the three men hanging outside Bodra made Malik keenly aware that one must still be lurking in the canyons.
Cullimmanari moved cautiously forward, toward a wall. His torch enlightened an inscription on the surface, which he read aloud: ‘ “Their souls scarred, their bodies crushed, the warrior kings of Vulmirxu stood on high, their swords drawn, the thieving snakes they enslaved.” ’
‘The survivors wrote this?’ asked the Batthsloci.
‘Inscribed their keep with it, yes. The words were not theirs, they are from a sacred book.’ He scanned the wall, looking for other vestiges of his dead civilization. ‘There is no opening, but I feel certain the treasure is beyond this barrier.’
Malik crossed over to the wall and ran his hands along the face. His fingers dug into dirty cracks between enormous stones, hoping for something to give way. ‘Help me, look for a loose stone, a hole. If we cannot find a way in, we’ll have to tear this whole wall down!’
Together they sought passage through the wall, expending much energy in the dismal cavern lit by two torches. As they worked on the wall, Malik listened to the rats working on the fresh morsels his pursuers had provided them. He heard them carefully steal through the labyrinth of bones, then sink their teeth into the meat and toil until they tore free a piece. Then they would scurry back to their holes, screeching all the way.
‘Cullimmanari,’ Malik turned to his companion, ‘How long since the last sacrifice?’
‘Aside from your countrymen, almost a generation.’
Malik grimaced. Abandoning the wall, he hiked back across the floor, kicking and shattering bones on the way. He knelt and brushed aside bones, searching for rat holes in the floor, along the base of the pit. The rats had certainly not gone the length of a generation hungry... somehow, they must have found food elsewhere. Malik guessed that they had their own passage to and from Bodra... and that it might also run into the treasure chamber.
He probed not long before finding a breach in the stone floor, and running from it was a thin fissure. Large enough to fit a head was the opening, and Malik dipped in his arm to explore its interior. When his forearm was immersed to his elbow, he heard rats shuffling away from his poking fingers, moving in the direction they suspected the treasure to lie.
‘Here...’ he called to Cullimmanari, who had not even noticed his departure from the wall, ‘I’ve found a way in. The rats have built a tunnel into the next room.’
‘That would suit us fine if we were rats, Malik.’
The Batthsloci withdrew his arm. Standing, he pounded his foot into the edge of the hole. At first, there was no visible effect... but after two or three such blows, the stone began to crack. Within ten, the hole was wide enough to accommodate either of the two immense warriors.
As the echo of Malik’s battering died, both men became aware of a low, heavy sound emanating from beyond the wall. The noise seemed at first the grating of a mammoth stone being displaced; yet, it grew to a deep, drone that was reminiscent of mortal wails, only too unwholesome. As Malik stood listening intently to the tones, the opening in the floor vomited a stream of screaming rats. Many brushed against his lower legs as the hurled themselves against the farthest wall of the pit, trying to climb it in vain.
‘More than treasure in that room, it seems.’ Malik stated with cynicism. Cullimmanari he could not trust fully, as the god king undoubtedly knew what traps had been laid, what demonic sentries posted. ‘Shall we crawl through this burrow and face it?’ ‘I’ve not wasted so much time in the place to leave it empty handed. I’ll venture first.’
Cullimmanari dropped into the hole. The rats’ passage was just wide enough for them to travel, though some points had to be widened by hand. It took them as long to traverse the short tunnel, digging out the compacted soil as necessary, as it had taken to descend into the pit. All the while, the bemoaning, unseen keeper of the treasure sang them a haunting dirge, and sent pale crimson flashes of light dancing ahead of them.
Finally, they broke through, finding a hole from which they could exit the narrow channel. They found themselves climbing into a room cluttered not by chests heavy with bobbles and jewels, nor carpeted by spilled coins and gems... instead, they arrived in a circular hall, the ceiling high and the base wide, and the walls coated by sealed tombs. Upon these tombs were carved the figures of men—presumably those held within—each brandishing some weapon or magic. There must have been fifty such stone coffins set in the walls, each one bearing a different face.
By a dim, reddish light which spilled down from the vaulted ceiling, symbols set into these tombs were visible. Cullimmanari obviously recognized the language for he took to reading aloud the names of the dead immediately, augmenting the chambers’ own strange glow with that of his torch. Malik paced about grimly as the lone Dassman—the last member of his race—wandered about the room fascinated with his discovery. To one so far removed from his heritage, the find must have been a treasure in itself... but not so to Malik.
‘Cullimmanari... there is no treasure here... I hope that there is more to this legend than a room full of rotting corpses.’
‘There is, foreigner,’ came the voice of a woman. Beechaka suddenly emerged from the wall; entering the room not through a door or portal, but out of the stone itself. There was a pale glow about her that was unnatural, and her eyes burned an eerie, green fire. ‘There is much more than you have been told.’
Ustog the Possessor
A perturbed Malik eyed Cullimmanari contemptuously, but saw by his companion’s look of amazement that he too was bewildered by his mate’s appearance. Returning to gaze upon the form of Beechaka, bathed in a bluish witchfire, he discovered her to be hovering a short distance above the floor. The wrap around vesture had been shed, and she floated into the room naked.
‘What wizardry is this!’ cried Cullimmanari. He tensed further as she approached, his hand moving hesitantly toward his scabbard.
‘Your woman is a sorceress herself, by the gods of Urtoch!’ Immediately Malik was aware of the new danger: This harlot might well have alerted the Rassiks to their god king’s betrayal and anticipated flight. ‘A good sign this is not, Cullimmanari.’
‘I am no sorceress, Batthsloc dog,’ screeched Beechaka. ‘I am Ustog of Ghan’Gallachi.’
‘Ustog? That is impossible! You are slain and spoiled, you cannot be.’ Cullimmanari was familiar with the name, and Malik read the apprehension on his countenance as he debated. The god king exuded unnatural fear. ‘Beechaka... what has become of you...’ The crypt grew suddenly colder, and the twin torches that were propped against a corner were doused. The light which had spilled into the room from the unseen regions above was likewise diminished, leaving only the weird radiance that Beechaka’s body burned. The two raiders were barely close enough to be touched by the faint glow, and the tombs were now drown in the gloom. Once more, an ominous clamour arose, the grinding and grating of stones accompanied by inhuman groans.
Two swords were drawn in that cavern, as stealthily the men took to the defence. That some awesome force would crack open the sealed coffins and animate the dead figures within seemed suddenly and horrifyingly possible. Beechaka’s arms lifted, and from her out turned palms white flames emerged, dancing in the air. Under her breath, inaudible to Malik, words were spoken with great speed. A thunderous crash made the floor shudder and the men jerk, and dust billowed into the circle of light. The first din was followed swiftly by a second and third, and more after that.
Malik expected at any instant to be assaulted by a host of menacing corpses, wielding rusted blades as weapons. He scanned intently the darkness, trying to detect their approach. Cullimmanari, thrusting his sword at shadows, watched his mate nervously. It was the form of Beechaka... it was unquestionably her body, but he could not believe that the forces at work were hers. And that which had been proclaimed was unthinkable.
‘Ustog is dead!’ he cried again, looking to Malik. ‘Ustog was the last Dassman, and his own soldiers executed him and disposed of his remains here in this place... yet that is not Beechaka who speaks.’
‘Then the Dassman’s ghost is back to haunt us, and is possessing your woman! If you are a Dassman of any power, you’d best utilize your resources soon...’
‘Listen, Malik: There is one possibility... if the soldiers did not grind Ustog’s skull to powder, his Essence may survive. If this is so, I cannot equal him.’
Darkness then engulfed them both. Beechaka’s body either vanished or ceased blazing. Malik heard the shuffling of bare feet on the floor to his right, toward the tombs. Only one person—or thing—scampered along, moving parallel with the wall, not toward the men. Silently, Malik moved to find the torches, darting across the black room. His motion made not a sound, and Cullimmanari stood frozen, unaware of the Batthsloci’s bid.
When retrieved, Malik discovered the torch still warm. He need but send one shower of sparks raining by striking rock with the metal of his sword, and the torch was lit. He tossed it toward the centre of the room immediately, trying not to draw attention to his placement.
As the flames grew taller, the tombs were again visible... and appeared completely undisturbed. Had the whole affair been hallucination? Or, was the cavern truly infested with spectres? Malik remained alert as he crept up beside Cullimmanari.
‘You believe this to be the doing of Ustog?’ questioned Malik of the god king. ‘Would he trifle with us so... or hasn’t he the ability to do us physical harm?’
‘No, if indeed Ustog’s skull is whole, and his Essence roams this pit, he could do with us as he wishes.’
‘It would seem that he has left us be to sack his crypt in search of treasure... a benevolent wraith he is!’
‘Do not tempt him, Batthsloci... Ustog would have bodies eaten from within by worms before allowing us to deface his crypt. Consider the scorn he must have for his countrymen after they buried him here... I do not believe we are secure for an instant in this place.’
Impatient and stubborn, Malik grew red with anger. Toiled so feverishly to return empty handed he had not... he would find loot in this chamber with or without Ustog’s blessing.
‘I will stay and bash open each tomb, follow every possible branch of caves which depart from this place until I find your ancestor’s spoils... I have challenged gods before, I will not falter before a meagre sorcerer!’
Cullimmanari’s eyes grew wide, and he stepped back from Malik, half expecting the apparition of the Dassman to crush the unbeliever where he stood. When nothing happened, Cullimmanari breathed calmly.
‘You took a chance, you did.’
‘As did you.’ Sweat rolled down Malik’s face, and gleamed on his broad chest. His eyes were tight with anger, and he raised a fist to the god king. ‘You knew of this possibility, Cullimmanari. That is why you needed the assistance of a strong willed and able bodied warrior; you don’t need me to fend off Rassiks who may give chase to you as you run off with this treasure... you brought me along to do battle with this Dassman. Alone, you’ve not the might to match his ghost... but allied with another, you have a chance.’
‘And if that is the case,’ Cullimmanari returned, ‘What bother is it to you? You would dare anything to gain fortune, and would still have ventured here had I warned you of this additional obstacle. So why do you complain?’
‘Because I dislike being misled... only cowards taint and twist truths to further their own cause.’
No more words were spoken for some time. The two were resigned to locate treasure, and set about their task. Cullimmanari found two tunnels leading away from the crypt, and took off to explore one. Meanwhile, Malik remained behind, preferring to plunder the tombs of their contents. He presumed the dead were once warriors, and normally warriors were laid to rest with arms, amulets, and assorted trinkets they won in life. Should there be no mound of riches in the belly of this mountain, then at least these small things would serve to placate him.
It took Malik very little time to wrench open the tomb. His sword found a gap into which it easily slid, and he pried the top off the casket. The stone slipped free and fell a short distance to the floor; then from its upright position, it plunged forward to slam the floor with its face. Malik jumped aside just before the cover collapsed... had he lagged an instant behind, he would have been crushed beneath its great weight.
With the lid shattered on the ground, the tomb spat forth a dried up corpse... the grotesque figure slumped forward and tumbled out, landing in a heap on the remnants of the coffin’s cover. Along with bones and frayed garments, there was a well preserved dagger and a rounded shield with concentric bands of gold set in its front. Malik’s booted feet stepped without reverence upon the skeleton as he grabbed up the dagger, tossed the shield aside, and peered into the tomb. Inside, he found a small pouch, which, when opened, was found to contain a handful of small, silver coins.
He continued, feeling little remorse at having become a grave robber, and after twenty of the caskets had been defaced and looted, he had retained more articles than he could hope to carry back. He decided to forsake most of the weapons, and concentrate on the gold and silver pieces. After only five more, he was ready to quit, having gathered a sufficient hoard to return with.
Since Cullimmanari had not yet returned from his venture, Malik—out of boredom—decided to open one more tomb. Again, he located a fissure wide enough to accommodate his blade, inserted it, and loosed the mammoth rock. It fell as all its brothers, fracturing when it impacted with the ground. Malik waited for the grim contents to follow, and was surprised when none did. He moved closer, to see what held the corpse in place, and gasped at what he saw.
There was no rotting body in this coffin; in fact, it was no coffin at all... it was a doorway, and from the false tomb a passage meandered off into a darkened distance. This, thought the Batthsloci, was the path to riches.
The Gold of Warriors
Malik called out, breaking the silence between himself and the king of Rassiks. The Batthsloci, having discovered what was surely the passage to the treasure chamber, sprinted to the tunnel entrance Cullimmanari had passed through. He shouted deeply, trying to rouse his fellow thief from unnecessary exploration. When there came no response, Malik took off down the stone corridor which had been carefully carved from the inner mountain. Unlike the crypt cavern, this tunnel was perfectly cut, as tall as it was wide, its surfaces smooth. At regular intervals, there were notches in the walls which Malik suspected once held torches.
He shot down the hall, which was barely taller than he, searching for Cullimmanari. Although he was irritated by the man’s attempt to dupe him earlier, his anger was abated by his increased faith in finding the true treasure they set out to uncover. At least Cullimmanari had not lied about that.
It occurred to Malik that Ustog’s ghost, possessing the physical form of Beechaka, might have lured Cullimmanari to some perilous fate. If still lurked the wraith in these caverns, it would be wisest for Malik to depart swiftly with his modest collection of coins. But he could not abandon so easily his partner, nor the thought of untapped spoils. So, he ran on down the hall, somewhat more guarded than before.
Soon, he came into a wide room with a tall ceiling, through which ran a cleft. The fissure emitted light, and Malik believed he breathed fresh air. A pool of water set in one end of the room, rippling as single droplets of water plunged to its surface from the crevice.
Malik caught sight of a face above him, staring down from the crack in the ceiling. The pale light silhouette the face, so in shadow it was unrecognizable. Malik dove out of sight and back into the hallway, only to return when no motion could he detect in the room. He shrewdly edged along the chamber’s slick walls to the opposite end. He peered up, and still the face looked down. It appeared initially that a man’s head was protruding from a ledge as he scanned the room beneath; but from Malik’s new vantage point, he saw that there could be no ledge. Yet, there was no body...
Malik finally looked down, and at a shallow depth in the pool of clear water, there lay the rest of the body. Twisted and clutching its weapon, the beheaded corpse looked pale in the weird, underwater grave. And the sword in its hand was the scimitar of Cullimmanari’Ra Turen.
‘By the gods of Urtoch!’ muttered Malik. He might have whirled about and made for the corridor, then shot down it back to the crypt and back up the flue into Bodra. But, being a man of action, his instinct held him firm. He would not be chased from this place by a ghost, no matter how powerful. And he would not be inclined to act with compassion at the form of Beechaka, as he knew Cullimmanari had.
He waded into the pool and grabbed the dead man’s shoulder. Flipping him over, he saw that the neck had been roughly severed, perhaps withstanding two or three blows of an axe. No blood pumped into the water from the wound, oddly. It suddenly struck Malik that the build of this figure, though immense in itself, was not identical to Cullimmanari... and a quick inspection of the corpse’s scabbard proved Malik right... it was not the god king after all.
Malik looked up to the head, still sheathed in darkness. A stone the Batthsloci picked from the pond, and hurled it up. His first throw narrowly missed; his second was on the mark. The impact brought both rock and head tumbling down, and Malik jumped back to avoid being struck himself.
The head, now floating in the waist deep water, bobbed so the face was visible. Indeed, it was not Cullimmanari, but Meezel the Batthsloc Stalker. Malik grunted and bashed the skull with his boot, sending waves in all directions. He climbed back onto the rock and departed the chamber, angered by this ruse. That anyone should think him so gullible to be so easily duped infuriated him.
As he hiked back down the tunnel, he wondered what treachery Cullimmanari was weaving. He was uncertain as to who remained with him in the caverns now... the king of the Rassiks might have exited by way of the crevice, or he might yet be lurking somewhere else in the caverns, waiting for Malik to locate the treasure and dismiss any barriers before it.
Returning to the crypt, he relocated the tomb door and entered the passage it had concealed for so long. He embarked down the twisting staircase, which wound downward, spiralling deeper into the ground. Many steps down and he found himself in utter darkness, as a chill wind gushed up from below and smote his flame. He froze for a moment, not knowing whether he should continue or retreat.
It was laughter which brought him to a conclusion. From some unseen depth there came a mocking chortle, and Malik felt its cynicism. Whatever it was, it was laughing at him. He resumed his descent, allowing one hand to caress the wall lending him guidance, while the other clasped the tongue of his sword.
By the time the cackle had subsided, Malik could see a dim light ahead. He stole carefully along the rims of shadow, creeping into the lit room without once being touched by light himself... much like a wolf circling a bonfire in the dusk. A white jewel embedded in the ceiling gave off a sinister glow, which was caught and reflected by hundreds of odd, carven figures. The statues were made from gold and nelphite, bedecked with gems, and set in perfect symmetry in three circles. Within each ring was a sealed cylinder, each one taller than Malik, which bore inscriptions not unlike the writing on Cullimmanari’s tapestry. Malik approached the pillars, sacrificing the safety of shadow. He peered about in vain, looking for the source of laughter. Stepping up to a cylinder, he tried to wrap his arms about it to measure its width: The tips of his fingers barely met. Made of hardwood, and banded by bronze hoops, the cases were very sturdy, and Malik guessed that they contained a great wealth of riches.
His sword chipped the wood at first strike, revealing a layer beneath he had not expected... and this layer was of some metal he did not recognize. He was able to hack off more wood, but the stronger, internal layer he could not breach.
Disheartened, he looked about the room more carefully, seeing what resources he had to work with. Certainly the stockers of the treasure hutch had left themselves some way to get at their spoils. He noticed a small hole in the wall, which the dull, white light failed to illuminate. Drawing closer, he saw two reddened circles, glowing like the lingering embers of a dying fire. When he moved to prod his blade in the hole, the glow intensified, and disclosed a skinless skull resting on the shelf.
‘So, a raider has come to pillage the lost treasures of Bodra. I’ve not seen a living thing for ages,’ said the skull of Ustog.
‘You do exist, ghost... I was beginning to doubt the King of the Rassiks, your countryman.’ Malik stared amazed at the thing, prepared to crush it at the least sign of trouble. ‘Why is it that you haven’t had us both slain?’
‘I bear you no harm, foreigner, even though you come to steal the treasure I am supposed to guard. I persist in this cavern only because of the curse of my Art.’
‘You wish not ill upon one who would rob this vault... nor, harm a descendant of those who sought to destroy you?’
‘A descendant!’ the skull shrieked. The eyes glowed a far brighter red than any fire, and the skull itself began to tremble. ‘Where is this man whose birthplace is Ghan’Gallachi?’
‘He is one and the same that you intercepted in the crypt above, when you possessed the likeness of the Rassik woman. He has lived in Bodra for many seasons’ cycles, acting as their king and god.’
‘I possessed no woman... I am locked in this skull, and none would be fool enough to remove me. I exert my will over the confined space of this treasure chamber, and no more.’ The wraith trapped in Ustog’s skull was growing vengeful, and his power increased with his anger. ‘Bring the Ghan’Gallachiman to me and I will solve the puzzle of these treasure cylinders.’
‘I would bring him now, but I cannot say where he has gone... he deserted me some time ago and left evidence that he was slain, but I discovered otherwise.’
‘It has been my sole dream that a Ghan’Gallachiman would someday return to this place, so that I might avenge myself. Not even the soldiers—my killers—entered this room to hoard their loot... they had slaves do that work for them. And as they died of age, one by one, they were put in tombs just outside my sphere of power, so that even in death they might mock me. I have yearned to extract vengeance upon a descendant, and had given up hope after so long a time, believing the race must be dead. And now, you tell me there lurks one in Bodra for generations, and continues to even now?’
‘This is so.’ Malik mused momentarily, then presented the skull with a strategy. ‘You shall aid me in securing this treasure, and I will bring to you Cullimmanari’Ra Turen... and you shall have him to torture for your pain.’
‘I will,’ answered the skull, ‘But he will not come into this room without fight, I believe.’
‘We shall see.’
The Blood of a God
Cullimmanari’Ra Turen, god king of the Rassiks, stood in the Uchmal Chamber of Bodra with his war chief and two ranking guards. Also in the room, Beechaka leaned against a wall looking out into the open canyon. The eyes of the others were directed toward the lower of two portals in the wall, where smoke poured out in an unbroken stream.
Malik’s laboured grunts became clear long after the first echoes of his climb wafted up. The noise was so audible now, it was as if each pour on the Batthsloci’s body groaned as it expelled sweat. Soon his form appeared beyond the portal, standing on the small ledge inside. Through the hole first flew a large satchel, heavily laden with coins. As the bag hit the floor, many pieces spattered out, and rolled across the room.
Malik followed soon after, leaping through the hole and avoiding the poisoned teeth which framed it. He went through headfirst, then somersaulted and bound up on his feet. He feigned surprise at the sight of Cullimmanari.
‘I thought you were dead... I saw your corpse in the caverns! What form of trickery is this, Cullimmanari?’
‘I see you’ve found treasure, Malik,’ Cullimmanari said, ignoring Malik’s question and gazing greedily at the sack of coins. ‘I must thank you for your generous contribution... now that you’ve found the treasure chamber, my Rassiks may loot it.’
‘Then you devised the whole of the story... and were aware that Ustog was only dangerous inside the room containing the treasure. And what of Beechaka, was that done by a Dassman’s magic, making her appear to walk through rock?’
‘You are wise to unravel my game, Malik. Unfortunate for you that it took you this much time.’ Cullimmanari turned to Beechaka, who was eyeing the coins intently. A gesture ensured her that it was all right to examine them, and she dashed over to the sack. ‘To have escaped, you must have had to destroy poor Ustog’s skull, eh Malik?’
‘Indeed, he would not have let me pillage his keep... so I bashed his skull in with the hilt of my sword. Strange that you feared so feeble a thing, Cullimmanari, god of the Rassiks.’
‘I take no risks, Batthsloci. I’ve waited lifetimes to get at those riches, waiting for the right time, the right stooge to act for me. And now that the treasure is uncovered, my next act shall be to have you dispatched. Again, my thanks.’
The two warriors charged Malik. One carried a short dagger clutched between his teeth, and in his hand he grasped a bone knife. The other, more cautious, held a stolen mace, possibly the property of one of the gutted Batthsloc soldiers. The first dove at Malik, lunging the bone blade at his belly. Malik managed to avoid the swing, and grabbed the Rassik by the arm. He brought the limb down sharply on his knee, so that it snapped and bent backward causing his opponent to yelp wildly. Malik took the broken arm and twisted it around behind the man, the weapon still fast in its hand. He then drove the man’s own knife into the middle of his back.
The second one jumped at that instant, as the blood of his brother gushed out onto Malik. The Batthsloci felt the pressure hit his left shoulder, though it had been meant for his head. The blow staggered him and he released the dying Rassik and slumped to the floor. His new assailant acted too sluggishly, however, for by the time he made his second attack, Malik was ready, though still knelt on the floor. The sword sliced into the Rassik’s torso just above his left breast, curved down and sank into his gut. The man’s unchecked advance as he ran toward Malik, still on his knees, made the blade go deeper. He collapsed, held from the floor only by Malik’s sword.
The war chief next stepped forward. He held up his open hands to show Malik he was without weapon, expecting Malik to drop his sword and fight evenly. Malik retrieved his blade, still immersed in the Rassik, then tossed it to the ground. The war chief rushed Malik, hollering some savage war cry. When he was only a pace away, Malik whipped out a throwing dagger he’d picked up from one of the tombs. He shoved it into the Rassik’s chest, and raised the surprised and pained man off the ground. Malik used the man’s momentum to hurl him through the portal and into the pit beyond. It took elongated moments before the screams subsided, only an instant before a splintering thud was heard.
‘You fight considerably well against primitives. Shall we see how you fare against a Dassman?’
Just as Cullimmanari prepared to battle the Batthsloci, a tortured scream turned his attention. He whirled about just in time to see Beechaka’s skin stripped from her body, singed into smoke which hovered over her. Still screaming, the fleshless woman held cupped in her hands the skull of Ustog, its viscous eyes gleaming.
Malik, disgusted by the horrible sight, turned away. Cullimmanari was too frightened to move at all, and his eyes followed the skull as it floated up from Beechaka’s hands and glared gruesomely back at the god king. He reached reflexively for his hishima, the black cube of wizardry that he used to affect his godlike abilities to the Rassiks. But the Dassman’s tool fell to the floor as Cullimmanari’s hands vanished from his arms.
‘You are Cullimmanari’Ra Turen of Ghan’Gallachi?’ demanded the wraith. Cullimmanari was incapable of answer, his fear and awe left him helpless. ‘Your silence is sufficient proof you are who the Batthsloci claims you are. Prepare to suffer brutal pain, as I abolish what I know must be the last vestige of Ghan’Gallachi civilization.’
Cullimmanari remained silent as spikes jutted from his frame, puncturing his body from within. They poked out from his chest and belly, coated with crimson juice. As he wheeled about in agony, barbs popped out of his back, next. Beginning low, they grew out of his flesh and tore at his garment one by one, until the last one came bursting out the base of his neck. Malik looked on, astonished by the event.
Ustog’s laughter filled the Uchmal Chamber, and called Rassik guards running. Two sought to smash the floating skull, but ignited as the entered the room. Their shells still smouldered when others arrived, and seeing the carnage, remained outside.
Cullimmanari ran the stumps at the ends of his arms over the spikes protruding from his body. He began to render a terrible cry, but it was ceased by Ustog. Blood surged out of the open maw of the Ghan’Gallachiman as Ustog’s ghost continued to exert his vengeance. Soon, Cullimmanari’s eyes bulged, and burst from their sockets, followed by the contents of his head. Flesh, blood, bone and brain sprayed the walls of the Uchmal Chamber, so thick that the original painted history of the Rassiks was no longer visible.
Malik, who had taken refuge on the ledge of the pit, now looked back into the room through the hole. The scene of slaughter both intrigued and offended him. He saw a gathering of wide eyed Rassiks peering in from the archway with similar looks on their faces. The skull of Ustog radiated a meagre red light, its powers drained.
Malik returned to the wraith’s side. He feared that the effort it had put forth to decimate Cullimmanari might rob it of its animation... and then the secret of the treasure would be lost. The Batthsloci slouched down beside it, where it rested on the floor.
‘What of the treasure, Ustog? We made a deal.’
‘That we did. You’ve served me a gift... I finally feel justice. Now, I ask you one more favour before I tell you how to unearth the treasure.’
‘I fulfilled my part of the bargain,’ Malik insisted furiously. He feared the wraith might ask of him a million favours and never lead him to riches. ‘You may be able to butcher me as you did Cullimmanari, but I shall not be your slave!’
‘No, Batthsloci... I ask only that you end my existence.’ The skull paused, the light in its eyes still faint. ‘Crush this skull after I tell you how to win the treasure. Only my ire kept me company all these long ages... and now, I am deprived of that, I do not wish to haunt the caverns any longer. Relieve me of my curse.’
‘This, then, I shall do, Ustog,’ Malik replied, feeling pity for the thing.
‘The cylinders extend up farther than the ceiling of the treasure chamber. The secret is in the base of the far right column. Slide the hidden lock their, and the treasure shall reveal itself.
The Treasure Shafts of Bodra
Malik abandoned the fragmented skull of Ustog on the floor of the Uchmal Chamber. He returned, at length, to the treasure room where he found Ustog’s ghost, and struck the deal which brought the wraith into Bodra and within the proximity of the only known descendant of Ghan’Gallachi. The three great pillars ran from the floor to the ceiling, and above according to Ustog. Within was encased the gathered booty of a lifetime, the legacy of a band of warriors from another continent, themselves forced to live to their dying days in a strange land.
Malik found the latch assembly on the cylinder, and tugged violently at the aged mechanism. When it gave to, there was a shuddering sound as the ground about quaked. A door opened in column, sliding down and falling to the floor. Sand raced out behind the door, spilling into the room so rapidly, Malik was up to his knees before he could retreat. A trap, he feared.
As he tried to escape back to the stairway, the second and third cylinders opened up, and sand pitched from them as well. The Batthsloci looked back as he scampered up the first dozen steps... the room was quickly filling. But then, a different sound thundered. The rear walls of the chamber gave way to the growing pressure being exerted on them. The sand’s depth began to subside as it spilled into a hidden grotto.
Eventually the pillars stopped spewing sand, and two of them collapsed, leaving only the far right shaft intact. Malik walked over the shallow mat of sand to the column, and stuck his torch up into it. He saw rungs climbing up the side. Just then, there came from above the clamour of shattering glass, which continued for some time.
When at last the din ceased, daylight plunged down the shaft, and as Malik looked up, he could see the sky far, far up through the top of the pillar. He commenced the awesome climb. He wondered where his ascent would lead him, and what had become of the Ghan’Gallachi’s treasure. Had some other bandit been clever enough to replace it all with sand, or was this merely a step in the original concealment plan?
When at last he came to the opening, he lifted himself out of the shaft. He found himself to be on the floor of the canyon beneath Bodra, the open and smooth field ringed by cliffs. Only, the ground was no longer flat as it once had been. The seal of the valley floor was fractured when the sand beneath it had been drained... it had splintered and fallen away. The shards of the surface now rested in the mounds of treasure that spread from rim to rim, filling the bowl of the valley.
The Rassiks gathered on the ledges of Bodra, gazing in wonder at the masses of loot which formed a shiny, gold lake before their city. From a lone chimney which rose slightly above the cache, Malik stared back, wondering what god’s name they would call him.
