Джек Макдевитт - Cryptic - The Best Short Fiction of Jack McDevitt

The wind was loud in the trees.

“Where?” asked Ronik. He was broad-shouldered, given to quick passions. His blond hair was tied behind his neck. He was the only one of the three who had killed. “Where did you see it?”

“Near the temple.” Cam pointed.

“Who would be inside the city at night?” asked Ronik.

“Nobody with any sense,” Cam snorted.

Falon stroked his horse’s neck. Its name was Carik, and his father had given it to him before riding off on a raid from which he never returned. “It might have been best if we hadn’t bragged quite so loudly. Better first to have done the deed, stayed the night, and then spoken up.”

Cam delivered an elaborate shrug: “Why? You’re not afraid, are you, Falon?”

Falon started forward again. “My father always believed this city to be Ziu’s birthplace. And that,”—he looked toward the temple, “—his altar.”

Cam was, in some ways, a dangerous companion. He wanted very much to be esteemed by his peers, as they all did. But he seemed sometimes extreme in the matter. Willing to take chances. He wanted to be perceived as a warrior, but he had not yet proved himself. He was looking for a chance. His hair was black, his eyes dark. The rumor was that he had been fathered by a southerner.

Cam was middle-sized and probably did not have the making of a good warrior. He would serve, his comrades knew. He would not run. But neither would he ever achieve great deeds.

The road had once been paved but was little more than a track now, grassed over, occasional stones jutting from the bed. Ahead, it angled around to the south gate.

“Maybe we should not do this,” said Ronik. He was perhaps everything Cam would have liked to be. He was tall and strong, and had, until this moment, always seemed utterly fearless. The girls loved him, and Falon suspected he would one day be a war chief. But his time was not yet.

Cam tried to laugh. It came out sounding strained.

Falon studied the ruins. It was hard to imagine there had ever been laughter within those walls, or the birth of children. Or cavalry gathering. The place felt somehow as though it had always been like this. He patted his horse’s neck. “I wonder if the city was indeed built by gods?”

“If you are afraid,” said Cam, “return home. Ronik and I will think no less of you.” He made no effort to keep the mockery out of his voice.

Falon restrained his anger. “I fear no man. But it is impious to tread the highway of the gods.”

They were advancing slowly. Cam did not answer but he showed no inclination to assume his customary position in the lead. “What use would Ziu have for fortifications?”

This was not the only ruined city known to the Kortagenians: Kosh-on-the-Ridge; and Eskulis near Deep Forest; Kalikat and Agonda, the twin ports at the Sound; and three more along the southern coast. They were called after the lands in which they were found. No one knew what their builders had called them. But there were tales about this one, which was always referred to simply as “the City.”

“If not a way station for the gods,” said Ronik, “maybe it serves devils .”

There were stories: passersby attacked by phantoms, dragged within the walls, and seen no more. Black wings lifting on dark winds and children vanishing from nearby encampments. Demonic lights, it was said, sometimes reflected off low clouds, and wild cries echoing in the night. Makanda, most pious of the Kortagenians, refused to ride within sight of the City after dark, and would have been thunderstruck to see where they were now.

They walked their horses forward, speaking in whispers. Past occasional mounds. Past stands of oak. A cloud passed over the moon. And they came at last to the gate.

The wall had collapsed completely at this point, and the entrance was enmeshed in a thick patch of forest. Trees and thickets crowded in, disrupting the road and blocking entry.

They paused under a clutch of pines. Cam advanced, drew his sword, and hacked at branches and brush.

“It does not want us,” said Ronik.

Falon stayed back, well away from Cam’s blade, which swung with purpose but not caution. When the way was clear, Cam sheathed his weapon.

The gate opened into a broad avenue. It was covered with grass, lined with moldering buildings. Everything was dark and still.

“If it would make either of you feel better,” Cam said, “we need not sleep in the plaza.”

The horses were uneasy.

“I don’t think we should go in there at all,” said Ronik. His eyes narrowed. It was a hard admission.

Cam’s mount pawed the ground. “What do you think, Falon?”

Had he been alone, Falon would not have gone near the place. He considered himself relentlessly sensible. Fight when cornered. Otherwise, the trail is a happy place. He was the smallest and youngest of the three. Like Ronik, and virtually the entire tribe, he had blond hair and blue eyes. “We have said we will stay the night,” he said. He spoke softly to prevent the wind from taking his words along the avenue. “I do not see that we have a choice.”

Somewhere ahead a dry branch broke. It was a sharp report, loud, hard, like the snapping of a bone. And as quickly gone.

“Something is in there.” Ronik drew back on his reins.

Cam, who had started to dismount, froze with one leg clear of the horse’s haunches. Without speaking, he settled back into a riding position.

“Ziu may be warning us,” said Ronik.

Cam threw him a look that might have withered an arm.

Ronik returned the glare. Because Cam was the oldest, the others usually acceded to his judgment. But Falon knew that, if it came to a fight, Ronik would prove the better man at his back. “Probably a wolf,” said Falon, not at all convinced it was. Wolves after all did not snap branches.

“I am not going in.” Ronik dropped his eyes. “It would be wrong to do so.”

Cam rose on his saddle. “There’s a light ,” he whispered.

Falon saw it. A red glow flickered in the plaza, on the underside of the trees. “A fire,” he said.

“It’s near the tomb .” Cam turned his horse back toward the gate.

Ronik moved to follow, paused, and clasped Falon’s arm to draw him along.

Falon tried to ignore his own rising fear. “Are we children to be frightened off because someone has built a fire on a cool night?”

“We don’t know what it might be.” Cam’s voice had grown harsh. Angry. His customary arrogance had drained away. “We should wait until daylight, and then see who it is.”

Falon could not resist: “Now who’s afraid?”

“You know me better,” said Cam. “But it is not prudent to fight at night.”

Ronik was tugging at Falon. “Let’s go. We can retire to a safe distance in the hills. Stay there tonight and return to camp tomorrow. No one would ever know.”

“We would have to lie ,” said Falon. “They will ask.”

“Let them ask . If anyone says I am afraid—,” Cam gripped his sword hilt fiercely, “—I will kill him.”

“Do as you will,” said Cam. “Come on, Ronik.”

Falon shook free of his friend’s hand. Ronik sighed and began to follow Cam toward the gate, watching the plaza as he went. Falon was about to start after them when Ronik, good decent Ronik, who had been his friend all his life, spoke the words that pinned him inside the city: “Come with us, Falon. It’s no disgrace to fear the gods.”

And someone else replied with Falon’s voice: “No. Carik and I will stay.”

“Ziu does not wish it. His will is clear.”

“Ziu is a warrior. He is not vindictive. I do not believe he will harm me. I will stay the night. Come for me at dawn.”