Lawrence Watt-Evans: The Seven Altars of Dusarra

The man nodded, and held out the sphere.

The high priest reached out and took it; he cradled it in his hands and gazed into it. The other two maintained a complete silence.

Deep within the globe's interior, the flickering reflection of the single candle's flame twisted and shaped itself into the form of a sunlit path, a narrow road through grassy countryside; as the high priest watched, a figure appeared, riding down this golden strip of light. Mounted on a huge catlike black beast, clad in helmet, breastplate, and flowing brown cloak, the figure was that of a red-eyed overman.

The priest studied this vision for long minutes, then handed the sphere back to its master.

"This overman may be useful, perhaps very useful indeed. You; Haggat, will inform me of everything you can learn relating to him. You may have this acolyte as your personal property, to aid you in this and as your reward. Understood?"

The man nodded; one hand fell and pulled aside the acolyte's hood, then stroked her night-black hair possessively. The other hand balanced the crystal sphere, which flashed and glittered strangely. Despite the dim and uneven light, fear was plain on the girl's face as she looked up at her new master.

The high priest turned and left, thinking intently; although not the focus of his contemplation, he found himself aware that he considered Haggat to be very pleasant company. A man with his tongue cut out could not chatter on aimlessly as so many did.

He pulled his mind away from such distractions, and considered seriously what would be done with this thieving impertinent overman.

The sun was sailing low in the western sky, as vividly red as Garth's eyes, turning the narrow wisps of cloud into a ruddy web of light and shadow. The overman admired the uncanny beauty of the scene; the colors seemed brighter, more fiery, than the sunsets of the Northern Waste. He mused as to why this should be so.

His mount seemed unimpressed. It kept its head low, its catlike ears spread, clearly displeased with its surroundings. Garth could hear, very faintly, the crunching of volcanic cinders beneath the warbeast's huge soft paws, a rather remarkable circumstance. Ordinarily the beast moved as quietly as any lesser feline, its padded feet as silent as the moon.

No wonder, then, that it disliked this strange new country! The sound of its own footsteps was alien, a constant reminder that it was far from home and all things familiar.

Ahead of them, dead black against the crimson flushed western sky, there reared up yet another mountain range. Already, in the fortnight's journey from Skelleth, they had crossed one chain, the highest and most rugged Garth had ever seen, through a narrow pass, and made a detour around the southern end of another, lesser range. Now they were approaching a third such barrier, this one actively volcanic, as evidenced by the red-lit smoke that twined across the sunset clouds, and by the thin coating of fresh ash and cinder that lay across the countryside, clear proof that there had recently been a minor eruption.

According to the rough map the Forgotten King had provided, his goal, the city of Dыsarra, lay somewhere in the foothills of this range, but as yet he saw no sign of it. He wondered that people would live in such a land, with the shadow of fiery destruction looming over them, but there was no question that they did; for some time now the road he traveled had wound through farmland, elaborately irrigated and lush with unfamiliar crops. He had noticed that the farmers' houses were all roofed with tile or tin, rather than the more customary thatch; plainly, straw was too easily set ablaze by vagrant sparks drifting on the breeze that blew steadily down from the mountains, a warm, dry wind that brought with it strange new odors, scents he had never known before.

He had come this far without incident, which pleased him. After agreeing to undertake this journey it had been a matter of an hour or so to obtain an assortment of bags and pouches, to carry whatever he might find, and a week's supply of food and water, which he had augmented on the road by hunting and minor thefts from untended fields and wells. Thus equipped, he had allowed himself to be escorted out the North Gate, whereupon he circled around to the West Gate where he had retrieved Koros and his weapons and other supplies. He had then circled further, to the southwestern highway, a branch of which he was still following. Unlike his previous quest in the Forgotten King's service, which had led across barren, deserted lands inhabited only by barbaric little tribes, this journey had wound through league after league of settled, civilized countryside, more than he had known to exist upon the face of the world; he had dodged a double dozen of villages, and given a wide berth to a huge walled city indicated on the old man's map as Ur-Dormulk, all before even crossing the first mountains that marked the border between Eramma and Nekutta. Five times now he had set Koros free at night so that the warbeast could hunt its own food, and each time he had worried that it might not be able to find any meat to its liking except human flesh in the form of sleeping farmers, as there was not much wildlife to be found in such thickly-settled regions. Fortunately, Koros seemed to have managed, preying on stray goats and sheep when nothing else was available; Garth was grateful that it remained true to its training and avoided killing anything humanoid-when it could be avoided. It had, on occasion, eaten people when nothing else edible could be found, and it had eaten those it happened to kill in self-defense, but as a rule it knew not to.

It was an extremely useful animal, the finest product of a thousand years of selective breeding and magical shaping, but its voracious appetite could be very inconvenient. Ordinarily it was supremely obedient, but its loyalty decreased as its hunger increased, and Garth knew that five days without food, as opposed to the usual three days it went between meals, would render it willing to devour anything that moved, including its master.

It had fed last night on a pair of plump goats, and usually when recently fed it was as placid as a pampered housecat; today, though, the harsh landscape and crunching cinders seemed to upset it, and it growled softly, low in its throat, as a new twist of smoke drifted up the western sky.

Garth watched the smoke, and suddenly realized it had risen from a point between peaks; he stared at the jagged black shapes and thought he made out the curve of a dome amid the irregular constructions of nature. The shadows still obscured all color and detail, but the longer he looked the more convinced he became that there was, in fact, at least one man-made structure in these somber hills. He called the word that Koros recognized as a command to halt, as even the smooth grace of the warbeast's stride jogged him sufficiently to make it difficult to focus at so great a distance.

Yes, there was something there. He could not be sure what, as the sun was now slipping below the highest peaks, making it harder than ever to distinguish anything. He looked about, to rest his eyes, and noticed a farmer, a hundred yards away, leaning on a hoe and studying the overman and warbeast.

"Ho! Farmer!" he called.

The man did not move.

"Come here! I would speak with you!" He motioned.

The farmer looked about, as if to see if the overman meant someone else, though there was no other living being in sight, only the man's own twenty acres and the empty road stretching away in either direction. Then he shrugged and came, dragging his hoe casually, to stand a dozen yards away.

"Farmer, is that Dыsarra?" Garth pointed at the spot where he had seen the dome.

The farmer followed the direction of the pointing finger and said, "I suppose it is." His accent was strange to Garth, harsh and guttural, but his words were plain enough.