Абрахам Меррит - Dwellers in the Mirage

Twelve lesser priests filed in behind him, dressed in the sacred robes. The High–priest wore the yellow smock with the tentacles entwined round him. The ring of Khalk'ru shone on his thumb.

"The Greater–than–Gods awaits your prayer, Dwayanu," he said. "But first you must undergo purification."

I nodded. They busied themselves with the necessary rites. I submitted to them awkwardly, like one not familiar with them, but as one who plainly wished to be thought so. The malice in Yodin's eyes increased.

The rites were finished. Yodin took a smock like his own from a chest and draped it on me. I waited.

"Your ring," he reminded me, sardonically. "Have you forgotten you must wear the ring!"

I fumbled at the chain around my neck, opened the locket and slipped the ring over my thumb. The lesser priests passed from the chamber with their drums. I followed, the High–priest beside me. I heard the clang of a hammer striking a great anvil. And knew it for the voice of Tubalka, the oldest god, who had taught man to wed fire and metal. Tubalka's recognition of, his salutation and his homage to—Khalk'ru!

The olden exaltation, the ecstasy of dark power, was pouring through me. Hard it was not to betray it. We came out of the passage and into the temple.

Hai! But they had done well by the Greater–than–Gods in this far shrine! Vaster temple I had never beheld in Ayjirland. Cut from the mountain's heart, as all Khalk'ru's abodes must be, the huge pillars which bordered the amphitheatre struck up to a ceiling lost in darkness. There were cressets of twisted metal and out of them sprang smooth spirals of wan yellow flame. They burned steadily and soundlessly; by their wan light I could see the pillars marching, marching away as though into the void itself.

Faces were staring up at me from the amphitheatre—hundreds of them. Women's faces under pennons and bannerets broidered with devices of clans whose men had fought beside and behind me in many a bloody battle. Gods—how few the men were here! They stared up at me, these women faces…women–nobles, women–knights, women–soldiers… They stared up at me by the hundreds…blue eyes ruthless…nor was there pity nor any softness of woman in their faces…warriors they were…Good! Then not as women but as warriors would I treat them.

And now I saw that archers were posted on the borders of the amphitheatre, bows in readiness, arrows at rest but poised, and the bow–strings lined toward me.

Tibur's doings? Or the priest's—watchful lest I should attempt escape? I had no liking for that, but there was no help for it. Luka, Lovely Goddess—turn your wheel so no arrow flies before I begin the ritual!

I turned and looked for the mystic screen which was Khalk'ru's doorway from the Void. It was a full hundred paces away from me, so broad and deep was the platform of rock. Here the cavern had been shaped into a funnel. The mystic screen was a gigantic disk, a score of times the height of a tall man. Not the square of lucent yellow through which, in the temples of the Mother–land, Khalk'ru had become corporeal. For the first time I felt a doubt—was this Being the same? Was there other reason for the High–priest's malignant confidence than his disbelief in me?

But there in the yellow field floated the symbol of the Greater–than–Gods; his vast black body lay as though suspended in a bubble–ocean of yellow space; his tentacles spread like monstrous rays of black stars and his dreadful eyes brooded on the temple as though, as always, they saw all and saw nothing. The symbol was unchanged. The tide of conscious, dark power in my mind, checked for that instant, resumed its upward flow.

And now I saw between me and the screen a semi–circle of women. Young they were, scarce blossomed out of girlhood—but already in fruit. Twelve of them I counted, each standing in the shallow hollowed cup of sacrifice, the golden girdles of the sacrifice around their waists. Over white shoulders, over young breasts, fell the veils of their ruddy hair, and through those veils they looked at me with blue eyes in which horror lurked. Yet though they could not hide that horror in their eyes from me who was so close, they hid it from those who watched us from beyond. They stood within the cups, erect, proudly, defiant. Ai! but they were brave—those women of Karak! I felt the olden pity for them; stirring of the olden revolt.

In the centre of the semi–circle of women swung a thirteenth ring, held by strong golden chains dropping from the temple's roof. It was empty, the clasps of the heavy girdle open—

The thirteenth ring! The ring of the Warrior's Sacrifice! Open for—me!

I looked at the High–priest. He stood beside his priests squatting at their drums. His gaze was upon me. Tibur stood at the edge of the platform beside the anvil of Tubalka, in his hands the great sledge, on his face reflection of the gloating on that of the High–priest. The Witch–woman I could not see.

The High–priest stepped forward. He spoke into the dark vastness of the temple where was the congregation of the nobles.

"Here stands one who comes to us calling himself—Dwayanu. If he be Dwayanu, then will the Greater–than–Gods, mighty Khalk'ru, hear his prayer and accept the Sacrifices. But if Khalk'ru be deaf to him—he is proven cheat and liar. And Khalk'ru will not be deaf to me who have served him faithfully. Then this cheat and liar swings within the Warrior's Ring for Khalk'ru to punish as he wills. Hear me! Is it just? Answer!"

From the depths of the temple came the voices of the witnesses.

"We hear! It is just!"

The High–priest turned to me as if to speak. But if that had been his mind, he changed it. Thrice he raised his staff of golden bells and shook them. Thrice Tibur raised the hammer and smote the anvil of Tubalka.

Out of the depths of the temple came the ancient chant, the ancient supplication which Khalk'ru had taught our forefathers when he chose us from all the peoples of earth, forgotten age upon forgotten age ago. I listened to it as to a nursery song. And Tibur's eyes never left me, his hand on hammer in readiness to hurl and cripple if I tried to flee; nor did Yodin's gaze leave me.

The chant ended.

Swiftly I raised my hands in the ancient sign, and I did with the ring what the ancient ritual ordered—and through the temple swept that first breath of cold that was presage of the coming of Khalk'ru!

Hai! The faces of Yodin and Tibur when they felt that breath! Would that I could look on them! Laugh now, Tibur! Hai! but they could not stop me now! Not even the Smith would dare hurl hammer nor raise hand to loose arrow storm upon me! Not even Yodin would dare halt me—I forgot all that. I forgot Yodin and Tibur. I forgot, as ever I forgot, the Sacrifices in the dark exultation of the ritual.

The yellow stone wavered, was shot through with tremblings. It became thin as air. It vanished.

Where it had been, black tentacles quivering, black body hovering, vanishing into immeasurable space, was Khalk'ru!

Faster, louder, beat the drums.

The black tentacles writhed forward. The women did not see them. Their eyes clung to me…as though…as though I held for them some hope that flamed through their despair! I…who had summoned their destroyer…

The tentacles touched them. I saw the hope fade and die. The tentacles coiled round their shoulders. They slid across their breasts. Embraced them. Slipped down their thighs and touched their feet. The drums began their swift upward flight into the crescendo of the Sacrifice's culmination.

The wailing of the women was shrill above the drums. Their white bodies became grey mist. They became shadows. They were gone—gone before the sound of their wailing had died. The golden girdles fell clashing to the rock—