Part 1 (2/2)

This was the end of the first month.

He and the dog traveled on highways, then roads, then trails, and finally tracks that vanished for leagues at a stretch. The cities shrank to towns, villages, hamlets and thorps, each farther and farther apart, then there was only the occasional woodcutter's hut in the depths of the wilderness. Fellow pilgrims were seldom seen. It was a lonely journey.

After much hards.h.i.+p he came to a remote valley populated by dour, sunburned folk who tended sheep and goats and raised beets and radishes in the turf. A province of peat-cutters and burners of cow chips. The kind of place overlooked at court and likely awarded to some down at the heels s.h.i.+rttail n.o.ble as a b.o.o.by prize.

The countryside was largely untamed beyond primitive farm plots and unfenced grazing lands. Copses of pine were broken by stony pastures and hillocks. A river thundered down from a glacier caked in black dust. The far end of the valley rose into a high, desolate moor stalked by wolves and dotted with the ruins of ancient fortresses and the weathered cairns of defeated barbarian tribes. A rugged and gloomy scene that disturbed the Spy's anxieties while also exciting him with its potential as the sp.a.w.ning ground of the miscreant he hunted.

The Spy struck gold right away.

A graybeard farmer had occasionally seen the Dwarf in the nearby village. Name? Who could say? Folks called him the Dwarf. He lived in a cave and came down to the lowlands for supplies once or twice a year during the festivals where he'd get drunk and dance with the pretty maids who weren't nimble enough to escape his lecherous advances, and horrify the children (mostly he'd horrify the mothers) with gruesome tales of s.e.xually deviant fairies and monsters. Made his way in the world as a crafter of jewelry and a wolf trapper. Privately, the farmer suspected the Dwarf was a professional tomb robber who filched most of his trinkets from the ruins on the moor.

In any event, a right homely b.u.g.g.e.r, that little man, and long-lived.

”Long-lived?” the Spy said.

”Aye. First I clapped eyes on 'im, I was a sprat. Saw 'im again, caperin' along the Moor Road, just last spring. 'e 'ad a sack slung o'er 'is hump. Must've 'ad a goat in there...That bag was jumpin' somethin' fierce.”

The farmer offered his barn as refuge since the village was full of wicked folk and no place for any G.o.d-fearing Christian. When pressed for examples of this wickedness he simply spat and made the sign against the evil eye and grumbled into his beard. On parting, he warned the Spy to beware the Dwarf. ”Ye wanna steer clear o' 'im and 'is little friends. Ye shall come to a nasty end nosin' 'bout that gent.”

The Spy knew the refrain. He wondered aloud as to the nature of these little friends.

”Ain't ever seen 'em, just 'eard of 'em. Cripples and deformed ones. Some ain't got no arms or legs is what I 'ear. They crawl along behind 'im, see? Wrigglin' in the dirt all ruddy worm-like.”

”He's got an entourage of folk without arms,” the Spy said, raising his brows toward the brim of his c.o.c.ked hat. ”Or legs. Following him wherever he goes.”

”Some got arms, some don't. Some got legs, some don't. Some got neither. That's what I 'ear.” The farmer shrugged, made the sign of warding again, and would say no more on the matter.

The Spy slogged his way to the village and took a room at the dingy inn. His disguise was that of an ex-soldier trekking across the kingdom to his homestead near the borderlands. He claimed to be a prospector and that he might linger a week or two surveying the hills for likely sources of gold or silver. None of the sheepherders or goatswains who staggered in for a pint of grog after a day in the heather seemed to give a d.a.m.n.

He bedded a couple of the serving wenches who were pleased with his appearance and moreso by the fact he at least didn't smell of cows.h.i.+t and actually had two silvers to rub together. Both had seen the Dwarf as recently as the previous month. Both were frightened and repulsed by the creature's demeanor, though he'd not done much to offend either of them directly. Yes, they'd heard of his deformed kin who were said to remain hidden in a mountain cave except rare occasions when they accompanied him on excursions into the moor. The rumors the wenches shared were not enlightening. Except for one-according to certain old goodwives, the Dwarf and his kin made mincemeat of babies and their cave was carpeted with the bones of several generations of wee victims. There'd be a proper torch and pitchfork army marching on those cannibals one fine day, avowed the wenches.

The Spy did not learn the name of the village. The buildings were from olden times, fas.h.i.+oned of mud and brick and thatch with small doors and smaller windows sealed with sheepskin. Doors got barred shortly after sunset. Pagan tokens hung above entry mantles and the bones of animals were common decorations in yards. Conversations dried up when he entered a room or pa.s.sed by on the street and the people smiled at him and looked at their feet or the sky.

The local denizens were a queer lot-the folk dressed archaically and spoke with an accent troublesome to his ear, such that he missed every third word when they conversed slowly in normal tones, and lost the gist entirely when they muttered amongst themselves, which was often. On the whole, the population was h.o.m.ogenous as a pod of toads. Not counting the wanton barmaids, who'd been born outside the valley in a more populous area, the women wouldn't speak to him. The women weren't shy by any means; they smiled and winked and brushed him in pa.s.sing, but simply wouldn't exchange words. Many of them were pregnant, but the Spy was surprised to see no other children in evidence. The youngest person he noticed was old enough to shave.

A half mile north of town lay a bluff upon which loomed a temple built in ancient times. On the Spy's first evening ensconced at the inn, he witnessed a commotion in the taproom. Proprietor, staff, and guests set aside mugs of ale and haunches of roasted goat and gravitated outdoors into the square. A procession of villagers marched from the square and up the lane to the temple, lighting the path with torches and lanterns. They marched in absolute silence, led by a trio of figures garbed in rust-colored ca.s.socks and frightful pagan masks that resembled no beast of fact or legend familiar to the Spy.

Once the stream of pet.i.tioners had disappeared into the distant edifice, its exterior remained cold and dark for the better part of two hours, whereupon the procession returned to the village square and dispersed. The innkeeper was one of the bizarrely robed leaders of the ceremony. He removed his unpleasant mask that appeared to be a waxen hybrid of an eel and a predatory insect, and stamped about the taproom, stoking the hearth and clearing flatware as if nothing unusual had transpired. Later, the serving wenches kept their eyes downcast and deflected the Spy's queries regarding the incident with inelegant, but exuberant ministrations of love.

The next morning, he ate a hearty breakfast and decided to visit the site. The dog followed him with a decided lack of enthusiasm. The dog had communicated through growls and groans and baleful glares at every villager who pa.s.sed that he didn't like this place one bit. The mountain air agreed with his canine sensibilities not in the slightest.

The temple on the hill was by far the grandest monument the Spy had seen since departing the capital; extravagant beyond the wildest imaginings for such a remote province of the kingdom while also existing in a fabulously decrepit state; certainly a relic from an ancient era. A forbidding structure of granite blocks and carven pillars, the whole shot through with cracks from age and earthquake (a ma.s.sive shaker had hit the region about ten years ago, according to the innkeeper- The Worm turned, he quipped with a sour grin) and covered in unwholesome northern black mold and th.o.r.n.y vines.

Instead of the traditional crucifix, a ma.s.sive ring of hammered bra.s.s hung above double doors the likes of which belonged to a fortress. The ring was broken in the upper corner, much as the monstrous symbol he'd encountered in the burgher's cell, and it canted at an extreme forward angle, presumably as a result of the earthquake. The effect was that of a giant torque poised to descend, literal hammer of the G.o.ds style, on pet.i.tioners shuffling through the gates.

The interior was dim and cavernous, reminiscent of Roman and Greek temples of the h.e.l.lenic; naves and altars to a dozen G.o.ds were arrayed in alcoves. The Spy recognized Jupiter and Saturn, Diana and Hecate, and busts of the Norse pantheon, in particular a feral depiction of Loki undergoing torture for his crimes against Baldur, and another of Odin weeping gore from his plucked eye socket. The Spy's father was a learned man despite toiling as a simple miller, and his sister a supremely ambitious woman, and between the pair it was books and lessons in cla.s.sical history throughout the long, bleak winters.

There were other G.o.ds represented that he did not recognize, however. Situated deeper inside the temple hall these statues were much older and the writing upon their placards was foreign to him. Upon reflection, he concluded this place had been constructed or renovated piecemeal over the centuries, with the modern additions, G.o.ds and architecture alike, tacked on near the entrance. Thus, proceeding into the torchlit gloom was to travel backward into antiquity.

His hunter's senses were sharp and he knew a hostile gaze had fallen upon him. On several occasions he caught movement in the corner of his eye; small shadows moving inside the larger ones of the pillars and arches. Low and thin and fast; at first he thought it must be children, whatever the pagan equivalent of altar boys were. He soon decided this was incorrect, although he couldn't quite name how or why. He recalled what the farmer said of the alleged ”limbless kin” of the Dwarf, and shuddered.

At the opposite end from the main doors were two huge pillars of basalt and a thick curtain of crimson. On the other side was a nave, larger than its neighbors, and a crude altar of primordial black stone, hewn from the spine of the Earth herself, and roughly fas.h.i.+oned into a pyramidal shape, flattened at the apex in the manner of certain jungle civilizations. The ziggurat was nine feet tall, and approximately twelve feet broad on a side. A shallow depression was carved in each face at eye level.

Above the altar and inset at the heart of a soot-streaked tile mosaic was another broken ring symbol the diameter of several men standing on one another's shoulders; this version was constructed of countless pieces of interlocking bone aged to a decayed black. Dragon's-blood incense wafted from wrought-iron braziers and mingled with the torch smoke in a haze that caused the ziggurat and the effigy to distort and bend like reflections in stained metal.

The Spy took a torch from a sconce and raised it high to better examine the broken ring and the mosaic of murky imagery that enmeshed it-a hunt or revel in a forest; maidens with babes in arms fled dark figures whose eyes blazed red and who grasped with elongated arms and spindly, clawed hands. He saw, as his light glanced from surface to surface, that the bones of the broken ring symbol were real human skeletons of all sizes, mortared and fused to create a piece of unholy art.

Upon determining the sheer numbers of corpses involved, and inevitably recalling the burgher's collection of children's bones and the tavern wenches' pillow talk of a cave carpeted with baby bones, his knees shook and he nearly lost his resolve. The Spy was by no means a pious man, nor afflicted by undue superst.i.tion. Even so, this sight quickened in his breast a chill dread and reminded him that he was a man without friends, far from home.

”Welcome to the House of Old Leech,” a woman said. She stood in an alcove, watching him. Clad in a diaphanous gown, a crimson diadem at her throat, she was dark of hair and eye and lushly proportioned. Older than the Spy by a rather wide margin, her flesh was taut and she radiated carnality as voracious as fire.

A priestess, he a.s.sumed. Instantly smitten, only a sliver of his fevered brain was capable of rational thought. ”Hullo, priestess,” the Spy said. He affected an archness of tone. Beautiful seminude women jump out of the shadows at me every day, cheerio! He tried not to stare at her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, focusing instead on her eyes, and that seemed equally dangerous for she appraised him with a measure of intellect and cruelty that even his sister the Queen could not match. It was the kind of gaze to flay a man's soul, and it reminded him that not so long ago he'd mucked horses.h.i.+t in a stable, far from the good silver and polite company. He cleared his throat and said gamely, ”This is an unusual church, if I may say so. I confess surprise that such blasphemies are openly conducted. And the coin required to maintain the roof. Ye G.o.ds...”

”And you missed the orgy, too.” The woman approached with a slowly widening smile. Thankfully, she possessed legs, and nice ones. Up close she smelled of perfume and pitch. Her eyes were painted in a soft glitter and her lips were the deep red of the diadem. ”These lands are administered by Count Mock who is fond of the old ways. He's filthy rich and the crown seldom pays heed to the doings along the frontier. Left to their own devices are Count M and his people. You may find the Valley exists under a different set of traditions and customs than you are familiar with.”

”Yes, if by different you mean uncivilized. The Count must've paid off the diocese as well. Yours is the only place of wors.h.i.+p I've witnessed in the entire valley. That is pa.s.sing strange, my lady. Surely there are Christians dwelling among you pagans.”

”Christians are welcome. All are welcome. All flesh is food of the G.o.d.”

”Who is Old Leech? The name isn't one I recognize.”

”You're surprised? There are in excess of twenty thousand G.o.ds acknowledged to exist. Unless you are a scholar or a master theologian, you'd be hard-pressed to name a hundredth of them. You don't carry yourself like a philosopher. A mercenary, perhaps.” Her accent was more foreign than that of the villagers. While the peasants spoke with a rustic tw.a.n.g, hers hinted of a cosmopolitan education in a distant land. There was a nearly imperceptible lag between her words and the movement of her lips; the sound of her voice echoed in his head an instant before it issued from her mouth. He wondered exactly what was in that incense...

”I'm an ignorant clodhopper, which means I should feel right at home here. Are you a caste of healers? A gaggle of old leeches?”

She laughed into her cupped hand and watched him sidelong. ”Curiosity killed the cat.” She boldly hooked the chain of his crucifix with her nail and its silver chasing reflected in her eyes. ”Good Christians should not seek knowledge outside the Holy Book.”

”Really, there's very little good in me,” he said, trembling at the heat of her skin close to his own, the swirl of exotic perfume that clouded his mind.

”I bet.” The priestess glanced down and seemed to notice the dog for the first time. ”Oh, cute dog,” she said and patted him on the lumpy head.

The Spy opened his mouth too late to warn her-the dog was a savage and had chomped off the fingers of more than one person who'd come too near, but now the brute whimpered, cowed, and s.h.i.+vered in ecstasy or terror at the woman's touch. The Spy understood the emotion. He said, ”Priestess, are we alone? On my way in I could've sworn there were children moving in the shadows.”

”Kids are in short supply around here,” she said. ”Unless we're talking the kind with floppy ears and an ivy fetish. What spooked you was probably a few of the limbless ones creeping up. Don't worry, they won't brave the light just for a taste of city dweller flesh.” A gong sounded through the alcove and the air rippled and his teeth chattered. She stepped away from him. ”By the way, I'm not a priestess. I'm a traveler.”

”Your manner of speech...Where are you from?” He chose to completely ignore her reference to the limbless ones.

”Wouldn't mean a thing to you, handsome.”

”Ah, a woman and her secrets. What are you doing here?”

”I am undergoing an initiation. A croning, of sorts.”

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