The Hidden City by David Eddings

There was a sneer in Zalasta’s voice. ‘He’ll tell you how the

Elder God Azash squealed when Anakha destroyed him.’ Zalasta

suddenly broke off. ‘He comes!’ he choked. ‘Closer than we’d

ever thought possible!’

‘What are you talking about?’ Ekatas demanded.

‘Anakha is here!’ Zalasta exclaimed. ‘Go to your generals, Santheocles.

Tell them to call out their troops and order them to

scour the streets of Cyrga, for Anakha is within your walls!

Hurry, man! Anakha is here, and our deaths stalk the streets

with him! Come with me, Ekatas! Cyrgon must be warned, and

eternal Klael the night of decision is uPon us!’

%A~ndd ihf u, oh Blue, Blt CBres Bud 8riefs shBll bnnl n i t our hearts to heights unknown to moria man

Elron ticked off the count on his fingers and swore. No matter

how he slurred or compressed the words of that last line, it

still had one beat too many. He hurled his quill-pen across the

room and sank his face into his hands in an artful pose of

poetic despair. Elron did that frequently when composing

verse.

Then he hopefully raised his face as a thought came to him

He was nearing the final stanzas of his masterpiece, after all,

and an Alexandrine would add emphasis. What would the critics

say?

Elron agonized over the decision. He cursed the day when he

had chosen to cast the most important work of his career in

heroic couplets. He hated iambics. They were so mercilessly regular

and unforgiving, and pentameter was like a chain around

his neck, jerking him up short at the end of every line. ‘Ode to

Blue’ hung in the balance while her creator struggled with the

sullen intransigencies of form and meter.

Elron could not be sure how long the screaming had been

going on or exactly when it had started. His mind, caught up

in a creative frenzy, had blotted out everything external to that

one maddeningly recalcitrant line. The poet rose irritably to his

feet and went to the window to look out at the torch-lit streets

of Natayos. What were they screaming about?

Scarpa’s soldiers, ignorant, unwashed serfs for the most part,

were running, bawling in terror like so many bleating sheep.

What had set them off this time?

Elron leaned slightly out to look back up the street. There

seemed to be a different kind of light coming from the part of

the ruined city that was still buried in tangled brush and creeping

vines. Elron frowned. It was most definitely not torchlight.

It seemed to be a pale white glow instead, steady, unwavering,

and coming from dozens of places at the same time.

Then Elron heard Scarpa’s voice rising over the screams. The

crazy charlatan was shouting orders of some kind in his most

imperial voice. The rabble in the streets, however, were ignoring

him. The army was streaming along the cobbled streets of ruined

Natayos toward the main gate, pushing, howling, jamming

together and struggling to get through that hopelessly clogged

gateway. Beyond the gate, Elron saw winking torches streaming

off into the surrounding jungle. What in God’s name was going on here?

Then his blood suddenly froze. He gaped in horror at the

glowing figures emerging from the side-streets of the ruin to

stalk implacably along the broad avenue that led to the gate.

The Shining Ones who had depopulated Panem-Doa, Norenja

and Synaqua had finally descended on Natayos!

The poet stood frozen for only a moment, and then his mind

moved more quickly than he’d have thought possible. Flight

was clearly out of the question. The gate was so completely

jammed that even those who had already reached it had little

chance of forcing their way through. Elron dashed to his writing-table

and swatted his candle with the flat of his hand, plunging

the room into darkness. If there were no lights in the windows

of this upper floor, the horrors that stalked the streets would

have no reason to search. Frantically, stumbling in the darkness,

he ran from room to room, desperately searching for any other

burning candles that might betray his location.

Then, certain that he was safe for the moment at least, the

one known throughout Astel as Sabre crept back to his room to

fearfully peer around the edge of the window-frame at the street

below.

Scarpa stood atop a partially-collapsed wall issuing contradictory

commands to regiments that evidently only he could see.

His threadbare velvet cloak was draped over his shoulders and

his makeshift crown was slightly askew.

Not far from where he stood, Cyzada was saying something

in his hollow voice – an incantation of some kind, Elron guessed

and his fingers were weaving intricate designs in the air.

Louder and louder he spoke in guttural Styric, summoning God

only knew what horrors to face the silent, glowing figures

advancing on him. His voice rose to a screech, and he pawed

at the air, frantically exaggerating the gestures.

And then one of the incandescent intruders reached him.

Cyzada screamed and flinched back violently, but it was too

late. The glowing hand had already touched him. He reeled back

as if that almost gentle touch had been some massive blow.

Staggering, he turned as if to flee, and Elron saw his face.

The poet retched, clamping his hands over his mouth to hold

in any sound that might give away his presence. Cyzada of

Esos was desolving. His already unrecognizable face was sliding

down the front of his head like melted wax, and a rapidly-spreading

stain was discoloring the front of his white Styric robe.

He staggered a few steps toward the still-raving Scarpa, his arms

reaching hungrily out toward the madman even as the flesh slid

away from those skeletal, outstretched hands. Then the Styric

slowly collapsed to the stones, bubbling, seething, his decaying

body oozing out through the fabric of his robe.

‘Archers to the front!’ ScarPa commanded in his rich, theatrical

voice. ‘Sweep them with arrows!’

Elron fell to the floor and scrambled away from the window

‘Cavalry to the flanks!’ he heard Scarpa command. ‘Sabers at

the ready!’

Elron crawled toward his writing-table, groping in the dark.

‘imperial guardsmen!’ Scarpa bellowed. ‘Quicktime, march!’

Elron found the leg of the table, reached up and frantically

began grabbing at the sheets of paper lying on the table-top.

‘First Regiment – charge!’ Scarpa commanded in a great voice.

Elron knocked over the table, whimpering in his desperate

haste.

‘Second Regiment -‘ Scarpa’s voice broke off suddenly, and

Elron heard him scream.

The poet spread his arms, trying to gather the priceless pages

of ‘Ode to Blue’ out of the darkness.

Scarpa’s voice was shrill now. ‘Mother!’ he shrieked. ‘Pleasepleaseplease!’

the resonant voice had become a kind of liquid

screech. ‘Pleasepleaseplease!’ It sounded almost like a man trying

to cry out from under water. ‘Pleasepleaseplease!’ And then

the voice wheezed off into a dreadful gurgling silence.

Clutching the pages he had found, Sabre abandoned his

search for any others, scurried across the room on his hands

and knees, and hid under the bed.

Bhlokw’s expression was reproachful as he shambled back

across the night-shrouded gravel. ‘Wickedness, U-lat,’ he

accused. ‘We are pack-mates, and you said a thing to me that

was not so.’

‘I would not do that, Bhlokw,’ Ulath protested.

‘You put the thought into my mind-belly that the big things

with iron on their faces were good-to-eat. They are not goodto

-eat.’

‘Were they bad-to-eat, Bhlokw?’ Tynian asked sympathetically.

‘Very bad-to-eat, Tin-in. I have not tasted anything so bad-to-eat

before.’

‘I did not know this, Bhlokw,’ Ulath tried to apologize. ‘It was

my thought that they were big enough that one or two might

fill your belly.’

‘I only ate one,’ Bhlokw replied. ‘It was so bad-to-eat that I

did not want to eat another. Not even Ogres would eat those,

and Ogres will eat anything. It makes me not-glad that you said

the thing that was not so to me, U-lat.’

‘It makes me not-glad as well,’ Ulath confessed. ‘I said a thing

which I did not know. It was wicked of me to do this.’

Queen Betuana drew Tynian aside. ‘How long will it take us

to reach the Hidden City, Tynian-Knight?’ she asked.

‘is your Majesty talking about how long it’s really going to

take or how long it’s going to seem?’

‘Both.’

‘It’s going to seem like weeks, Betuana-Queen, but in actual

time, it’ll be instantaneous. Ulath and I left Matherion just a few

weeks ago in real time, but it seems that we’ve been on the road

for nearly a year. It’s very strange, but you get used to it after

a while.’

‘We must start soon if we are to reach Cyrga by morning.’

‘Ulath and I’ll have to talk with Ghnomb about that. He’s the

one who stops time, but he’s also the God of Eat. He may not

be happy with us. The idea of letting the Trolls kill klael’s soldiers

Pages: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 109 110 111 112

Leave a Reply 0

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *