Jack McDevitt - The Tomb

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THE TOMB

Jack McDevitt

The city lay bone white beneath the moon. Leaves rattled through courtyards and piled up

against crumbling walls. Solitary columns stood against the sky. The streets were narrow

and filled with rubble.

The wind off the Atlantic smelled of the tide. It shook the forest, which had long since

overwhelmed the city's defenses, submerging ancient homes and public buildings, forums

and marketplaces, and even invading the sacred environs, a plaza anchored at one end by a

temple, at the other by a tomb.

The temple was of modest dimensions. But a perceptive visitor might have recognized

both Roman piety and Greek genius in its pantheonic lines. It was set in the highest part of

the city. Its roof was gone, and its perimeter had largely disappeared into the tangle of

trees and brambles.

Save for a single collapsed piler, the front remained intact. A marble colonnade, still

noble in appearance, looked out toward the tomb. Carved lions slumbered on pedestals, and

stone figures with blank eyes and missing limbs kept watch over the city.

Twelve marble steps descended from the temple into the plaza. They were precisely

chiseled, rounded, almost sensual. The marble was heavily worn. Public buildings, in varying

states of disintegration, bordered the great square. They stood dark and cold through the

long evenings, but when the light was right, it was possible to imagine them as they had

been when the city was alive. A marble patrician stood over a dry fountain. Weary strollers,

had there been any, would have found stone benches strategically placed for their use.

The tomb stood alone at the far end. It was an irregular octagon, constructed of tapered

marble blocks, laid with military simplicity. The marble was gouged and scorched as high as

a man on horseback might reach. And the elements had had their way. If ever it had borne

a name, it had long since been worn smooth.

The tomb itself gaped open. The door that had once sealed the vault was gone.

Above the entrance, a device that might have been a sword had been cut into the

marble. In keeping perhaps with the spirit of the architecture, it too was plain: hilt, blade,

and crossguard were all rectangular and square-edged. No tapered lines here.

The vault rose into a circular, open cupola. Two marble feet stood atop the structure,

placed wide in what could only have been a heroic stance. One was broken off at the ankle,

the other ascended to the lower shin.

On a tranquil night, a visitor so inclined might easily have apprehended the tread of

divine sandals.

Three horsemen, not yet quite full-grown, descended from the low hills in the northwest. In

the sullen wind they could smell the age of the place.

They wore animal skins and carried iron weapons. Little more than boys, they had hard

blue eyes and rode with an alertness that betrayed experience with a hostile world. They

were crossing a stream that had once marked the western extremity of the city when the

tallest of the three drew back on his reins and stopped. The others fell in on either side.

"What's wrong, Cam?" asked the rider on the left, his eyes darting nervously across the

ruins.

"Nothing, Ronik—." Cam rose slightly in his saddle and looked intently toward the quiet

walls that still strove to guard the city. (In some places they had collapsed or been pulled

down.) His voice had an edge. "I thought something moved—."

The night carried the first bite of winter. Falon, on Cam's right, closed his vest against

the chill, briefly fingering a talisman. It was a goat's horn, once worn by his grandfather and

blessed against demons. His mount snorted uncertainly. "I do not see anything."

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."

"Damn you." Cam's mount moved first one way and then another. "Farewell, then." He

laughed through his anger. "We'll see you in the morning. I hope you'll still be here." They

wheeled their horses and fled, one swiftly, the other with reluctance.

Falon listened to the gathering silence.

Be at my side, divine one.

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Jack McDevitt - The Tomb

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