Mistress of the Night - Don Bassingthwaite [37]
But his attackers were ready for Quick. Strong arms seized him from behind and hands pried open his fingers. Keph yelled and struggled, but the rapier was torn away from him. The sparks that lingered on the blade popped and vanished. Stained by afterimages of that brief light, the darkness seemed even deeper than before. Someone clamped a cloth over his mouth to muffle any further screams. Keph felt himself hustled forward. His heart thundered with panic.
The sounds of singing vanished and the sense of an open sky above him along with it. A door closed. He was inside.
Hands and arms released him. Keph panted in the darkness.
"Mistress of the Night," whispered a different voice, "we are mortal and imperfect. We beg your forgiveness for our failings."
There was a scratch and a burst of flame as someone struck a tindertwig and held it to the wick of a single candle.
Keph almost collapsed with relief at the sight of the black and purple disks around the necks of the figures in the dim light. It was the cult of Shar.
"Dark!" he gasped, "you gave-"
One of the figures slapped him.
"You have no voice in this place," a woman said gruffly. "You have no voice until the Lady of Loss gives you one."
Another figure held out a massive goblet carved from black stone and commanded, "Drink."
Keph stared into the goblet. It was filled with dark wine. He could smell it. He could smell something else as well, though, something bitter. He glanced up, trying to see the face of the cultist who held the goblet.
Too slow. Hands grabbed him again and pulled his head back. The rim of the goblet knocked painfully against his teeth, then wine flooded into his mouth. He choked against it.
"Drink it!" spat the cultist holding him.
Keph managed to gulp down some of the wine-and to keep gulping as the goblet was tilted higher and higher. Finally it was empty and he was released once more. He staggered and wiped futilely at his face and shirt. Both were soaked. Wine dripped out of his goatee. His lips felt strangely numb.
The cultist with the goblet raised it high and intoned, "He has drunk the Elixir of the Void from the Cup of Night!"
"Hail to the Mistress of the Night!" chanted the other cultists in response.
Keph's stomach roiled and churned.
"The Dark Goddess is within him!"
"Hail to the Mistress of the Night!"
"Dark Dancer, we honor you!"
"Hail to the Mistress of the Night!"
Keph squinted through the dimness of the candlelight. The cultists' forms were beginning to spin in his vision. No, he realized, the cultists themselves were spinning. They were dancing, moving into a slowly swaying ring with him at its center. Keph's eyes flickered at the sight and he nearly staggered. He peered at the cultists. None of the them had either Jarull's height or Bolan's odd stature. He turned, trying to catch a glimpse of those behind him.
"He dances!" called a voice.
"Hail to the Mistress of the Night! Hail to the Dark Dancer!"
Arms swept Keph up and whirled him into the dance. Someone was making a simple rhythm, the slap of hands and feet punctuated by ringing, clashing steel. Keph hoped it wasn't Quick being used to make that noise.
The rhythm increased in tempo. The cultists began to spin and turn, pulling Keph with them. His guts lurched.
"Oh, dark!" he gasped helplessly. "Stop! Stop!"
No one ordered him to silence. Maybe no one heard him. Certainly no one listened to him. His head started to pound in time with the rhythm of the dance. He could feel cold sweat erupt on his skin, trickling over his eyelids and sliding down his back.
And they were no longer dancing in a circle. The shifting ring had become a procession that swayed through the darkness. The cultist carrying the candle led the way. Keph could just make her out at the head of the line. He was somewhere in the middle, the cultists around him holding him up. Candlelight shone on descending stairs. He stumbled. The cultists caught him and thrust him forward. When the