Treasures of Fantasy - Margaret Weis [151]
The priests had informed Acronis that since the shrine was in such proximity to the burial site, they would not disturb the dead by tearing it down. Undoubtedly, the Priest-General of that time had considered it unwise to anger a man who could personally fund two triremes and his own private army. It was after this incident, however, that the Legate had been ordered to the outlying provinces.
Sigurd and the others followed Keeper over paths of crushed stone that wound through the pruned plants and ornamental trees leading to a wrought-iron gate. The full moon shone brightly. They had no trouble finding the way.
“Beyond the gate is the old garden,” Keeper said. “The shrine is through those trees.”
The gate was not much used; they had to beat on its rusted hinges to pry it open. Broken stones green with moss and overgrown with weeds led into a tangled wilderness of plants and trees.
Keeper told them to follow the path, then turned to leave.
“Where are you going?” Sigurd asked suspiciously.
“I told Skylan I would go back for him,” said Keeper dourly. The ogre did not like Sigurd.
“And I think you are going to warn your master we are escaping,” said Sigurd.
“Why would he do that?” Bjorn asked.
“For the reward? Because he is the Legate’s toady? How should I know?” Sigurd muttered.
The men looked into the grove of tall trees. The overarching, tangled boughs would cut off the light of the moon and stars.
“Go on, Keeper,” said Bjorn, casting an annoyed glance at Sigurd. “Go back to fetch Skylan and Aylaen. We will wait for you as long as we can.”
“When you reach the shrine, go through it,” Keeper instructed. “You will come to a bronze door. Push on the door and it will open. The catacombs are inside.”
He walked off, trudging back up the path. The men entered the path that wound among the trees. The darkness was so thick they were forced to light the torches.
“There it is,” said Bjorn.
Torchlight shone on a small round building with a domed roof and surrounded by a porch. Graceful columns, cracked and stained with time, supported the roof. The men eyed the building uneasily.
“We go through the shrine,” said Sigurd. “Here, give me that light.”
He seized the torch and walked into the shrine. The others trailed after him. Their uneasiness evaporated when they saw the floor covered with rodent dung and bat guano and spider webs dangling between the columns. If the gods had once been here, they were gone now.
As Keeper had said, a path led from the shrine to a bronze door set into the side of a hill. The door was closed, but, as Sigurd found out by giving it a shove, it was not locked.
Sigurd did not go inside. He stood staring at the door. Once buried, the dead of the Vindrasi were not disturbed. Sometimes it was the dead who disturbed the living by refusing to stay decently interred. Even then, the Vindrasi were patient with draugrs and specters and the like, rarely resorting to drastic measures such as digging up the body and cutting off the head unless the dead became a menace.
The idea that dead ancestors were kept in catacombs, subject to periodic visits whenever someone else died, was unsettling. Sigurd, glancing behind him, saw the men standing some distance away. They were all watching him, waiting for him to go in first. After all, he was Chief.
Sigurd drew in a breath and gripped his sword in one hand, the torch in the other. He started to open the door.
“I think we should wait for Skylan, Aylaen, and the boy,” said Erdmun.
Sigurd glared at him. “You don’t even like Skylan.”
“I like him better than I used to,” Erdmun stated, adding in a low voice, “I like him better