Destiny: Child of the Sky

22

Night had fallen when Achmed returned to the Cauldron. The lamps had been lighted, filling the brightening hallways with thick smoke and the rancid smell of burning fat, which seeped quickly into his sensitive sinuses and nasal cavities. It made his bad mood even blacker.

The chandeliers in the Great Hall had been lighted as well; the renovations were almost finished. He took a moment, even in his fury, to stop and look around at the awesome sight of the polished marble columns, the newly restored symbols of the star Seren, the Earth, the moon, and the sun meticulously inlaid in the floor. Above him the domed ceiling was a dark cerulean blue, studded with tiny crystals that reflected the light of a mirrored device in the center of the floor, making it look like the firmament of the sky sprinkled with stars.

The illumination from the firepit in the floor that lighted those mock stars was the only light in the vast room, leaving many corners of it dark. Achmed stepped into a shadow, breathing evenly to slow his wrath.

Grunthor was sitting in one of the ancient marble thrones on the dais, one enormous leg slung over the arm of the stone chair. He was singing one of his favorite chanteys, fueled, no doubt, by the contents of the large flask that sat in a place of honor on the other throne.

When the sounds o’ grim battle

Have long stopped their rattle

And the sweet smell of entrails and gore

Pass away on the wind

Salute me, my friend,

For Oi’ll go a-rovin’ no more.

I’ll no longer tarry on

And leave to the carrion

The glory of well-wa-ged war,

When the killin’s all done

What’s the point? Where’s the fun?

Oh, Oi shall go rovin’ no more.

On that bittersweet day

With no more foes to slay

Our martial life naught but a bore,

We’ll make us some thrones

Of their skulls and their bones,

And we’ll go a-rovin’ no more.

-

The fury exploded behind Achmed’s eyes. Angrily he strode down the long aisle leading up to the dais.

Grunthor heard him coming at the beginning of the next song he was preparing to sing. He stopped, stood quickly to attention, and broke into a wide grin, which disappeared as the king came to a halt before the dais, slamming down his bundle of weapons on the floor. The crash of steel and the clang of metal jangled harshly.

Grunthor looked at him in amazement. “What’s all this, then?” he asked.

Achmed crossed his arms.

“When I asked you to watch over the throne, I had not meant that you should be warming it with your considerable arse while someone sells the kingdom out from under me.”

Grunthor, still standing at attention, went even more rigid. The muscles in his tree-trunk arms began to tremble with anger, and his face solidified into a mask of blind fury. Achmed waved at him dispassionately.

“At ease, Sergeant. I’d rather snarl at you as my friend than berate you as my Supreme Commander.”

Grunthor assumed parade rest, his face now a stoic mask within which two eyes filled with fire burned.

“What’s all this, then?” he repeated steadily. “Sir.”

“A cache of weapons I found among the bodies of a quarter-column of dead Sorbold soldiers,” Achmed said, pushing the weapons around with the toe of his boot. “They’re culls, fortunately—the Sorbolds are such mindless imbeciles that they cannot even see the flaws, the lack of balance. But they had them—any thoughts as to how that might have happened?”

“No, sir,” the Sergeant replied rigidly.

Achmed watched Grunthor for a moment, then turned his back to him. It was time for the longtime ritual.

“Permission to speak freely?” said Grunthor rotely.

“Granted.”

“I proffer my resignation, sir.”

“Refused.”

“Permission to speak freely?” the Sergeant repeated.

“Granted.”

He listened, his back still turned, for the great relaxation of military discipline, for the enormous inhalation that came whenever Grunthor crossed from the realm of loyal soldier into the one of enraged equal. He braced himself as the great rush of air surged in through Grunthor’s huge, flat nose.

The Sergeant-Major threw back his head and roared at the top of his lungs. The sound echoed through the Great Hall, making the columns vibrate.

A moment later from behind Achmed there came a rending of carpet and the cracking of iron bolts. One of the ancient thrones of Anwyn and Gwylliam, formed from solid marble and weighing in excess of three men in full armor, sailed through the air over Achmed’s head and bounced off the polished stone floor, skidding over the image of the star and coming to a halt, with a tremendous thud, on its side. Silence reverberated in the Great Hall.

Achmed turned back to Grunthor.

“Feel better?”

The Sergeant was mopping his gray-green brow. “Yes sir, a bit.”

“Good. Now, let me hear your thoughts.”

“When Oi find out ’oo broke faith, Oi’m gonna stick every one of them weapons in ’is eyes, then roast ’im over sagebrush and serve ’im to the troops for the ’olidays on a bed of potatoes with an apple up ’is arse.”

“Rhapsody does always say that you should celebrate special occasions by having friends for supper. Any other thoughts?”

The giant Bolg nodded. “It’s got to be someone on the third shift—that’s when the culls are destroyed.”

“More than likely. But there are two thousand men on the third shift, and it will take an egregiously long time to discover which few are responsible. Agreed?”

“Yeah, but we ’ave to root out the traitors.”

“Yes, but we have other, greater concerns. In the months I’ve been gone our most secret weaponry has made its way into the hands of a neighboring army. If Sorbold is to be the staging ground of the attack on Ylorc, they have far more knowledge of our workings than I am comfortable with. We have to respond quickly.”

Grunthor nodded. “Am Oi still under the banner of ‘permission to speak freely,’ sir?”

Achmed glanced over his shoulder at the throne of Gwylliam, sideways on its arm. “Yes.”

“Then Oi say if we’re going to be in for this, let’s be ready.”

“Details, please.”

Grunthor began to pace, concentrating. “If we’re going to war, let’s go to war. Conscript every able-bodied adult and youth. Suspend the school, and train the brats to carry water, roll bandages, sling rations. Muster out every village, every enclave, women, men, everyone.” He stopped long enough to meet Achmed’s eye. “The Duchess isn’t gonna like it.”

“Does that concern you?”

“Not in the least, sir.”

“Good. What else?”

“Put the smithy on triple shift. Put the mountain guard on patrol there, mindin’ the inventory and the cull pile. Belay the specialty stuff—concentrate on long-range missile weapons and heavy armaments for the crag catapults. Tap the anthracite veins more deep; mine the coal shale in all-day, all-night shifts. Boil down an ocean o’ pitch. Take off the mantle of 'men’ and let’s go back ta bein’ monsters. If we’re going to be in for this, let’s make a stand that’ll ’ave ’em writin’ dirges for centuries to come. Oi want my name ta be set to mournful music and sung sadly by widows all the way to Avonderre.”

A small smile came to Achmed’s face. “Now, won’t that be a beautiful thing. All right, Sergeant; gear up. Make the mountain impenetrable. We’ve known from the start this day would come. Whoever this damned demon is, if he wants Ylorc, if he wants the Sleeping Child, I want him to have to come through me to get them. But before he gets to me, let us make the mountains fall on everyone else who came with him.”

Grunthor nodded, saluted, then strode out of the room, his rage converted to an even more deadly form—purposeful vengeance.

The voice of the Grandmother echoed in his ear.

You must be both hunter and guardian. It is foretold.

He pulled the pillow over his head and spoke the words of reply he had spoken then.

Bugger foretold.

A voice even older, Father Halphasion’s voice, the mentor of his youth on the other side of the world, in a place that slept now beneath the waves of a restless sea.

The one who hunts will also stand guard.

Achmed blinked in the darkness.

Were you the one who spoke the prophecy into the wind? he asked hazily in his mind. All those years before—was it you, Father?

Nothing but the darkness answered.

Achmed had resolved centuries ago to avoid caretakership. Over the course of his long, strange existence he had found that love, life, and loyalty were ephemeral. Therefore, choosing to protect or preserve anything, an eternally sleeping child, even a mountain, was a guarantee of failure, ruin.

He lay now on his silk-draped bed, the one true luxury he had allowed himself. The slippery softness of the bedsheets soothed the eternal itch, the irritating burn of his skin; that, coupled with the solid basalt walls, kept the vibrations of the world around him at bay, or at least they had once. Now, with the forges already ringing in frenetically accelerated rhythm, with the constant sound of running bootsteps passing by his doorway, there was no peace to be had in the advent of war.

Achmed rose slowly and slid into his clothes. He waited in the doorway of his bedchamber until the heavy footfalls died away, listening in the near-distance to the noise of martial buildup awakening in his orderly mountain. He did not have to hear the sound of the Sergeant-Major’s voice bellowing commands to feel their results; the smooth ripples of air that routinely caressed the sensitive nerves in his skin-web had been replaced already by bristling shocks, frenetic energy that signaled the coming of war. He sighed deeply, feeling the work of Time upon his body and spirit for the first time since he had come to this dark and all-but-silent place.

He pushed open the sides of the the plainly fashioned cedar chest at the end of his bed and stepped into the hidden passageway, leaving the edges of the sheets to trail in the dirt at the edges of the tunnel beneath the bed for a moment. Then he closed the portal behind him.

He allowed himself a sigh as he crept through the secret bedchamber passageway, ruminating on the mysteries of guardianship. Grunthor had no need of his protection, or his scolding. Rhapsody was refreshingly, if maddeningly, independent and had absolutely no expectation of him being her protector.

Half his life had been spent in training to be the perfect guardian, and the other half spent on proving that nothing anywhere was safe. The king shook his head as he made the early turns toward what remained of the Loritorium; he was not at all certain which half had been wasted.

The people of these mountains, and the secrets, which once he thought to be his armor against an old nemesis, were weighing now upon him like armor, armor that sometimes protects but can be a hindrance or even a danger. He had fallen into a river from horseback once wearing such armor; the current had pulled him under, the armor dragging him down into the water that he so despised. His responsibility to the Bolg weighed on him similarly now. It was taking every speck of his resolve to stay here and build a battlement around those for whom he felt responsible. If his way were to be had, he would be out, alone, cwellan in hand, until it was over.

Achmed picked his way through the ashes and rubble to the remains of Gwylliam’s great crypt. Little of value remained, some melted metal sconces, a few small shards of tile from the never-finished mosaics—all else had been destroyed in the conflagration that Rhapsody had lighted to destroy the demon-vine, the bastardized root of the Great White Tree that the F’dor had utilized to violate, to broach the mountain in its attempt to snatch the Sleeping Child from the colony of long-dead Dhracians who had sought to protect her.

He jumped down from a high pile of debris to find himself standing beneath the great dome of the Loritorium, the smoothly ascending arch where a case had once been built to house the fire from the star of the old world, Seren, itself. In the wide circle of what had once been planned to be the central courtyard he could see the altar of Living Stone and the large, reclining shadow atop it.

The child’s body was as tall as his own, yet still there was a frailty about it, despite being formed from the living earth itself. She lay, supine, slumbering beneath Grunthor’s greatcloak, which he had covered her with when last they were in this place. From the side she looked like a death statue on a catafalque. The sweet contours of her face were that of a child, and her skin shone with the cold luster of polished gray stone. Below the surface of filmy skin her flesh was darker, in muted hues of brown and green, purple and dark red, twisted together like thin strands of colored clay. Her features were at once coarse and smooth, as if her face had been carved with blunt tools, then polished carefully over a lifetime.

Achmed approached the altar slowly, careful not to disturb the child. Let that which sleeps within the Earth rest undisturbed, the Grandmother, the last survivor of the Dhracian settlement and the child’s guardian had warned. Its awakening heralds eternal night.

He came alongside her and stopped. As he looked down at her from above he noted she was trembling beneath the greatcoat.

There were tears on the lashes that appeared formed from blades of dry grass, matching the texture of her long, grainy hair. Since he had last seen her that hair had gone from the gold of frost-bleached wheat to white, even at the roots which had once hinted at the grass of spring, mirroring the blanket of snow that now enveloped the earth.

Achmed swallowed heavily.

-

“Shhhh, now,” he whispered in his dry voice, the words barely passing through his lips. The Earthchild was frightened; he could feel it in his skin, in the depths of his bones. The earth around her was thundering with the anvil blows, the shouted orders, the horrific cacophony of the buildup to war.

Achmed crouched down beside her and gently pulled the greatcoat up over the child’s shoulders. He cleared his throat.

“Hrrhhhhrmmmm—er, don’t worry,” he said. His winced at the inadequacy in his own voice, and so bent closer, running a careful finger over the Earthchild’s hand.

He closed his eyes and concentrated on the rapidity of her breathing, matching his own to it, and then willing it to slow.

“I know you can feel the earth being rent right now,” he said as gently as he could. “And I’m sure it pains you. But do not be afraid. Do not fear the noise; it is there for your protection. You are safe, I swear it.”

A single tear welled up from under the child’s closed eyelid and crept down her face. Achmed ran a nervous hand through his hair and leaned even closer.

“I will be your guardian,” he said softly, barely giving voice to the words. “Yours, and yours alone.”

He rose and bent over her. His sensitive lips brushed her smooth forehead.

“Sleep now,” he said. “Rest easy. I am standing watch.”

The child sighed in her sleep; her trembling stopped, leaving her as still as a statue amid gentle tides of breath.

Achmed smoothed the greatcoat, afraid to touch her again. He turned and left, heading back to the large pile of rubble he had scaled by the tunnel entrance. As he prepared to ascend, he stopped suddenly and stared at the blackened wall before him.

The soot-marred stone of the wall was permuting, rising like bread dough in places. Achmed drew in a sharp, silent breath as the wall seemed to liquefy, then twist into a convex relief of a left hand.

He looked back at the child, but she had not moved; she had, if anything, fallen into a deeper sleep.

His gaze returned again to the hand on the wall. The stone held the shape for a moment. Then, as he watched, each finger and the thumb elongated, stretched outward, until they formed channels that resembled long, thin tunnels running off in different directions. The palm of the hand relief remained constant, even as the finger tunnels withered away to deep, dark lines, then disappeared.

It was a map, though of what he did not know.

Achmed took off his glove, reached out, and touched the wall. The image was gone; the basalt surface had returned to its former shape without any trace left behind.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

He scaled the rubble and hurried back up the tunnel toward the frenzied buildup that was spreading like a brushfire through the mountain and over the Heath to the deepest reaches of the Hidden Realm.