Prophecy: Child of Earth

8

He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t keep his eyes open in the searing heat. Caustic smoke had filled the cavern all the way to the ceiling, squeezing the life from his lungs. Grunthor waved his arms wildly to clear the burning ash from the air in front of him, but the flailing movements only made it harder to draw breath.

Around him in the fetid air sparks were igniting and ripping into flame. The giant covered his eyes and tried to cough-the burning cinders from his lungs, but only succeeded in drawing the acid further into his chest. He struggled to his feet, holding his breath, then staggered blindly forward, groping desperately for the tunnel that he knew opened somewhere before him in the smoky haze.

But the cavern was collapsing all around him, chunks of rock and debris falling from above, the tunnel walls closing in. Grunthor’s lungs swelled in agony and he inhaled the filthy air, drowning.

He stumbled over soft mounds that clogged the street, shuddering as he felt the crunch of bone and heard the muted gasps below his feet. Bodies careened off him from all sides, pushing, crushing in a great rush toward the air. Grunthor had not seen them come forth from the Loritorium’s silent buildings; he had still been asleep, gathering his strength when the world collapsed in a rolling cloud of stinging fumes. He was only vaguely aware they were there, a great throng of people hurrying forward in panic, blocking the exit, struggling for breath, as he was, in the acrid air.

The burning black fog swirled before his eyes, and one of the people grabbed him by the upper arms, shouting something unintelligible. The sergeant gasped, mustered the last of his strength, and flung the man into the caving wall. Then he stumbled forward again, trying to keep from inhaling. His sight was growing dimmer.

It took a moment for the world to stop spinning. Achmed clutched his head and rose shakily, still reeling from the impact. Grunthor’s reaction had caught him by surprise; he could tell by the wild glaze in the giant’s amber eyes that the sergeant was in a delusional state and panicking, but he had hardly expected to be hurled across the street into a lamppost.

“Grunthor!” he shouted again, but the great Bolg sergeant didn’t hear him. Grunthor clawed at the air, lurching through the empty streets of the Loritorium, locked in a life-and-death battle with unseen demons. He was fighting ferociously, but it seemed to Achmed that Grunthor was losing the fight.

Achmed steadied himself against the half-wall, his fingers brushing the oily substance in the channel that scored the top of the wall. Absently he noted a strong odor, similar to the one emitted by pitch when it burned. Then he ran down the street toward the central garden after Grunthor.

The giant was on his hands and knees now, gasping for breath. Achmed approached him carefully, calling his name, but Grunthor didn’t seem to hear. He swung his arms wildly to the side as if trying to clear an invisible passageway, panting with exertion. He scrambled over a section of the circle of benches that surrounded the reflecting pond of the fountain, veering off toward the southwest, his olive skin flushing to a frightening shade of purple.

Then, just before Achmed caught up to him, Grunthor’s face went blank, then relaxed. His eyes cleared and grew wide, and slowly he turned toward the south as if hearing his name being called. Achmed watched as the giant rose to a stand and walked forward through the small garden, following a call that only he could hear.

When he came to the foot of one of the altar-shaped displays, Grunthor sank to his knees, then leant over the altar, resting his head there.

Through the pandemonium Grunthor heard it ring like a bell on a windless night. The chaos and smoke died away in an instant, leaving only the clear, sweet tone, a sound that rang through his heart and reverberated there. It was the song of the Earth, that low, melodic hum that had played in his blood since he had first heard it, deep within the belly of the world. And it was singing to him alone.

Grunthor felt the nightmarish vision of smothering death sheet off him like water. He rose, the fire in his lungs instantly abating, and followed the music that permeated him.

It was coming from a single source, decidedly louder than the ever-present melody that always was at the edge of his consciousness. His skin flushed with warmth and tingled as it had so long ago, back when they first emerged from the Fire at the heart of the world. It was back; the unconditional, loving acceptance he had felt then. He never knew how much he had missed the feeling until it returned.

His sight cleared as he came nearer to it. He could see the source singularly, as if all the rest of the world had melted away into oblivion. There at the far side of the Loritorium’s central square was a piece of earth shaped like an altar, a block of Living Stone. Grunthor had never seen Living Stone before, but had once heard Lord Stephen make reference to it in the Cymrian museum while discussing the five basilicas the Cymrians had built and dedicated to the elements.

This is the only non-Orlandan basilica, the church of Lord All-God, King of the Earth, or Terreanfor. The basilica is carved into the face of the Night Mountain, making it a place where no light touches, even in the middle of the day. There is a hint of the old pagan days in Sorboldian religion, even though they worship the All-God and are a See of our religion. They believe that parts of the earth, the ground itself, that is, are still alive from when the world was made, and the Night Mountain is one of these places of Living Stone. The turning of the Earth itself resanctifies the ground within the basilica. It is a deeply magical place.

A deeply magical place. Grunthor came to a stop before the altar of Living Stone, choking back the pain and wonder that were clutching his throat. The great block of earth was radiating a vibration that soothed the last vestiges of his panic, whispering wordless consolation. It erased the pain that had been pulsing in his chest, easing his breathing. Somehow, without hearing any words, Grunthor knew the living altar was speaking his name.

He knelt down before it, as reverently as he ever had, and put his head down, listening to the story it told. After a moment he looked back up at Achmed. His eyes were clear with understanding, and sorrow.

“Something ’appened near ’ere. Something awful. You game to go deeper, find out what it was?” Achmed nodded. “Are you sure, sir?”

The Firbolg king’s brow furrowed. “Yes; why do you ask?”

“Because the Earth says it was your death, sir. That you don’t know it yet, but you will.”

Deep within the Earth, the Grandmother woke again to the sound of the child trembling. Her ancient eyes, well accustomed to the lack of light in the Colony’s caverns and tunnels, scanned the darkness furtively. Then she swung her brittle legs off the earthen slab that served as her bed and rose slowly, the grace of her movements belying her great age.

The child’s eyes were still closed, but the eyelids fluttered with fear from whatever nightmare lurked behind them. Tenderly the Grandmother brushed her forehead and took a breath. From her highest throat the familiar clicking sound issued forth, a fricative buzz that sometimes helped to calm the child.

In response the child began to mutter incoherently. The Grandmother closed her own eyes, and wrapped her Seeking vibration, her kirai, around the child. The deepest of her four throat openings formed the humming question.

“ZZZhhh, zzzzhhh, little one; what troubles you so? Speak, that I may aid you.”

But the child continued to mutter, her brow contorted in fear. The Grandmother watched in measured silence. This time would be no different than any time before; the prophecy would not be fulfilled. The child would not speak the words of wisdom that the Grandmother had been waiting for centuries uncounted to hear. She caressed the smooth gray forehead again, feeling the cold skin relax beneath her long, sensitive fingers.

“Sleep, child. Rest.”

After a while the child sighed brokenly, and settled back into deeper, dreamless sleep. The Grandmother continued her tuneless hum until she was certain that the worst of it was past, then lay back down again, staring into the darkness of the cavern high above her.

Grunthor recapped the waterskin and handed it back to Achmed, then leaned back against the stone altar and exhaled deeply, driving the last of the tension from his lungs. The Firbolg king’s eyes watched him intently.

“Are you past it now?”

“Yeah.” Grunthor rose and shook the grit from his greatcloak. “Sorry about that, guv.”

Achmed smiled slightly. “Well? Care to enlighten me? What did you see?”

Grunthor shook his massive head. “Chaos. Swarms of people chokin’ to death in tunnels filled with burnin’ smoke. Like I was there. Smelt like a smithy does.”

“The forges, perhaps?”

“Maybe.” The sergeant ran a taloned hand through his shaggy hair. “Deeper than that, though. A place we never been. Oi don’t think ’twas part of the Cymrian lands.”

“Do you think you can find it?”

Grunthor nodded absently. He was thinking about Rhapsody, and all the times he had held her as she thrashed about in her sleep, battling dream-demons as he just had. He had never understood the ferocity with which she fought until now.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he recalled the words they had exchanged upon parting.

You know Oi’d take the worst of them dreams for you if Oi could, Yer Ladyship.

I know, I know you would. And believe me, if it was within my power, I’d give you the worst of them.

Perhaps she had. Perhaps that joking comment had evoked her Naming ability. Perhaps that ability, tied to the truth, which had changed Achmed’s name and broken him free of the demon’s hold, had inadvertently done the opposite for him—had opened the door to whatever it was that gave her visions in her sleep, and sometimes even when she was awake. Maybe he had carried the burden of one of those nightmares for her. It made him miss her all the more.

“It’ll take a good deal more tunneling,” he said at last. “But distance-wise, it ain’t too far. When you’re ready, sir, we can ’ave at it.”

A perfunctory canvass of the streets of the Loritorium yielded a detailed inventory of the defenses and traps that had been erected and built into the complex. Grunthor shook his head in amazement.

“Seems like overkill to have so many for such a small place,” he said, a note of disdain in his voice. “One good explodin’ side-to-side or a ceiling cutoff would ’ave done it. Plus the idiot didn’t account for an escape route, by all appearances.”

“Gwylliam may have been losing his grip on reality by the time the Bolg began to infiltrate Canrif,” Achmed said, examining an enormous semicircular cistern that was carved into the western wall. He ran his fingertips over the wide channel that led up to a stone block in the center of the cistern wall, then smelled them, recoiling slightly at the harsh odor. It was the same as that of the thick residue in the channels that scored the half-walls with lampposts.

“This must be the reservoir of lampfuel,” he said to the sergeant. “The manuscript describes how one of Gwylliam’s chief masons discovered a huge natural well of an oily substance that burned like pitch, only brighter. They incorporated it into the lamppost system to provide light for the scholars to read by.”

”Did it work?”

Achmed studied the stone block for a moment, then looked around the Loritorium. “The reservoir is up behind this cistern, not as far down as we are now. Gwylliam devised a flow system to allow the cistern to collect the lampfuel until it was full, then distribute it into the channels that score the half-walls. The fuel ran up the hollow tubes in the lampposts and lit the wicks, burning continuously. The weights inside this main channel balance the outflow through this stone plug, so that if the cistern begins to overfill faster than the lamps are consuming the fuel, it closes automatically, opening again when the fuel level in the channels subsides. The balance of the system is fairly important; the lampfuel is highly flammable, and only a little was needed to light the streets.”

Achmed wiped his hands on his cloak and followed the main channel into the center of the small city. He stepped carefully into the dry reflecting pool, avoiding the gleaming silver puddle, and gingerly touched the wellspring of the plugged fountain, quickly withdrawing his hand.

“This wasn’t a fountain of water, it was a firewell like that ever-burning flame in the Fire basilica in Bethany,” he said. “Smaller, perhaps, but it has the same source. It vents directly from the inferno at the center of the Earth. One of the great pieces of elemental lore that this place was designed to study. This was what Gwylliam used as the firesource that sparked the street-lamp system and kept it alight, as well as for heat.”

“Blimey,” said Grunthor. “What made it go out?”

“It didn’t, I suspect. Looks like it was dammed, intentionally or otherwise. A piece of rubble from the ceiling is lodged in the vent. The heat from the wellspring is still there. Give me a hand, and we can unseal it.”

“Per’aps we should wait for ’Er Ladyship,” Grunthor suggested. “First off, she’s apt to be mighty put out that we didn’t wait for ’er like we said we would. Second, she seems to be immune to fire and the like; she can probably unplug it without burning ’er face off. Oi’m not so sure that’s true o’ you, sir, with all due respect.”

“According to Jo, it might be an improvement if I did,” Achmed said wryly. “Oi wouldn’t worry about that, sir. Those pigs you’ve been fornicatin’ don’t seem to mind.”

Achmed chuckled. “By the way, you did release her, didn’t you?”

“Yep.”

“Good. Well, I think I’ve seen enough until Rhapsody gets here. Do you still want to search out whatever it was that gave you the vision?”

Grunthor regarded him seriously. “That’s really more your call than mine, sir. I told you what I ’eard.”

Achmed nodded. “Well, if I died and don’t know it yet, I’d like to find out what happened. Where do we begin?”

Grunthor pointed toward the south. “That way.”

The two Bolg gathered their gear and went to the southeastern wall of the Loritorium. Grunthor took a last look at the beautiful altar of Living Stone; walking away from it would be immensely painful. He swallowed, took a deep breath, then leaned into the stone wall as he had before, opening a tunnel before him as he faded away into the earth. Achmed waited until the initial rubble had fallen, then followed him.

They were too far away to notice the glimmering silver shapes, manlike bodies that rose from the pools in the Loritorium’s silent streets like mist, hanging in the air for a moment, then disappearing again.