Rhapsody: Child of Blood

58

“Did she give you any trouble, Yer Ladyship?”

Rhapsody struggled with the vambraces of the armor Achmed had given her.

“Not a bit,” she said, twisting her arm around to try and cinch the closures, finally giving up and turning to Grunthor for help. “I made sure she got a good look at the bodies of the worst victims of Fire-Eye’s Ghost. Jo was more than happy to stay behind and help in the hospital. In fact, she even volunteered to watch my grandchildren.”

Grunthor smiled, his eyes absent of their normal sparkle of humor.

“Good. At least she’ll be safe. Oi don’t suppose you might change your mind as well, Duchess?”

She patted his arm, satisfied with the fit of the vambraces. “No.”

“Well, then, Oi’ll be grateful to have you along. Just remember what Oi taught ya.”

“Of course. And Achmed’s sage advice as well: tuck your chin, you’re going to get hurt, so expect it and be ready, you may as well see it coming.”

The Firbolg king smiled behind his veils. “Are you ready, then?”

Rhapsody came to the mouth of the tunnel and stood next to him. She looked down over the sea of Bolg that swelled in the canyon below. Tens of thousands of them, itching with anger, bristling to wreak vengeance. The noise was deafening.

The black mass of soldiers roiled with their martial preparations, their ugly shouts and outbreaks of violence audible even from a thousand feet below. The size of the convocation continued to grow as more fighters, men and women, joined with each passing moment.

“Are you sure they’re going to remain in control?” she asked nervously.

“Nope,” Grunthor replied, almost cheerfully. “But at least Oi know ’oo they’ll take it out on if they lose it.”

The horses were dancing in place, the nervousness rippling through their muscles. Rhapsody imagined she had the same wild look in her eyes as the animals did.

It had been frightening enough to observe the Bolg from the ledge a thousand feet above. Now, here in the belly of the canyon, it was like being in the unstable eye of a hurricane.

All around her was writhing humanity, or demi-humanity, muscular movement laced with the stench of sweat and the excitement of war. She could see the battle frenzy building, glittering in tens of thousands of eyes, and it terrified her.

“Any sign of the Hill-Eye?” Achmed asked Grunthor, who was giving commands atop Rockslide, the massive warhorse that Lord Stephen had given him.

“Nope. Oi don’t think even they would be stupid enough to attack now.” Grunthor cast a satisfied glance around the canyon, teeming from rim to rim with his army.

Rhapsody moved her leg out of the way of the Bolg quartermaster, who was checking her mare’s barding.

“Are the Fist-and-Fire an Eye clan, or Guts?” she asked.

“Guts,” Achmed and Grunthor answered in unison.

“Then why is their leader called Fire-Eye? Don’t Bolg chieftains usually put their clan type into their own name?”

Achmed dismounted and came to the mare’s side, rather than shout over the cacophony that blared all around them. She leaned down to hear him.

“Virtually every clan in the Hidden Realm is a Guts clan. This shaman’s name undoubtedly refers to the bloody edges around his eyes. Occasionally you can catch a glimpse of a F’dor like that, but it’s fleeting. You’ve seen them in your visions sometimes, haven’t you?” Rhapsody nodded. “And it’s also possible that it is using the same holy, er, unholy symbol, the representation we saw in the basilica at Bethany. That was Tsoltan’s sign.”

Rhapsody thought back to the vision of her mother, the last nightmare she had before reality turned into one. “I think he does; I believe I saw it in a vision.”

“Well, I didn’t when I looked, but he didn’t have it embroidered on his blankets. Whether or not it is displayed on his ceremonial robes, if he even has any, I have no idea.”

Achmed grabbed her bridle and dodged out of the way of a scuffle between three Bolg crossbowmen. Grunthor cuffed one and barked an order at the others, and they quickly moved back into the chaotic ranks.

“Remember what I said about the Thrall ritual. Don’t strike him until you’re sure he’s entranced.”

The noise was too loud to be heard, even if she shouted, so Rhapsody just nodded. Achmed patted her leg and went back to his mount.

The long ride to the Hidden Realm was harrowing. Rhapsody struggled to remain in her seat, gripping the horse with her knees and hanging on for her life.

They rode at the head of an endless column of Firbolg, their ranks expanding to the sides as well as behind them. From every hillside and crag of the deepest Teeth came more clans and families, hunters alone and soldiers in groups, fathers with one or more of their sons, swelling the horde until it seemed as if the mountains themselves were following Achmed. In her memory she heard his voice, brimming with excited energy, addressing his new subjects for the first time on a dark ledge overlooking the smoke from the bonfires in the canyon below him.

Whatever you are now, you are but the splinters of a bone, perhaps once of one blood, but now without strength. When you move it causes pain, but comes to no purpose. Join me, and we will be as the mountain itself moving.

It was coming to pass, just as he predicted.

To her left she heard the Sergeant’s ringing bass begin a marching cadence.

Thousands of voices immediately picked up the next verse, croaking in rasping tones.

Rhapsody clung to the saddle, struggling to remain upright in the vibrations of the echo that resounded off the Teeth. It was a ferocious sound, low and mighty, despite the ridiculous words. There was depth to the voices, pain still hovering at the surface, and she could feel the energy in it, bristling in the sound issuing forth from the throats of the Bolg.

She added her own voice to it, concentrating on amplifying the sound. Suddenly the song was even louder, and many more voices joined in, chanting their vengeance in march time.

A shiver of fear mingled with excitement ran through her, tingling from the base of her spine to her scalp. She glanced over at Achmed, who smiled at her, then back to Grunthor. The Sergeant was shifting into another song, this one a gruesome battle ode, his face intent, without the joy that singing cadences usually brought to it. He had taken the slaughter of his men very seriously, she knew, and planned to avenge them in ways she might be horrified by. She steeled herself for what was to come.

For the first three days of the journey the army continued to swell, new members joining as the colossal column marched by. From the fields and forests a sizable number had come, Claw and Eyes and even a few Guts clans eager to join once they determined that the shaking of the ground was the army passing, and not an earthquake.

They camped at night, those sitting watch tending massive bonfires, still singing the martial hymns. Rhapsody watched the enormous shadows from the fires light the hills at the edge of her vision, clouds of smoke billowing across the dark sky where it hovered among the stars.

Toward the end of the fourth day a few skirmishes had broken out. The Bolg now dashing from the hills or emerging from the broken ruins of abandoned Cymrian settlements were not intending to enlist, but rather to take out the fringes of the royal troops. Any such attempts didn’t even make a ripple through the column, and were quashed without missing a note in the cadences.

On the fifth day everything changed.

Achmed had warned her the night before, in the light of the blazing bonfires, that they were now within the territory of the Fist-and-Fire. Though he suspected they would not be a match for an army of this size, they were a vast and vicious tribe, with an impressive ability to ambush.

They demonstrated that ability as the sun was rising. Achmed’s troops, now fed a steady diet of roots and organ meat to improve their night vision, saw them coming, charging out of the foredawn mist, gray and lightless. Aligned in two waves, the outer force formed a wide ring around Achmed’s army, stretching from end to end of what had once been a large city, now crumbled and decaying. The inner wave swarmed from all sides, emerging from tunnels throughout the ruin, swinging torches that burned with caustic fire.

“Enfilade!” roared Grunthor. Rhapsody reined her mare to a halt in horror as Achmed’s forces split down the center and turned, firing their crossbows at the charging Fists. Up and down the charging line they sprayed, loosing bolts methodically into the oncoming attack.

From all around them flames roared skyward. The outer circle of enemy troops had set great fields of oil and pitch alight, clogging the air with rancid smoke and cutting off escape on all sides.

Grunthor turned to Rhapsody. “Sing!” he shouted.

Waving the fumes away, she began the war chant they had practiced, a song written to match the rhythms of Bolg hearts, enflaming their blood. A savage roar echoed across the plain, undulating through the dirty black smoke and the blinding heat. The royal forces, enraged and invigorated by the chant, fired again and then waded into the fray.

A patch of heavy vapor wafted near her knee and Achmed appeared at her side, his hands outstretched.

“Come on; leave the horse. We have to get into the cave before the fire sings us and the smoke cuts off our exit.”

He pulled Rhapsody down and seized her hand. Together they ran through the melee, dodging the blows and bodies that were falling all around. A moment later Grunthor appeared, his nostrils flaring in fury, tossing soldiers of the Fist-and-Fire out of his way, slicing a path with Sal, his beloved poleax. He came alongside his companions and stopped, his weapon shielding Rhapsody from the blows falling around her.

“We goin’ in now?” he panted.

Achmed pointed to a hole past the billowing inferno. “Over there. That’s the entrance,” he said.

Saltar’s eyes were closed, but his hands twitched nervously.

“They’re coming,” he said.

The hall of the dark cave echoed his words, and then there was silence.

His red-rimmed eyes broke open in alarm.

“Did you hear me? I said they’re coming.”

A cold mist dampened his face, though he wasn’t sure if it was from the Spirit or from his own sweat, now pouring from him.

He is not with them.

Fire-Eye grabbed the Willum sword that was his second greatest treasure. He had not expected to need it.

“What do you mean? Of course he is! They’re here, they’re coming.”

I do not see him. He I seek is not with them.

A string of curses, foul even by Bolg standards, roared forth from Saltar’s mouth.

“You must help me,” he said, his breath coming out rapidly. “You must fight.”

Only the echo answered him.

Achmed stopped at the fire’s edge. Just past the conflagration a jagged line of Fist Bolg leered back at them, the vanguard left to protect the entrance. He pulled Rhapsody up to the boundary of flame.

Rhapsody took a deep breath and drew her sword. Daystar Clarion swept forth from its scabbard, a ringing call blasting across the tumult. She held the blade in front of her face. The last image she saw before she closed her eyes was the shocked panic that had replaced the cocky expressions the Fist had worn a moment earlier.

“Slypka, “she said. Extinguish.

In a twinkling the wall of flame before them disappeared. With a bellow Grunthor charged through, swinging Sal in broad, slashing blows in front of him. He made contact with a few of the unfortunates too slow to dash out of the way, screaming at the top of his lungs. The path to the entrance cleared immediately. Grunthor stopped long enough to extricate Sal’s spearhead from the Bolg he had skewered on its point, then ran into the passageway, Achmed and Rhapsody close behind him.

Rhapsody slowed long enough to sheathe her sword. Behind her she could hear the echoing of feet pounding, soldiers following them into the cavern. She had no time to determine whether they were Bolg loyal to Achmed or not.

Before them was a cadre of guards, Fist Bolg armed with ancient swords and spears with antique heads. Achmed drew the long thin sword she had seen him use in the House of Remembrance. Rhapsody glanced behind her.

The tunnel was erupting now in hand-to-hand combat, Bolg against Bolg, their blood indistinguishable as it splattered the floor. When she looked back, the cadre of guards was on the floor, efficiently dispatched.

“Come on,” Achmed said, grabbing her hand again. They ran, Grunthor in the lead, deeper into the cavern, a place that had once been a city for the Cymrian earth dwellers. The pounding of their feet matched the pounding of her heart. Her breath was coming in short gasps from the smoke she had inhaled and the pace they were setting.

Her arm stung suddenly as Achmed jolted to a halt. Standing before them was a Bolg of unimpressive size, about as tall as Achmed, a Cymrian sword in one long gangly arm.

He was swathed in tattered robes, with hair as wild as if he had been standing in a high wind. From beneath his wrinkled brow, eyes rimmed in red stared at them. Rhapsody was convinced that in them she saw stark fear.

Achmed was standing directly in front of him. He closed his eyes and opened his mouth slightly. Rhapsody put her hand on the hilt of Daystar Clarion, while Grunthor dropped Sal and pulled out Lopper. Achmed was beginning the Thrall ritual.

From deep within Achmed’s throat came four separate notes, held in a monotone; a fifth was channeled through his sinuses and nose. It sounded as if five different singers had simultaneously begun a chant. Then his tongue began to click rhythmically.

Fire-Eye blinked in amazement.

Achmed raised his right hand, palm open and rigid, a signal of halting. His left hand moved slowly out to his side and up, his fingers pulsing gently, seeking the strands of the F’dor’s vibration, the ancient practice of the Dhracians. Then his eyes snapped open.

He felt nothing. There was nothing within the air. Not even a hint of F’dor.

Saltar’s eyes cleared and his face contorted in fury. With a murderous snarl he leapt forward and swung the sword, a blow aimed directly at Achmed’s unprotected neck. As the blow fell, Grunthor loosed a howl that sent waves of shock rippling over Rhapsody’s skin. He shoved his king and dearest friend out of the way, the impact throwing Achmed to the ground, then interposed himself, catching Saltar’s blow in the chest. Rhapsody gasped and drew her sword.

Saltar sliced again, then spun out of the way of Grunthor’s return blow. The Sergeant’s mouth dropped open. Fire-Eye had anticipated his move, one that should have been totally unexpected.

“Hold still, ya lit’le shit,” he muttered, and swung again.

Saltar dodged and glanced another blow off the giant Bolg. Sweat poured from his face, mixing with bloody tears of exertion that were trickling from his eyes. He leapt back, foreseeing Grunthor’s double-fisted pummel.

Grunthor snorted in rage. “The bastard knows what Oi’m gonna do before Oi do,” he growled. He lifted his sword, knowing that Saltar would parry, then summoned all of his strength, bringing Lopper down on Saltar’s blade. The weapon snapped under the impact. Saltar’s red-rimmed eyes widened as the blade cleaved his head from his neck, sending it spinning onto the floor of the cavern.

Rhapsody stepped back, aghast. Saltar’s body pitched forward, hitting the floor with a strange clanging sound. The head rolled a few times, then came to a stop. Its lifeless eyes, now absent their red tinge, stared blindly at the ceiling of the cavern, the light from Daystar Clarion flickering in their glassy lenses.

Achmed bent over the head. “Strange; the red is gone from his eyes.”

Rhapsody was trembling. “The demon-spirit; where is it? Did you hold it in thrall?”

“There was nothing there, nothing I could grasp,” Achmed said, studying the corpse’s eyes.

Rhapsody looked down at her feet. From beneath the headless body’s robes had fallen a gold talisman on a heavy-linked chain. She stooped to pick it up.

“Don’t touch that!” Achmed shouted, his voice coming out in a shriek.

Grunthor gingerly slid the tip of Lopper under the talisman and flipped it over. The gold circle was licked by metal tongues of fire, wrought an Age ago to look like the Earth in flames. In the center of the circle a spiral of red stones traced down, ending in the center with one solitary eye. It glittered in the reflected flames from the sword.

Grunthor recoiled in horror. “That’s it, sir! It’s the one!”

Achmed took a further step away. Rhapsody looked quickly around, but saw nothing in the cavernous darkness. The Bolg in the entranceway still fought on, oblivious of the death of the shaman. Within the vast cave a cold mist descended, chilling the skin of their faces.

Suddenly Grunthor screamed, sending a bolt of terror through Rhapsody. It was not his war scream, the sound he made to frighten horses and men, or the uproarious laugh that issued forth when he was enjoying the mayhem he was wreaking.

It was a scream of agony.

He spun away from where he had been standing, a brutal, smoking slash across his eyes, delivered as if from the air itself. Rhapsody leapt to his aid and was hurled backward, as if by the force of the wind. “Grunthor!”

The Sergeant lurched blindly backward, blood pouring from his eyes, his chest and shoulder bearing two more deep slashes. His cloak ignited, ripping into flame.

Achmed seized his friend’s shoulders and pushed him to the ground, rolling him to snuff the flames as once Grunthor had done at the Earth’s core for him. The Dhracian’s neck snapped back with the force of the invisible blow that slashed across his chin, as the fire began to consume Grunthor.

Rhapsody struggled to her knees and held the sword before her, panting. She took in a deep breath and cleared her mind, then concentrated on making the fire vanish.

“Slypka,” she whispered.

The flames disappeared. Grunthor’s charred body, face down on the cavern floor, jerked again. A cruel wound ripped his back open from his waist to his neck. Rhapsody, staring in horror, gasped aloud.

“Achmed, look!”

In the light of the sword they could make out the shadow of something bending over Grunthor. All but invisible, it hovered above him, vaporous hooded robes hanging on skeletal arms with fiery claws at the ends. The silhouette glimmered in the darkness, barely there, whispering between the world of living men one moment and the spirit world the next. Within its hood was total darkness, glinting momentarily when it caught the light of the sword. Then it was gone.

Grunthor’s body pulsed once more, then lay still. The flames from Daystar Clarion caught a shadow moving away, turning toward them.

“Shing,” Achmed whispered, his voice choked. “Gods.”

“Shing? What’s that?” Rhapsody asked, her voice barely audible.

“An eye of the F’dor. And it’s coming this way. Parry if you can. Back up slowly, then run. I’ll hold it off as long as I can.”

Still crouched, Rhapsody backed up. “The F’dor? You said there was nothing there.”

“I couldn’t find the vibration on him,” Achmed muttered furiously, his eyes glancing around in panic. “But it’s here. It’s Tsoltan’s servant. Saltar must have been the host; it must have been him.”

It’s not what he is, it’s what he wears.

Rhapsody’s back straightened. She could hear the words in her mind as clearly as if her mother had been standing beside her. She repeated them again.

“It’s not what he is, it’s what he wears.” Achmed’s head snapped back, his shoulder slashed open, on fire. Grunthor moaned as his friend stumbled backward and fell, his huge hand flexing in agitation. It was the only movement he made.

It’s not what he is, it’s what he wears.

Her eyes went instantly to the amulet. Rhapsody reached out a trembling hand and grabbed the talisman.

“No,” Achmed gasped, clutching his shoulder. “Don’t touch it!”

Grunthor’s body was flipped onto its back. “Stop!” Rhapsody commanded, holding the amulet aloft. From across the room, she heard the word in her mind. It was muffled, muted. Tsoltan?

Rhapsody shook her head, trying to break free from the feeling that her mind was being prodded, violated. Achmed raised himself up as much as he could. “Rhapsody, run,” he choked. “It will kill Grunthor, then start on me; it won’t be diverted until it’s sure its victim is dead. Get out of here.” His face went slack with horror. “Gods, Rhapsody, your eyes!”

In the reflection of the amulet eye she could see her own green ones, now rimmed in the color of blood. It’s not what he is, it’s what he wears.

“It’s the amulet,” she said softly. She turned and held it up again, looking in Grunthor’s direction. “The Shing is not bound to the shaman. It’s bound to the amulet.”

She turned back to the hovering shadow, flitting from moment to moment in the darkness. “Get away from him,” she ordered. A faint glimmer appeared above Grunthor’s body. “What do you want?” I seek the Brother.

“Did you hear that?” Rhapsody turned to Achmed, still propped on his elbow on the floor. He shook his head. “It seeks the Brother.”

Shakily Achmed rose to a stand and picked up his sword. “Tell it,” he said softly in Bolgish.

“No. It can’t see you. You’re Achmed the Snake now.”

“Tell it,” he repeated. “It’ll return to Grunthor if you don’t. It will kill you. Tell it.”

“No.”

Achmed clutched his shoulder and stumbled forward.

“I’m the Brother!” he screamed. “Me! I’m who you seek! Take me!”

“Achmed, no!”

Achmed’s back straightened, his arms tight against his sides. Rhapsody watched in horror as he jolted, writhing in the grip of a glimmering shadow with flaming claws. The specter clutched him, pulling him off the ground. His body was lifted, then dragged, twitching, over to her, where it fell at her feet. Achmed lay there, not moving.

The Shing hovered in the air before her. Deep in her brain she could hear it speak again.

I have found the Brother. I have delivered him as commanded. Release me now.

Rhapsody clutched the chain of the amulet, the sweat from her hands making it slippery.

“Where are the other eyes? The rest of the Thousand?”

Gone, long dissipated on the wind in the heat of the Sleeping Child. I alone remained, having crossed the wide ocean in search of him. I alone succeeded. Release me now.

Achmed stirred, but didn’t sit up. “Ask it about its Master.”

“And he who called you forth? Where is he now?”

He is dead, man and spirit, his name all but forgotten. I was the last of his essence, of his fire. He is dead. Release me now. The voice was growing fainter.

Rhapsody looked down at Achmed. “It demands release.” Achmed nodded. She looked back to where she had seen it last.

“Show yourself fully, and I will release you.”

A faint glimmer appeared. Rhapsody could see the outline of the hood and robes, its frail clawlike hands glowing feebly, no longer burning. The frame on which the robes hung was skeletal, brittle. No light at all was visible within the hood.

“Are there any other demon-spirits? Any other F’dor?”

The Shing grew fainter, its voice silent.

“Slypka,” she said. Extinguish. The shimmering apparition vanished.

She bent and summarily checked Achmed, who waved her away, then ran to Grunthor. Tears poured down her cheeks, unnoticed, as she saw the hideous wounds that had mutilated his face and body. He was breathing shallowly, his tattered eyes glassy, staring at the ceiling above. The pallor of death was in his cheeks.

In a faltering voice she began to sing the difficult Bolgish name, with its whistling snarls and glottal stop. Child of sand and open sky, son of the caves and lands of darkness, she sang. Grunthor didn’t move.

Bengard, Firbolg. The Sergeant Major. My trainer, my protector. The Lord of Deadly Weapons. She was starting to weep uncontrollably. The Ultimate Authority, to Be Obeyed at All Costs. Grunthor, strong and reliable as the Earth itself. My friend; my dear, dear friend.

Outside the cave, the sun was setting.