The four companions camped that night on the northernmost edge of the Krevensfield Plain, the wide-open lands that stretched as far as the eye could see between Bethe Corbair and the Teeth, the mountains that formed the fortress barrier of the Bolglands.
The field wrapped around the city on three sides, so the travelers headed east until Bethe Corbair and its surrounding settlements were no longer in sight. When the night came they were surrounded by an all-encompassing sphere of stars and darkness. It was a lonely sensation, as though they were the only living things in the world, and as a result they stayed up quite late, talking to each other as a means of warding off the desolation.
Wrapped in darkness as she was, Rhapsody thought back to the emptiness she had felt during the endless journey along the Root. While that had been a constant struggle, a fear of giving in to her own feelings of panic, now she felt utterly alone, vulnerable, lost here among the stars.
She drew her cloak around herself and thought of her grandchildren, as she often did when the night was loneliest. Were Gwydion and Melisande safe in their fortress of rosy brownstone, with their father's army to protect them? All their wealth and privilege had not kept them from devastating loss; perhaps nothing could protect anyone from it. Rhapsody reached out and gently brushed a lock of pale hair off Jo's forehead. Nothing.
The fire had died down, the hot embers casting flickering shadows on the sleeping faces of her companions, the only friends she now had in the world. Rhapsody sighed brokenly, painfully, and continued her watch, trying to avoid looking up into the eternal blackness above her.
The gray mist of dawn still found her solemn. Her companions rose sleepily, grumpy in the last vestiges of sleep. Rhapsody reached into the campfire, still merrily blazing.
"Slypka." she said, watching the fire snuff out in a thin wisp of smoke that vanished almost as quickly. It was a word she had learned early on in Namer training, roughly translated as extinguish. It eliminated every trace of fire or mist, or anything that hung, vaporous, in the air. She often wished the word could be applied to other things, such as bad dreams or haunting memories.
When morning broke they started out as the snow began to fall again. Over the course of their journey the winter weather returned, making traveling difficult and tempers short. The howling wind was both a curse and a blessing; in addition to sparking some of their angry confrontations, it swallowed their verbal exchanges, sparing their friendships.
Four days passed, and the wide plain of Roland, known as the Orlandan Plateau, began to take on a hillier aspect, with attributes that were more akin to steppes than open fields. These rocky fields were the precursors to the foothills of the Teeth.
After more than a week the mountains themselves came into sight, rising above the steppes in the distance, jagged and sharp against the sky of the horizon. Gwylliam had called these crags the Manteids, the Seers, in honor of his wife and her sisters, but Time had erased that name, and now they were known across the land by their more fanglike description. It was an apt one.
It took another three days before they were in the foothills, the mountains growing closer all the time. When she first sighted them Rhapsody thought they were uniformly brown, dark reaches that rose threateningly skyward.
As they grew closer she could see that they were in fact a multiplicity of colors and hues, blends of black and purple, green and blue, stretching toward the clouds in many peaks and crags within each mountain. They were at once beautiful and forbidding, standing a silent watch between the world of men and the hidden realm of the Firbolg beyond.
Finally, after two more days, they came to the feet of the mountains. They had been in the steppes for half that time, semi-hills that undulated across the now-rocky plateau, with steep rises and deep swales spanning the landscape. At the top of a particularly tall rise Achmed stopped; the others followed his lead.
Below them, cloaked in snow, lay a great bowl-like amphitheater, cut into the earth by time and nature, enhanced, perhaps, by the work of men. It was vast in size and breadth, surrounded by rocky ledges and rimmed internally in gradated rings that leveled out onto a wide, flat floor, buried in snow and the debris from centuries of neglect. Rhapsody recognized it instantly from the writings in the notebook.
"This is Gwylliam's Great Moot," she told the others excitedly, her voice echoing off the sides and disappearing into the snowpack. "According to the writings, the Cymrians used to meet in council in times of need or celebration. The entire populace could fit within the Moot, which served as the meeting place. This is where Gwylliam and Anwyn held court with all their subjects in attendance."
"It's a cwm," said Grunthor, using the word from the old world for the crater formed by a glacier or volcano. He closed his eyes and inhaled the frosty air; it was snowing lightly, making it difficult to see. Through his feet he felt at one with the Earth here, even more than when he had just emerged from the Root. It was a place with layers of history, and the Earth whispered the secrets to him now in the silence of his heart.
The base was the ancient time, long ago, when the Bowl was formed. The great Moot had once been a glacial lake, dug by the freezing and thawing of ice on the mountain faces of the Teeth when they were young. The glacier had carved the Bowl of the Moot as a vessel for the melting tears of the great wall of moving ice. As the land warmed, the lake had sunk into the earth or sent its water skyward, dried by the sun, leaving the amphitheater hewn into the mountainside. That was the first layer.
Then came the layer of the old days, when man polished what Nature had carved into a gathering place for the people that came to live on the land. The power of the land, and the people who walked it, who gathered here, had melded, forming an Age the like of which the world had never seen, nor would it see again.
And there was now, the sleeping time, when it lay, forgotten and desolate beneath the shroud of snow. Even dormant, there was no mistaking its immense power. Grunthor opened his eyes, returning from his reverie, looking around for the others.
Achmed had located a pathway through the foothills, and was concentrating on finding the easiest route to where they wanted to go.
As his mind wandered over the terrain, he could see a series of passes in the mountains, larger than mountain-goat trails but smaller than roads, that crisscrossed the landscape, providing somewhat accessible paths from crag to crag and through the twisting hills.
Mountain to mountain and beyond, over the heath at the top of the world and deep into the Hidden Realm, hundreds of roadways and bridges scored the land. Some clearly traveled, others forgotten by time, the trails opened up the high country that Nature had never intended to be accessible. The system was an engineering marvel, and looked like the work of mountain dwellers, the Nain of the old land, earth-movers and miners of incomparable skill. Gwylliam's handiwork,he noted.
As his mind's eye wandered over the land, he could see them. In the distance of his second sight, tiny figures, black in the morning light, traveled the paths, hiding in the shadows. Kin that he had never known, and planned to one day rule.
"This is the place that Gwylliam called Canrif," he said to the others. "There are Firbolg scattered throughout the Teeth in roving packs; there seems little, if any, organization."
"And that's what you were hoping for, wasn't it?" Rhapsody asked. "Ripe for the picking, isn't that what you said?"
Achmed smiled. "Yes."
For a race of beings that had sprung up from the caves, the Firbolg seemed oddly reluctant to journey outside at night. The four companions watched from half a league away, noting their movements and counting the intrepid ones willing to venture outside the Teeth, looking for food or prey. When twilight came, however, the Bolg became fewer and farther between until finally an hour went by with none in sight.
"Night blindness," Achmed said; Grunthor nodded in agreement.
"How strange," Rhapsody murmured, straining to see the mountain passes as darkness took the Teeth. "You would think cave dwellers would be especially good at seeing in the dark."
"They are, underground, where there's no light at all, not even the glow we had on the Root. It's the darkness of the air in the world above that confounds their sight." Achmed looked around to ensure that Jo had not heard him.
Rhapsody shuddered at the memory of the Axis Mundi, then returned to her watch. "Yellow roots and green-leafed vegetables."
Grunthor gave her a strange look. "Eh?"
"Two of the cures for night blindness. One of the famous legends you learn when you study lore as a Singer tells of a great Lirin army that became invincible by changing its diet; it gained nightsight by eating certain foods. All its enemies were still night-blind, so the Lirin only attacked in the dark."
Achmed nodded, making note. "Are there any other remedies beside vegetables?"
"Liver," Rhapsody said. Jo made a gagging sound. "Maybe they're not night-blind after all," said Grunthor. "The Bolg ought to get enough o' that just eatin' their enemies."
"What enemies?" Rhapsody asked, ignoring the cannibalistic comment. "Bethe Corbair is their nearest neighbor, and it doesn't look like there's been a raid there in the lifetime of anyone who lives there."
"No, it doesn't," Achmed agreed. "And from what Grunthor gleaned from his reconnaissance, Sorbold, the kingdom on the other side of that mountain range, is effectively kept out by the Teeth and the rough terrain in between. So there doesn't seem to be much external raiding. I imagine they prey on each other."
Rhapsody shuddered again. "Wonderful. Are you sure this is where you want to live?"
Achmed smiled. "It will be."
Snow had crept into the crevasses in the foothills and hardened, forming frosty stepping-stones on which it was difficult to maintain purchase. Jo had fallen half a dozen times, once almost tragically.
"How much farther?" Rhapsody shouted into the screaming wind. She stared down into the canyon below them, a sheer cliff stretching down several hundred feet to the floor of the steppes.
"Almost there," Achmed called back. Leaning at the waist on the rock wall, he hoisted himself up onto a rocky outcropping, then crawled onto the ledge above. He lay flat and extended a hand to Rhapsody, hauling her easily over the ledge as well.
Rhapsody cast a glance around to be sure they were unobserved before joining him on the ground to help pull Jo up. She secured the rope while Achmed slid his hands under Jo's arms, dragging her up to safety. The teenager was trembling with exhaustion and cold. Once she was firmly on the flat surface Rhapsody wrapped her cloak around Jo and concentrated on the fire within herself, trying to impart warmth to her sister.
A few moments later the spike on Grunthor's helmet appeared, and with a smooth motion he pulled himself onto the ledge.
"Well, that was fun," he said. "Ya all right, Duchess? Lit'le miss?"
"We need to get her to shelter, out of the wind," Rhapsody answered, her own teeth chattering. She could no longer feel her fingers or the tip of her nose.
Achmed was bending down near them both, and nodded. "Take just a moment, Rhapsody, and look up. See what our fellow Seren have wrought, and destroyed."
She turned and gazed around her. Rising out of the whirling snow was a mammoth stone edifice, carved into the very face of the mountain before them. It stood, black against the sky and nestled within the crags of the whole of the mountain range. Giant walls, hewn smooth and camouflaged to blend into the rock, led up to dark openings that appeared to be towers and ramparts, though of a size that was incomprehensible to her. Anything else they had seen since arriving in this land, the basilicas and cities, the keeps and castles, were dwarfed by comparison.
No wonder the populace thought of Gwylliam as a godlike figure, she thought, her eyes unable to take in all of the structure from her vantage point on the cliff. It was as though the hand of the Creator Himself had carved this out of the mountainside, this seemingly endless series of walls and crumbling bridges, barricades and roadways, tunnels and bulwarks stretching across the center of the mountain range and over the vast heath beyond. A city for giants, not men of Grunthor's size, but of titanic proportions, hidden from sight among the Teeth. Canrif.
"Is there a tunnel you think might be safe?" she shouted over the whine of the wind. "Jo's freezing."
"Can you walk?"
"Yes."
"All right, let Grunthor carry Jo, and you come with me. There's a cave not too far from here, blocked by a boulder I'm sure Grunthor and I can force out of the way. The Bolg won't go there. Take hold of my cloak so you don't get lost if the visibility gets worse."
Rhapsody nodded and grasped the edge of his cape, tucking her free hand inside her cloak, and grimly followed him out of the storm.
Once inside the tunnel, the howling wind diminished, leaving their stinging ears pulsing. Shards of falling rock and dust covered them, filling their eyes and nostrils, as Grunthor shoved the boulder back in place, leaving only the smallest of openings, so the Bolg would not detect their hiding place.
Rhapsody coughed and brushed the grit off her head and shoulders, then helped Jo do the same. The teenager was still bleary-eyed but coming around from the trauma of the climb.
"Where is this place, do you think?" she asked.
Achmed looked into the darkness of the huge tunnel. Smooth tiles lined the walls around and above, rectangles of ancient stone honed into perfect symmetry. Long trenches, probably gutters, scored each side of the tunnel, while a series of drainage holes were visible in the ceiling overhead, clogged now with centuries-old rust and debris.
"I'd guess it's part of the aqueduct, probably a drainage tunnel. There were dozens of them within Canrif itself, diverting the rainwater and runoff from the mountain springs through the general water system, and carrying off whatever excess remained into the canyon below. Since wells would have been impossible this far up in the mountain, it provided a ready supply of water for drinking and other uses, while preventing flooding. The sketches in the Cymrian museum were very detailed."
Rhapsody fumbled in her pack and pulled out the journal they had found in the House of Remembrance.
"This isn't much help," she said after a quick examination. "I wish I had paid more attention to what you were looking at in the museum."
Achmed chuckled. "You underestimate the scope of this place, Rhapsody. Canrif wasn't a mere citadel, or even a city in the mountains. It was a nation unto itself. The fortress within the Teeth is only a very small part of it. Beyond the canyon and the Blasted Heath is the bulk of it, forests and vineyards and mines and villages, cities and temples and universities, or at least that was what composed Canrif in the Cymrian days. I doubt the Bolg have kept it up, however."
"I wasn't able to see but a fraction of the plans. I could see there was a water system, and ventilation units to bring fresh air into the mountain, and great forges in the belly of the rock, whose residual heat they used for warmth. Whatever else Gwylliam was, he was a visionary, someone who could design and execute the building of a living, functioning world from nothing but solid rock and ingenuity. We could never have committed it all to memory if we had studied it for a month."
Rhapsody crouched near a pile of crumbled stone, recently fallen. She laid her hands on the rocks and felt the fire within her swell, then directed the heat into the stone. "So what's next?" she asked as the rocks began to glow red.
Achmed was dragging food supplies out of his pack. "After we've had something to eat, I'm going on a bit of a scouting expedition. Grunthor, you stay with them, and if I'm not back in a few days, take them back to Bethe Corbair."
"Had it occurred to you that we might actually deserve a say in where we go, especially in your absence?" Rhapsody asked angrily.
Achmed blinked. "All right; if I don't come back, where do you want be taken?"
Rhapsody and Jo looked at each other. "Probably Bethe Corbair."
The Dhracian laughed. "And they say Bolg are unnecessarily contentious. Don't worry, I'll be back. I just want to pay a little visit to my future subjects."
Contrary to the timetable in Cymrian legends, the Bolg had actually inhabited parts of the mountains long before Gwylliam's war ended. The Lord Cymrian had been too engaged to care that a ratty population of cave dwellers found its way across the eastern steppes and into some of the older sections of his vast labyrinth. The Bolg were aware of him, however, and quietly opened a hidden front inside Gwylliam's realm. Minor reports of lost Cymrian patrols or stores unaccounted for were hidden in the greater and bloodier balance sheets of the battles against Anwyn.
The Bolg were not heroes, or soldiers; they were cruel and considered anything they could catch worth eating. They had stolen fire and the concept of war, and they could live in any climate or terrain, though they were poor builders.
Centuries before, some distant warlord had enslaved several tribes of them and found them tractable when well fed, but upon his death, they destroyed his estate, stayed for a short time, then wandered somewhere else. His survivors theorized that, not unlike wolves, they obeyed him because they felt he was one of their own. That was a unique situation; most of mankind they viewed as prey, not partners.
The groups that inhabited Gwylliam's mountains were an unmatched lot of refugees and savages fleeing bad weather or poor hunting. Some had been chased out of their previous homes by greater strength. This faction of Bolg brought with them in retreat the weapons and harsh view they had of the world; encounters with them were uniformly unpleasant.
After Gwylliam discovered the Bolg, he made halfhearted attempts to exterminate them. He set traps, sent contingents into their lairs, but that only served to weed out the stupid and the weak. It was Grunthor's observation that Gwylliam had perfected the Bolg. They had come to his forges flawed and he had made them sharp and hard. They were a weapon he never had a chance to use against Anwyn.
The day after the companions took up residence in a sealed-off drainpipe of the Canrif aqueduct, a party of ragged Bolg hunters cornered a subterranean wolf in the Killing Hall deep within the Teeth. The hall was the traditional spot to which game was lured, a killing ground for the larger animals or hominid intruders that were unfortunate enough to be chosen by the Firbolg for slaughter.
The Bolg had found the ancient corridor after the Cymrians had been routed and fled. It was massively long and twisting, with a heavy stone door at the end that they had been unable to unlock or pry open. So instead they trapped their victims there, though it was not always in their favor to do so.
It appeared to have been a mistake this time; the wolf was winning. Prehistoric mammals the size of a large bear, the subterranean variety of the species were ferocious creatures, solitary and vicious, with the musculature of an animal that survived and hunted in underground tunnels with the eyesight to match.
This one had already taken out one of its Firbolg predators and was chewing on an unfortunate second when the dark man came. He arrived without being noticed, managing to appear at the precise moment when the hunting party had determined itself outweighed and were tottering on the edge of flight.
At first they did not see him, his flowing black garments blending into the inky darkness around him. Instead, it was the voice they heard, sandy and full of snarling spit, speaking in a tongue that they recognized as an older version of their own.
"Down." The word bounced up and down the corridor like the green wood of the hunters' crude arrows against the stone.
The Bolg reacted as if they were travelers turning into a strong wind. One folded himself against the floor, others turned slowly toward the source of the word. What they saw froze them where they stood, making it impossible to obey the growled command.
The dark man's hood had fallen back as he drew his long, straight sword over his shoulder. The face was frightening, even to the Bolg, and unknown to them, but it held a kinship as well, a familiarity that made them realize that this was, in a very disturbing way, one of them.
The figure made a blurred movement and light whistled through the dark corridor. The slender sword spun end over end and pierced the throat of the rampant monster that had risen over the body of one of its victims. The fire was still in the wolf's eyes as its deep growl choked off and the beast fell.
The dark man was there as it did, moving to retrieve his sword with speed akin to that of the weapon's deadly flight. He stood in the midst of the hunting party; all were armed, but none made a move until he reached to pull his sword from the neck of the wolf.
As he touched the fur in which it was buried, the Bolg hunter who had fallen to the floor slashed at his legs with a wicked-looking hook that had been honed on the inside edge. The dark man broke the hunter's wrist with the first stamp of his heel, and then his neck with a fierce kick. He stood for a moment and met the gaze of each of the remaining hunters before reaching down again. This time there was only the feathery sound of the blade's exit from the tangled fur.
'Good hunting." The black-cloaked man turned and melted into the darkness.
Print's pallid eyes glittered in the reflection from the embers of the small fire. He had barely touched the belly meat and shank of the wolf, accorded to him as the one who had brought the kill back to the clan.
"Man was like the night," he whispered to the others. The children, watching from behind their mothers with great interest, were pushed back, only to wriggle forward again to better hear the tale the great hunter was telling. "Did not see him come."
"What wanted he?" demanded Nug-Claw, the clan chieftain.
Print shook his head. "Nothing. Killed wolf, and Ranik. Ranik tried to hook him. Man stamped him out like a fire-spark." He shuddered, and the children retreated a little.
"Took no meat?" Nug asked. Print shook his head. "Said nothing?"
Print thought for a moment. "Blessed the hunt."
Nug's eyes widened. "And?"
"After we left Killing Hall, found two goats and rat. Got all."
A murmur of fearful excitement swept through the clan. Nug's woman spoke.
"Maybe Night Man is god." Nug aimed a blow at her, but she dodged out of the way.
"Not god. Nug is clan-god. But we beware Night Man. Must warn all of Ylorc."
Print blinked rapidly. "Maybe Night Man is all-Bolg-god."
In the shadows behind Nug, Achmed smiled and slipped away into the darkness.
The walls of Canrif's labyrinthine tunnels had crumbled somewhat over time, leaving uneven roadways where the detritus had eventually hardened into mounds and pits. The obstacles meant nothing to Achmed's ease of passage and silence, but left him feeling strangely sad at the neglect of what had once been a majestic fortress.
In Canrif's heyday the tunnels had each been wider than a city street and smooth, carved and polished painstakingly from the basalt of the mountain's interior, laid out with mathematical precision. Formidable and confusing from the exterior to thwart attackers, they were systematic and easy to predict from the inside. At one time they had been lined with sconces that had illuminated the great underground complex. Now all that remained were the broken bases, still attached to the walls, or holes where the sconces had been.
The enthusiastic pulsing of his own heart brought an awareness to Achmed of the secret delight he was taking in his mission. This sort of work brought him back to the old days, the era of his training, the time when the race of F'dor was engaging in a campaign of extermination against the Dhracians.
He had reveled in those journeyman days, before his invention of the cwellan, before his ascension to the rank of the world's foremost assassin, when he still had to make his reputation one killing at a time, letting his name slip on the wind ahead of him, leaving it behind like his signet.
He slid through the shadows now as the tunnel emptied into a wide, cavernlike room, something he recognized as a guard barracks by the contours of the floor and the stairs that had once been wall-mounted beams, the actual weapons racks and bunks long gone or decayed. Even the soldiers' quarters had at one time been beautifully appointed, with an elongated domed ceiling on which peeling frescoes of historic battle scenes could still be faintly seen, the paint cracked and marred with time.
Achmed stared up at the corroded figures, images of soldiers in combat, musing. The science of combat was dictated by the philosophy of connection, the art of making a deadly impact on one's opponent, clinging to the enemy, making contact over and over again until the enemy could no longer withstand the connection.
It was a rubric which worked very well in explaining the motives and actions of F'dor. The demonic spirits clung fast to their hosts by necessity; it was a fact of their existence. Connection was required of them in order to survive. It was little wonder, then, that F'dor hated the Dhracians.
Dhracians, unlike fighters of other races, subscribed not to the philosophy of connection but to one of separateness. Detachment from the fight meant a keener perspective into flaws and chinks in armor. It was the finding of places where the enemy's weapon was not, where the armor was not, that Dhracians relied upon to give them entry into the places between the blows, below the armor. It was this detachment that made the Dhracians anathema to the F'dor, beings who had to cling by nature, had to be connected, or cease to exist.
It had occurred to Achmed back when he and Grunthor first observed the explosions of inexplicable violence that perhaps the violence itself was really the intention all along. While Tsoltan had been a strategic thinker, with a long worldview, it was possible that whatever was now causing men to erupt in senseless mayhem did not need a master plan, or an end goal. Perhaps it was just the power, the friction caused by men connecting with each other through violence, that it sought, that gave it life, and strength.
His contemplation was interrupted by sounds of strife in the tunnel on the other side of the barracks. Achmed trotted across the vast room, taking care to remain within the shadows, and stopped at the tunnel entrance. He breathed deeply and let his mind follow the path through the tunnel to the source of the grim noise.
His second sight did not have to go far to find it. Ahead in the tunnel a ragtag crowd of Bolg was brawling, slashing at each other with fragments of spears and what may once have been swords. There were markings from two different clans, one sign etched in the faces of its members, the other inscribed on their forearms. A screaming female with an arm-sign was pinned to the ground by two from the face-marked clan, doubtless the prize for the victorious chieftain. Achmed unslung the cwellan.
The Night Reavers were on the brink of winning when lightning whistled through the tunnel, cutting down both chieftains. The Bolg stood stock-still, watching the bodies topple and fall, each with the same slash across the throat, front and back, where the shining blades had entered and exited, ripping through one on its way to the other. The partially detached heads wandered in and out of the rapidly forming pools of blood.
A man formed out of the darkness in the hallway before them. With little more than a whisper the blackness around him became robes and a hood, beneath which two piercing eyes could be seen, looking them up and down.
One of the Reavers had heard the stories from the Killing Hall.
"Night Man." The word carried with it a primal fear that was palpable.
The Night Man took a step forward, and the Bolg of both clans rushed to the walls. He bent to pick up a broken sword and tossed it to the woman, then turned back to the others.
"Run," he said. Even the Bolg could recognize the whisper of death in the colorless voice.
In a blind panic, the tunnel emptied of both clans, stumbling and tripping in their haste to obey. Only the woman hesitated for a moment, and so she alone caught a glimpse of the smile beneath the hood. Then she turned and followed her clansmen, leaving the darkness to swallow the Night Man again.
The four companions returned to the Killing Hall later that night. Achmed had led them through the easiest of the passes in the Teeth; the route was a little longer but avoided the interior tunnels as much as possible. Jo could not see well in the dark, and though Rhapsody had survived the dimness of their endless journey along the Root, becoming accustomed to the lack of light, she was uncomfortable within the Earth, at least initially.
They had been attacked twice on their way across the crags.
"Twice too often," said Rhapsody as they entered the caves.
"Half as much as we should o' been," said Grunthor, wiping off his snickersnee. "Pathe'ic. It's gonna take some real work to get these lads in shape."
"Well, not those lads," said Jo, looking back at the bodies from the unsuccessful ambush. Grunthor cuffed her playfully.
Achmed raised his hand, and the other three fell silent. They followed him down the twisting pathways, the stone cold and crumbling from neglect and time. Rhapsody shuddered. The desolation within the mountain was tangible; she could feel it in the air around her.
When they passed a large opening in the hallway, Rhapsody stopped for a moment and looked through the portal. She could see a ledge that led out above an enormous cavern. She turned questioningly to Achmed, who nodded.
Stepping past the opening, she looked over the rim of the ledge. In the colossal space that surrounded her a heavy wind blew, thick with dust, and none of the freshness of the air of the open world. She shielded her eyes and looked down into the blackness at her feet.
Below her spread a vast, ruined city, dark and silent. Streets and buildings, broken and decaying, stretched to the edges of her vision. She could see places where fountains and gardens had once been, now standing dead and quiet, the life in them long since dried up. Yet despite the squalor there was evidence of order and beauty in the design of it, architecture that in its lifetime had far outstripped that of Bethany or Navarne. Now fading into history, crumbling in a melancholy state of anonymous rot.
Gwylliam's greatmasterpiece, Rhapsody thought sadly. Canrif, the word meaning century. Surely just the carving of the cavern's great firmament that reached up into the peaks of the Teeth above them must have been the life's work of thousands of men. It still stood, a hollow testament to the hollow vision of a hollow genius, who had thrown it arrogantly away. Now it was nothing more than a hollow shell, sheltering packs of roving demi-humans who walked its crumbling tunnels, oblivious of the glory that had once been.
Achmed touched her shoulder. "The Killing Hall isn't far now," he said.
When they reached the point of the last curve before the straightaway section of the hall, Achmed nodded and Grunthor stopped. He and Jo took their positions just around the curve of the bend, guarding the hallway. Achmed and Rhapsody ventured down the remainder of the corridor until they came to the heavy stone door at its end.
"I expect this is the vault, Gwylliam's library," Achmed said softly. Rhapsody nodded in agreement. There had been no map or account of the interior of Canrif in the book they found in the House of Remembrance, but the description of the door was unmistakable. Deep within the stone face was a cracked inscription, a disintegrating artistic rendering of Gwylliam's aphorism.
Cyme we inne frit, fram the grip of deap to lifinne dis smylte land.
It was carved above a rusted metal plate and solid handle, beneath which had been bored a series of identical holes, approximately the diameter of an arrow shaft, arranged in symmetrical rows.
"It's a lock of some kind," Achmed said, running his thin, bony hand over the holes. Dust and fragments of rocks fell from the door's face as his fingers passed over it. "I'm sure that stupid motto of his has something to do with the key. That man was a one-stringed harp."
"Gwylliam was an engineer and a mathematician, so he must have somehow encoded the axiom into a number pattern corresponding to the holes," Rhapsody said, brushing the residual dirt from some of them. "There doesn't seem to be a correlation between these holes and the alphabet of the old Cymrian language, however."
"Could it have been in another language? Nain? Lirin?"
Rhapsody shrugged. "I don't know. That seems politically precarious, especially if others used the library. There would be a taint of favoritism to it. I don't think Gwylliam would have risked it."
She counted the holes again; they were set up in lines of six, with five rows in all. Her face clouded over as she thought. Then she broke into a smile; Achmed observed, even out of the corner of his eye, that it was as if the sun had suddenly risen in the tunnel.
"Of course! It's a musical lock. They only counted six notes back then, instead of the eight that Lirin Singers always had. When I was at Llauron's I discovered that the rest of the world now uses the eight-note scale as well. Back then they only commonly used five groupings, what we now call octaves."
"I hadn't realized Gwylliam was a musician."
"Gwylliam was an engineer and an architect. Music is a largely mathematic system; I'm not surprised." Rhapsody pulled an arrow from her quiver and snapped the point off. Slowly, painstakingly she inserted it into the hole that would have corresponded to the initial C in Cyme.
Deep within the stone they both heard an almost imperceptible click, a grinding sound that hummed for a moment and then fell silent. Rhapsody's face grew more excited, as did Achmed's.
"Easy; take your time," he admonished. "If you mess it up you may fuse the locking mechanism, and then we'll never get it open."
"Sshh," she whispered, her eyes gleaming. Her brows knit with concentration as she counted off the letters, pushing each of them within the pattern of the words in the aphorism. She was on the second-to-last word when Jo appeared at the corner.
"Someone's coming; a whole bunch of them."
Achmed turned to Rhapsody. "Keep going; I'll help Grunthor. Don't hurry."
Rhapsody nodded and pressed in the next hole, exhaling in relief at the click as Achmed ran up the tunnel, exchanging places with Jo. The teenager looked over her shoulder at his retreat, then joined her adopted sister at the door.
"What are you doing?"
"Sshh," Rhapsody answered, trying to concentrate. "I'll tell you in a minute."
Sounds of strife issued from around the corner and echoed down the hall. To Rhapsody's dismay Jo turned and bolted down the corridor again.
"Jo, stop! Stay here." She turned around and made a grab for her.
Jo shook her off. "Are you insane? There are at least ten Bolg out there."
"Only ten? By the time you get there Achmed and Grunthor will have already looted the bodies and stacked them out of sight. Wait here and watch my back, please. I can't protect myself and work the lock at the same time."
Jo sighed, then agreed reluctantly. "You never let me have any fun."
Rhapsody hid her smile as she returned to the lock. "I let you fight in the passes on our way through the Teeth, didn't I?"
"Oh, that was a challenge," the teenager said sarcastically. "Slicing up night-blind mongrels armed with weapons made of sharpened rocks. As Grunthor would say, 'Pathe'ic.'"
"You'll get your chance; I imagine you'll see plenty of fighting. In fact, I'm going to attack you myself if you make another sound."
Rhapsody struggled with the last hole, scraping bits of debris from the hole with her finger, rubbing the skin raw and drawing blood. She shook her stinging hand, then slid the arrow shaft in one more time. The hole clicked, and deep within the rusted metal panel was a sound like a cymbal striking.
"Go get Achmed if it's clear; stay hidden and keep back if the fighting's still going on," Rhapsody said to Jo, who could barely contain her excitement. The younger woman nodded and dashed up the hall, to return a few moments later with their two Firbolg companions.
"Did you get it open?" Achmed asked, wiping his sword on his cloak as he walked and returning it to his scabbard without missing a step.
"I think so," Rhapsody answered, surveying the door. "It tripped, or at least it sounded like it did. I didn't try to pull it open until you got here, of course."
"Have at it, big fellow," Jo said to Grunthor, who smiled down at her. Achmed nodded. Rhapsody drew forth her bow and nocked an arrow onto the string. She was not entirely certain she wanted to see what was behind the massive door to the hidden vault.
Her reservations proved right a moment later. Grunthor swung the immense slab of stone open and a hissing of air issued forth, bringing with it the dusty stench of death. It was an old smell, long contained within the huge room beyond the opening, but putrid enough to cause Jo to retch where she stood.
Rhapsody ran to her side and held her head while Achmed looked within the vault. Grunthor took up a position between the women and the hall to guard against any other Bolg that might come down the tunnel. Jo's nausea cleared up quickly, and after a few minutes she insisted she was able to investigate the cavernous room behind the door.
Gwylliam's vault opened above and around them, preserved Time had never touched it. The great cavern was filled with documents, scrolls of parchment and bound manuscripts, maps and globes and charts enough to have kept an army of scribes and sages working for centuries. Polished shelves of immense height stood in rows, holding the remnants of Gwylliam's plans and serving as the repository of the knowledge of the Cymrian civilization in silent testimony to what had once been the pinnacle of the age.
Rhapsody looked around the vast room in amazement. The ceiling had been carved into a great smooth dome, which was painted the color of cobalt and dotted with silver-gilt stars in constellation patterns, set up in precise position to map the heavens above this land. The landmasses had been graphed in minute detail on the walls, and were annotated in the nomenclature of the time.
What were now the countries of Roland and Sorbold were jointly described as the Cymrian lands, while Tyrian was noted as Realmalir—the Lirin Realm. Other parts of the world were mapped as well, including the Lost Island that had once been their home, lovingly rendered in exquisite detail.
Sprawled across the great dome, in between the stars, was the enormous image of a dragon, its scales layered in red-gold leaf, each one inlaid individually within the beast's hide. Cruel talons, gleaming in silver gilding, stretched out over the lands to the west. The eyes had been set with clear gems, faceted into prisms, sparkling down into the darkness from the ceiling. Fresco flames of yellow and orange poured from its open maw.
In the center of the room was a large round table carved from black marble, its center covered with a clear dome. Several odd types of apparatus protruded from the floor next to it, and one strange fixture hung suspended from the ceiling above it. The metal from which it was wrought displayed no hint of rust or tarnish, even with the passing of centuries. Rhapsody would have liked to examine it further, but was held at bay by what lay on top of it and on the ground in front of it.
Slumped over the table was a mummified body dressed in robes. It had fallen on its back, a deep, cruel wound bisecting its chest. A simple gold crown lay balanced on its side next to the body's head; as Achmed approached it began to roll slightly back and forth on the table, glittering in the dark.
On the ground in front of the table lay another dried figure, a parchment-skinned skeleton with a broken neck. The skeleton was dressed in fine mail armor that had obviously not been sufficient to spare its owner his fate.
Grunthor closed the door after setting several stones in place to hold it ajar and determining that the handle worked from the inside. He looked over at Achmed, who stood above the bodies, arms crossed, looking down with a half-smile on an otherwise-serious face.
"Well, here's the great and mighty Gwylliam, I'll wager."
Rhapsody and Jo came forward slowly.
"Who is the other one?" the Singer asked.
Achmed looked in the direction of the other skeleton. "A guard, possibly. Strange; one would think there might be two of them. That was a hallmark of the Seren royal guard."
Rhapsody looked sharply at him. "How do you know that?"
Achmed ignored her question. "I would also hazard a guess that Gwylliam may have killed this one himself." Grunthor nodded in agreement; he had been examining the angle of trajectory at which the body had fallen and had come to the same conclusion.
Rhapsody looked puzzled. "I thought Llauron said Anwyn killed Gwylliam."
"So he did. Well, perhaps he doesn't know as much as he pretends to; wouldn't surprise me. I don't trust him."
"You don't trust anybody," said Jo absently. "Can I have the crown?"
"Hold off a bit, lit'le miss," said Grunthor gently. "Give us a chance to look around first, eh?"
Rhapsody walked around the table, giving the bodies a wide berth, and examined the dome in its center. It was outside the reach of her arms, though Achmed might have been able to touch it, and, despite being coated with dust, showed a high level of craftsmanship.
It appeared to be composed of a single, highly polished stone with a diameter longer than she was tall. The dome rested above what appeared to be a schematic of the labyrinth, interior and exterior views, which was intricately carved into the stone of the tabletop.
"All right, Achmed, what do you make of this?"
The Dhracian came over to the table and examined it, his eyes flickering over the schematic and dome more rapidly than Rhapsody could follow. After a moment he reached out and touched the dome; as he did it glowed foggily beneath his fingertip. Parts of the map began to shimmer as well.
Achmed smiled. "I don't make anything of this. It will make something of me."
"And that is?"
"King."
Everything we need to conquer the Bolg is right here—everything. In a matter of a few weeks they will be a united kingdom for probably the first time in their history, on their way to becoming the greatest force to be reckoned with since the Cymrians invaded this land fourteen centuries ago."
Rhapsody looked askance at her friend. She was certain she had never seen Achmed this excited, and she didn't want to take away from it in any way, but what he was saying made no sense to her.
"Care to let us in on how you plan to accomplish this?"
Achmed pointed to the table. "I've seen this instrumentality, or one like it, before. It belonged to the Seren king in the old world; it was the way he determined the movements of troops and migrations of population centers. I'm not surprised Gwylliam brought it with him, or made a new one; it's a useful tool for a king to have. What?" he asked Rhapsody, who was staring at him strangely.
"I learn something new about you every day, Achmed. Here we've spent the last fourteen centuries together, and I never had any idea you were so well traveled in circles royal. How did you get a chance to hobnob with the blue bloods?"
"'E was a bloody assassin; 'oo do you think 'ired him most often?"
Jo looked at Achmed in wonder. "You were an assassin?"
He ignored her and glared at Rhapsody. "This will give us the ability to determine where the largest groups of Bolg are, and how frequently they move. We'll start by recruiting a small, mobile tribe that can be trained as elite guard. The word will spread, after a few victories, that the earlier you come on board, the better your training and rank will be in the end."
"Victories? You make it sound so clean and simple. Aren't you talking about battles?"
Achmed snorted. "Hardly; skirmishes, really. Any race that has remained disparate after four centuries lacks the staying power to put up much of a fight."
"When I was scouting in Bethe Corbair, I heard some town guards make mention of an annual ritual called 'Spring Cleaning.' The soldiers of Roland, out of Bethany, ride down on the outlying Firbolg villages every year and destroy the inhabitants. They put the Bolg they can find to the sword, women and children included, and burn the crude huts." He ignored the expression of horror that washed over her face. "Now, what Bolg racial trait do you think is indicated by the fact that this happens, year after year?"
"Stupidity?"
"Not at all; it's actually rather clever. The Bolg have figured out that if they sacrifice a few of the weak and the sick they can keep the Orlandan army from coming further into their lands, which they call Ylorc, by the way. So they rebuild the same tattered village and stick a few unfortunates in it. The mighty men of Roland sweep through, setting the sham ablaze and butchering a few defenseless waifs, then ride back to Roland, having achieved orgasm as a result of their brave and manly actions."
"I assume you'll be putting a stop to that practice immediately," said Rhapsody, still pale.
"Of course."
"Bastards," muttered Jo. "Count me in when that happens. I'd be delighted to help you skin some Orlandan soldiers."
The look of shock returned to Rhapsody's face. "No, you won't. Achmed, you talk like the four of us are going to personally subdue hundreds of thousands of Bolg."
"Right."
"Wrong. I don't mind helping you, even though I think that a hundred thousand to four are suicidal odds. But it will have to be a hundred thousand to three, because Jo stays out of it. I didn't bring her along to get her killed."
"Who asked you?" spat Jo. Rhapsody turned to see her sister's sallow face florid with anger. "This mother-hen routine has got to stop, Rhaps. I'm a big girl and I've lived my entire life on the street. I can take care of myself, thank you very much. Now stop coddling me or I'll set your hair on fire."
"That won't work with 'er, you know she's got that strange thing with fire. But Oi can help you come up with somethin' else if she won't leave you alone," offered Grunthor, casting a playful look in Rhapsody's direction. "Come on, Yer Ladyship; she sounds an awful lot like another lit'le girl Oi use to know." He winked his large amber eye at her. Rhapsody laughed in spite of herself.
"Oh, all right," she said, giving Jo a hug. "I guess I can't keep you out of the fray forever. Where do we begin?"
"Well, Jo begins by handing over the crown, and any other valuables she looted from Gwylliam's body while we weren't looking."
"What?" Rhapsody pulled away and looked up into Jo's face; the expression on it was a mixture of defiance and sheepishness. The Singer looked over to the body that was sprawled backward on the table. The crown was indeed missing, and the corpse had been picked clean of every valuable, gem, ring, and button.
Grunthor stretched out his massive palm reproachfully, though Rhapsody thought she saw a twinkle in his eye, and Jo slowly returned the crown, looking humbly at the floor.
"Now let's 'ave the rest, lit'le miss," said the giant Firbolg. Jo looked up and, seeing the stern look that had replaced his smile, dug reluctantly into her pockets and handed over a fistful of jewelry and other trinkets.
"Is that all, now?"
The street wench nodded.
"Bad answer," said the silty voice from behind her. Quick as lightning, Achmed's hand shot out and tore the pocket off the vest Rhapsody had bought for Jo in Bethe Corbair. A shriek of protest caught in Rhapsody's throat as a golden ring tumbled out and fell to the stone floor, where it spun on its end in ever-smaller circles.
Achmed stooped to pick up the ring.
"You are a bad judge of value, Josephine," he said, using her hated given name. "This might have bought you a decent horse, or ten acres of land in Bethe Corbair, but it has cost you far more than it was worth. Your lie has been purchased at the price of my trust. No one here would deny you your fair share of treasure, but you must understand that the valuables, as well as the bodies, we find in this place, are artifacts, clues to the puzzle of our survival here."
"I admire your self-reliance, but it makes you dangerous to have on the team, and I can't risk that. Too much is at stake to take a chance on a disobedient brat who doesn't understand the rules. Tomorrow we will choose one of the horses to leave with you and take you back to the outskirts of Bethe Corbair."
"You had better choose two, then, because I'm going with her," said Rhapsody, battling to keep her temper in check. She looked up into her sister's face and grew even more furious at the sight of Jo struggling to keep up a brave front while fighting back tears. "And if that's the way you feel, you can speak to me from now until we leave in the morning. I don't want you to say another word to her."
Achmed regarded her coolly. "You wish to split up now? Leave us for her?"
"If necessary."
"Why?"
Rhapsody looked from the quivering girl to Achmed's blank face. "She needs me more than you do."
"Come on, sir, per'aps we can work out a compromise," offered Grunthor gently. "It's gonna take 'er a while to get use to bein' out of danger and off the street, eh, Jo? Oi'll vouch for the lit'tie miss; she won't do it again, will ya, darlin'?"
"And we can ban her from the library. She can stay in whatever home base we establish," Rhapsody said.
"I'm sorry," Jo whispered. The three looked at her in astonishment; it was the most unlikely thing they had ever heard her say.
"Well, Achmed? One more chance?"
"I can see I'm outvoted. Very well. I'll relent this last time, but I think it is a mistake. You're rash, Jo, and headstrong; it must be a family trait." He glanced at Rhapsody, who smiled at the floor. "I can't stress to you how serious I am about this being your final chance. We can't have a half-member of the team; either you're all the way with us, with full privileges, or you're out. I will not continue to jeopardize my life for your immaturity, nor the lives of Grunthor or Rhapsody. You're not worth it."
"That's enough," Rhapsody said bluntly. "She's got the message."
Achmed looked at the Singer and spoke one sentence in the Bolgish tongue.
"Mark my words; we will regret this."
"Strange words coming from someone who wants my help in pitting four people against an entire mountain range of monsters," Rhapsody retorted, wrapping a protective arm around Jo and leading her over to a chair. "Are you all right?"
Jo nodded; her jaw was clenched so firmly that a tiny muscle vibrated in her cheek.
"Just sit here for a few minutes and keep out of trouble. Achmed can seem harsh, but he's just trying to ensure our survival."
"I understand and accept what he's saying," muttered Jo. "It's you I can't stand at the moment. Please leave me alone."
Stung, Rhapsody walked away and back over to the two Firbolg, who were conferring by the stone table.
"The vaults are under 'ere," said Grunthor, pointing to the center of the table.
"How are we supposed to move this?"
"Let's worry about that in a moment. Watch this." Achmed rested his hand on the dome over the map and, as before, the crystal began to glow. Beneath the clear covering the table began to glisten in spots, glimmering for a moment and then moving to another area of the schematic nearby, then disappearing altogether to reappear a moment later on the other side of the table. The flickering lights meant next to nothing to Rhapsody, but Achmed and Grunthor seemed to understand them, and began conferring Rhapsody, glanced back at Jo, who was staring resolutely at the floor, arms crossed tightly over her chest. When her attention returned to the two Bolg, they seemed to have reached consensus.
"We need to do some investigating," Achmed said, slipping on his gloves. "I suggest you and Jo wait here in the library and look around for whatever manuscripts you can find that might be useful. The Bolg have never opened this door, and so if we leave it barely propped, there is little likelihood that they will even notice it's been opened."
"And what if they do? What if we're trapped in here when they come?"
"Well, you have a pretty fair sword, and the kid has been longing for some battle action. Do the best you can."
"Your concern is overwhelming," Rhapsody replied sarcastically, glancing back over her shoulder at Jo again.
"We won't be that long. Grunthor has already made sure the door opens from the inside, so if we don't return after a day or so—"
"A day or so?"
"—wait until you are sure nothing's moving around and head back for Bethe Corbair. You should be comfortable there; they have a good-sized market for shopping."
"You're a pig, you know that?" she retorted, watching Grunthor smile out of the corner of her eye. The giant went over to the chair where Jo was glowering.
"Keep your nose clean, lit'le miss, and have a look around. See if you can find anythin' we can use, eh?"
"All right," Jo muttered. Grunthor patted her head encouragingly and gave Rhapsody a hug.
"See ya soon, Duchess," he said, then followed the shadow that had already slipped out of the great stone doorway without a sound.
Whispered words in the ancient corridors. "Night Man. Killed Brax-Eye and Grak-Claw with sky-fire."
"Gave Grak's woman a slash-iron. Now she carries his child." The Bolg glanced rapidly around, their eyes searching the black tunnels for movement.
"Maybe here now. Night Man's blood is darkness."
"Night man comes to kill Bolg?"
"No. Night Man is Bolg. Maybe Bolg-god."
"Maybe Night Man comes to challenge Fire-Eye. And the Ghost."
There was silence in the darkness. Then a sentiment that left each of the huddled Bolg nodding. "Much blood spilled there will be."
After the two men were gone, Rhapsody, and eventually Jo, searched the library. They started with the maps and logbooks of Gwylliam's journey from the Lost Island, which Rhapsody read aloud, translating from the Old Cymrian.
They then progressed throughout the repository as they figured out the organizational system. Everything seemed to be based on groupings of six; plans for buildings and base structures were hexagonal, following Gwylliam's belief that the six-sided construct was the most architecturally solid.
In addition, they found another door, this one unlocked, and after a good deal of debate decided to risk opening it without waiting for their companions to return.
With great effort they pried the heavy stone slab open to discover a tunnel that led to caverns filled with rusting machinery, great wheels and gears and pipes that ran vertically up the sides of the mountain. The mechanisms in the cavern were each large enough to have easily filled the town square in Bethe Corbair.
"What do you suppose all this is?" Jo whispered.
"I'm not sure," Rhapsody answered, paging carefully through a manuscript she had found in the repository. "I think it must have something to do with the ventilation system."
Jo had walked down a few of the stone steps that led down into the cavern, and was staring at the huge gearwheels above her. Each of the countless cogs was twice the size of her hand.
"The what?"
"This is the machinery, if I'm not mistaken, that managed the air within the mountain. As you can tell by the dankness of the tunnels, it doesn't work anymore."
Jo turned around, her eyes still transfixed by the mammoth pipes attached to the mountain's interior. "How'd it work?"
"I'm not exactly sure. One of the things Gwylliam brags the most about in his writings is his wonderful accomplishment of bringing fresh air and warmth into the mountain. The fortress here inside the Teeth was his headquarters, where he had his Great Hall, his throne room, and the various bulwarks that kept enemy armies at bay. I have to admit it was a brilliant system. The ventilation made the mountain inhabitable for the Cymrians who lived within the Teeth."
"I'm confused. I thought all Gwylliam's Cymrians lived within the Teeth."
"Most of the Cymrians who lived in Canrif actually lived past the canyon behind the Teeth, beyond what Gwylliam called the Blasted Heath, whatever that means. The lands are so vast it's indescribable, and it's impossible to tell from outside the Teeth, because all of them are shielded from sight by the mountains. I'll show you that manuscript when we go back."
"Won't do any good," Jo said, casting her gaze around the quiet stone and metal gears, still looking threatening in the dark, even in their silent state. "I can't read."
Rhapsody nodded. "I thought as much. I'd be happy to teach you. I taught Grunthor."
"Really." Jo started to walk farther down the stone steps hewn into the mountain along the cavern walls.
"Let's go back," said Rhapsody hurriedly. "I think we should wait for the other two to go exploring down here."
Jo sighed in annoyance but did not protest, following her sister back up into the library again.
The better part of a day had passed before Achmed and Grunthor returned, little the worse for wear. Grunthor had sustained a minor injury to his hand, which Rhapsody washed and bandaged over his protests of the wound's insignificance. Both seemed satisfied with the day's reconnaissance.
"We found a few in the crumbling city—by the way, their word for the Cymrians is Willums," Achmed related over supper.
"Interesting," Rhapsody said. "Well, at least someone remembers old Gwylliam fondly."
"I thought you might enjoy that, Rhapsody. Anyway, the tribes are dispersed throughout the Teeth and deep within the old Cymrian realm; we only saw a few groupings."
"Yeah, we saw a lot o' Claws and Eyes but no Guts," added Grunthor, chewing on his rations.
"Claws and eyes? Guts? What are you talking about?"
"That's one method by which these Bolg describe themselves. The Claws are the soldier types, the hunters and marauders. It's that kind of tribe that Roland generally gets to clean out every spring."
"The Eyes are the spies, obviously. They live on the mountaintops, facing the steppes, and on some of the higher slopes that look inward, facing the heath. They tend to be thinner of body, less muscular, and scavenge more than they raid."
"And the Guts live deep within the mountain and elsewhere in the hidden parts of the realm. I couldn't glean much about them except that they are some of the more feared tribes. Generally they keep to themselves, but when they spill out of their lands, there's havoc."
"Spilling Guts. That's precious," said Rhapsody.
"Their chieftains incorporate the type of clan they are into their names. Oh, by the way, we now own some Claws of our own, a small herd called the Night Reavers."
"Excuse me?"
Grunthor grinned, showing his carnivorous smile. "Yeah, the Warlord 'ere—that's what they call 'im—got 'is own personal 'onor contingent now."
"Warlord?" Rhapsody asked.
"Well, it's an improvement on 'the Night Man,' which is what they called me at first," Achmed said, chewing.
"I'm not callin' you no damn Warlord," Jo muttered into her mug. "Warthog, maybe."
Rhapsody hid her smile. "Where are these—these Night Reavers now?"
"Tied up in one of the lower hallways."
She dropped her bread in alarm. "Tied up? You left them tied up? Won't the other Bolg wandering by attack them?"
"Well, possibly, but the Night Reavers were considered the most fearsome of the groups we could find within a day's travel. I doubt the other Bolg would want to risk the wrath of anything that could subdue the Reavers and leave them trussed like turkeys in a hallway."
Achmed was correct; other tribes did wander by the captive Reavers, but did not seek to attack or loose them. They were able to see this on the great marble table beneath the dome. Achmed showed the women which lights represented his prisoners, and the flickering movements that indicated the visiting tribes.
Jo had made a remarkable discovery that went a long way toward redeeming her in Achmed's eyes. It was she who had determined the purpose of the apparatuses next to and above the stone table.
The pipe that hung from the ceiling above the table was a speaking tube, a form of acoustic address system that allowed for a speaker's voice to be transmitted throughout the mountain or to specific regions, depending on what had been selected on the table map. The apparatus that protruded from the floor was the opposite, a listening tube, that allowed the sounds from specific areas to be transmitted back to the library through the pipe structure.
Both of these apparatuses were tied into the duct and ventilation system that ran throughout the mountain, a complex series of tunnels and vents that drew air from the fierce winds that circled the mountaintop to cool and cleanse the air within the mountain fortress. When heat was needed in the cold months, the air could be diverted through Gwylliam's mighty forges, which now lay dormant in the depths of the Teeth.
At one time from those forges great vats of iron, steel, and bronze, as well as precious metals, had been poured and beaten into some of the finest weaponry and armor in the known world, as well as impressively crafted items of ornamentation.
Achmed had gathered a collection of weapons from the various display cases to analyze, and had spread them out on one of the long study tables. Rhapsody came upon Grunthor running his hands over one of the swords from the vault. There was a look of sadness on his face that reached down into her heart. She walked up to him and wound her arm through his. "What are you thinking?" she asked.
Grunthor looked down at her as a smile crept over his face. "Oh, nothin', darlin'."
"Missing your troops?"
"Naw. Oi'll 'ave some new ones soon enough, Oi suspect. Oi was just thinkin' what a waste it all is."
Rhapsody sighed; she had been thinking much the same thing. It was painful to see what the Cymrians had been, their fellow Seren, their countrymen, perhaps even descendants of their loved ones.
In the artifacts left behind she could see the life's work of craftsmen, engineers, architects, draftsman, builders of intricate roadways and great machines that had outlived their civilization, men and women of great vision and the ability to bring it to life, now gone, crushed beneath the heel of senseless power-hunger.
"Cheer up, Grunthor," she said, forcing a smile. "Just think about how Gwylliam will spin in his grave, knowing all his sophisticated machinery and weaponry will soon be in the hands of the Bolg for use in building up their civilization."
The Sergeant chuckled. "Oi don't think the ol' boy 'ad a grave, if that's 'is body over there. But maybe if we get 'im to spin fast enough on the floor, 'e can get the machin'ry goin' again."
Achmed had selected his next tribe to recruit. The Dark Drinkers were an Eye tribe, a group of swift scavengers that used the shadows of the mountain to ambush solitary travelers or the weak among other Bolg clans.
This time all four of the companions took to the tunnels, lying in wait for those Bolg who relied on the element of surprise. The rout was messy, but thorough, and within an hour Achmed had a new group of loyal spies who would act as spokesmen for him.
"Go throughout the tunnels with this warning," the new Warlord instructed the survivors. "The King of Ylorc has come to the mountain. Those who wish to be part of the realm will gather in the canyon beyond the Teeth when the moon is full, ten days hence."
"In three days you will feel me inhale, cold as the winter wind; anyone I touch thus is summoned. The following day you will feel me exhale; the warmth of my breath will touch you again. You must come at full-moon's night to the canyon. Anyone who ignores my summons will be consumed in the fire of my belly on the eleventh day." The night eyes of the ragged cave dwellers blinked rapidly in the dark at the words.
Deep within the Hidden Realm, the Bolg shaman woke in the darkness of his cave. His eyes, cracking open as sleep fled, stung around the edges, even bled a little as awareness slowly came back to him.
The vision was almost upon him. He had time to sit up and grasp his head before it broke across him like a strong wind.
Something had come to the mountain. There were whispers of it from the Eye clans, a low buzzing hum about a man who blended into the darkness, but they were only fragments of a story. The tale itself had not yet made its way here, to the Deep lands, far beyond the Teeth.
Saltar, whom the Bolg called Fire-Eye, rested his hand on his chest, concentrating on the vision, but it was still unclear. The images were strangely familiar, but far beyond his comprehension. He would wait, keeping watch, until the visions became clearer.
"How right of you to threaten to breathe on them without making sure the vents worked first," muttered Rhapsody. She sat atop Grunthor's shoulders, trying to pry loose one of the main gear levers.
They were deep in the belly of Gwylliam's ventilation system, having found the architectural drawings and notes indicating how the operations had been designed and implemented.
It had been an arduous process, trying to locate where the massive structures matched the drawings. Once they had figured that out, the task had become dangerous. More than once the men had needed to climb out to the exterior crags, digging loose centuries of rock and debris from the wind that clogged the outer vents. The wind howled around them, tearing at their clothes, all but pulling them into the canyons below.
The ventilation system had been built from the same strange metal Achmed and Grunthor had seen in the cathedral in Avonderre, and was seemingly impervious to rust, despite centuries of disuse. The machinery itself seemed to still be in working condition, but occasional fittings and levers were rotten with age or decay from exposure.
"Just because you open this once doesn't mean it will work when we need it to, Achmed," Rhapsody warned from her perch on the giant Firbolg. "There are so many pieces to this apparatus, and many of them are close to rotten or sticky from having sat so long untended." They had already had to reopen several passages which worked the first time, only to catch and jam shut the second time around.
"This is the last one. If you can open this area we will have cleared the system for all the tunnels within the Teeth; not bad for two days' work," said Achmed. He and Jo were oiling an enormous gearshaft next to a giant fan. He gave the securing chain one final pull, then turned to the other two again. "How's it coming?"
"Let's try it," Rhapsody said to Grunthor. The giant Bolg nodded and lifted her down from his shoulders, then gave the lever a firm tug. The grate it was attached to slid open with little resistance.
"Perfect; now close it up quickly," said Achmed. "Let's hold our 'breath' a little longer."
Rhapsody closed her eyes. She was already holding hers.
The next morning the sun rose over the Teeth in a deep fog. Just as it crested the horizon a terrible grating sound was heard within the mountains, a scraping sound like a sword against the grinder's wheel. Moments later the tunnels of Canrif were filled with an icy wind, whipping through the corridors with a ferocious whine, blasting the Bolg with gale-force intensity.
Even within the belly of the ventilation system Rhapsody could hear the cries of panic. She turned to the others with alarm on her face.
"Enough, Achmed; you'll freeze the children and the injured."
Achmed nodded, and Grunthor and Jo pulled the levers, shutting the outside vents. They went about closing down the rest of the system while Achmed and Rhapsody hurried up the stairs to the speaking tube.
As they climbed, Rhapsody grasped Achmed's elbow.
"It isn't always going to be that violent, is it? Canrif will be uninhabitable."
"Not once it's been running regularly. I think the air just needs to come into balance on both the inside and the outside of the mountain. And, by the way, we call the place Ylorc now. In case you hadn't noticed, Gwylliam's century is over by a millennium or so."
When they reached the stone table, Rhapsody drew forth her lark's flute. They had agreed the night before that Achmed's voice, while frightening in person largely because of the sandy quietness of it, was insufficiently frightening for an initial address. Rhapsody planned to compensate for that musically.
She started a discordant melody that served to pick up on the tones in the Dhracian's voice and exaggerate them, adding in the sounds of howling winds and voices that shrieked and moaned. Achmed cleared the speaking tube and delivered his message.
"Tomorrow I exhale, one breath, long enough for you to feel my heat without being ignited this time. Those who come to me in the canyon when the moon is full will be part of the new power of Ylorc. All others will perish under my heel." His voice reverberated in a monstrous echo. Achmed closed the speaking tube.
"Well, that was horrifying," said Rhapsody as she put her flute away. "Do you think we convinced them?"
"Some of them. Others will be convinced tomorrow. And some will remain defiant, preferring to pit themselves against a new warlord than take a position of secondary power."
"And what about them? What are you going to do to convince them?"
"Let's just say they won't live to regret their skepticism."
Hebreathed on us, the Fist-and-Fire spies were saying. Cold, like the screaming wind.
Saltar rubbed his eyes, trying to make the vision clearer, but he could hear nothing more. The sight that was his gift was not a sign from the Future, or a prediction. It was merely the ability to see something that was here, and inevitable, an eye with especially long vision.
The screaming wind. The words reverberated in his head.
The Spirit was always looking into the wind. Perhaps whatever was coming was what it sought.
"This is never going to work."
"Don't be so negative, Duchess; give it a try."
Rhapsody turned to face the smiling giant. "You don't understand. Forges this size are stoked constantly for centuries. If we had a week we couldn't gather enough fuel to get this up to the point where it could melt ice, let alone steel again."
"It doesn't have to melt anything," said Achmed patiently. "All it has to do is be hot enough to heat the air. There's a warm spell on its way, I can tell by the clouds. Besides, if you think back to your fiery baptism and concentrate, I'm sure the forge fires will burn hot enough to convince the Bolg I'm breathing on them."
"If we could duplicate your real breath, they would surrender in a heartbeat," said Jo, who was working the bellows over the small fire that the others had built. "Perhaps we should throw some stinkweed in there."
Grunthor rubbed his chin. "Might not be a bad idea at that, sir."
"Not this time, but thanks for the suggestion, Jo," Achmed said. He turned to the Singer again. "Well? Come on, it's almost morning."
Rhapsody looked up at the giant copper-banded bellows, sagging and full of holes. The forges were deep in the belly of the mountain, reachable only through dark, forbidding caverns that crumbled as they descended. The sheer size of the forge-works took her breath away. It must have taken a thousand men to run and maintain the equipment, night and day, feeding it constantly.
They had located a trove of hard coal, a black underground hill, around which had been scattered trowels, picks, and scuttles for transporting the lump fuel to the forges.
A number of skeletons lay nearby, the trapped workers who had never made it out again when Gwylliam's mountain had been overrun by the Firbolg. The bones had been the first fuel committed to the flames, with a dirge sung by Rhapsody, four hundred years too late. The skeletons were those of wide men with broad shoulders and ribcages—Nain, Achmed had noted, to Grunthor's agreement.
Taking a deep breath, she seized the side of the firepit and concentrated, clearing her mind of the doubts that had filled it since they had begun the conquest of the mountain.
She called on the fire within her soul and set a tone to it, humming with her mouth open, until the music swelled out of her being and filled the endless cavern. She could feel the flames roaring to life, shining on her face, heating the fabric of her shirt until it felt about to ignite.
In the distance she could hear the shouts of the others as they began to work the great bellows. She cleared the outside noises from her mind and concentrated once more on the burning coal in the pit below her.
The inferno in the forge crackled and roared, drowning out all other noise within the mountain. Rhapsody maintained her shuddering grip on the firepit while Grunthor and Jo continued to work the hole-filled bellows, itself screaming along in time to the cacophony that was blasting through the bowels of the Teeth.
The sound of the grates opening again shattered her concentration, and she fell back into strong, thin hands that steadied her and kept her from losing her balance on the edge of the pit. Again, deep in her ears she heard the cries of the Bolg within the mountain, but they seemed more of excitement than panic this time.
"That's enough; shut the vent," Achmed instructed Grunthor and Jo. "We don't want them to get used to the heat yet; it is winter for a few more weeks still." He turned to the panting Singer and patted her arm. "You did it."
She nodded between gasps for breath. "Yes, I did; may they one day forgive me. I'm not sure if I'll ever forgive myself."
Gurrn feared the Night Man more than he feared Hraggle, despite the fact that Hraggle was standing before him. As chieftain of the Bloody Fang clan, Hraggle took what he wanted, bullying and brutalizing the others, Gurrn among them.
The chieftain had survived the raids of the men of Roland, and even had a broken sword as a trophy; he was the most powerful Bolg on the western crag known as Griwen. Hraggle did not fear the Night Man, even when his voice and breath had come forth from the Earth itself.
Gurrn now stood in silent fury, watching Hraggle raid the supply of food he had set in store, rations that were intended to keep his family fed over the thin hunting season of winter.
The other members of the Bloody Fang clan eyed Hraggle as well. He had threatened Gurrn's woman and was holding their child under his arm, the boy screaming in protest, the woman in fear. Gurrn held her back; Hraggle would be satisfied with the food, and would leave the child when he left, unless he was feeling particularly cruel.
Then, suddenly, Hraggle stopped. He dropped the child and stood motionless, his hand at his throat, the same hand that moments before had been pilfering Gurrn's hoard. A narrow crimson line bisected Hraggle's neck, put there by thin white hands that had emerged from the darkness. The red line quickly spread into a wide, dark stain as Hraggle fell, lifeless.
Gurrn caught sight of strange eyes in the shadow behind the falling corpse. A vague outline surrounded the Night Man, who appeared as part of the darkness, formless as liquid night.
"Tomorrow." The voice had a dry whisper of death to it. The clan watched, wide-eyed, as the figure dissipated into the darkness again.
On the tenth day the Firbolg began to gather on the ledges facing the canyon at sunrise. Achmed had not been specific in his message as to the time of their summons, so over the course of the day they came, Eyes and Claws and Guts, the tribes of the mountains that served as the barrier reef of the Bolglands.
Beyond the canyon that separated their lands from those of the mountain dwellers, some of the deeper Firbolg watched, the tribes and clans that made their homes on the Heath or far within the Hidden Realm. Their curiosity was self-serving; they knew it was only a matter of time before this new warlord came for them as well.
The sinking sun had touched the tops of the tallest crags when a hush fell over the crowd. It had been a day of noise and violence, of positioning and brawls over proximity, but as the Bolg had no idea where this king would appear, it was impossible for them to be sure of where the site nearest his feet would be. It made for an unpleasant atmosphere.
The stillness that descended had been engineered; Rhapsody stood at the edge of the tunnel onto the ledge from which Achmed planned to speak and began to whisper the name of silence. It had echoed off the rock walls and ledges, touching the crags and peaks with a heaviness that shut down the babbling below him. Achmed smiled; it looked as if almost all of them had come.
Noticeably absent were the Hill-Eye, the most bloodthirsty of the mountain dwellers. It had been Grunthor's assessment that this clan would withdraw deeper into the Hidden Realm and wait to be flushed out, or attack once the others had established peace. His guess seemed accurate; not one of their markings was visible.
Achmed surveyed the assemblage. There were perhaps thirty thousand of them, gathered in crags and standing on ledges, perched on high rocky outcroppings, staring down at him. Some were huddled in packs at the base of the foothills, backing up to the canyon's edge at the bottom of the ravine that rose up a thousand feet or more to the heath.
It was a heady, disturbing feeling to see them there, similar to the sensation of walking into a pit of scorpions. From every crevice and rise the Bolg stared down at him, a truly bastard race of near-men, of an elder origin that had been adulterated with the blood of every other race it had contacted.
There was a twisted beauty to them, this mutant strain, a pollution that would appall men but that served to preserve their species; in all the worlds he had never seen another race as adaptable and diverse. No matter what condition they were subjected to they would survive and develop a response over time. And he was one of them.
It was a feeling similar to being among the wolf pack at rest, the chieftains of each tribe placed higher on the crags than the others, better to see their power fall.
Into each face, or, in some clans, every arm, was carved or burned the insignia of the clans. The Bloody Claw, the Fangs, the Shadow Stealers, each lineage was written in scar tissue. Clothing had been replaced in most cases with scraps of hide that passed for armor. Even the young had been outfitted with an eye toward protective value rather than comfort, though this was largely illusory, since the few bits of useful armor had been torn and split among so many wearers that it wouldn't have shielded them from the wind.
Rhapsody was waiting behind him; he heard her catch her breath, and instantly knew why. The children had been placed forward, closest to the edges of the rock outcroppings, as if prepared for sacrifice. He saw her bite her lip; she was aware that this was not a culture she was akin to, nor one she understood at present. Then her face softened, and she smiled.
He followed the direction of her eyes to see what had initiated the change, and was not surprised to see her looking at a group of small, dark faces, grinning repulsively back at her. Children; Rhapsody was a soft touch when it came to any child. It was a weakness he liked in her in spite of, but that posed a threat he was unwilling to risk.
Grunthor was in place; it was time to begin. Achmed took a deep breath. He had studied over the six intervening days since his summons with Rhapsody, practicing the musical cadence she had given him to compose the speech by which he would address his new subjects.
It was like a symphony, with an overture and movements, rising to a thunderous crescendo early on; he had melded his innate understanding of the rhythms of the Bolgish tongue with her composition skills, resulting in an address he hoped would serve in place of a bloody insurrection. He stared at the waiting Firbolg, meeting their eyes.
"I am your new king. You live in the mountain, and the mountain serves me, as soon the Heath will, and the canyon, and the Hidden Realm. Ylorc will rise in power again, in ways it never has before. No more will we live under the heel of Roland."
A great rasping roar issued forth from the assembled Bolg; it echoed off the mountain and spread down the canyon, vibrating through the Heath and into the deeper realms. Here and there rocks slid from the cliffs, and dust rose. Achmed smiled; the overture had gone well. Now he timed the opening movement to punctuate the rhythm of the echoes resounding off the canyon.
"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. I will not be a king like the one before, not a warlord like any you have known. We shall bring the mountain to life around us, and our enemies will come to our terms."
"Is there anyone who would deny me the crown?"
Achmed knew where to look; all afternoon they had been at the listening posts to get word of the possible strategies of the arriving Bolg. He knew that one Janthir Bonesplitter, a Claw chieftain who claimed to be descended of Gwylliam's line, had been calling himself Emperor of the Teeth. It would be a matter of honor for him to object. Many of the clans knew his name and his reputation for cruelty and his desire for more territory and more slaves.
Bonesplitter had positioned himself between two massive, waist-high boulders, perhaps to avoid arrow fire or to conceal his position until he chose his time to act. At Achmed's challenge he drew a heavy, ancient sword that still had some gleam to it in the glow of the bonfires that burned throughout the canyon.
With a roar, he moved out from between the rocks, raising his sword above his head. "I Emperor of the Teeth! And fire breath or ice breath I will wring from you, Usurper! This night, I swallow your eyes!"
The collective attention of the assemblage shifted toward Achmed, who was much smaller and thinner than Janthir Bonesplitter. According to Firbolg custom, it was his turn for a boast or an acceptance of the challenge.
Achmed smiled condescendingly. "You have a strong back; perhaps you will be of use to me. If you are able to prove yourself worthy I might take you for a chieftain. I have already taken your lands. Swear fealty to me now and you may unspeak your threat."
The roar of fury that echoed in response conveyed Janthir's answer. As a stream of violent invectives rumbled across the canyon and up through the crags to the night sky, Achmed could feel Rhapsody shiver behind him, hidden in the shadows though she was.
"As you will," Achmed said patiently. His voice did not reveal even a hint of nervousness or anger. "I gave you the opportunity. I command the mountain, but even I cannot save a fool from himself. I told you the mountain serves me. Know my words to be true."
The Bolg spectators gasped collectively as one of the two massive rocks flanking Janthir unfolded itself smoothly, rose to a monstrous height, plucked the heavy sword from the upraised claw of the speechless Bonesplitter, and struck off his head. Even before the gasp resolved into a stifled scream from the nearby onlookers, the head rolled down off the ledge. The rock which had attacked Bonesplitter tossed the sword into the canyon, returning to its position again. The entire incident had taken less than half a minute.
Achmed waited until Grunthor had blended back into the rock ledge before addressing the assemblage again.
"Who else wishes to challenge me?"
No sound answered him except the howling of the wind through the canyon and the crackling of the roaring bonfires.
"Very well, then; this is what you will do. Each clan will send me their five best warriors and one child, with its mother. These groups of five shall be my chiefs and elite guard, and will receive my blessing and training superior to that of any army in Roland."
"Each child, if it passes a test, will be given a gift. Choose well. Send soon. You have three days. For any who would doubt my resolve, hear this: I come. You will be part of this body, or you will be cut off and the tribe you sprang from cauterized like a stump—in fire."
Achmed stared across the silent assemblage for a moment longer, smiling as he took in the sight of the frozen Bolg gazing down from their lofty perches. Then he turned on his heel and vanished from the ledge, pausing long enough in the tunnel to pluck the trembling Rhapsody from the shadows and take her back into the depths of Canrif with him.
"That may not have been the single most repulsive thing I have ever witnessed, but it certainly was up there."
Grunthor looked offended. "What are you talkin' about? It was great; no blood got spilt, and the Bolg are still out there now, pickin' their captains. We can start trainin' in the mornin'. Whaddaya mean, repulsive?"
"I think Janthir might take issue with your assessment of blood not being spilled," Rhapsody said as she and Jo rolled bandages and packed medical kits.
"Well, 'e might, but Oi don't think we'll 'ear the old boy too well, 'is mouth bein' down at the bottom of the canyon and all."
"I can't believe you wouldn't let me come and watch," Jo pouted. "It sounds like a great time."
Rhapsody started to answer, but reconsidered and said nothing. Both Achmed and Grunthor were reveling in their victory; it seemed unfair to deny them their celebration. "How long before we take the Heath?"
Achmed looked up from the map he was drawing. "I'd say within two weeks we'll be well set to consolidate the Heath and the outer sections of the Hidden Realm in time to have a united front for Spring Cleaning. The experience the army will gain there will make it easy to take whatever stragglers have not already joined forces afterward." Rhapsody nodded and returned her attention to the bandages.
Saltar closed his burning eyes as the cold mist descended on his face and shoulders.
The Spirit had come. He knew it would show up eventually, once he had heard about the new warlord's meeting in the canyon at the edge of the Heath.
What do you see?
"Nothing yet; still cloudy," Saltar said. As always, he heard the voice in his mind, the sensation akin to being violated.
Look harder. Search the wind for one who walks between the gusts of air.
Saltar closed his eyes, feeling the sting abate a little. He put his hand again to his chest, but saw no more clearly.
"Nothing yet," he repeated. "But he will come."
"Keep your eyes closed, we're almost there." Rhapsody tried to swallow her anxiety. The excitement in Achmed's voice, so wildly out of character, had a compelling effect on her; she couldn't resist dropping whatever she was doing to see his newest discovery or solution. It was not compelling enough, however, to drive from her mind the ever-present thought that the Bolg recruits would be arriving in the morning, and they had not finished their preparations.
"This is the last time I can do this, Achmed," she said, trying to keep from tripping on the uneven floor. Her head swam, knowing that when she opened her eyes, the darkness would still be there. The halls of Gwylliam's fortress conjured up too many memories of the Root. "I have to get the quarters finished."
Achmed chuckled. "All right, if you don't want to see the Great Hall, we can just go ba—"
"You found the Great Hall?" Rhapsody exclaimed, opening her eyes.
"And something possibly more interesting, but if you have a pressing need to get back—"
She grabbed his hand. "Show me. It can wait."
"Somehow I thought that would be your attitude. Follow me."
Rhapsody hurried behind him through the darkness. The tunnels were beginning to open in width and height, until they were four times their normal dimensions. The corridor finally emptied into a large entryway, where fragments of gold leaf still clung to the marble walls.
Achmed rounded the corner, and stopped before an opening where two colossal doors had once been. One was there still, fashioned of hammered gold, embedded open in the wall next to it as if by the force of a violent storm. The other was missing.
"The Great Hall," he said, making a sweeping gesture toward the room beyond the doorway.
Rhapsody stepped over a pile of crumbled basalt and through the frame of the entrance. A round room stretched out before her, built in the same vast proportions as the rest of Canrif, with pillars of blue-black marble lining the white stone walls all around, leading up to a wide dais. The domed ceiling, though cracked and peeling, was an exquisite shade of blue, colored to resemble the sky.
Blocks of clear glass had been embedded in a full circle around the top of the round ceiling, allowing daylight to enter. Rhapsody could see a bit of the real sky, and the shadows of mountains through the glass, and deduced that the Great Hall had been built near the summit of one of the crags of the Teeth, hewn inside the mountaintop.
The floor, now littered with rubble, had once been patterned in colored marble as well, inlaid in huge designs of the Earth, sun, moon, and an enormous star. A chill ran through her; it was the symbol for Seren, her birth star.
"Aria," she whispered.
Unbidden, the voice welled up from her memory.
If you watch the sky and can find your guiding star, you will never be lost, never.
She choked back tears. A warm, strong hand gripped her shoulder.
"What's the matter?"
Rhapsody blinked rapidly and looked around again, stepping farther into the Great Hall. At the far end of the room, on the elevated dais, were two large chairs formed from the same polished marble, covered with grit from the cracked ceiling above. Blue and gold giltwork channels ran through each of them, up the arms to the backs, and ancient cushions still rested on the seats beneath the debris.
In the center of the symbol of Seren was a hole where a small door had once been hinged, now gone. Rhapsody bent down and looked inside. In the space below the floor was a long, deep cylinder, with a grate at the bottom where a fire had once burned, fairly regularly from the look of it. Above the grate were a number of circular metal frames that once had held mirrors, judging by the shards of glass scattered across the fire grate. The broken glass had long since melded to the floor of the hole.
"I've seen the drawings of this in the library," she said, half-aloud. She looked up at Achmed. "This is the device Gwylliam invented to both warm the floor of the Great Hall, and project light onto its ceiling. It gave the impression, if you want to take Gwylliam's word for it, of the sunrise, and the changing colors of the sky during the course of the day, fading, as the fire did, with the coming of night. He even had crystals inlaid in the ceiling to resemble stars; supposedly they glittered when the last of the light hit them. All controlled by the turning of the Earth. I wish I could have seen it in working order."
"You will," Achmed said, examining one of the pillars near the two thrones. "I'd like to see that manuscript when we get back. Any mention of the pillars? There's one for each hour of the day."
Rhapsody nodded, then stood and brushed the dust from her hands. "The design centered around the celestial observatory, which should have been directly above this part of Canrif. There was a spyglass of some size situated in the pinnacle of one of the tallest crags in the Teeth. The observatory was accessible from a stairway in one of the back rooms of the Great Hall." She pointed to doorways behind two of the pillars.
"If there was a stairway there once, it's now part of the rubble," Achmed said. "It will have to go on the list for rebuilding." He left the pillars and walked over to the thrones, stepping over the largest pieces of wreckage.
Rhapsody decided to join him. As she crossed the floor she came to the symbol of the sun and stopped. The room was suddenly warm, its heat rising to the surface of her skin, leaving her feeling light-headed.
"Achmed," she called, but her voice came out in a weak whisper. His back was to her still; he hadn't heard her.
The Great Hall seemed to sway a little as a tingle swelled through her. In her mind she recognized the physical feeling she was experiencing, but it made no sense. It was the sensation of passion.
Wet warmth pressed against her throat, the feeling of a lover's kiss, and slid lazily down her neck. Pressure, like the touch of fingers, surrounded her waist, moving slowly up to her breasts, where it began to circle. Rhapsody struggled to break the vision.
"Achmed, please," she called again. "Help." The sound of her own voice was very far away.
The world grew darker, warmer, and she felt herself sinking to the floor, supported by invisible hands. The air around her closed in, caressing her body insistently; she could feel the shirt being pulled from her waistband. Her mind tried to fight it, to bring her back to the Present, but it was a losing battle.
As much as her brain protested at what seemed a violation of her will, a stronger force, tied to the lore of Time that was part of the fabric of her soul, won out. Overwhelmed, her mind surrendered to the emotions of someone else, whomever's story it was that she was reliving. Instead of her own feelings she was momentarily consumed with lust, and passion. And anger, almost violent rage. Then, as suddenly as it came, the vision passed.
Her eyes cleared. She was looking up into Achmed's dark hood.
"Are you all right?" he asked, extending a hand. She took it, unsteady, and allowed him to pull her to her feet.
"I've had more than enough of this nonsense," she muttered, brushing off the debris and smoothing her hair. Her shirt, though loose, was still tucked in the waistband of her trousers. "I'd rather not know these pieces of lore, thank you."
"What did you see?"
Rhapsody's face, already warm from the vision, reddened to an even deeper shade. "I didn't really see anything. It was more tactile than that."
"Well, what did you feel, then? It might be important." Achmed was growing annoyed.
"Let's just say I think this may have been the place where Anwyn and Gwylliam—er, consummated their union."
Achmed chuckled. "Lucky you."
"Excuse me?" The warmth of her face changed from embarrassment to fury.
"You're fortunate that Grunthor wasn't here. If he had been, you would never hear the end of it, though the comments would have been choice, I'm sure."
"Indeed. Does this mean I can count on you not to mention it again?"
"Maybe. Do you want to go to the bedroom now?"
Rhapsody felt her hands curl into fists, even as she reminded herself that Achmed's choices of words were often not the best. "By that do you mean that you found the royal chambers?"
"Yes."
She exhaled. "All right; let's get out of here before something like that happens again. Anwyn and Gwylliam were married an awfully long time. I'd prefer not to stay here if this is where they trysted after all the courtiers had gone home."
"Well, if you want to avoid having another out-of-body sexual experience, it looks like Gwylliam and Anwyn's bedroom is the place to be."
Rhapsody couldn't help but agree. The bedchamber had been designed in the same outsize proportions as the rest of Canrif, but had been divided severely into two separate sets of quarters, both grandly appointed, but neither imparting the feel of any real warmth.
In one of the huge rooms an ornate fireplace and mantel had been carved into the stone of the mountain, its vents and the arched window above it in the same mountain wall as the outer side of the Great Hall. The window, filled with the same heavy glass as the apertures in the ceiling of the Great Hall, had grown cloudy and distorted with time, but was still intact, and offered what must have once been a magnificent view of the steppes leading to the Krevensfield Plain.
Above the fireplace was a stone relief of a family crest, rendered in painstaking detail. In the foreground a rampant lion and a griffin faced each other, a star shining over their heads. Behind them was an image of the Earth, an oak tree growing on it, with roots that pierced through the bottom. Rhapsody recognized it immediately; it had been minted onto the back of every coin she had ever seen in the old land. "The coat-of-arms of the Seren royal family?" Achmed nodded.
Rhapsody whistled. "It's becoming increasingly apparent to me why these people didn't get along."
"Oh? Why?"
She pointed to the crest. "Well, displaying the symbol of his dominion in the old land in prominent view of his marital bed does not seem to indicate that Gwylliam had much respect for Anwyn's heritage. Or much interest in putting her in a good mood."
"She's got her own crest above the fireplace in the room next door. A dragon at the edge of the world."
"And either way, if they were to share a bed, one would be winning, and the other would have to look at the evidence of it. So they probably didn't. I can't imagine, if I was a jealous half-dragon, not entirely comfortable in a human form in the first place, wanting to lie, night after night, beneath Gwylliam's sweating body as he pumped away, all the while being forced to stare at his family crest, knowing I was not a part of it."
Achmed smiled as he looked down at the floor, shaking his head, before he turned away from the fireplace.
"I'm very glad to know the experiences of your past have not soured your attitude toward sex, Rhapsody."
On the opposite wall, facing the fireplace, was an equally ornate headboard, carved from the same blue-black marble as in the Great Hall, veins of white and silver running through it like tiny rivers. A matching footboard lay on the floor atop a shallow pile of ancient mulch and a wide stain that had probably once been the bedclothes.
"Did the bed itself just decay here, do you think?" Rhapsody asked.
Achmed chuckled. "Well, according to you it would be unlikely that they set it afire in a fit of passionate humping, so I would guess that, yes, it rotted here. Why?"
She began to hum, trying to get a fix on the strange feeling she was picking up from the bed area. After a moment she gave him a direct look.
"Can you feel anything strange here?"
He concentrated for a moment, then shook his head. "No. What is it you feel?"
Rhapsody looked down again. "I think it's blood."
A dark expression crossed Achmed's face, but his voice did not change. "I don't sense anything."
"Do you want me to try?" she asked. Achmed nodded. "Then we have to agree now that if I seem unable to break the trance, or if I become agitated, you'll intervene and make it stop."
"I can carry you out. I'm not sure if that will bring you around, however."
Rhapsody's face hardened. "Drag me; you know how I hate to be carried."
"All right."
She closed her eyes again, concentrating on the discerning pitch, the same tone she had used to check the ring in the Cymrian museum. An image formed in her mind, the body of a man lying on the bed, his head and neck askew. As the vision cleared, she could see another man, gray-bearded, wearing linen robes painted with gold, sitting on the bed next to the corpse, his face buried in his hands.
Her skin grew clammy as she began to absorb the emotions of the scene—desolation, betrayal, guilt, anger, agony. One by one they washed over her, weaving a mantle of pain around her, until she could barely breathe for the sadness of it. Her heart thudded hollowly in her chest.
"We have to get out of this place," she said. "I don't know what happened here, or if we ever will know, but it's no surprise that the mountain itself reeks of devastation. Violent, passionate sex on the floor of the Great Hall, death in the bed of the king, the king himself rotting in the library—what kind of monsters were these people? It's not the Firbolg who make the place feel ravaged, it's whatever the Cymrians did."
Achmed laughed. "I could have told you that. Before we go, however, there's one more thing you might want to see."
Anwyn's chamber was as huge and empty as Gwylliam's, except that the headboard of her bed had been wrought in gold and affixed to the wall. The footboard was missing, probably a casualty of looting after the Cymrians fled Canrif.
At one time the mantel around her fireplace had been gilt to match the bed, but now all that remained were a few flakes of gold leaf. Rhapsody stared up at the stone relief of the dragon sitting at the world's rim, the look in its eyes forbidding.
The loss of home crept up on her unexpectedly, and caught her off-guard. What am I doing here? she thought miserably, the ache of missing her family and her old life consuming her. If I could have known that leaving Serendair would have meant ending up in this place of endless nightmares, might I have just surrendered to Michael?
"Stop feeling sorry for yourself," Achmed said, reading her mind. His hand was on the door between the two chambers.
Rhapsody's mouth dropped open in surprise. "What? How do you know what I'm thinking?"
"You get the same pathetic look on your face every time, that's how. Perhaps one of the things your walk through the fire made you was transparent, although I seem to recall you've been that way all along. Come over here and have a look at this."
Rhapsody followed him to the door and looked through the opening. Instead of being a connecting portal, it led into another room, unlike anything she had ever seen.
The floor was tiled with small squares of polished blue marble, sanded roughly. Against the inner wall of the mountain was an enormous hexagonal vessel, much like the pool of a fountain but carved from marble as well. There were pipes that ran vertically up the wall, rusty and corroded, tapering down to a strange spout that was suspended over the pool.
On the other side of the room, against the same wall, was a odd throne, carved from marble and attached to the same strange pipes. Its cushion had apparently been torn off or lost long before, leaving a substantial hole in the base of the chair, which was hollow. A thin tunnel no larger than a fox's den opened down below the base, bending out of sight.
The back of the throne was high and straight, and formed from the same gleaming metal that composed the ventilation system. A metal chain hung from the top of it.
"How strange," Rhapsody murmured. "Why on Earth would they need these things in their chambers? And why in a room by themselves?"
"What do you think they are?" Achmed asked, hiding a smile.
"I'm not sure. This looks like some kind of fountain, and this is a throne. Doesn't look particularly comfortable."
He laughed. "Do me one last favor, and use your discerning note on the throne, just to get an idea of what it was really used for."
"All right." Rhapsody closed her eyes and sought the right pitch, letting the image form her mind. A moment later, she turned red as the sunset.
"Gods," she said, her eyes full of embarrassment, "it's a privy. There are some very strong vibrational signatures associated with it. I never thought they'd build one indoors. How mortifying; I thought it was a throne."
"Don't be ashamed; from what we've learned so far, I'd say it would make a very appropriate throne for these people," Achmed said. "And I assume you've figured out that your fountain is a bathtub."
Rhapsody shrugged. "I've always bathed in a metal tub in front of a fire, in a stream or the public baths. I've never seen a bathtub that big, and with six sides."
"Well, Gwylliam was nothing if not redundant. Whenever he decided he liked something, whether it was that asinine saying about coming in peace, or six-sided construction, he used it at every possible opportunity, in case you hadn't noticed. The more I learn about these people, the less I'm impressed."
Rhapsody pulled the chain, and dry crumbs of rust fell into the base of the privy. "This used to have water in it?"
"Yes, and it will again when we figure out how to make the water system work. But for now that's a secondary project. The cisterns are full, so we can drink; the rest will have to wait until we subdue the first two phases and deal with Roland in the spring."
Rhapsody looked at Achmed carefully. He had the same quiet excitement in his eyes that was now always there when he spoke of his plans for the future. It was a tangible sense of purpose, of a higher aspiration. He was on the way to finding the answers to his questions, and to making a home.
How she envied him.
After that, it was a matter of steady progress and time. The Bolg from the Teeth had arrived the next day, the members of almost seven hundred clans, over four thousand hunter-warriors and children, some trembling in fear, others with excitement. With them had come many others, not selected by the clans as designated warriors, but intensely curious, wanting to be part of the new warlord's regime.
Achmed had turned to Rhapsody as the throng arrived, swelling the vast courtyards of the inner city.
"Laborers. Look on them well; these are the men and women with whose help we will rebuild Ylorc. In a way, their accomplishment will be even more historic than the Cymrians' was in the original building of it." Rhapsody gazed down in amazement at the sea of eager faces murmuring in the dark cavern.
"Careful, Achmed," she warned, "you're starting to sound a little like Gwylliam."
The Warlord turned to her after a moment's consideration. "No, actually, he and I are diametric opposites. We both are in the role of the swordsmith whetting a tool against a grindstone. The difference is that he saw his goal as using the tool in the honing of the stone into smoothness, while I seek to use the stone to make the tool sharper."
"Your imagery is lost on me, I'm sorry."
His eyes grew brighter in excitement. "To Gwylliam, the building of Canrif, the bending of the hostile mountain to his whim and control, was his objective. The workers were only there to provide the labor achieve his vision. They were the tool that honed his stone into smoothness."
"My goal is not the building up of the mountain, but rather the building up of the Bolg. They are like the tool, rough, needing to be sharpened. In the rebuilding of the mountain, which is their grindstone, they will learn to work as one people, will gain the destructive skills of war and the constructive skills of renovation. The mountain doesn't matter to me except as the means by which the Bolg will be united and advanced. What I seek is a sharper weapon, not a smoother stone."
A look of frank admiration had crept into her eyes, pushing aside the skepticism from a moment before. "An interesting analogy. The clever part is that, regardless of the intention, the stone gets shaped and the weapon gets sharpened either way, simultaneously."
"Yes."
Rhapsody looked back at the sea of Bolg swirling below her. They seemed somehow more fortunate than they had a moment before. "They're lucky to have you," she said. "Perhaps history granted Gwylliam's title of Visionary to the wrong Lord of the Mountain."
Achmed chuckled. "That remains to be seen. Come on; we need to wade into the fray."
The children and their mothers were immediately committed to Rhapsody's care. The warriors, meanwhile, were brought to the old guard barracks. Within a matter of a few months they were to be trained and turned into a ferocious fighting force under Grunthor's command.
The giant Sergeant Major had clearly missed his duties at the head of a regiment, and he threw himself into his new leadership role with relish. Rhapsody was occasionally awakened by the sound of trainees being marched past her chamber, singing cadences that would be awful if they weren't so funny.
Or Jo's favorite:
Grunthor's ringing bass, answered by the raspy croaking of the new Firbolg army, added a surreal quality to the already nightmarish existence that Rhapsody was living in Ylorc.
At her request Achmed had closed off the corridors around the Great Hall, and its surrounding chambers where Gwylliam had held court.
Rhapsody and Jo were assigned rooms across from each other on one of these protected halls, several doors down from the new king's chambers, which were guarded day and night by the most intelligent and trustworthy of Grunthor's recruits. Grunthor kept quarters there as well, but had chosen to bunk in with the army in the barracks. Achmed seemed pleased at the speed at which the transition was progressing.
He had renamed the fortress complex the Cauldron, largely owing to the heat produced by the forges once they were primed and running. A thousand Bolg were put to work there, mining the coal and feeding the mighty furnace, bringing it up to a heat level sufficient to forge weapons.
They had agreed that the development and manufacture of weapons was the crucial initial step, because it gave the Bolg the protection they would need, the tools to train the army with, and a source of income once trade agreements could be reached. Achmed had great skill in weapons design, having invented the cwellan himself. He had adapted the other weapons in his and Grunthor's personal arsenals to complement their respective strengths while compensating for their weaker points. He set up four large pieces of oilskin on stands in the chamber behind the Great Hall where the planning took place, labeled weapons, clans (not aligned), infrastructure, and social.
"We've already had some of the Heath clans and the clans on the outer rim of the Hidden Realm come to us, asking to join forces," he reported, marking their names off the clans list with an inked quill.
"Oi expect no problems in convincin' those others to enlist, once my troops 'ave a chance to talk with 'em, sir," Grunthor added. Rhapsody shuddered; the army was growing every day, both in size and enthusiasm.
Achmed nodded. "That should give us about seventy percent of the population united. Once we've put Spring Cleaning behind us, we'll deal with the rest of them, the clans deep in the Hidden Realm, and the Hill-Eye."
"When can I get to the vineyards?" Rhapsody asked, looking at the notations under infrastructure. "The sooner I can see them myself, the better plan I can devise for their cultivation."
"Grunthor should have that area cleaned out—er, consolidated—before you leave on your diplomatic mission to Bethany."
Grunthor's brow darkened. "Oi still don't like the idea o' you goin' there, miss, especially alone."
Rhapsody smiled at the Sergeant. "I know, Grunthor, and I appreciate your concern, but we need to try to put a stop to the Spring Cleaning massacres by talking first."
"Why?"
"Because that's the way men do it," she replied. "Do we want the Firbolg thought of as men, or monsters?"
"Actually," interjected the Warlord, "we want them seen as both."
A deep, annoyed sigh and a thudding sound issued forth from across the room. Jo had exempted herself from the discussions of the cultural structure of the future kingdom, announcing that the subject was boring and she would prefer to practice throwing knives.
Grunthor had set up a little hay target for her on the other side of the chamber. Often heated discussions were punctuated by the thud of Jo's missiles piercing their target. Achmed was particularly good at timing his remarks to coincide with the decisive sound.
Achmed smiled, then returned to the weapons chart. "The Bolg will need to be outfitted with crossbows, to maximize their range, as well as the swords they're learning to forge now. For purposes of trade we'll look to producing curved blades, and these."
He pulled forth one of the many sheaves of parchment on the table beside him and held it out for the others to see. On it was a drawing of a three-bladed throwing knife, made of steel and bound with leather at the grip. The blades curved like arms bent at the elbow, following in the same direction like a gearwheel.
"These throwing knives will be usable both in the open air and in the tunnels," Achmed explained. "They're sharp enough to be deadly in hand-to-hand situations. In flight they turn about the center of gravity, ensuring that they will cut or pierce at almost any attitude of impact."
"And will they be forged by the same method you were showing me earlier?" Rhapsody asked, still unsettled by the tour of the forges from the morning. Achmed had patiently explained the massive equipment, the vast presses that Gwylliam was still building when Canrif was overrun, but she had been too overwhelmed to follow the discussion.
"No; that's later, Stage Three. After we have one united land from the Teeth to the outer border of the Hidden Realm. Understand, Rhapsody, this is a lifetime's work. The Cymrians had master swordsmiths whose work with weapons was as impressive as the great harpers and instrument makers you sometimes speak of, each weapon so finely and carefully made as to be considered a work of art. It will take several generations for the Firbolg to get to that level. The equipment and the new forging process will help achieve it."
"Sounds like you're planning to live a long time," she said, smiling slightly.
Achmed didn't smile in return. "Forever," he said simply. "So how is the medical training going?"
"It would go better if I had some facilities. Did you plan those out yet?"
He located another set of scrolls and passed them to Rhapsody, showing her the elaborate schematic he had drawn. In addition to precise notes detailing his plans, scripted in his neat, spidery handwriting, Achmed had done a credible rendering of the internal workings of the mountain, showing the forges, the ventilation system, and the internal structure of the new city that would be rebuilt from Canrif. One small area was labeled medical supplies.
Rhapsody studied the plans intently, a frown drawing her brows together. Finally she looked back at Achmed.
"Where's the hospital? The hospice? We discussed this already; you should have included them in the plans."
"I did." Achmed rerolled the scroll and drew out a separate parchment document, folded in quarters. He opened this in sections and pulled out a field map. "Any immediate medical care can be provided by your trainees in the field. We will be forming a rear guard which will surround the medical station until the worst wounds have been addressed, and then the guard will advance."
"Doing what with the injured?"
"Leaving them there. We'll pick them up on the way back."
"Don't be ridiculous," Rhapsody said, annoyed. "You can't leave battle-wounded alone and un tended. They'll die."
"Perhaps I need to remind you that these are Firbolg; they are not used to being pampered or coddled like Lirin and men, nor do they want to be."
"I'm not talking about coddling anyone. If they are wounded in the field, they will have to be transported to a place where they can receive care."
"I'm trying to explain that they would rather die in the field than have that happen."
Rhapsody struggled to remain calm. "These are your future subjects. It is you that keeps insisting they are not monsters, but people, and can achieve the greatness of Canrif and more. You can't have it both ways, Achmed. Either the Bolg are monsters, and if that is what you choose to rule over, by all means do so your way, but I have nothing to help you with; I have already acknowledged that I don't understand that mentality. Or they're people; primitive, brutish people to be sure, but children of the One-God, the Life-Giver, nonetheless. They are therefore entitled to same basic rights as other men."
"One of those basic rights is healing in sickness and care in dying. If that's your choice, I can help you, but I'll need facilities within the mountain, not just in war, while you're bringing them together, but always. People become ill and injured even in peacetime, and the old and sick need someone to tend to them. That requires space. Now, what's it going to be? Men or monsters?"
Achmed chuckled. There was something ironic and oddly touching about hearing her defend the monsters she had once believed the Firbolg to be. "Exactly how much space is the 'men' option going to cost me?"
"A lot. I'll need two full halls for the hospital and one for the hospice until the Heath and Hidden Realm are fully subdued." She pointed to two of the larger spaces on the barracks diagram. Achmed winced. "But here's the good news: once the kingdom is united, you can take back one of the hospital halls for barracks, and the hospice can split its hall with the orphanage."
"You may be underestimating the number of orphans."
"No, I have a plan for that. If you bless each of the orphans personally and mark him or her as special, then offer the child for adoption, the clans will vie to take them in, especially if there is some sort of long-term favor associated with doing so." Achmed nodded, and Rhapsody smiled. "See? I'm trying to be reasonable and practical."
"No doubt. All right, before I choose 'men or monsters,' I have one more question."
"Yes?"
"Can I count on your sword and musical skills in the subdual, assuming I'm willing to introduce this luxurious medical strategy?"
Rhapsody sighed. This had been a standard argument, and point of resistance on her part, since the planning had begun. She wanted nothing to do with the war; although she was willing to fight for defense and against what she perceived to be tyranny or evil, she was uncomfortable with the prospect of shedding blood, even Firbolg blood, just to take the mountain. Still, she acknowledged that Achmed's intentions were ultimately good ones, even if she did not like his means.
"All right," she said, acquiescing reluctantly. "I'll fight. Now, what's it to be?"
The hint of a smile came over the face of the new Firbolg Warlord.
"Men," he said. "Albeit monstrous men."
"I need to speak with you immediately."
From around the large circular table in the meeting room behind the Great Hall a dozen female faces looked up in surprise, all but one of them dark and hairy. The exception to the rule blinked in shock, then turned to the other women as she rose from her chair.
"Excuse me," Rhapsody said to the group, and hurried to the door that had only a moment before been flung open. Achmed suppressed a laugh; her use of idioms in the Bolgish language was still sporadically rough. She had just asked the group to spare her life.
"What's the matter?" she asked, her face filled with worry as she came alongside him.
"I need the brass key we found in the House of Remembrance. You had it last, I believe."
"Why? What's the emergency?"
"We just found an inner vault within the library." Achmed's strange eyes sparked with excitement. "I believe the key will open it."
Rhapsody's mouth dropped open in amazement. "That's it? You came roaring into my meeting with the midwives for that?"
Achmed's gaze returned to the group. The women, for the most part, were thin and wiry, with broad, masculine shoulders. They stared at him evenly, with no hint of the deference the other Bolg granted him as their new king.
Rhapsody had been amazed to discover these practitioners existed, and was delighted with what the fact indicated about the Bolg as a race. The warriors were expendable, given little care, even in the approach of death, even the most prized ones.
The race's infants and the mothers giving birth to them, however, had the best care the crude talents of the healers could give. The midwives were revered above even tribal leaders, and wielded a good deal of influence. Perhaps Rhapsody's idiom was not entirely misplaced.
"I need the key," he repeated impatiently.
Rhapsody took hold of the collar of his shirt and pulled his ear down to her lips.
"Listen to me," she said in a deadly tone, "do not speak to me like that again, ever. Especially not in front of the midwives. You lose nothing by being respectful to me; you are at the summit. But your rudeness puts me in a very precarious position. And yourself as well, because even if I don't lose face with these women, I may rip yours off just for good measure. Now try again, or go away." She pushed him back and glared at him, smoke rising from her green eyes.
Achmed smiled; she was learning the culture. In the weeks since the arrival of the first recruits she had come to understand virtually every aspect of Firbolg protocol, such as it was. He bowed deferentially from the waist.
"If it would not be too much trouble, would you please grant me this favor?" he asked loudly.
Rhapsody's face lost a little of its anger. "It's in my chamber."
"No, it's not."
She blinked again. "How do you know?"
"Because I've checked there already."
The facial thunderclouds rolled back in. "I beg your pardon? You ransacked my room?"
"I didn't want to disturb your meeting with the midwives," he said hastily.
"I don't suppose the concept of waiting ever occurred to you? Gwylliam's vault has been undisturbed for four centuries. You couldn't wait another half-hour?" She sighed in irritation. "It's in the chamber pot under the bed."
A look of disgust came over Achmed's face, making it comically hideous. "You have definitely been here too long already. That sounds like something Grunthor or I would do."
"I don't use it, you idiot; there's a privy in the room attached to mine. Next time, ask before you rifle my lingerie drawer."
"And deny Grunthor one of the few small pleasures in life? Selfish thing." Achmed turned to the midwives. "I apologize to all for disrupting your meeting with this urgent matter. Thank you for allowing me to consult my wise counselor." He turned away, rolled his eyes, and left the room.
"Any word from Grunthor?" Rhapsody asked at supper that night, at the same table where she had met with the midwives.
Achmed shook his head, twisting a hard roll as he broke it in two. "He's left on maneuvers in the highlands past the Heath, the place we think is the abandoned vineyard. I don't expect to hear from him for at least four more days."
"And who are the lucky recipients of his attentions this time?"
"The Rippers. They're a Claw tribe that claims Gwylliam never died, and lives among their ranks."
"Maybe he does, and was just making a trip to the library to return a book when we found him," Jo suggested, picking her teeth with her dirk. "I guess the service is a little slow. Grunthor said I can go with him next time if you don't object, Rhaps. I assume you won't, will you?"
"No," said Rhapsody, laughing. "If anything, Grunthor is even more protective of you than I am. If he thinks it's safe enough to take you, I won't stand in your way."
"So what came out of your meeting?" Achmed asked, filling her glass and his own, then passing the pitcher to Jo.
"Quite a bit." The Singer sat forward, excitement lighting her face, and rose from the table. "Here, let me get the notes." She went over to the old sideboard near the wall below an ancient tapestry and shuffled through a pile of papers, finally finding what she sought. Her nose wrinkled in disgust as she returned to the table.
"Achmed, this place is a disgrace. Now that you're King of the Hill, how about getting rid of some of this garbage and redecorating? The tapestries stink."
"That's because they urinated and defecated behind them," said the Dhracian, taking a sip from his tankard. Rhapsody's face contorted in revulsion, and he laughed. "The Bolg and the Cymrians, both; I guess it took a while for the indoor privies to be built. Llauron may think they were a race of demi-gods, but you'd be surprised at the revolting things we've discovered about them."
"Unless it's critical to our survival, please spare me," Rhapsody said.
She unrolled the parchment pages. "All right, the midwives have agreed to take the medicinal skills I've taught them back to the various clans and train the most promising candidates, mostly female, so the next generation of midwives is taught at the same time. Then those medics will come back and staff the hospital and the hospice until the land is totally united."
Achmed nodded. "Good."
"In addition, we've laid out plans for the care of children which I'd like you to codify into law, making it a criminal offense to abuse or molest a child. The Bolg have an enlightened attitude about children already; this will be easier to peddle to them than it would be to some of the 'men' in Roland, who think children can be used as footstools and hitching posts."
Achmed smiled but said nothing. He thought about having to bail her out of the situation in Bethany where she had intervened on behalf of the boy who had been kicked several times in the marketplace by his father.
When she had attacked the man in the street, the crowd that formed was not trying to stop her, but had wanted to touch her and keep her for themselves, much the way the peasants of Gwynwood had. Rhapsody had not understood this, any more than she did all the other incidents of overwhelming attraction she had experienced.
What bothered him, then and now, was his uncertainty that he would have been able to save her alone. It was only by means of a diversionary roar from Grunthor that they had managed to escape. And shortly he would be sending her back to Bethany by herself. He shook his head to drive the prospect out of his mind.
"What about the products?" he asked.
"Wait a minute; I'll get to that. In addition to the child-protection law, we want you to mandate fair treatment of captives, healing of the injured when possible, and management of pain and death."
The new Firbolg king rolled his eyes. "The examination of laws and codes will happen after the word of the new order has reached Roland and Sorbold. I want to have conferred with whatever emissaries, if any, come, though I will be very surprised if anyone sends an ambassador before you have visited Roland about ending the Spring Cleaning ritual. Can we table this until then?"
"Yes, I'm just telling you now because you asked for an update. We also started planning for the school. The children you requested at the meeting are the first class, with eventual enrollment for all. By the way, you owe their parents armor, weapons, and food as a gift. That should be everything about the school—oh, and I have twelve new grandchildren."
"Ick," said Jo, picking up a hambone and biting on it with the same gusto Grunthor would.
"Is that in response to my grandchildren, or the meat?" Rhapsody asked humorously.
Jo chewed loudly and swallowed. "The meat's fine. I'm not crazy about kids. If you remember, I spent a good deal of time locked up with a bunch of them."
"That would make anyone crazy," Rhapsody agreed.
"They're Firbolg?" Achmed bit into the other half of the roll.
Rhapsody nodded. "Orphans. I really like them. They're a little rambunctious, but so was I when I was a kid."
"But I doubt you made a game out of catching rats and eating them alive, like they do."
"No, I'll give you that," said Rhapsody, smiling and shuddering at the same time. "But I love them anyway."
"If you're done waxing poetic about your new brats, can we discuss the plans for what we will be producing aside from weapons?"
"Certainly." Rhapsody drew forth a second large sheet of paper. "In addition to whatever weapons and armor the smiths turn out, by the end of the growing season we should have a pressing from the vineyard. It won't be spectacular, but I learned enough at Llauron's from Ilyana to produce a decent harvest."
"Once Grunthor has secured the lands past the Heath I'll go like I did after the canyon battles and gather the battle orphans, and while I'm there I'll say the Filidic blessing of the land and sing to the plants; it should help. The vines have been scavenged enough to keep the grapes healthy, and if they're left alone we should have a pressing with a high sugar content and a nice flavor. You can take a sample pressing this spring."
Achmed nodded, writing furiously. "What else?"
Rhapsody and Jo exchanged a glance. "We discovered something interesting about the wood from the tree limbs you brought me back from that dark forest beyond the Heath."
"What's that?"
Rhapsody nodded; Jo rose from the table and disappeared from the room. "Something happens to it when it's cured, like it would be in making furniture."
A moment later the girl returned, bearing a beveled spindle, and handed it to Achmed. It had a dark, rich color with a distinct bluish sheen to it. The blue color gave it a magnificent, royal look, like the tables in the Great Hall that had once belonged to Gwylliam and Anwyn, as well as other pieces they had found.
"So that's how they did it," he murmured, turning the spindle around in his hand.
"Jo's the one who figured it out," said Rhapsody proudly.
"Nice work, Jo," Achmed said pleasantly. The girl flushed red to the roots of her pale blond hair and went back to eating in silence.
"And finally, my modest contribution. Do you remember those loathsome spiders that had filled six hallways with webs?"
"How could I forget? Your screams are still echoing in my ears."
Rhapsody snapped him with her napkin; it was made of heavy linen and had been found, along with intricately embroidered tablecloths, in a copper chest deep within the vault.
"Liar; I didn't scream. Anyway, their strands of gossamer, when blended with cotton fiber or wool, yield a stretchy, strong thread, suitable for weaving into lots of different items, particularly rope that is surprisingly light and tensile." She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small braid, which she tossed to him. Achmed gave it a sturdy pull, then bounced it in his hand.
"Excellent," he said.
"Glad you like it. It's also pretty because of its shine. Well, that's the end of my report. Did the key open the inner vault you found?"
Achmed drained his glass. "No," he said flatly.
Rhapsody smiled. "Pity. Well, at least it wasn't for nothing; Grunthor got to rummage my undergarment drawer without retaliation."
"Right. It's getting late," Achmed said, putting down the glass and casting a sideways glance at Jo.
"I can take a hint," said Jo. "Good night, Rhaps." She rose from the table and left the room. The Singer watched her go.
"What was that all about?" Rhapsody asked.
"She's probably tired," Achmed answered. He went to the odious tapestry, reached behind it, and pulled out a small, ornate chest and a heavy manuscript wrapped in leather and velvet. Rhapsody made a gagging sound.
"I can't believe you put anything you ever wanted to touch again back there, after what you said earlier," she said.
Achmed came back to the table. "This from the woman who kept the key to Gwylliam's reliquary in her chamber pot. I got the idea from you."
She opened her mouth to protest, then shut it abruptly. "The key to the reliquary? I thought you said it didn't fit."
"Jo was here, and I didn't want to discuss it in front of her."
"And she knew it, too." Her stomach knotted in sadness. "I can't believe you don't trust her. Why don't you like her?"
"I do like her," said the Firbolg king. "I just don't trust her. It's nothing personal. There are only two people in this world I do trust."
"Don't 'like' and 'trust' go hand in hand?"
"No." Achmed began unwrapping the book. "We can discuss that in a moment. I thought you might be interested to see this." He opened the ancient book and slid it carefully across the tabletop to her.
"What is it?" Rhapsody asked, looking down at the feathery script on the cracked pages, dried and worn with time despite their careful storage.
"It's one of Gwylliam's most valued manuscripts, the documents he considered most sacred," Achmed said, smiling slightly. "You should see the second library within the hidden vault. There are plans for parts of Canrif he wanted to build, and a few that he did that we haven't seen. Books brought from Serendair—a whole race's history. This seems to be a family registry, the royal annals of births and deaths, and family trees. It appears to be written in the same language as that contract was."
Rhapsody studied the frail page. "Actually, this is real Ancient Serenne, not just the script like that was."
"Can you make anything out?"
She turned the pages carefully, feeling pieces of the paper crumble beneath her fingers. Tracing carefully, she found the line of the royal family that she had known. Trinian, crown prince at the time of their leaving Serendair, had been four generations before Gwylliam. She passed this information on to Achmed, then turned the page, following the faded ink.
Suddenly her face went pale. Achmed noted the change in the light of the fire on the hearth, which suddenly leapt as if in panic.
"What's the matter?"
"Look where the line ends," she said, pointing to the last entries on the page. "Gwylliam and Anwyn had two sons. The elder, and heir apparent, is listed as Edwyn Griffyth."
"And the younger?"
She looked up into his face, her emerald eyes wide in the light of the blazing fire.
"Llauron."
"You know, it's possible the name is the same for two different people," Achmed said as Rhapsody stared into the fire and drank the rest of the wine in her goblet. "What's the likelihood that either of Gwylliam's sons would have survived the war that killed their father, who was supposedly immortal?"
"Who knows?" Rhapsody said dully. "I suspect it is the Llauron we know, though."
"Any particular reason?"
"Little things. He had a fascinating device in his glass garden that provided the equivalent of summer rain indoors in the middle of winter. He said his father had built it for his mother."
"That would count against your theory, I would think; Gwylliam hated Anwyn."
Rhapsody opened the book again. "Not always. And stop it; you're baiting me. I know you think it's the same Llauron, too."
"You're right, I do. Gwylliam was, if nothing else, a visionary as an inventor; everything in Ylorc attests to that."
"And Llauron wants to see the Cymrians reunited. He said it was his hope for peace that made him believe in the need for the reunification, but now I wonder if it's just a lust for power."
The Warlord sat on the edge of the table. "This is the religious leader of more than half a million people, who lives like a well-paid gardener. Why would he be likely to want the trappings of royalty just because he was Gwylliam's heir, when he could have them now and doesn't bother?"
"I have no idea." She searched the book but could find no further entry. "It's hard for me to imagine this lovely man having any nefarious thoughts whatsoever. I mean, when I was brought to him I was totally at his mercy, and he showed me nothing but kindness. He reminds me of my grandfather. It turns out he is the son of this world's biggest bastard, with dragon blood to boot. Well, at least that explains how he knew things about me without asking; legends say dragons can sense things like that. I wonder what else he knows about us."
Achmed sighed and closed the book in front of her. "This dovetails nicely into our talk about Jo. By now you know Grunthor and I have both had some contact in the old world with demonic entities."
Rhapsody rolled her eyes. "Yes."
"Don't be rude to your sovereign; I'm not being sarcastic. Several types of demons—not just the ancient ones we have been discussing—are able to bind people to themselves, and their victims don't even know it. It's possible that anyone we meet here, if they have been in contact with such an entity, is working for an evil master, willingly or not. Trust me; I know what I am talking about here." He stared at her so intensely that she had to look away.
"And you think that's true of Jo?"
Achmed sighed. "No, not really. But I don't know that it isn't true, either. Rhapsody, you are too willing to trust, especially in the circumstances we find ourselves. You're busy adopting half the known world, trying to make up for what you've lost."
She looked back up at him and smiled, though her chin trembled slightly. "That may be true. But adopting one person as my brother saved my life."
It was Achmed's turn to look away to save her from seeing his own smile. "I know. What are the odds of good coming out of it again? Look, I have nothing against Jo, and Grunthor seems to like her, too. I think it's just better not to trust anyone but the three of us among ourselves."
"Better, or safer?"
"Same thing."
"Not for me," she said vehemently. "I don't want to live like that."
The Warlord shrugged. "Suit yourself. Behave as you have been, and you may not live like that. But remember, there are worse things than dying. If you are bound to a demonic spirit, particularly the kind from the ancient era, the time you spent with Michael, the Wind of Death, will seem like paradise, and will last for eternity."
Rhapsody shoved the book away and rose from the table. "I've had enough of this. I'm going to sing my patients to sleep."
Achmed swallowed his annoyance. If ever there was a waste of time, it was the hours she spent ministering to the wounds of the non-mortally injured Firbolg, dabbing them with herbal tonics for pain and singing to them to chase away their anxiety.
"Well, that's a useful investment of your evening. I'm sure the Firbolg are very appreciative, and will certainly reciprocate your ministrations if you should ever need something."
Rhapsody's brow furrowed, and she turned back to him. "What does that mean?" The light of the flickering fire caught in her eyes and hair, making them gleam intensely in the dark.
Achmed sighed. "I'm trying to tell you that you will never see any return for your efforts. When you are injured or in pain, who will sing for you, Rhapsody?"
She smiled knowingly. "Why, Achmed, you will."
The Firbolg king snorted. "Don't you want to see what's in the chest?"
She paused near the door. "Not particularly. And definitely not if it's going to make me find out that Lord Stephen is responsible for the sinking of the Island of Serendair and the Plague. A few more days like this and I'll be as paranoid as you."
Achmed ignored her words and opened the chest, pulling back the dry velvet covering. He lifted the contents aloft, and it caught the light of the fire; it was a horn.
Rhapsody stopped in spite of herself. "Is that the council horn? The instrument that calls the Cymrians together in council?"
"The very one."
She stared at it, dumbfounded, for a moment. Despite its centuries in the vault, the horn was shining as bright as a spring morning. There was good cheer in the air that clung to it, a sense of hope that only moments before had been driven utterly from the room.
"All right," she said at last, "so what are we going to do with it?"
Achmed shrugged. "Nothing at the moment. Maybe we'll fill it with wine to celebrate your successful trip to Roland next week. Or decorate your birthday cake with it. Or maybe Grunthor and I will get very drunk, use it to summon the surviving members of the council to the Moot outside the Teeth, and piss on them all. Who knows? I just thought you might want to know we have it."
Rhapsody laughed. "Thank you. Maybe you might learn how to play it, and then you can come accompany me on my nightly lullaby rounds."
Achmed set the horn back in the case. "Rhapsody, I can assure you, all of the things I just mentioned and more will happen before that does."