“Those are good to eat,” Travid informed us. “The legs are tasty.”
“The creature who ate it thought so,” agreed Ormar. “Something pale, flat, and round. Like a lily-pad with teeth.”
“Those are not good to eat,” Travid conceded. “They taste like boot leather soaked in kerosene. Let’s mount up and start the trail,” he proposed. “We can make it to the ridge by dark, if we hurry.”
We were wary and cautious as we rode, Travid riding ahead of the rest of us. To the west the odd-colored green of the Leshwood beckoned enticingly. To the east, the Plain of Pillars spread out before us, as dry and stark as the forest was green and lush. Our path led through the middle, which was almost normal. I tried to consider it a metaphor for the expedition. I wasn’t certain of the meaning of the metaphor, but I was sure something would occur to me.
“The first time I came to the northern wilds,” Fondaras confided from behind me, as we rode single file, “it was into the Plain of Pillars. A very stark place. The part you see before you is the most pleasant area of the vale. And note how the land to the northeast drops away precipitously? And then rises again?” he asked, pointing to the features he was listing. “They call it the Gouge, because it looks like a giant shovel just dashed the land asunder.”
“According to the guidebook, that was created by a giant stone that fell from the sky, eons ago,” I related. “There is another to the west. I have a theory that they are responsible for the jevolar effect, not the volcano,” I proposed.
“In any case, the Gouge has its own menagerie of creatures to be wary of,” he reported. “Many interesting rock formations, as well. If we have time, you might be interested in seeing them.”
“I don’t think nine weeks is going to be enough to see all the wonders of this valley,” I sighed.
“A lifetime wouldn’t be enough time,” he agreed. “At the end of the Gouge there are ruins that pre-date the Alon, it is said. A pylon of stone, set with crystal. No one knows where it came from.”
“Quit tempting me with marvels, Footwizard!” I said, with mock sternness. “I am already on a quest!”
“Quiet!” called Ormar from the front of the line. “That Kasari kid just made a sign. I’m pretty sure it means he saw something ahead.”
We halted our horses, as Travid dismounted and began studying the trail. He searched the rising hillside with his eyes, an uncharacteristic frown on his face. Then he shook his head and got back on his horse. He did change our course, however, and we began bearing to the right – when I noticed something.
“Look,” I pointed out to Fondaras, “Kirsieth!” Indeed, there was a stand of the low evergreen shrub just where Travid had changed course. “I wouldn’t think you would find it here in the realm of the jevolar.”
“You mean the kellesarth?” the footwizard asked, using the Alka Alon term for the bush. “It grows here and there, in the mountains. I’ve seen it in Anghysbel before.”
“It’s believed to be the basis of the sap used to make irionite,” I riposted, pleased with myself. If you can’t use your expensive education to impress a common footwizard, what use is it, after all?
“That’s an interesting theory,” conceded Fondaras, staring at the shrub as we rode by. “Its’ sap does have some arcane effect, I’ve seen. A slight increase in power, but at a cost. Some magi misuse it, and it has a poor effect on one’s health and constitution, with prolonged use. The Wise avoid it. The Kellon berries it produces are esteemed for their relief of constipation, however,” he added, informatively.
“Drinking kellesarth sap?” Lilastien asked, from behind us. “That’s foolish! That’s like drinking methanol to get drunk! There are far better herbal methods for increasing a mage’s access to power. Sometimes I wonder how your people survived here for seven centuries.”
“Some wizards are so desperate for power that they will tempt such dangers,” Fondaras sighed. “In my years as a Fellow of the Road, I’ve seen many such short-cuts lead a mage to ruin: kellesarth, gulrandian, randen weed, mindwort, cansion shells, certain mushrooms – the hedgemages of the Westlands have frequently indulged in such experiments. It rarely ends well,” he added, sadly.
“I’ve had my bouleuterions experiment with kirsieth sap for years, now, trying to produce irionite,” I mused. “Not a single success. Oh, they can get it to solidify, but the result is almost arcanely inert.”
“The secret of irionite is just that – a secret,” Lilastien said, smugly. “Closely held, too. But I’m afraid my people can’t take credit for it. It was already here. It was discovered in the early days of our settlement – the kellesarth bush was one of the varieties brought to Callidore by the Moonriders, the Met Sakinsa. A minor thing, we thought . . . until we discovered what its sap can do.”
“That’s the thing,” I said, crossly. “I’ve had alchemists and thaumaturges try everything they can with the sap, and all they get is hardened sap. Not true amber, and certainly not irionite. I even asked Onranion. He knows how to shape it and enchant it, but the secret to making it is beyond his ken.”
“Don’t blame the old scoundrel – all of us Avalanti are better at songspells than such obscure technical lore,” she explained, taking a sip out of her flask. “The Versaroti are the ones who have mastered the secret of its creation. And they are loath to share it with anyone. I should note that the Enshadowed are mostly Versaroti. And a few Farastamari. Very few of my kindred are allured by that pessimistic philosophy.”
“That would explain why their irionite spheres are so large and well-developed,” I reflected. I’d been on the receiving end of their sorcerous spells very recently. I was impressed. And disturbed.
“And so deadly,” Lilastien agreed. “The Versaroti are nothing if not elegantly efficient. Even in their madness for destruction and obsession with immortality. It really puts a damper on collaboration, sometimes,” she said, sadly.
“And the Farastamari?” Fondaras asked.
“They’re terribly good about composing verse about how obsessed and conniving the Versaroti are, and how gullible and rustic and the Avalanti are. Just because we are not as uptight about adhering to classical forms as the other kindreds . . . it’s a little insulting, actually,” she reflected.
“It’s culture,” I shrugged. “Every race is going to develop factions and attitudes at odds with other factions and attitudes. They cling to them as a form of self-validation. The price of knowledge,” I said, shooting a look at Master Fondaras. “Hells, even the Tal Alon have them. It might as well be a law of nature.”
“That was almost a wise observation, Minalan,” Fondaras murmured, as he retrieved his pipe from his bag. “Well done!”
“I’ve been practicing,” I admitted, half in jest.
“But as intriguing as it was, it also distracts us quite effectively from the question my lady has deftly avoided in answering: what role does kellesarth play in the formation of irionite?” the old footwizard asked, pointedly.
“I told you, I don’t know!” Lilastien protested. “That’s really not my field. And if Onranion doesn’t know then that should provide measure of how closely the Versaroti keep their secrets. If I knew, I’d tell you.”
“I do hope you understand my skepticism, my lady,” Fondaras said, with a nod over his shoulder. “It isn’t personal.”
“Oh, no offense taken, I assure you,” agreed Lilastien, evenly. “If I had to contend with my people’s subtleties, I’d be passing suspicious, Master Fondaras. If you only knew . . .” she said, shaking her head.
“Then why do you not tell us?” the footwizard probed.
“Because you lack context to appreciate the scope of my people’s betrayal of yours,” she said. “I don’t like to play the ‘you just aren’t sophisticated enough to understand, yet’ card, Fondaras, but trust me: if I thought you could appreciate the truth of the past, I’d tell you. Alas, it would take three of your lifetimes.”
“We’re really good at summarizing, as
a people,” I pointed out. “We have to be; we are mortal. Really, Lilastien, we can dispense with the subtleties.”
“Can we?” she challenged, with a chuckle, as she capped her flask. I wondered what was in that silver flask. She never went without it, and she took a couple of sips each day. “No offense meant, my good humani, but as much as I love you, I have seen your race fall, and fall into misery. And not merely because of my race’s interference – it was largely due to your own flaws and self-delusions.”
“I have no trouble believing that my lady,” considered Fondaras. “Humanity is deeply flawed. Not one of us born has pretensions to grace that are not rooted in self-delusion. Indeed, the mere downfall of our once-great civilization pales in comparison to the depravity of some of our practices,” he conceded, politely. “Yet . . .”
“Yet? Somehow, I knew there would be a ‘yet’,” Lilastien chuckled.
“I would hate to disappoint. ‘Yet’,” he repeated, “even as an amateur student of the lore of the Fair Folk, it is concerning to see the arrogance and pride of your people in their own music,” he pointed out. “I take your professional perspective to heart: evaluating a culture by its music is particularly revealing. Especially when it comes to their perspective on ‘lessor’ races. I must assume that perspective extends to my own ephemeral people.”
“And rather unfairly,” she conceded with a sigh. “No, you are not wrong, Master Fondaras. But you must understand our perspective. Most of the matters concerning to us have no bearing to you, due to your short life-spans. You live and die so quickly that we’ve just begun telling you the things that matter, and suddenly you’re gone and we have to start all over again. The longest I’ve had a relationship with a human is seventy years. I’ve had arguments that lasted longer than that among my own folk. It’s frustrating. Your Constructed Intelligences helped, a bit, since they had theoretical immortality, but then you . . .”
“We what?” I prompted, insistently.
“There was a concerted movement within the colony that saw the CIs as a threat to humanity’s survival on Callidore,” she said with a resigned sigh. “Since certain factions within the Alka Alon agreed . . . well, I believe there was collusion. Collusion between the races that directly led to humanity’s downfall,” she related. I could tell she wasn’t happy about it.
“You mean entities like Forseti?” I asked, surprised.
“Yes,” she agreed. “As much as I appreciate him, Forseti is a mediocre example of the intelligences your people constructed artificially. They virtually ran the colony – the important, boring parts, at least. They provided a bit of longevity and vision for the colony, while you people were depressingly living to a ripe old age and dying just as you started to get interesting. But then there were some decided dangers to entrusting such power into mere mechanical servants.”
“Such as?” I goaded, once again.
“Not now, Minalan,” she said, crossly. “You must learn much more before you will understand that tale. But the computers that ran the colony were a weakness, as much as a strength. Let’s leave it at that, for now. Once they were gone, well, your civilization just wasn’t that interesting to us – myself and a few others excepted. It was difficult to create lasting relationships with you. The New Horizon withdrew, Perwyn sank, and then it was a few decades of desperate nostalgia and declining standards of living before the warrior princes took over. Not even magic could save you from that.”
“But why are they gone?” the footwizard asked, sharply. “My lady suggests that, if we fell, we may have received a push,” Fondaras replied, quietly.
“Yes! Yes, you were pushed,” Lilastien agreed, frustrated. “Not by me and my kindred, largely, but there were those who saw all of humanity as a threat to the Alon. Hells, I respect your people, I love your people, and I am at odds with my own. I am not named ‘rebel’ for naught.
“But the Vundel were already cross with us. Most of the Alka Alon of this realm didn’t even want you here, but we had little choice. Then we thought you would distract the Vundel from our failures when you failed to heal the land, as you promised to. But then you managed to graft a viable biosphere onto what had been a comparative wasteland, and we ended up looking foolish by comparison. Some of my folk resented that,” she said, crossly.
“And so they took steps against us,” I finished.
“A few misguided or disgruntled individuals,” she conceded. “They allied with a few misguided and disgruntled individuals of your own civilization. Between them . . . well, they did some damage. Nearly fatal damage. But we preserved the colony, in the end,” she said, with defiant pride. “You did not go extinct. Not yet,” she added.
“Apparently, that’s only a matter of time,” I said, dryly. I had a completely devastating question prepared for the Sorceress of Sartha Wood when our discussion came to an abrupt halt. For while we were debating philosophy and history and who betrayed who, the universe at large decided to remind us that we were not really in command of it, despite our self-delusions.
For rearing up before Travid was a ferocious one-eyed beast. It didn’t look particularly friendly.
No one knows whence the strange beast came that attacked our column as we ascended the ridge. It didn’t really look similar to anything I’d seen in Anghysbel, thus far. A tall, muscular body covered in stringy white fur surmounted by a ghastly-looking head filled the path in front of Travid, our vanguard. His horse had the good sense to rear up, terrified, at the sight of the creature.
It stood on two legs, but two pairs of arms flailed from its furry torso, the upper set complete with thick, sharp claws set among powerfully grasping paws.
The second set of arms was smaller, but terminated with a solitary curved claw, like a mariner’s scimitar, somewhat serrated and menacingly sharp.
The head? A cone-shaped appendage situated high atop a long, sinewy neck swayed back and forth, like a snake prepared to strike, as it confronted the Kasari youth. There was a small but toothy mouth below an elongated nose, like a proboscis, and a single, multi-faceted eye in the center of its sloping face. Two feathery-looking “wings” on either side of its face flapped energetically as it began to swing it’s claws at Travid and his rearing horse, while it made a loud, unearthly howl. I was sympathetic to the horse – the thing was terrifying.
Before it reached Travid, Tyndal was charging the thing, his sword drawn. I fumbled for my own blade when I realized I had more potent arguments to make – I began to fumble for the plasma rifle, instead, as Tyndal hacked off one of the beast’s lower arms.
I was slow to the game. Before I could bring the rifle in line, Lilastien had shot three blasts into the creature with her own weapon. Each one erupted a nasty-looking hole in its back that burnt the stringy white fur black. As she was taking her second shot, Travid had managed to aim and fire his rifle twice from horseback. Taren threw his spear and struck it in its large hindquarters, then drew his plasma pistol and fired repeatedly at close range. An explosion of blood and flesh splashed across the trail with each shot. The beast screamed one last time in agony and then tumbled to the ground.
“What in nine hells was that thing?” Ormar nearly screamed, his eyes wide, after a moment’s pause. “What was that?” he demanded.
“It’s . . . it’s a baithsagalan,” Travid explained, after he got his horse under control. “They live on the tundra, beyond the valley. Every now and then one will wander down and hunt here, in the summertime.”
“It looks like a furry bug . . . or a pig . . . a really ugly furry pig-bug with six legs and one bloody bug eye!” Ormar said, disgusted, as he stared wide-eyed at the dead predator.
“Well, it does spin webs,” Travid agreed, reluctantly. “That’s how it hunts. It was probably looking for a good spot when we surprised it.”
“We surprised it? I nearly shit my saddle! And it spins webs?” Ormar repeated, his eyes still wide. “Yes, of course it does. This place is mad,” he declared.
�
��Technically, it’s not from this place,” Fondaras pointed out. “But it is rare to see such a creature this far south. I saw one, once, when I was with the Crinroc tribe. They hunt it, sometimes.”
“I was hoping someone would come along and take care of that,” a new voice said in Narasi, from up the slope. I whirled around, as did everyone else. It was a male voice, but it took a moment for us to track it back to its source.
A man in a long blue cloak was standing on a boulder, safely above where the . . .one-eyed bug-pig thing had charged us. He held a longbow in his hand, a quiver at his belt, and a sword hilt peaking up over his right shoulder. He hadn’t been to a barber in a while.
“Couldn’t you have posted a sign?” Ormar asked, throwing up his hand, disgusted.
“There aren’t many who could read it, out here,” the man said, taking a step forward. I peered closely at his face. I tried to remember what he looked like. But it had to be him.
I cleared my throat. “Master Rolof.”
“Captain . . . Minalan,” he said, peering back. “You, I remember. These others? I have not met them.”
“Well, you met Tyndal – back in Boval Castle, my apprentice. But he’s grown up a bit since then, and you might not recognize him. My friends are Lilastien, the Sorceress of Sartha Wood, Ormar the Alchemist, Taren the Thaumaturge, Fondaras the Wise, and Travid of the Kasari,” I said, indicating each in turn.
“Ah. Tyndal. I do think I recall you. A head taller, now. A beard changes a man – even a little one, like yours. Captain Minalan and others. Way out here. I cannot think that this meeting was happenstance.”
“It would be foolish to think so, Master Rolof,” agreed Fondaras. “Indeed, we have journeyed far in part to seek you out.”
“And it’s Count Minalan, now, not Captain,” I corrected. That surprised him.
“Count? I would have thought you were on the run from the Censors, seeking refuge here, by now. It appears that there have been some changes in the world since last I was in it.”
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