The men encouraged Hafgan to spar with them, just like he had back when they’d been marching with the Rostanian Army. He refused, though. He did not want to discourage them. Though they were better than they’d been—–much, much better—they still didn’t hold a candle to his abilities. Beating them senseless would have been effective to motivate them initially, but at this point it would crush their egos. That, and with Carreg Da warriors wandering through their training sessions, Hafgan did not want to give away anything about his style. At least half were spies.
“Like Alwyn said, we do not have a choice. Leyr summons us, and we must answer,” said Hafgan.
Enric shifted on his feet. “There will be a battle, Lieutenant. Why else would they be summoning all of us to meet in the Cylch?”
“Since when do you be balking at a little battle?” asked a smiling Paston, nudging Enric with the butt of his spear. Enric batted it aside irately.
“Ever since I fought in one.”
The sobering statement shut up the good-natured bickering. Hafgan sighed. They were all afraid of what would come. He couldn’t really blame them.
Just then, the bureaucrat Fel Jentin, flanked by some nameless Wasmer and Yurin, entered their chamber with little fanfare. The man greeted Hafgan with a smile and his arms spread wide. He was nothing but cordial, and Hafgan had no reason but to trust the man. He had provided the budredda with ample food, safe if not particularly comfortable lodging, and a frequent line of communication updates about their status in Hackeneth. And yet, there was something about Fel that Hafgan couldn’t pin down. Something odd.
Something that gave him an instinctual feeling of unease.
“Brother, brother, brother boy. How treats you this place?” asked Yurin in his hoarse voice.
“As well as it ever has. Which is to say, like cold shit,” Hafgan said, sticking to Ardian. Yurin laughed, the sound like gravel falling down a chute.
“I forget just how funny you are. It’s always so nice to see you.”
“Dogs always do get excited to see their master,” Hafgan said, dismissing his mad brother and turning his attention to Fel with a nod. “Rensa Fel.”
“Hafgan, I hope the day finds you healthy and well.”
“Of course. Our lodgings are quite adequate.” It seemed like an accurate enough statement, if not a compliment. Fel raised an eyebrow and tilted his head, his braids jingling the bells and bits of metal that decorated them.
“We strive for adequacy in all things. Now, as we spoke about last week, Leyr would like to stage a welcome within the Cylch, for you and all your men. As you know, he has been busy securing the southern border against the violent remnants of the Flam Madfall. Thankfully, the Flawless God stands with us.” Yes, their god had stood with them, Hafgan knew, as they subjugated a clan of hiding people who had been ravaged in previous wars, a bully kicking a downed and helpless child.
Paston stiffened at the reminder that his people were being systematically destroyed and enslaved. He made a move as if to say something, but Hafgan waved him back with a flick of his wrist.
“Praise be to the Flawless God,” Hafgan said, his voice as slippery as the peaks above them. Fel smirked at that, showing an authentic humor.
“Now that he has returned, Leyr would like to honor you for your sacrifice during the Reckoning, helping the people see the truth through your words and subsequent departure. He would also like to honor your men for having stood firm against the rebel, Siarl Llywelyn, the disgraced warleader of the Yearer Inos.”
Hafgan flinched, recalling Siarl’s death at the hands of the gwagen. “It will indeed be a great honor to be in Leyr’s presence.”
Hafgan glanced back at his budredda. They stood firm against his scrutiny, betraying none of the fear that they had shown earlier. The budredda were strong. The budredda were confident. The budredda were his.
“My men are ready.”
***
The mere existence of the Cylch boggled the mind.
The weight of the earth was acute in this place, this impossible crater inside the mountain. It was as if the gods had hurdled a star into the earth and, embarrassed by the damage they had wrought, constructed the mountains to conceal the wound. The entire crater was not concealed, however. A single, great hole at the peak of the cavern ceiling let in the light of day or the glow of the moons. The Wasmer called this hole the God’s Eye, as it had a very peculiar ocular appeal when blue Glasas superimposed itself in front of white Gwyna. Tonight, though, only half of Gwyna was visible, shooting a stream of light into the Cylch.
To Hafgan, it almost looked like some fake god was winking at him gleefully, delighted to see how this would unfold.
The crater itself was ringed by slopes that had been carved into seating for over ten thousand souls, and the benches were now packed with laborers, miners, merchants, and craftsman. Not to capacity, but there were certainly at least a few thousand present. And, they sat silently. Carreg Da warriors were scattered throughout the crowd, ensuring their good behavior and silence.
Leyr always had wanted to be heard, particularly as Taern had never seemed to hear him.
Leyr, the god-finder himself, stood in the center of the arena, ringed by a handful of warriors. Rinx and Wiscon, two of Hafgan’s compatriots from his days as Haearn Doethas, were standing slightly behind their leader. Rinx was fairly unremarkable, aside from the fact that one eye was blue and one was brown. His dark hair was cut much shorter than typical and his face held his customary grimace. Wiscon had the unusual affectation of being overweight. With food always being fairly scarce and expensive, it was difficult—and frowned upon—for any Carreg Da to carry extra weight. However, even during the intense training of their upbringing—that same training that had turned Hafgan into stringy, solid muscle—Wiscon had never shed his extra padding. His reddish, unkempt beard only seemed to emphasize his adiposity. However, he was not a man to be trifled with; he was surprisingly swift and had the strength to match.
Leyr, though, drew the eye. He was immaculate, his dark brown hair held back in a loose ponytail, his facial braids short and tight. His eyes were a piercing black-brown, the color and depth of the caverns that honeycombed these mountains. His smile gleamed, his dual dogteeth sharper than was natural, and perhaps even filed to a point. The only flaw to his handsome face was a slight, almost imperceptible twist to his smile. Hafgan remembered the crunching sound as his own elbow had broken a couple of Leyr’s teeth and dislocated the warrior’s jaw. In this very chamber, nearly five years ago.
“Hafgan Iwan, returned to his people,” boomed Leyr, the acoustics of the Cylch carrying his voice to the ears of each Wasmer in attendance as if he were standing at their shoulders. He stepped forward, arms spread wide, approaching Hafgan and his assembled budredda. Hafgan’s loyal men stood behind him in a tight, staggered formation. A Rostanian formation; not the typical loose ranks of the Carreg Da warriors.
“And his brave warriors, who fought against the rebel Siarl, the man responsible for the deaths of so many Carreg Da warriors in the shadow of Findyn Peak, fighting with treachery and guile. We, the people of Hackeneth and followers of the Flawless God, thank you for your service and welcome you back to your home.”
“Ain’t my home,” grumbled Paston just behind Hafgan. He had recently expanded his vocabulary to include the word “ain’t,” the slang word adopted from Captain Yanso. Though Paston was proud of having picked up the colloquial term, Hafgan was not pleased at the dialect. He preferred his men to speak proper Ardian.
Luckily, the people cheering in the seats—at the urging of several dozen warriors—drowned out Paston’s comments.
“We are pleased to be returned to Hackeneth, though brief our stay will be,” Hafgan proclaimed in Ardian, the foreign language echoing discordantly through the Cylch as an unwelcome guest. He could hear the crowd murmuring, uncertain of either his words or his intent. Ardian was not well-taught among the laborers and miners, though higher castes tend
ed to know it with at least passing fluency. Mixing with humans was fairly rare these days, but not unheard of.
“Then we shall savor the time we have together. Tell me, I hear you have news for us from that war-torn land to our east,” Leyr said, stepping toward Hafgan. He walked easily, effortlessly, displaying a combination of his warrior instinct and an act for the watching masses.
“My men and I come bearing a warning, Leyr.”
The man’s face twisted in interested concern, a worry painted on his face—as if drawn by a skilled artist. Fake, of course, but Hafgan couldn’t see any clear signs of his perfidy. “Please, tell us. The Carreg Da have been through much since you left us. This warning may spare us yet more suffering.”
Hafgan examined the faces in the crowd. The people seemed many things: frightened, subjugated, and resigned. It was not a mix of emotions that would be easy to alter, and Hafgan knew that he would fail before he even opened his mouth. Nonetheless, he spoke. Not to Leyr, but to everyone in the stands. It had been so long since he had spoken to a crowd of more than a handful of people. His mouth was cotton, and the Wasmer tongue felt heavy and awkward.
Nonetheless, he cleared his throat and began his plea, slowly turning as he spoke to include the entire crowd.
“Our history, the history of the Carreg Da, the history of the Wasmer, is fraught with peril and hardship. Warring with each other. Warring with humans. Warring against the elements and scraping a harsh living out of these unforgiving mountains. War, it seems, is in our people’s blood. Battle is our birthright. Conflict is our purview. And, though it has been a challenging existence, we have grown strong!” Hafgan, speaking Wasmer, paused for the cheer. Only a handful of people thought to respond to his words, however, either cowed by the warriors or just uncaring for what he had to say.
“In my journeys, in the journeys of these brave men behind me…”
“Budredda scum!”
“Traitorous, human-fucking wretches!”
The words rang out from the crowd at random. Hafgan fought the urge to achieve his hedwicchen, which would eliminate the anxiety, but also eliminate any passion that might infect his voice.
“…brave men behind me, we have faced a new enemy. An ancient enemy, in fact, of the Wasmer. Preceding most of our written histories, Wasmer once occupied Ardia proper, before being driven away and forced to live in the mountains.” That caused some grumbling, some confusion. The taught histories—the false histories—said that Wasmer had always been in the mountains. They were born of the mountains just so much as the rock, the peaks, and the snow.
“We fought an enemy, incalculable in number and driven forward by pasnes alna. They were manlike, driven by a need to kill and kill again, their shrieks echoing to the highest peaks. They fought with a ferocity that precluded survival; they cared only to trample our corpses, to eat of our flesh and drink of our blood. They fought, even when mortally-wounded, just to inflict more pain before they passed. They were utterly without soul.” Hafgan paused.
“They were the gwagen, and they have come again.”
The crowd was silent. Contemplative, perhaps. Or scared.
Or just stunned stupid.
The silence was broken by a chuckle coming from Wiscon, the big man almost jiggling with barely restrained glee. Leyr glanced backward, harshly, to stop this laugher. Again, it might have been an act, but it seemed authentic even to Hafgan’s trained eyes.
“The gwagen, Hafgan, have been long recognized as a myth. Perhaps the humans tricked you.” Implying he was dumb. “Or, perhaps some pasnes alna manipulated the minds of a handful of humans, driving their weak minds into a raw insanity.” Implying that humans were dumb. “We, of course, appreciate your warning, but you can see that the worries within Hackeneth are greater than whatever you witnessed.”
“We saw throats ripped out in front of our eyes! We speared them and watched them fight us, even as their lives bled from their bodies!” Enric shouted from behind Hafgan. His face and perfectly hairless head were red with barely-kept anger. He never took well to insults, and he’d never really understood, or come close to mastering, the hedwicchen.
“Sounds like you speared them wrong,” snorted Rinx. A skeptic to the core. In fact, Hafgan was surprised that Rinx would have thrown in with Leyr and his Flawless God.
“Let me show you just how I impaled them,” riposted Enric, shouldering his spear and stepping forward.
“Enough!” Leyr shouted, now playing the voice of reason. “There shall be no Wasmer blood shed in the Cylch on this day!”
Hafgan wondered whether that was true.
“With respect, Leyr,” he intoned. “We witnessed these creatures ourselves, and we brought an additional witness with us to lend credence to our story.” Hafgan had spoken in Ardian, and gestured back to his ranks.
Yanso, his ankles and hands bound together, was guided forward from the center of the budredda. He had been diminished, somewhat, during their stay in the Sebiant Rhisfel, his muscular frame waning into a more slender strength. They’d been giving him some freedom over the past weeks, knowing as well as Yanso did that leaving the stewardship of the budredda was a quick way to be publicly executed. Though his injuries had healed, he had not tried to leave.
“Tell them, Captain Yanso, what you witnessed.”
Humans were immeasurably easier to read in comparison to Wasmer. They had a thousand tells—fidgets, twitches, cracking voices—that Wasmer were trained to restrain, from a young age on. However unintentionally, the Wasmer lifestyle just didn’t leave room for visible weaknesses. Taern would easily be able to detect the truth versus lies from a human. Leyr would be able to do the same, though he might not choose to listen to the signs.
“Aye, I’ll tell them what I fucking saw,” Yanso growled. Hafgan had promised him freedom for speaking the truth, and he hoped Yanso would remember that. Yanso stood tall, staring Leyr straight in the eyes, almost as if challenging him. “We were guarding some fucking twisted compound, listening to howling day and night. The kind that made your blood run cold and your stomach twist in knots. My men were deserting or disappearing. Some of your fucking goa…” He cleared his throat. “…Wasmer disappeared throughout the nights, too, maybe fleeing from that place or maybe otherwise taken. Well, one night, I was given a message to enter the compound, to prepare whatever was in there for the attack on the southern flank of the Army of Brockmore.”
Leyr folded his arms, apparently displeased that a human would be in the Cylch, a place sacred to the Carreg Da. Though, he must have known that Yanso had been in Sebiant Rhisfel, a canker in the mouth of the Warrior’s Respite. Rinx spat on the ground in Yanso’s direction, and Wiscon frowned, an unusual motion for his typically cheerful features. It was a testament to Yanso’s desire for self-preservation that he didn’t charge Rinx over his disrespect.
“Inside, there were tunnels carved into the ground, but not with shovel or pick. The walls were smooth, as if melted. The pasnes alna inside gave me a tour of the facility, where these demons were chained up in the dark of the caves, slavering and struggling to escape. There was nothing fucking human about them. Nor was there anything Wasmer about them, for there were a number of your people who had been reduced to the state of these monsters. The lead pasnes alna—Swenter, was his name, a Sestrian—sent them forward as my men and me left the compound. My soldiers were slaughtered, and I only survived after I killed four of the fuckers and hid under their bodies. Their Wasmer-fucking bodies!” Yanso shouted, his voice echoing through the Cylch.
The crowd was hushed, all eyes turned to Leyr; frightened children watching their abusive father for courage. Leyr considered the lone human for a long minute, his face inscrutable even to Hafgan’s eyes and his features tinged opal by Gwyna. He could thank Yanso as a savior, or he could condemn the man to death. He choose the latter.
“Rostanian, you come here, to this sacred place, and tell me that you killed four of my people, defiling their corpses to save your own li
fe. You tell me lies about what you witnessed, mistruths written as clearly on your face as a pox! The Wasmer with you, they may have been duped by your pasnes alna, but you seal your own fate by knowingly fabricating a story. Rostanian, I sentence you to death, to be carried out immediately and visibly. Let the people know that the Flawless God will not broker with liars.” Around the Cylch, several bureaucrats translated Leyr’s perfect Ardian. Hafgan had always been so jealous of his diction.
The crowd cheered, two thousand maddened voices joining in unison like coyotes gone wild for blood. The Carreg Da warriors did not need to urge this cheering.
He nodded to Rinx, who smiled a rare, rusty smile as he stepped forward, pulling his ornate, silver spear from where it had been strapped to his back. Yanso stood stunned, an animal trapped by a hunter. Rinx’s multicolored eyes gleamed as he projected a perfect thrust without preamble, aimed at the bound human’s heart.
It would have struck true, too, had Hafgan not knocked it away with his own weapon. As it was, the blow still parted the skin on Yanso’s upper arm. He staggered backwards and the budredda’s ranks opened to receive him, providing shelter to their long-standing prisoner.
“This man is under my protection!” Hafgan shouted in Wasmer. “I promised him safe passage and release if he shared his story. His true story! If he killed Wasmer, it was because they had become gwagen. And he tells no lies, Leyr. We tell no lies!” He squeezed his fist twice in quick succession, and heard his men forming ranks, a circle bristling with points that would protect them from all comers.
“You choose a human over your own kind? Is that how far you have fallen, budredda?” asked Leyr, pulling his own spear from his back. Not his spear, but rather Taern’s weapon—Torri Carreg, the Stone Breaker. The silver hilt was carved with tiny scenes depicting various mythical stories from all of their gods. The blade, sharp enough to split a bolt of cloth dropped upon it, glistened in the moonlight, its single emerald seeming to glow of its own accord.
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