A Bright Power Rising

by Noel Coughlan

  “I would never hurt a child.” It would be like injuring a twingle. Absolutely heinous.

  “I have no doubt of it, but plenty in the village are inclined to believe otherwise. That woman will take her child to Saint Charlin to prove she’s not a changeling.”

  “A what?”

  “One of your own disguised as a child.”

  “You cannot be serious.” The concept was preposterous in so many ways.

  “The politician of this village is a changeling according to some, though it would take a man braver than I to say it to his face.”

  Lahan peeped out of the hut and beckoned them inside. Grael waved AscendantSun to enter ahead of him.

  The man sitting by the blazing fire carved a menacing silhouette against the hut’s shining walls. He lifted his gaze from the hearth and scrutinized AscendantSun, who forced himself to meet the politician’s gaze. His blue eyes possessed a coldness that no flame could touch.

  “AscendantSun, this is our politician, Garscap Torp,” Lahan said.

  “His hands aren’t bound,” the politician observed. “If he was an assassin, our corpses might now litter this hut.”

  “We’re not dead, so he’s not one,” Lahan retorted.

  Garscap’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not the point.”

  Lahan interrupted the politician before he could elaborate. “He’s the one who saved my son.”

  Garscap’s demeanor brightened. “So, you are the Gilt Spider, or at least that was what you claimed to be.”

  Could Garscap trust the Gilt Spider? Could the inhabitants of Pigsknuckle learn not to fear him? Impossible.

  “What else would one of my kind call himself if he traveled through this land and discovered he must fight a dozen Jinglemen? My adoption of that guise was a ruse to daunt Grael’s captors.”

  Garscap’s smile slipped. “So does the Gilt Spider not exist?”

  AscendantSun couldn’t be sure what NeverFear and the others had already said on the matter. “I believe another of my race may claim the name.”

  Lahan withdrew behind him.

  “NeverFear Cor often praises you,” Garscap said. “I have met him a couple of times on my visits to Pigsback. I understand NeverFear intends to relinquish leadership of the Orstretcherists to you on your arrival. Being so esteemed, you must have much influence amongst your comrades.”

  “I have what influence they are willing to lend to me.”

  “May I speak candidly?”

  AscendantSun nodded. He glanced over his shoulder. Grael and Lahan quietly stood behind him. Evidently, they were content to let their leader speak for them.

  Garscap threw a log on the fire, creating a splash of sparks. “The Fair Folk’s invasion brings a war unfamiliar to most of my people. Our saints ensure conflicts amongst Stretchers are tame affairs. The annihilation of entire villages and the massacre of women and children are horrors with which my people are little acquainted. I used to be a mercenary for the Shadow Folk in Formicary. I fought in conflicts like this. I understand their pitiless nature. But my people do not. They think we have done the Fair Folk some dishonor to bring this calamity to the mountains. It is beyond their comprehension that the Elves want to destroy us utterly. Is that not their intent?”

  AscendantSun nodded. “It is.”

  “You saw the toppled furka by Leaftea Lake? As a Stretcher, you understand its religious significance. It had stood there unharmed for all the generations since Alackalas. Every man in this village would have died to protect it. That is why I had it deconsecrated and destroyed. It was a decision over which I agonized. I knew many would condemn me, but I had no choice. If your friends in the Elfin army blundered across that furka, my people would be compelled to defend it though it meant their death. It happened in Cliffringden, and in Martyrsgrave before that.”

  Horror shuddered through AscendantSun. The man was correct. Stretchers would sacrifice everything for their sacred objects.

  “I hope my words have not offended you,” the politician said, inviting AscendantSun to join him by the fire with a wave of his hand. “You must not think I blame you and the other Orstretcherists for these atrocities.”

  “Of course not,” AscendantSun said, kneeling down beside him. Fortunately, the politician could not divine the reason for his consternation. Garscap could not guess the Or who stood before him was responsible for the massacre at Martyrsgrave.

  “The furka in the village still stands,” Garscap said. “The saints are as reluctant as the villagers to part with it. However, they have agreed to maintain a saint in the village at all times to undo the stone’s deadly blessing at the first hint of invasion.”

  Garscap tossed another log on the fire. “That’s not my people’s sole sacrifice. Their village has been overrun by strangers, victims of Cliffringden’s fall. My people go hungry so that their guests have enough food to survive. Pigsknucklers must endure the unedifying spectacle of their politician wandering like a beggar from village to village, flattering and cajoling old enemies like Ogresquern to donate unwanted crumbs to feed our guests.”

  He voice was soft, but his eyes burned with anger.

  “The people of Pigsknuckle bear all of this without complaint, but on the very rare occasion they do grumble, they direct their ire at Pigsback. They ask me what sacrifices the inhabitants of the monastery make. I tell them the Orstretcherists and the saints pray for us, but the villagers are unimpressed. They can pray for themselves, they say. I say the Elves seek fresh meat for us in the mountains, but the malcontents are unimpressed. My people want to know that, when the war comes to Pigsknuckle, the Orstretcherists will do more than pray and hunt game. I promise them your people will fight by their side, but in truth, I speak in hope rather than certainty.”

  “Have you discussed this with NeverFear?” AscendantSun asked.

  “I’ve tried,” Garscap said, his voice growing louder. “But he is only interested in philosophical vagaries of the type that so enthuse his hosts. He seems unable to understand his moral quibbles won’t protect my people in this current crisis. His theological dialog with the saints of Pigsback may have tied him in knots or he can’t bring himself to take up arms against his own people. Either way, he needs to cease his dithering and choose a side. We need more warriors, not more saints, if the Fair Folk’s invasion is to be halted.” His finger thrust at AscendantSun to the rhythm of his rage.

  “NeverFear was drawn to Stretcherism because of its compassion for life,” AscendantSun explained. “He went into exile to leave war behind him. He wants to live in peace. You are asking him to put aside that dream.”

  “But that is exactly what it is—a dream. Not reality. You must realize this?”

  Too well. NoName must be well on his way to Sunthorn now, drawing ever closer to his victim. “I will talk to NeverFear and the others on your behalf. I can promise nothing, but I will do my best to convince them.”

  Garscap nodded. “Very good. I can ask for no more than that. Grael, you and Dawan can escort AscendantSun to Pigsback.”

  “I will go in Grael’s place,” Lahan said. “We can set out in the morning. It is too late in the day.”

  “Nonsense,” Garscap said. “You could easily reach the monastery before nightfall. If you will not accompany AscendantSun there now, he must go alone. In these impassioned times, I can’t guarantee his safety if he remains in the village overnight.”

  “I’ll go with him,” Grael said, pointing to AscendantSun. “I would let no Stretcher, whether he is man or Elf, ascend that mountain alone.”

  “There is no need,” Lahan said. “I can go in your stead. You haven’t been up there since your...accident.”

  “I will go,” Grael insisted. “I’m fit enough for the climb, and I’ll not let the Pig sneer down on me evermore. Dawan can come with me. If you go, too, it’ll double Mam’s worry.”

  “You’re a man and know your own mind,” Lahan said.

  Mother, father, son, daughter, brother, sister,
male, female—such strange concepts. Mixy propagation was so much more convoluted than division. Man and woman joined together, though they never properly knew each other, to create a stranger, an empty mind blind to the past. And yet Mixies loved their kin as much as any Or loved his lineage.

  “Then it’s settled,” Garscap said. “Grael, you can return our guest’s weapons after you are clear of the village and its more excitable inhabitants. No need to invite trouble. It has been a pleasure to meet you at last, AscendantSun. I am sure we will meet again very soon.”

  Prompted by the politician’s rising, AscendantSun stood up. AscendantSun took Garscap’s offer of his hand.

  In midst of their handshake, Garscap frowned and, lifting AscendantSun’s hand, stared at it intently. His eyes rounded. “You have an extra thumb on your hand.” His eyes shifted to AscendantSun’s free hand. “On both hands.”

  AscendantSun smiled. “No. You are missing thumbs on your hands.”

  “So all from your race have these appendages? I never noticed before,” Garscap said.

  “You need to shake their hands more often,” AscendantSun quipped.

  Grael and Lahan chuckled quietly. It was hard to tell if the expression on Garscap’s face was a smile or a grimace.

  He tightened his grip on AscendantSun’s hand. “Hopefully, I will get the chance.”

  After their handshake ended, AscendantSun followed Lahan and Grael out of the hut. They led him to a rock outside the village. There, he and Grael waited while Lahan fetched Dawan. After what seemed ages, a scowling youth appeared. He had dirty blond hair and a freckled face. In one hand, he held a spear. In the other, he carried two small sacks.

  “Your father asked me to give you this,” he said, dropping one of the sacks at Grael’s feet.

  “Dawan, where’s your usual cheer?” Grael asked.

  “I won’t need it on this trip,” Dawan replied, eyeing AscendantSun with deep suspicion.

  AscendantSun and his companions followed the trail up the Pig. Grael walked alongside him. Dawan kept a good distance ahead of them, checking over his shoulder at intervals, probably to confirm AscendantSun had not done some terrible mischief to his cousin. AscendantSun regarded this constant reminder of the villagers’ mistrust of Elves with a mixture of annoyance and amusement.

  “Of the villagers I have met, you seem most comfortable with my presence,” he said to Grael, at some length.

  “You saved my life,” Grael said.

  “Your father was eager to accompany us,” AscendantSun observed.

  “He’s concerned for my safety, but he best serves it by staying at home. He is not as spry as he used to be. The Year of Bleeding Snow has taken its toll on him. His presence would only add to my worries. Besides, I refuse to be carried up and down the mountain on another’s back like an invalid.”

  The youth greedily eyed the fragments of hardtack that AscendantSun was sucking on to distract him from his empty belly. He offered Grael a morsel. “This is a kind of bread that sustains us on long journeys.”

  Grael grimaced as he tried to chew the biscuit. “It is as hard as stone but not nearly as tasty. Until I managed to gnaw off a few crumbs, I thought you had played a trick on me and switched the piece you had offered with a pebble.”

  AscendantSun’s chuckle opened into a belly laugh. It was the first moment of unrestrained merriment he had experienced since he left Tincranny. “It sustains the body though it offends the mouth. It is a staple for our legions. Soaked in mead, it is more palatable. I promise you would find the rest of the cuisine I brought on this trip far more pleasing if I had any left to offer.”

  Grael produced something that looked like a sheet of gnarled bark. He cut off a sliver and offered it to AscendantSun. “It is an acquired taste, like your bread.”

  “It is nothing like hardtack if it has a taste,” AscendantSun said as he bit off a chunk. He masticated it till it softened. The flavor was not offensive. He ate a second piece, and then a third.

  “How fares the Jinglemen’s other prisoner?” he asked.

  Grael’s mood turned somber. “Harath is married to our politician.”

  “I am sorry,” AscendantSun said. Obviously, this was a painful subject for his new friend.

  Grael gave a wistful smile. “No need to apologize. You couldn’t know.”

  As they continued the climb, he explained about his engagement and the circumstances of its ending. After a reticent start, he warmed to the subject, evidently glad to confide in a sympathetic ear from outside the village. Fascinated, AscendantSun listened, though he could not delve too much in case he exposed his naivety about such matters. He had received rudimentary explanations of courtship and marriage from the saints, but their practical knowledge was limited. Grael spoke of alien emotions and concerns. AscendantSun grasped that Grael’s sentimental attachment to Harath persisted long after it was practical, and because of this, despite his protestations to the contrary, Grael despised her husband, the politician.

  This was unfortunate because Pigsknuckle was lucky to have Garscap Torp as their leader. The politician was perceptive in his reading of the Ors’ invasion and practical in his response to it. He was someone with whom AscendantSun could do business. Indeed, they had no choice but work together if Pigsknuckle was to survive. Hopefully, the Orstretcherists in Pigsback would prove as clear-sighted.

  Dawan stopped by a furka, sat down, and waited for them.

  “Do you promise to tell nobody what I said?” Grael’s murmur had a plaintive tone.

  “Who would I tell?” AscendantSun replied. He liked Grael. His hostility to Garscap might wane in time and the two might become friends. After all, they were both Stretchers.

  “Beyond this point, you won’t be able to see Pigsknuckle,” Grael said as they reached the furka.

  AscendantSun looked back at the village, a random collection of huts dispersed like some wild weed across the valley. It lacked the purposeful regularity and aesthetic virtue of his people’s settlements. He had beheld it from this location before, but never until this day had he visited it. Though he had encountered great suspicion and even paranoia there, the villagers’ reactions were understandable, given what had happened in Cliffringden. If Grael and his father were typical of its denizens, then it had much to be admired. Pigsknuckle must survive if NoName’s sacrifice and indeed DawnGlow’s death were to have any meaning.

  A holler attracted his attention to a black-clad figure scurrying up the mountain toward them.

  “It’s my brother, Saint Charlin,” Grael said. “I wonder what he wants.”

  The saint was puffing and red-faced when he reached them. “Grael, may I speak to your charge in private for a moment?”

  He didn’t wait for his brother’s answer. He grabbed AscendantSun’s batonaxe rack and pulled him beyond the inquisitive ears of his companions.

  “We meet again,” Charlin said. “I wish to ask a favor of you.” The blush of exertion deepened to an embarrassed scarlet. “Please make no mention of the deconsecration of Pigsknuckle’s furkas in Saint Sebryn’s presence. The lives of the villagers may depend on it. Saint Sebryn might demand the furkas’ reinstatement. If the village was attacked, I could never deconsecrate all of them in time for the villagers to escape.”

  AscendantSun frowned. “Are you asking me to lie to the abbot?”

  Charlin’s eyes rounded. His arms shot above his head. “Oh, no no no. That would be a sin. I would never ask you to do that. No.” He pressed his hands against his mouth and slowly drew them down to his chin. “If the abbot asks you a question, you must answer him honestly. All I ask is that you make no comment on this matter without Saint Sebryn’s prompting.”

  AscendantSun was dubious. It still sounded a lot like lying. But the Pigsknucklers’ lives were at stake. “I’ll do it. I will swear it on the Forelight, if you wish.”

  Charlin’s eyes bulged. “In this circumstance, that would be sacrilege,” the saint said, almost choking on his words.
“I trust your word.”

  Clearly relieved to have finished his odious business, the saint made his farewells and headed back down to the village. AscendantSun watched him shrink into the distance. What other secrets might await him in Pigsback?

  15

  An individual is more than a limb of his lineage. His lineage has no right to destroy him if it considers him diseased. He is an independent entity. He is more than the sum of his predecessors. He is himself and all the divisions that follow him.

  FROM THE BOOK OF JUDGMENTS.

  Night’s icy fingers closed in on the screaming mountain as Grael and his companions reached Pigsback. There was an unnerving lag before their hammering on the great doors roused a response. The door creaked open, and a muffled figure beckoned them inside. They left their weapons outside to honor the sanctity of the monastery. They passed through the Needle’s Eye into the reception hall.

  The saint who had let them in discarded his fur cap and cloak. He was unfamiliar, little older than Grael or Dawan, obviously a recent recruit. Blinking excessively, he introduced himself in a whispery voice as Saint Finshin, recently arrived from the village of Wyrmery. He invited Grael and Dawan to warm by the fire while he conducted AscendantSun to Saint Sebryn.

  Dawan smiled as he presented his open palms to the flames. “At least that’s done. I must admit I’m not very comfortable around them. I don’t know how you do it. You seem so at ease in their presence.”

  “I trust AscendantSun more than some Pigsknucklers I could mention,” Grael said.

  Dawan glanced around. “Like our politician and his cronies?”

  Grael nodded.

  “I don’t think the stories about Garscap are true,” Dawan said. “He can’t be a changeling. Even the Elves don’t like him.”

  Not all the Elves. AscendantSun was surprisingly naive about Garscap. He seemed blind to the politician’s deceitful nature.

  “My father wants to speak to you as soon as we get back to Pigsknuckle,” Dawan said.