A Bright Power Rising

by Noel Coughlan

  His hug with Maerbard was little more than patting each other’s backs. He picked up little Miona and hugged her, and then it was Wanyr’s turn. She clung tightly to him and started to cry, and their mother had to gently pull her away.

  He went to hug his father, but Dad waved him away, grinning. “I’m coming with you, remember. Besides, we’ll all be together soon enough. Don’t worry.”

  Foreboding gripped Garscap as Grael placed a heavy hammer in his hands. It had been part of the Jinglemen’s cursed trove. Too ornate for a common tool, its embellishment made it strangely apt for Garscap’s purpose.

  “Hear me,” he said to the assembled warriors. “Saint Charlin gave me absolute authority over this village. Does anyone here challenge the word of a saint?”

  Silence answered.

  “Then I will honor the word of Saint Charlin. I will deconsecrate this furka with this hammer.”

  “It’s easy for you to talk of tearing down this furka,” the ancient Thomol Mangal said. “You’re not from here. It has protected the village since its foundation. Saint Odran planted it here with his own hands. To damage that stone is sacrilege and makes you as much our enemy as the Elves. I, for one, will not let you destroy it.”

  Some part of Garscap longed to turn his back on the Pigsknucklers and leave them to their fate. But another, stronger part of him wanted to accept the old fool’s challenge and show him what his threats were worth.

  “Perhaps you are so old, Thomol, that you wouldn’t notice death. The rest of us want to live to defend our families. Is this stone worth more to you than Dawan and your other grandchildren? A saint raised this furka, and a saint ordered its destruction in the event that it proved a bane instead of a blessing. Who are you to question the word of a saint?”

  “I hear no saint,” Thomol growled. “The only word I have is yours.”

  “If I am lying, then the sin of the furka’s destruction will be mine alone,” Garscap said. “We’ve no more time for debate. If any man knows for certain that I speak falsely, let him strike me down now. Otherwise, get out of my way.”

  The men cleared a path before him to the furka. As he walked toward it, he looked upon faces filled with fear and awe and hope, and smiled. He basked in the silent adulation of the men whose village had once spurned him. Only he could save them. Only he could do what must be done. Not Widan nor his dead son, nor Grael, despite his inclination for unorthodoxy. No one had the imagination to conceive this deed, much less the audacity to carry it out. Perhaps, this was the reason the Gilt Spider had singled him out as a child. Perhaps, he was what he had always dreamed of becoming—the new Alackalas.

  This day, he was the hero.

  As the furka loomed before him, he paused. The crowd held its breath. He could feel them silently urging him to strike. The hammer’s shaft twisted in his hands. He raised it over his head and brought it down on the center of the furka. The force of the blow shuddered through his hands and arms. One arm of the stone broke off with a thunderous crack and dropped to the ground, followed by a few quickly stifled cheers. He stared at his handiwork for a moment. The one-armed furka reminded him of a wounded bird for some reason. He swung again and again, pounding the stone till only a stump remained.

  When he finished, he returned the hammer to Grael. Garscap looked at Thomol. “Anyone who wants to stay here can do so.” He pointed to the Pig. “The rest of us are going up there.”

  Harath steadied her gasps as she waited behind the hut. Eventually, the traffic of Littleknucklers through the center of the village would ease, and the moment would come to run to the furka. The village’s buildings and their layout were similar to Pigsknuckle in many ways, but it lacked its neighbor’s impressive setting, its view of the Pig being obscured by lesser mountains. The central furka was within sight, but she was so tired and her legs so leaden, she feared that she didn’t have the strength to reach it.

  She brushed away the loose hair that tickled her cheeks. The smell of stale sweat and exhaustion was overpowering. She must look a sight.

  Someone screamed behind her. An old woman, her face contorted with terror, pointed to her. Harath bolted by a young man who came to investigate the shriek, and dashed for the furka. A second man stood in her way, his hand drawing a dagger from its sheath. She managed to swerve beyond his arms, but his foot tripped her, and she tumbled to the ground. She crawled for the sacred stone. Hands grabbed her foot, but she managed to kick off the sandal and reach the furka.

  Clinging to its base, she cried, “Get your politician now!” She propped her back against the stone trunk and laughed at the irony of her earlier concern for her appearance. She had only one sandal, and mud and grass stains streaked the front of her dress.

  Littleknucklers crowded around her, though none dared to touch her. Someone tossed her missing sandal at her feet.

  Lohor Teevan emerged from the village’s great hall, demanding to know the reason for the commotion. He stopped mid-sentence when he saw Harath, his angry demeanor turning to puzzlement.

  “The Politician of Pigsknuckle sent me here to remind you that it is the duty of every Stretcher to help his fellows,” Harath said. “Our village is under attack by the Fair Folk. Garscap Torp demands that you honor your sacred promise to him, and come to the aid of your neighbors.”

  Lohor shook his head sadly. “My first duty is to protect the furkas of Littleknuckle. Garscap must look elsewhere for help.”

  Harath could not repress a sneer. “Garscap has sent other messengers to villages and monasteries across the mountains seeking aid. Know that the names of this village and its politician are also on their lips. Good or ill, your actions on this day will not be forgotten.”

  Harath glared back at Lohor’s angry stare. He pursed his lips, and turned to the crowd. He pointed a finger at a youth. “Gather half a dozen men of your age. I have an errand for you. If Littleknuckle must go to war, it won’t do so alone.”

  Saint Charlin blessed the fleeing women and children as he ran by them in the opposite direction. They were a mixture of Pigsknucklers and Cliffringdeners. Most of them were laden with leather sacks or wicker panniers brimming with foodstuffs and spare clothing. He wasted no time in acknowledging salutes, though he noted those who made no effort to make them.

  He had already flown past his mother before he recognized her gaunt face. He glanced over his shoulder at the children in her company. Little Miona was in her arms. Wanyr and Maerbard were by her side. Charlin thanked the Forelight for this merciful vision, but there was no time to stop. The lives of Grael and Lahan depended on him reaching Pigsknuckle in time.

  Imagine Saint Sebryn’s consternation when this stream of refugees reached the monastery. One woman demanding entry to Saint Odran’s spurred the old man to unheard-of indignation. Such a vast influx of femininity pouring through the Needle’s Eye had the potential to drive the abbot to fatal apoplexy. Perhaps Sebryn would be more tolerant toward them than Charlin supposed, given the circumstances of their flight. It was hard to know where the saints were going to put them all, much less feed them.

  Charlin thanked the Forelight for the clement weather and pleaded for it to continue. The mountain’s climate was so capricious. If the Pig decided to scratch this unprecedented itch, the impact on the refugees would be catastrophic.

  The thread of climbers followed the meandering path up the mountain. A good distance behind the tattered rear of the column was a second, more compact group, predominantly devoted to the transport of the old and invalid. They were either carried on younger shoulders or dragged on crude litters. It was good that their helpers were not confined to family and neighbors. Irrespective of the colors of their halos, Cliffringdeners and Pigsknucklers shared the burden of their advancement. They progressed at what was little more than a crawl. Yet, despite the urgency of their flight, they had a laudable determination that nobody was to be left behind. The Pig watched, ready to bring death to stragglers.

  Talida was with this group. S
he walked by herself, overloaded with sacks doubtless containing her husband’s possessions, staggering beneath their weight, ignored by the rest. The saint avoided her harsh stare as he rushed past.

  Beyond this group, there was only the lonely mountain. Charlin fought the leaden ache in his legs and the stitch in his side as he skittered and stumbled down the shifting scree. Down the Crooked Stair and through the maze of false tracks he raced. As he passed by each furka, he whispered breathless prayers for his family, his village, and his people.

  Before he reached the final furka on the descent, he found some old men from Pigsknuckle squabbling with a group of Cliffringdeners. Five ancients, sitting on the side of the track, resisted the women’s attempts to lift them. Thomol Mangal was the most vociferous, his arms folded in grim defiance of the attempts to seize them. “Unhand me! I won’t be carried up the Pig like a child or an old woman. But for my respect for your gender, I’d answer your harassment with the point of a spear.”

  “But your politician ordered us to take you to Pigsback,” one of the women said. “And he ordered you to let us.”

  “If I was twenty years younger, I would teach that young buck some manners.”

  “If you were twenty years younger, we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” another woman said as she made another unsuccessful grab for his arm.

  “Please, Worthy Saint, save us from these witches,” Thomol pleaded, emphasizing his desperation with outstretched arms.

  Charlin struggled to contain his temper. “Do not insult pious women with that name. If you want to be treated as men, then behave like men and treat these ladies with respect. Do as your politician commands. He is the authority in temporal affairs. My sole concern is with spiritual matters.”

  As Thomol’s countenance crumbled into abject defeat and despair, the saint regretted his harshness. He was about to offer a few consolatory words when Thomol’s eyes flashed with brazen malevolence.

  “So, is the destruction of a consecrated furka a temporal or a spiritual matter? For instance, our politician has destroyed the furka that Saint Odran built in Pigsknuckle with a hammer. He says he acted with your leave. Is this true?”

  “Thomol Mangal, no more nonsense!” Charlin roared as he wagged a finger at the cantankerous ancient. “Let these women help you, or you will have more to contend with than their generosity. You should know better than to invite the wrath of a saint.”

  As Thomol mumbled earnest apologies, Charlin stamped away. If the old man had spoken the truth, Garscap would pay for his sacrilege. He would learn the price of usurping a saint’s power and abusing Charlin’s name.

  A short distance farther, he found most the menfolk of Pigsknuckle gathered together. “Where’s the Garscap Torp?” he barked as they divided to let him pass.

  “He’s standing by the ruins of the furka over the brow,” someone murmured.

  Not content with destroying one furka, the Changeling had smashed a second. Charlin’s head filled with the terrible punishments that were meted out to sinners before the saints became afraid of their own power. Most were too gentle for the Changeling.

  The politician was in permanent genuflection near the site of his latest crime. The broken trunk of the furka stood, pointing upward like an impertinent finger. Leaning casually against it was the hammer, the tool of its demolition. A dozen other Pigsknucklers, including Grael, Lahan, Widan, and Maergan Erath, were huddled in various low postures around him. Their attention was focused on the valley below.

  Garscap glanced over his shoulder, and smiled at Charlin. “Worthy saint, you’re too late, or at least you would have been if we had awaited you in Pigsknuckle. Come and watch. The Fair Folk are about to attack.”

  Shock skewered the saint’s anger. Stunned, he walked to where Garscap and his companions gathered. As he stood over them, hands tugged at his sleeves.

  “Worthy saint, please kneel down, lest our foes spot you,” Garscap said.

  In a daze, the saint complied. He was mesmerized by the activity in the valley. Two saffron curves approached the village on opposite sides like hands slowly closing around a fly. Their progress had a ghostly quality as they passed through copses and outlying huts with no apparent loss of cohesion. The legionaries charged. Charlin imagined a thunderous clap as they rushed into Pigsknuckle. The heart of the village burned with the color of their uniforms.

  “Thus falls Pigsknuckle,” Garscap said with surprising nonchalance. “Hopefully, they’ll be content with its capture like they were at Cliffringden, and harass us no more this day.”

  While the legionaries secured the village, their tribune, SunTalon Risus, and Sentinel Five stood beside the broken furka and contemplated its meaning.

  “This is a new development,” SunTalon commented, managing to smile despite his disappointment. “I guess the Stretchers have learned to escape this trap of their own making. The legate must be apprised of this as soon as we return to Fort Lumen.”

  “Tell me,” the sentinel said, “were you a Gleamer?”

  “I fought for Gleam till the walls came tumbling down,” SunTalon replied. “I was a member of the Harbinger’s Dawn Chorus before it became fashionable.”

  “As one Gleamer to another, tell me what you think of your legate, IronWill.”

  SunTalon was slow to respond. “He was a good Gleamer. Like all of his lineage, he is resourceful and clever. He is personally very brave. But when it comes to his troops, he is a coward. He loves them too much. He is a legate more suited to peace than war.” His voice had trailed off to a whisper. Sharing such a bold confidence with one of the Harbinger’s elite guards held a giddy intoxication.

  Sentinel Five nodded. “I have heard similar comments from others.”

  “Take this current situation as an example. Presented with the surprising abandonment of this village, IronWill’s natural instinct would be to err on the side of caution. He might even retreat.” SunTalon was about to expand on his point, but the approach of the centurion superior, WarSage Galea, silenced him.

  WarSage saluted SunTalon, but his eyes drifted to the sentinel. “We have searched the village and found none of the inhabitants. The livestock have been let loose, probably because the villagers were in too much of a rush to take their animals. Warm ash in some of the hearths suggests their flight was recent.”

  “So we have a chance to catch them,” SunTalon said.

  “Their extermination is not the primary objective of this mission,” Sentinel Five said. “The Orstretcherists are our main quarry.”

  Irked by the sentinel’s rebuke, SunTalon hastily dismissed WarSage.

  “Your help since I arrived at Fort Lumen has not gone unnoticed,” the sentinel said. “I have not the authority to offer promotions, but I promise my report to the Harbinger concerning your part in this expedition will be highly complimentary.”

  “I am gratified to hear it.”

  “You know many of these Orstretcherists were Gleamers.”

  SunTalon nodded. “All the more reason that they must be extirpated. Their very existence insults all who lived and died to defend Gleam.”

  Sentinel Five expressed his approval with a nod. “If the Orstretcherists are not here, then they must be hiding in the temple somewhere up there.” He pointed to the mountain. “Perhaps, your missing villagers are with them. Much of the day has passed, and we have little yet to show for our exertions. Let us delay here no longer and scale the mountain.”

  Harath hugged the base of the furka, afraid to forsake its reassuring protection. Why was Lohor Teevan taking so long to gather his men? She could see nothing beyond the women encircling her. They were all lean, no doubt due to the hardship of the Year of Bleeding Snow. She thanked the Forelight that Pigsknuckle avoided famine due to the generosity of Pigsback and the treasure of her former captors. Perhaps, her relative plumpness was the reason they glared at her with such malevolence. She faced their accusatory stares with mute defiance till her patience ran out and she challenged
them to explain their animosity.

  “You came to take our men away,” one of them said.

  “I came here for help. If the Fair Folk are not stopped now, your village might be next.”

  “They are attacking Pigsknuckle because your people meddled in their affairs. You consorted with the Orstretcherists, their enemies. You invited bad luck into your homes and bad luck accepted your invitation.”

  “Tell that to the widows of Cliffringden.”

  The cordon retorted with silence. Harath’s comment had shamed a few, mostly younger women, but the faces of the rest radiated absolute certitude in their convictions—some unknown moral failing of the Cliffringdeners must have brought their ruin. The Forelight would not let decent people suffer such a terrible calamity.

  Harath bristled at their self-righteousness. She was about to disabuse them of their delusions when a child pushed through the crowd. She clung to her mother’s hem with painfully thin arms as she stared at Harath, her brown eyes far too big for her bony little face. It was ironic that these women blamed others’ misfortune on their sinfulness, given the signs of famine in their village. Fear motivated their condemnation. These women were frightened for their families. Pigsknuckle had let them starve through the Year of Bleeding Snow, and now their neighbor demanded that their husbands and sons sacrifice their lives to save it. If these women’s illusions eased their distress, Harath should not dispel them.

  “What is delaying Lohor Teevan?” she asked, trying to sound conciliatory.

  “Did you not know?” a woman said with genuine surprise. “The men have already set off for Pigsknuckle.”

  She was about to strike the furka with her fist, but good sense prevented her from committing such a sacrilege, and she redirected her blow into the ground. Of course, Lohor would never think to bring her along. In his eyes, she was a woman and unsuited to war, even if she must endure its consequences. The furka was as much a trap as a sanctuary. Her part in Pigsknuckle’s defense was over. Resting one hand against the sculpted stone, she turned to the furka, closed her eyes, and prayed to the Forelight to protect Grael and the others.