Trying to force back the picture of her he had seen through the Lightcatcher’s radiance, staring at him as if she barely knew him.
And didn’t love him.
The ire turning to nausea when he thought of their child, possibly in the hands of a thrall of the demon. Or those of the demon itself.
Or the Merchant Emperor, with his terrible intentions.
Nausea turning to the poison of terror.
The wyrm’s rage rang out through his throat, sending ripples of waves in the otherwise calm water of the harbor.
It roared across the docks, and throughout the harbor, which, moments before, had been ringing with the excitement of a sea adventure.
Turning the mood of the entire assemblage to one of grim resolve.
As it should be.
“Are we ready, Mr. Stavos?” The tone was not a question, but a threat.
“Aye, m’lord captain,” the first mate shouted in reply.
Ashe turned to face the crew, spread across the deck and aloft in the ropes. “Are you ready, men and women, to take to the sea to save your fellows on the Middle Continent?” he shouted, his voice full-throated with the ring of the wyrm.
“Aye! Aye, sir!” The answer rolled back like thunder, not just from the Valiant, but from all the ships within earshot. It spread to other ships, farther out, until the reply had echoed through the entire harbor.
“Set sail, then,” he commanded. “Let nothing intervene, nothing keep us from taking back our lands and driving the Merchant Emperor’s forces from the place our ancestors claimed.”
A chorus of excited babble rose in answer along with sails, one by one, climbing masts across Vlane Harbor.
The Valiant’s sheets caught the wind and she launched, eager, her sailors shouting joyfully as she broke from the moorings.
Followed, every few seconds thereafter, with ship upon ship, hastening to follow.
Into the coming night, growing thick with clouds of dark rain.
Following a growing wave.
39
IN THE LORITORIUM, DEEP WITHIN YLORC
Generally when sitting watch, Grunthor made it a practice not to imbibe potent spirits.
But this watch had lasted so long, and threatened to be so malignant when it finally came to a head, that he had made an exception in this case.
Many exceptions, actually.
He was cracking open a cask of one just such exception now.
“Ya know, Rath, yer only the third Dhracian Oi’ve ever known. And Oi can’t say there’s much in common between you and the Grandmother ’oo used to be the Child’s guardian, compared to ’Is Majesty, at least from my perspective.”
The Dhracian’s smile was wry.
“’Tis true. Your king is unlike any our race has ever known. The fact that he would see himself in the role of king is evidence of his unique stature.”
Grunthor took a sip from his tankard and nodded.
“Not a race o’ kings, are Dhracians, then?”
Rath stared up into the dark vault, as if lost in memory.
“Not in the least. The Brethren, the Zhereditck, are of one mind, like a hive of bees or a kingdom of ants—we can feel each other’s thoughts on the wind; we have no leaders. All are of equal worth. Your king is not the only Dhracian among the Dhisrik, the Uncounted, those who choose to remain outside the Collective Mind, but he is the most significant of the outliers. More than that, I cannot say, except that he is very important to our people.”
The Sergeant nodded thoughtfully.
“’E’s fairly important to the Bolg as well. They was a bastard race before we came ’ere, put upon by ev’ry conquerin’ culture what subdued ’em. The king was the first to make ’em see themselves as worthy o’ bein’ alive, bein’ ’ere. Firbolg may mean something fancy in your ancient languages—”
“‘Wind of the Earth,’ ” said Rath softly.
“Yeah, the Grandmother said. But to us, the word Bolg means ’ard, unyieldin’,” the Sergeant continued, taking another slug from the tankard. “These folks, related distantly to my father’s people, live by their wits, and rule ’allways or tunnels or clans, if they’re lucky, for as long as somebody bigger don’t come ’long and push ’em out. But to rule a nation—to bring this ’ole civilization to ’eel—’e didn’t get that from his father’s side o’ the family, if ya take my meaning.”
“So your father was Bolg, like his?”
“Yeah.”
The Dhracian exhaled. “The rape and captivity of the king’s mother, and his birth that killed her, was one of the most horrifying events the Brethren ever lived through. She had been trapped, alone, when a colony of Dhracians known as the Gaol on Serendair was overrun by the Bolg, and abused by every one of the men in that brutish clan.”
Grunthor winced. He recalled Rhapsody, devoid of the gentleness that had been such an endearing part of her now that she had given her name away to Meridion, blandly describing the same horror being visited upon her.
And the Bolg king’s reaction to hearing it.
Summon the Archons.
Now, or in the mornin’?
Now. I want to be ready to leave at daybreak, right after Rhapsody departs for Bethany. I need them activated and in place before I go.
An’ where is it you will be goin’, sir?
After Talquist. As soon as she’s gone.
Rath had just provided him with another explanation of his friend and sovereign’s extreme action. Grunthor would have wagered a considerable sum that Achmed would not have left the mountains for any reason short of an invasion of Ylorc.
Now, upon hearing the explanation of what had happened to the Bolg king’s own mother, he would have withdrawn that bet.
The Dhracian did not seem to notice his contemplation.
“Because our minds are inextricably linked, we felt and bore witness to everything that happened to her, until her terrible death in childbirth. It was a nightmare that lasted for almost two years, a short time in our life span as a race, but exceedingly painful, as you can imagine, given the sensitive network of nerves and veins we share by physiology and the mindlink we have.”
Grunthor shook his head. “That musta been rough.”
“We have been seeking him ever since that day; we did not know what happened to him after she died, because he is Uncounted, not part of the Collective Mind. In his youth, he registered on our senses briefly when he was taken in by another of the Uncounted, so we caught fragments of his trail again. Finding him was as much a primordial mission as the tracking of the F’dor.” Rath finally looked away from the ceiling of the vault above, focusing what the Sergeant guessed was a sympathetic look at him. “I am sorry to know your mother met such a fate as well.”
The Sergeant-Major laughed aloud.
“Well, thank you, but ya couldn’t be more wrong about that.”
Rath blinked his liquid black eyes that had no scleras.
“My mum was a Bengard fighter in the gladiatorial arena, an undefeated champion o’ bloodsport, sonny,” Grunthor went on, still chuckling. “She was almost as tall as me, and almost as wide, I reckon. Champion of the pickax, and the four-prong fork, and the ’eadbasher.
“She took my dad as tribute in a surrender agreement with the Bloody ’And clan, one o’ the most fearsome gangs in Grangnorn, in the southeast caves of the ’Igh Reaches o’ Serendair. And while she only intended to knob the hrekin out o’ ’im and, most likely, eat ’is eyes and brain, as was Bengard custom, apparently ’e was cute, or good in the sack, or somethin’, because she kept ’im on and they raised me together. ’Ad a right proper upbringin’ and family life, a lovely child’ood, Oi did. So save yer sympathy.”
An uncharacteristic smile took up residence on the Dhracian’s face.
“I’m glad to hear that,” he said. “Children are the greatest asset of any ancient race, like mine. Born or conjured, they are equally precious to the Brethren. It is not sentimental; it is key to the survival of our tr
aditions and our mission, which is deeply entwined with that of the world.”
Grunthor drained the rest of his libation and wiped his mouth with his forearm. “Conjured?” he said after a proper belch.
The Dhracian nodded slightly.
“When your race’s life span is seemingly endless, after a time producing new children becomes difficult, because even marginally immortal bodies become aged—something you may have to contend with one day, given you come from Serendair and those who made that voyage across the world seem to have cheated Time somewhat.
“One of the most ancient of all lores is the conjuring of a child, the magical joining of the pieces of two willing souls into a unique being, a lore ritual I plan to pass along to the Lady Cymrian for safekeeping, assuming we both survive what is coming. It is the very process that produced the Earthchild.”
He glanced over his shoulder at the Sleeping Child, then stood abruptly, as did Grunthor.
She was shaking like an autumn leaf in a high wind.
Grunthor was on his feet, his pick hammer in hand. He looked around, scanning the tunnel and the Loritorium around them.
“’E must be comin’.”
40
AT THE EASTERN EDGE OF THE KREVENSFIELD PLAIN, ON THE STEPPES
It is said that when an army relies on its skill, its intelligence, and its bravery, what it does not need to rely on is the senses.
The titan was addressing the divisions of the Sorbold army he had brought all the way across the continent for the purpose of assaulting the Firbolg mountains, an undertaking that literally no one in the ranks was looking forward to.
A few years prior, before Achmed the Snake had taken the mountains, turning the land of brainless cannibalistic beasts into a powerful producer of goods for sale and an even more powerful military threat, a raiding party into the former Canrif would have been an interesting expedition, good training grounds for young soldiers, the way it had been before the Bolg king had arrived.
But now, given the brutality and precision with which those demi-human monsters had repelled a raiding party of two thousand men of Roland, as well as conquered animated corpses called back from the dead by the dragon Anwyn, no man in his right mind would ever seek to venture to that place, rife with tribalistic magic and monstrous might.
Yet here they were, supposedly at the doorstep of the Teeth, apparently about to sacrifice themselves in what could be the worst possible manner of death in war.
Under the command of an animated stone statue with disturbingly blue eyes.
Who seemed to be telling them they were going in blind.
A moment later, the titan confirmed their fears by giving a few more orders and then turning and stepping back into his eight-horse chariot.
And driving off into a seemingly endless green field.
* * *
Grunthor had left Rath to guard the Earthchild long enough to get to the speaking tube that allowed him contact with his military commanders and the Archons, who were assembled in the two war rooms, one deep in the bowels of and the other atop Grivven Peak, the highest tower in Ylorc.
“Report—whaddaya see?” the Sergeant demanded. “Grar?”
“Browns look lost, sir,” the lieutenant replied, referring to the color of Sorbold eyes, skin, and hair. “Going sideways.”
“That’s odd. How many, Kubila?”
“From ground, a hand and half of finger, sir.”
“Same from Tower, sir,” said Grar.
Grunthor whistled, causing the two Firbolg aides beside him to flinch. “Seventy thousan’? No kiddin.’ Well, it looks like ol’ Talquist isn’ playin’ with all ’is cards. And like our weapon’re workin’. All right, then. Commanders, step to! ’Ave a little fun, and remember, they prolly can’t see ya ’til yer on ’em. Loot, but don’ eat. We’re big boys now.”
A decided sound of disappointment whistled back down the speaking tube, causing the Sergeant-Major to chuckle with delight.
* * *
Can you feel the song of the Living Stone? the F’dor spirit whispered excitedly in the darkness of the moving statue. Is it calling to you?
Not yet. The answer came surprisingly quickly.
Keep going, Hrarfa urged. You will hear it when we draw close enough.
The enormous statue came to a blistering stop in its tracks, causing an aftermath of cavalrymen dragging horses to heel, wagons and foot soldiers frantically trying to avoid one another as seventy thousand soldiers were pulled up short in an endless field of green.
Faron’s thoughts still contained very few actual words, very little verbiage, only thoughts and emotions, but the message in his response was remarkably clear.
And blistering.
How would you know? the internal voice demanded furiously. You are a formless spirit, utterly without substance. A child of Fire; what would you know about being buried in a body of Earth?
Hrarfa, usually the source of communication within the titan, said nothing in reply.
Stop talking to me, Faron said. Leave me alone; I need to concentrate. There is old magic everywhere here, magic that speaks to the scales and speaks to me. And it is trying to lead me away from this place.
The titan spun around and screamed at the army behind it.
Now, forward! Leave none alive.
Then continued across the hazy green field toward the east, following the sun’s rising.
Until an army of well-provisioned Bolg appeared as if out of the very air, seeded entirely within the very ranks of the Sorbold fighting forces.
The titan heard the screams of shock from men and horses, the crashing of blunt weapons against wood and steel, could almost see the ghoulish faces with the element of surprise tearing into the army it had conscripted and brought with it to a valley of unseen death.
And whipped its chariot horses into a frenzy, reining them forward until it could actually feel the mountains rise up out of the misty green grass before them.
Following the lead of the blue scale.
Leaving the army to fend for itself.
* * *
As the titan made its way, first by the direction of the sun and then, when the mountains eventually loomed before it, following the lead of the blue scale, it began to feel a sense of ventilation.
Or, more correctly, a sense that ventilation might be the key to entering Ylorc.
The mountainous fortification was, to be certain, all but unassailable. The massive statue had battered its way almost with impunity through the fluid battle lines of the Firbolg army as it systematically destroyed the troops of the fifth, eighth, and twelfth divisions, which kept the Bolg busy, at least.
One difficulty that the two demonic spirits residing with the titan had not anticipated, however, was the foresight the Bolg had used in preparing for its arrival.
Any weapons that were turned on the statue were not the sharp bladed ones it had been anticipating, but rather sling pellets and rocks hurled as projectiles from catapults, hammers, and pickaxes. Having been accustomed to being able to repel any attack by any weapon, it was caught up short, not only because of the splitting and shattering of small areas of its body, but also because the knowledge that the Bolg had been awaiting its arrival was more than a little unsettling to both Faron and Hrarfa.
But the sheer mass of will that had fermented in the course of their journey to Canrif made any minor wound to the ten-foot Living Stone body encasing their spirits of small consequence.
The battle of wills that had begun not long after the primitive consciousness that was Faron had agreed to host the long-lived, calculating F’dor demon that was Hrarfa had cooled to a silent détente.
The burning desire to be rid of his guest and able to be reunited with his father was all that was driving Faron now; deep within his prison of Living Stone, he had shut off the shrieking voice that was gleeful now, concentrating instead on the memory of being lovingly fed eels and blackfish in a pool of gleaming green water, of being useful as his fat
her’s scryer and tended to kindly most of the time.
Even the fits of rage that his parent had had with his own demonic parasite that had occasionally led to outlash and cruelty did not cloud the strong sense of love and loss in the one time Faron had ever known it.
The ability to understand those emotions was something he clearly must have obtained through birth from his Seren mother, as it never could have originated with something as twisted and vicious as the race of his father.
Hrarfa, on the other hand, was singing a silent, orgiastic song. The nearness of the Earthchild, and her invulnerability within the body of Living Stone, had not only been felt by her but by every other one of the Unspoken, the F’dor spirits still living upworld, still chanting dark curses and fomenting the building rise of chaos and death.
She had come to realize that her particular sexual proclivities during the time she had been climbing her way through a ladder of human hosts had really been nothing more than the bodily representation of the utter abandon, the fierce and ferocious joy in the coming destruction that all F’dor sought and craved.
Even consciously knowing that, in the end, their successful achievement of it would exterminate their race as well.
So the slings and thrown hammers made little or no impact on the titan as it blasted through the breastworks at the foot of Grivven Peak, tore through the battle wagons, and snapped the backs of horses and Bolg alike.
Charging onward toward the systems of air intake and the venting of forge-fire smoke that were the infrastructure of a civilization carved from an unforgiving mountain range. Places that were too high for a humanoid to climb, too deep for one to survive a fall from, too hot to keep flesh from melting.
But to which a stone statue was impervious.
After more than a night’s span of hours, Faron found it.
A winding tunnel in the back of the mountain: an air return, from the look of it.
Faron had made the climb without much effort; his body of Living Stone felt traces of life in the stone in places of earth that had not seen the light, leaving it still fresh, still humming with at least a little animation. The element of earth welcomed him, so it had not taken much effort to follow a twisting and confusing series of tunnels down to a mysterious central corridor, a circular meeting room with the image of a dark hand pressed into the wall.
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