The desert orbs were rising as Vancien stared dully at his handiwork: three fresh piles of sandy clay, under which lay his three companions. Various lizards and dust rats scurried around his feet, unconscious of his great pain. He sat for an eternity thus, until his half-blinded vision began blurring the graves into one large mass. The mound began to pulsate until out of the dirt shot three arms, each one belonging to one of his dead friends. Vancien was paralyzed by shock as he watched the three limbs grope the dust, trying to dig the rest of their bodies out. From somewhere inside the mound, he heard the united voices of his friends crying for release. He jumped to their aid, but the sand turned hard as rock as he, too, became trapped in sandy grave. Shaking furiously, he succeeded in only lodging himself further until even his mouth was sealed.
“You’re in trouble, yes?”
Vancien snapped out of his delirium. The desert orbs were indeed rising after a long, fitful night, but the graves were quiet. The dream had been powerful, but not powerful enough to force itself into reality. Nevertheless, sweat poured from his brow as he squinted to see his visitor. The creature was standing against the orbs’ light, so he could only make out a shadow at first.
“Excuse me?” he whispered, his voice hoarse from lack of water.
“You’re in trouble, aren’t you?” his visitor insisted, stepping to the side and pointing a finger at the graves.
Vancien could see more clearly now, and made out a small, fuzzy animal as high as his waist, were he standing. The creature was covered in short gray fur, except for its face, which held curious red eyes, a small nose, and a small mouth. It stood on two legs and its arms looked as if they could be used more for climbing than for pointing out gravesites. It was dressed in an elegant lizard-skin traveling tunic. Except for its expensive clothes, it reminded Vancien of the cheeky creatures swinging from the trees in regions he had read about as a child.
It spoke again and Vancien jumped to his feet, away from the eerie little beast. But its voice was deep and aristocratic—hardly what one expected.
“By the Plains, man!” it sounded again, taken aback by the movement. A munkke-trophe, Vancien finally decided: a remarkable breed of primate known for its nomadic tendencies and its ability to comprehend various languages. Slightly ashamed, he held up his hands in submission.
“Sorry. You scared me.”
The munkke-trophe was indignant. “I scared you? How do you think I felt, young man, when I rounded this bend here and stumbled upon three fresh graves and a living corpse?”
“Is this your territory?”
“This is the path I have chosen, yes.” It stooped to pick up a short cane, which it had dropped when Vancien had so abruptly arisen. “And now, if you will excuse me, I shall be on my way.”
“No, wait! You asked me if I was in trouble.”
The munkke-trophe did not stop but called back over his shoulder. “Yes, I did. And I have my answer.”
The past hours had evaporated Vancien’s good humor. Before he could stop himself, he sent a sharp stone hurling toward the creature. The aim was true and the cane was knocked out of its owner’s hands. A surprised oath accompanied the munkke-trophe to the ground.
“Well, I say,” it snarled, casting about for its cane and brushing itself off. Vancien stood over it, watching silently.
“See here, young man, could you give an old ‘trophe a hand up?”
“Yes, I could.”
“Well then, by the orbs, do so!” The creature had found its support, but was unable to see for the sand in its eyes. The next few seconds were spent rubbing and blinking with great energy. “What, boy, are you still there?”
“Yes.”
“Did you just pull that evil trick of knocking out my cane?”
“I did.”
“Humph. Just as I thought. Dratted human youths thinking they can run all over other creatures.”
Vancien could only laugh at its antics, forgetting his anger. He reached down and helped it to its feet.
“There you are. Can you see all right?”
“Well enough to see that you are not in any sort of trouble.”
Vancien sighed as the tragedy came racing back to him. “I am in every sort of trouble. My friends are buried under those mounds, my food and water are spoiled, and I think Kynell has abandoned me.”
The munkke-trophe gave him a brisk pat on the back. “But you have your health.”
“A health I would sooner give up to join the others.”
“Bah! Don’t say that! The Prysm god spared you for a reason.” It eyed Vancien’s torn clothes and bloodied skin. “I assume.”
“I doubt it. But what of you? What’s your name?”
“What’s yours?”
“Vancien pa Hull.”
“So it is. I am Sirin”
Vancien extended his hand, which was received by an aging paw. “Well met, Sirin.”
“Right. Lovely. A pleasure to meet you, Vancien pa Hull.” Then he, for it was a he, turned to go.
“You’re leaving?”
“That would be the general idea, yes.”
The creature was insufferable. “Then you’re a demonic little rodent!”
This caught Sirin’s attention. His beady crimson eyes narrowed in hostility. “Now see here, young man. I did not pass this way to entertain a human bratling who was foolish enough to get his friends killed. Perhaps it has not crossed your mind that I have important business to attend to? I have no time to dawdle with impertinent youths!” He continued indignantly under his breath. “Demonic! I never—”
Vancien was not so easily intimidated. “Listen, rodent. You’re a shame to your species if you leave me out here like this without any help at all.”
“Stop calling me a rodent! I come from a long tradition of noble blood, great heroes, fearless warriors—”
“And you’re all there is to show for it?”
“Now you’ve gone too far, bratling!” His voice took on an animalistic squeal. “When I get to Lascombe, I’ll report you to the civic—”
Vancien caught his breath. “Lascombe? You’re going to Lascombe?”
The munkke-trophe was immediately wary. “Yes, although it matters little to you.”
“Then I must accompany you.”
“Ha!”
“If you don’t accept me as company, I’ll follow you anyway. You’ll never lose me and never know when I’ll show up next.”
“Your threats are impotent. I know this desert like the back of my paw.”
“And my father was a great tracker who taught me his trade.” Vancien winced inwardly at the lie, but reassured himself with the knowledge that Hull had been pretty good at tracking cattle, at any rate.
“Bah!” Sirin exclaimed, unhappy with the arrangement but unable to see a way out of it. “Fine then. You have thirty seconds to gather your things and then I’m leaving.”
It took less time than that for Vancien to scoop up his pack, collect all the money pouches, and bid a quick, sorrowful farewell to his friends. When he rejoined Sirin, the munkke-trophe’s mood had not improved.
“Bratling.”
“Rodent.”
And so they marched into the rising orbs.
__________
The day in the desert passed quickly and with little conversation. They had to cut sharply west, for although the desert was not wide at this point, it was long, piercing between the Duvarian Range and the flatlands to the south like the tip of a spear. They were north of the Glade now, but the Glade was a day’s walk east of the only pass through the Range. Thus, they marched diagonally and hastily in order to get to the opening of the pass by nightfall.
Sirin was not accustomed to talking and walking at the same time, which was just as well, since Vancien was absorbed in morose thoughts. Where were N’vonne, Naffinar, and Revor now? Were they with Kynell? Or were they just sleeping? Kynellian Lore—or the account, as he liked to call it—stated that the faithful dead slept until the next great ba
ttle. Then their spirits would awaken and aid the Advocate. When this task was finished, they would rise to Kynell’s side, and remain there for all eternity. He was aware enough of the ten thousand score timetable to realize his friends would not rest for long. The cyclical battle of Prysm and Obsidian was coming soon; Vancien had only envy for the man who would receive N’vonne and Naffinar’s companionship.
Eventually, after a seemingly endless march, the sand under their feet gradually began to turn to patchy grass. The Duvarian Range had been in their sights all day, and now they were finally in the foothills. He gazed around him, struck by the majesty. On his right, the mountains loomed like great slumbering giants. Perhaps there were gigantic men and women curled up under those snow-encrusted peaks, waiting for the time of their awakening. And the foothills would be their children, snuggled in bunches here and there, the green grass covering them like so many blankets.
Soon, he could see a split in the rocky wall. They were not too far now from the pass. As they stopped their westward progress and turned wholly to the north, he could see that some invisible hand had cleft the mountain in twain, leaving empty air where a peak should have been and a sheltering path to pass through. It was the only way through the range; the intact mountains were virtually impossible to traverse—sharp rocks and dangerous cliffs were everywhere and sudden blizzards often swallowed the entire face. Many a traveler had also been lost to the treacherous sheetrock, where the seemingly solid surface was in reality only a handbreadth thick. Under the concentrated weight of a man, the sheetrock would break and plunge the offender into the hidden depths of the mountain.
Nevertheless, the beauty of the scene before them was undeniable. Despite his sharp grief, Vancien could not help but marvel at the precision of the great cleft. The Child’s Pass, it was called, and its creation was a story Vancien had heard ever since he, too, was a child.
“Hey, Sirin,” he said, trying to ignore the rawness in his voice.
The munkke-trophe turned, disgruntled at the interruption. “What?”
“Do you know the history of this place?”
“I don’t care, actually. As long as it serves my purpose.”
Vancien gritted his teeth. “I want to tell it to you.”
The other began walking again. “You can talk if you like. Perhaps I’ll listen.”
So Vancien paused a moment to ponder the entire tale, using the distraction to help push the pain to the back of his mind. Then he began.
__________
It was the early time and Kynell had just planted the divine oastrada tree. Everything was young and beautiful in Rhyvelad. Zyreio had not yet buried his tongue in the windswept plain of Jasimor. Peace was not a dream, but a reality, and man agreed with man. The range of Duvaria was stretching its mighty limbs, settling itself upon the mantle. It was a beautiful and ferocious place, and wise men knew not to go to the place where the snow and the cold had made their home.
The time soon came for Kynell to call upon the faithfulness of his people. Life had been simple and comfortable. Faith was easy; Kynell gave them all that they wanted. Zyreio, too, had a people, though few in number. They viewed existence much differently and only in their land was there strife—indeed, they fed upon it. Their god watched over them, occasionally protecting their lives but never their minds. Then, one bright morning, Zyreio came to speak with the god of the Prysm.
“Your people are weak and faithless,” he said.
Kynell did not become angry at this insult, for he knew that this was what Zyreio desired. Instead, he welcomed Zyreio and bade him be seated.
“How are your people, Zyreio?”
“They prosper.”
Kynell knew this was not the case; he had watched in sadness as Zyreio’s followers stole from and sometimes murdered their brothers and sisters. They grew fewer in number day by day and many had already crossed into Keroul, Kynell’s land.
“Why have you come?” he asked.
“I have come with a request,” Zyreio began. “Your men and women have it easy. They listen to you because you give them what they want. This is not love. This is convenience. My people do not get what they want. I test them. I probe them. I know they love me, because I do not make it comfortable for them.”
“You want me to punish my faithful?”
“I want you to test your faithful and see how deeply their faith runs.”
Enough was said and Zyreio departed. Kynell considered his request. He did not doubt his loved ones, but he knew Zyreio questioned their devotion. Perhaps if the followers of Obsidian saw the faithfulness and the peace of his people, they would abandon Zyreio’s corrupt ways. Yes, this was good. This he would do.
The next morning, Kynell called his men and women to him. They came, as they always did, laughing and talking. Not one suffered and not one grieved. He told them of Zyreio’s doubt, and asked if any would be willing to abandon their comfort and follow where he led. In this way, they would prove to Obsidian followers that they were a strong, devoted people. All came forward, but Kynell chose only five: a young man of great energy, a young woman of great warmth, an old man of great wisdom, an old woman of great courage, and a lame young girl whose family had recently come from Zyreio’s realm.
The people wondered at this last choice but did not question Kynell’s wisdom. Instead, they went to their homes to continue their day’s work and pray for the five who would be traveling.
Kynell gathered his journeymen and women together and told them that what they were about to do was a great deed, one that would require energy, warmth, wisdom, courage, and—he stopped and looked at the little girl.
“What will you give?” he asked her.
She did not know, but she knew she was too weak and young to give what the others could give. “I will give you whatever I can,” she finally said.
This pleased Kynell. But he knew the journey would be difficult. He would send them across the Duvarian Range, where the snow and the cold lived. There would be steep rocks and deadly cliffs. They must help each other and trust in him. All would be well.
He gave them everything they would need: blankets and gloves, water and food, and each a small horn to blow when they needed his help. Then they set out, the young man carrying the lame girl and helping the old woman, the young woman helping the old man. For a long time they walked up and up, occasionally stumbling on slippery rocks and narrowly missing some dangerous cliffs. But the young man would always press forward, the old woman feared nothing, the young woman encouraged them all when they grew weary, and the old man wisely pointed out which way they should go. The young girl was silent, enjoying her friends’ company and admiring all that they did.
Sometimes they had to use their horns when a wall would be too steep or one of them slipped and was injured. Always Kynell showed them a path or mended a broken limb. Many times the way wasn’t easy and the mending was painful, but they knew this trial would not last long. With Kynell’s help, they made it across the Range to a land of great beauty—more fertile than any they had seen before and more spacious than any they had ever known.
“What a place!” the young man exclaimed. “I wish all of our families could come here!”
“It would be a long trek,” the old man said. “It would take much planning.”
“We could do it,” replied the old woman.
“They would love it here,” the young lady said. “It is more beautiful than anything I’ve ever seen. We must go back and tell them.”
They all turned to begin their journey home, but when they looked at the Range, they found that a huge mountain had appeared behind them. The path they had taken had disappeared and all that was left was a smooth wall of stone.
The four who had spoken cried out in dismay. “How can we climb that?” they cried. “Are we trapped in this beautiful land, away from our family and friends?” All blew their horns, but there was no response. The mountain did not move, nor did they.
Finally, the little
girl struggled down from the young man’s shoulders and spoke to them. “You are strong,” she said. “Courageous, wise, and loving. But where is your faith? Surely you do not think Kynell would abandon us here. Come, let us try.”
With that, she approached the wall of stone and propped her lame foot upon a small rock, reaching as far as she could for a grip above her head. She slipped, but before any could stop her, she got up and tried again. All day she tried and no one could tell her any differently. “Kynell,” she would whisper. “Help us get home.”
That night she had no more energy, no more courage, no more love, and no more wisdom to find another way. She was tired. So as the others explored the great trees and rivers, she laid down at the foot of the mountain to sleep.
The next morning, she awoke to the sound of her friends laughing and crying tears of joy. She looked up and saw that at the exact spot where she had scraped her lame foot trying to climb the mountain, there was a bright green path.
“Kynell has cloven the mountain in two!” exclaimed the old man.
And so he had. He had seen the young girl’s faith in him and rewarded it. The path was straight and wide, cutting right through the heart of the great mountain. So it was called the Child’s Pass and so it was that Kynell’s people built the city of Lascombe in the rolling hills north of the Duvarian Range.
__________
Vancien’s eyes were bright as he finished the story. It was one of his favorites, and now he was looking at the place where it had actually happened.
Sirin was less than impressed. “Hah!” he snorted. “A child’s tale for the Child’s Pass!”
“You don’t believe it?”
“By the Plains, it’s not even that interesting of a story. ‘She laid down at the foot of the mountain to sleep.’ How quaint. Bah!” He made a dismissive gesture with his paw.
“Then how else did the cleft get here?”
“The munkke-trophes dug it out with their bare paws. I don’t know, bratling. I just know it’s here and I’m using it.”
Vancien shook his head. Rather than argue, he began to inspect what he could of the magnificent surroundings, for his story had carried them full into the mouth of the famous pass itself. Apart from the sleek walls, it was quite different than what he had expected. In his dreams, he had always pictured it as the same bright green path the girl had discovered. If he had given it more thought, he would have realized that it would be a main thoroughfare by now, since it was the quickest link between Lascombe and the regions south of the Range. Taverns, inns, and shops lining the canyon walls filled his vision. The activity was not that of commerce, however; breach was upon them and in the Range, breach was just as dangerous as hiverra. No one stayed in the Pass through that season, since the snow could pile three times the height of a man. Everyone was breaking camp: women scurried about, collecting laundry and wages, men struggled with tent poles and rebellious voyoté, and children tried their best to get underfoot. Though the evening was fast deepening into night and many of the seasonal inhabitants had already departed, those who remained provided enough bustle to make the place look alive.
The Sons of Hull Page 5