by James T Wood
“Water-song!”
The monks played at Locambius’ command, the cascading song of the harps sent torrents of water sheeting into the faces of the advancing raiders. Peek heard them slip and curse as they tried to ascend the hill from the beach. The sloppy, muddy, slapping sounds testified to the amount of water unleashed by the magic.
“Archers!”
The song ceased and the archers began again. The mixture of thud and cry was about even. Some of the raiders could defend themselves while climbing the muddy slope, others could not and paid for it. Eventually the archers stopped firing without any command. Peek guessed that the raiders had moved out of their range.
“Fire-song!”
The brassy trumpets played a fanfare of flame igniting the pitch soaked bales the monks and villagers had placed ten yards out from the landward wall of the monastery. The flame erupted into the sky with billows of black smoke. The raiders disappeared.
After a moment of flaming peace, the sound of trumpets began again, but from the other side of the fire. The flat, blaring, grating notes from the raiders erupted in flames at the same point as the monk’s magic. The bales burned hotter and brighter so that Peek could see the tops of the flames even over the monastery walls. The heat reached out to touch him in his sheltered place and drove the monks and villagers on the walls to their knees.
Fire and horn filled the sky longer than Peek thought possible for the lungs of the raiders or the fuel of the bales. When the only sound left was the ringing in Peek’s ears, the flames dissipated and the smoke stopped. The bales were burnt away.
“Warriors! Earth-song!”
At the command, the gates flung open and the village warriors ran out to meet the raiders. The earth-singers played their drums with a martial air, marching in step behind the fighters. From beneath the ashes of the pitch-soaked bales red-glowing rocks rose up and surrounded the Markay raider-scouts on three sides. The loose formation of fighters was forced, inch by inch, into a tight cluster. Their array of weapons, mismatched armor, and wooden shields did little to help them in such close quarters. The monks floated the stones as close as possible to the raiders without touching them, leaving a small channel at the front of their group no more than two people wide.
Peek and Dray quickly scrambled to the top of the wall as the gates started to close behind the monks and warriors. As they went, up, they took bundles of arrows to the archers.
The villagers had been training to fight as a group by stabbing innocent bales of hay. They carried simple spears on shafts ten feet long. Their shields were large wooden frames covered with thick leather and covered the person to their left as much as themselves. They formed a cohesive unit, a bristling wall of death, against the panicking, scattered, individualistic Markay.
With a roar and flourish of mismatched weapons the front ranks of the raiders drove forward toward the shield wall. The ones on the far left and right screamed in pain and rage as they brushed the superheated rocks. Those in the middle died swiftly on the out-thrust spears of the villagers. A taller Markay in the center bellowed in rage and started punching the warriors closest to him until they stopped charging and listened. He formed up his group with shouts and blows until he was satisfied and then gave the barking order to charge.
The villagers stood fast in the face of the slavering, fur-clad raiders. Peek looked on with pride at his people, both the villagers and the monks, standing against such an onslaught. The first ranks of raiders died, but the force of their charge pushed shields aside and made a hole in the wall. Once inside the spears, the raiders killed with relish and skill. The tall leader of the Markay waded through the villagers swinging his long-handled ax from left to right, pausing only briefly to extract it from a cloven skull or shattered shield.
After flinching under the ferocity of the Markay attack, the villagers surged back, reformed their shield wall a few ranks back, and started pushing. One inch at a time they stepped forward, shoving with their shields and stabbing with their spears. The second rank of warriors added another row of death to meet those few Markay who made it past the first set of spears. Slowly, painfully, and with great effort, the villagers pushed the raiders back and surrounded them. When only the leader and a few men were left, Vlek called from the wall where he stood opposite Peek.
“Throw down your weapons and surrender. You won’t be harmed.”
The raiders looked at each other for a moment before their leader called back in his language. To Peek’s surprise Vlek answered in kind. The Markay discussed the offer together for a moment, before turning back to face the monastery walls. Their leader shouted something at Vlek. Peek looked to him to gauge the meaning of the Markay words. When he paled and his eyes widened, Peek quickly looked back to the battle.
The leader took up his hammered brass horn and threw down his sword. His few remaining warriors did the same. They all put their instruments to their lips and played nonsense. They didn’t play the fire-song, or any of The Melody’s tunes. Nor did they play a forbidden song. They just played long and loud alternating between two notes. Peek was about to ask Rudi or Locambius what that might mean when their songs changed.
They played the fire-song again, in their artless interpretation of The Melody’s masterpiece. Locambius drew in breath to call the water-singers to action and defend the village warriors. But they did not need it.
The Markay burst into flame at their own song. They kept playing, even as they burned. First one, then two of the men toppled to the ground and fell silent. The remaining raiders played the song waveringly with fading breath, and then crumpled to the ground. Their leader stood, still playing, still burning in the center of his fallen men. Peek saw his hair disappear in a flash, then his skin start to redden, then brown in the heat. The fur and leather clothing smoldered at first before slowly burning away and dropping off.
Even as he fell to his knees the raider played his own death. Bone showed through the charred skin of his hands and face. The heat caused the horn to glow and then droop as it melted away under its own flame. The kneeling figure stopped playing, but remained upright, burning and staring at the villagers and monks with a rictus made of bone and hate.
In the silence that followed, all the villagers and monks could hear the faint crackle of burning bodies as they settled into the scorched ground. Peek felt his gorge rise at the sight. The smell of the burning raiders came to him on the breeze and took him back instantly to the island. For the briefest instant, Peek looked down from the wall to the ground below and considered jumping. The twenty-foot drop would not be lethal, but his mind was unconcerned with such technicalities. Dray grabbed his shoulder and shook until he looked at her with dead eyes.
“What?” She turned his face away from the smoldering corpses.
“I can’t escape it,” Peek breathed the words.
“What?”
“Death,” Peek croaked as tears fought for release from his eyes.
Dray took his hand and held it fiercely.
It may have been minutes or hours that they stood on the wall. Peek didn’t know. The village warriors were still standing around the dead Markay. The monks were watching from the walls or — for the drum corps — from behind the warriors. Everyone was silent. They did not cheer for joy at their victory. They didn’t try to loot the dead, burned corpses. They just watched as the last wisps of smoke rose into the sky and disappeared among the gray clouds.
The sound of horns came from behind Peek. He turned to search out the monks who played the fire song, but all of them had joined him as witnesses of the macabre scene before the monastery’s gates. Peek looked at the gathered villagers who stood in the yard near the cisterns. They held no instruments and made no sounds. The horns sang out again — the rude tones of the raiders attempting the fire song. They were beyond the wall to the north.
The warriors and drum players had exited the monastery at the gate on the southeast side. The rest of the monks were gathered along the south and
east walls. The Markay attacked from the north. Peek only saw flashes of the battle. Fire engulfed the wall before the water-singers extinguished it with a downpour. Then hooks snaked up over the lip of the wall. At first the wall stood firm due to the mud between the stones and the buttresses on the outside. At first. But soon the sodden earth shifted underneath the stones and the fire-baked mud grew brittle and crumbled. The first five feet of the north wall gave way in a section about ten feet across.
Locambius was there, playing his simple reed pipes. He threw the stones back over the wall with the earth song. Raiders grunted and swore in their language. More hooks appeared on the wall. Locambius plucked them off with the wind song. The raiders sent fire again. The old monk drove it back with a whirlwind. Then an archer loosed an arrow over the broken wall. The arrow came close enough to Locambius to distract him. In the moment when his song stopped, the raiders’ began. Fire engulfed the wall in huge sheets and drove Locambius back. Even across the monastery, Peek could feel the incredible heat radiating out from the flames.
The leader of the monks took only a few steps back before turning to play water yet again. Without thinking, Peek ran down the steps from the wall and joined his teacher. Peek’s water song was powerful, Locambius’ was precise. Together they smothered the fire. But under the cover of smoke and steam, the raiders had sent up more hooks and were pulling the wall down in earnest. Heat and wet were the demise of the wall. It groaned, then buckled and crumbled to the ground. Raiders poured through the hole waving their weapons.
A few of the village archers turned and loosed shafts at the Markay, fewer of those arrows found a mark. Locambius and Peek pushed the raiders back with hurricane winds, but they fought forward, inch by inch. The village warriors were on the opposite side of the monastery and closed out by a gate. Peek wanted to open the gate, but he dared not stop playing wind at the raiders. The depleted whistle corps stepped up to help Locambius and Peek, but what they needed to do was remove the bar and open the gate. Peek looked at Locambius from the corner of his eye. The old man’s hair had escaped the braid and swirled around his face with the force of the wind he called out of nothing with a song.
Peek recalled filling the cisterns and searched for that feeling of connection with The Melody. His heart pounded and his lungs ached with the constant playing. The veil between this world and the song of The Melody was dark and heavy, too much for Peek to lift. He willed himself to push harder, for his song to mean more, for the raiders to be gone. They did not yield. Inexorably they advanced.
“Open the gate!” Peek turned and shouted behind him, dropping his reeds for only the amount of time it took to say the words. When he turned back to the raiders they had already advanced to the first of the wind singers. Another of their number died because of Peek. He pushed with all he had and the rest of the raiders stumbled backward. Peek played with everything he could find. He played with rage. He played with grief. He played with self-recrimination. He played the song of wind and pushed the raiders back. Some gave ground, others lost their footing and were blown along like leaves in autumn. Peek tingled with the power flowing through him. His vision narrowed to just the raiders, stumbling and falling before him. His mind willed his body to push more, to play harder, to give more.
Peek’s vision narrowed and then went dark. The tingling enveloped him just before Peek collapsed.
Nineteen
“So this is the source of his wisdom and power but it requires a key?”
“Yes.”
“And it’s not the tree nor the pool nor the hut nor any of those things?”
“Yes.”
“Have you tried listening for the answer?”
“What?”
“Listening. Every time Eytskaim was asked a question he would listen for the answer. Maybe that’s the key.”
“What?”
“Do you not understand me?”
“No I…I understand. I just…”
“You just…”
Talib looked down into his lap, “I just can’t believe that we didn’t think of that yet.”
“It’s all well Talib, I won’t tell anyone,” Darrah patted him on the knee.
“That would not be right.”
“Stop worrying about who gets credit and let’s try it.”
“Seek knowledge, yet don’t make knowledge a prerequisite to action.” Mairtin of talamh uisce
P
eek stared at the sky. Sounds emerged from the fog. Shouts, screams, fear, hope, death. It was the death that roused him, if only a little. Peek pushed himself to his elbows and looked toward the breach. The raiders were no longer lying flat on the ground, but stood and began to advance. Peek willed his body to play more music. He commanded his arms to find his pipes and play. His body ignored him.
Locambius played furiously, but it was not enough. The weakened whistle corps could not aid him. The raiders came and they killed. An arrow pierced through the gale and stole another whistle’s song. Locambius played with tears pouring into his beard. He played in desperation. He played his own dirge. Peek groped for life. He tried to rise, but the moment he sat up dizziness overtook him and forced him back to the ground. They were lost.
The sound came from behind them. Peek didn’t recognize it at first. It sounded like a goose fighting a seagull. But slowly the cacophony resolved into The Melody, but like nothing Peek had heard. Dirt and water flew into the faces of the advancing Markay. Their faces were covered in mud in a moment; their bodies grew heavy with the extra weight. They slowed and raised their horns to play fire at the interloper. No sound emerged. Their instruments were as clogged with mud as their beards. The raiders’ magic had failed.
But fire came. Peek heard the low honking sound — closer behind him now — mimic the fire song, but the higher notes merged with it and sang the song of air. Before him a whirlwind of fire emerged spinning and dancing on the sodden turf of the monastery yard. Wisps of steam arose wherever the conflagration touched the ground. The apparition of flame cavorted ever closer to the raiders before reaching out tendrils to touch each of their horns. In an instant they threw down their weapons with harsh shouts and curses. Peek could see the mud within hardening in the heat. They wouldn’t play fire at the monks any time soon. Peek saw the still spinning tornado of fire wending its way back toward the monks and villagers. He croaked a warning — a whisper really — and tried to point out the danger. Locambius saw it and raised his pipes to stop the magic. But before he blew a note the flames winked out and the spinning air stopped. A hot breeze blew over the people cowering before death.
The raiders were new to using magic, but adept at using weapons. They collectively cast aside their useless instruments and grabbed their blades. Some pulled dual axes from their belts, others hefted broad-bladed spears, a few unsheathed swords spotted with rust and nicked with use. All of them came at Plafius, slowly trotting at first, and then breaking into a dead run while shrieking balefully. The monk stood fast and played his tunes. Peek craned to see him, just behind Locambius and the other monks. He stepped forward in time to his music, deliberately, implacably. The lower, goose-like sounds came from a long, narrow reed that Plafius held in his left hand. The higher notes came from a matching reed in his right. Both had holes that he used to change the pitch and he blew through both of them at the same time. The vee of reeds looked like the tusks of a confused walrus, but the songs they played were powerful and unlike any the monks taught.
Wind and water obeyed without question. Each Markay warrior waded through a cloud of mist that swirled and eddied, coalescing around their weapons. They slowed their headlong advance and then stopped. Their battle cries changed to questions and then bitter cursing. A puff of the wind song from Plafius sent the mist away and revealed the raiders holding rust-melted globs of metal atop rotting sticks rather than weapons. The devouring mist blew past the Markay and ate away at the mud of the monastery wall in its path. Rubble crumbled to the ground. A large stone toppled and cru
shed the foot of a villager standing too close to the wall. The cry of pain floated above the music and curses for a moment.
The song changed yet again as Plafius stepped past Peek and advanced on the Markay warriors. Earth and water played together again, but instead of a muddy maelstrom, the song was gentle and coaxing. Peek joined the raiders in looking around for the effect. They noticed it together. Grass rose up, growing before their eyes. Then bindweed slithered from the earth and began wrapping around the feet and legs of the raiders. They pulled themselves free, easily at first, but as soon as they wrenched one leg away from the entwining vines, more rose up. The grass grew and twisted around them making each step a labor. Dandelions exploded in yellow, then white, and then the air filled with clouds of floating seeds sticking in the noses and beards of the Markay. Soon they saw no hope of victory — weaponless and without song — so they began to retreat even as Plafius continued to play. He pursued them with vengeful vegetation until they left the monastery through the breach they’d created.
Plafius did not stop then, but his song grew deeper and more methodical. The ground beneath the stones of the broken wall rumbled and bucked. It appeared that the wall was about to collapse on either side of the hole when shoots emerged from the earth all around and among the fallen rocks. The shoots gave off leaves and continued to reach for the heavens, lifting stone and earth with them. The green, leafy stalks shifted and expanded. Their bases hardened and darkened into a nutty brown bark. The tops of the shoots wrapped around stones and other shoots with abandon until they wove together and Peek could see the familiar leaves of an elm stretching for light. They all watched as stones were gathered and lifted together. The lame villager hopped out of the way before the stone that crushed his foot was pulled in and made a part of the wall once again. After a few minutes the wall was whole again, but this time made of stone and tree woven together as one. The roots of the tree spread out like a fan beneath the wall and the trunk had stones sticking out of it at all angles — as opposed to the orderly, flat stacking of rocks in the rest of the wall. Only once the canopy of leaves above them shaded the area on either side of the wall for a hundred feet, did Plafius stop.