Oath Keeper

by Jefferson Smith

  “For the moment, our route is known—to the Cleft, by way of the Stair. But beyond that, where shall we go?” Seeing that she still hadn’t eaten the meat, Sarqi plucked it gently from her open hand and dropped it in with a few other ingredients that he placed in his cup, along with some water from the bladder, and then he set his thin soup into the low flames to simmer.

  Since leaving the Gnome tunnel the previous day, they had been proceeding northward along the relatively barren top of the Spine, making for the enormous V-shaped notch of the Cleft, up ahead, that served as the only pass between the forested lands on the east and west sides of the Spine. All day he’d been wondering how he would lead M’Ateliana down the Jalmin Stair and into the pass itself. So now, with the evening camp established, his thoughts returned to this devious puzzle.

  Once at the Cleft, where some great and ancient cataclysm had fractured the Spine, cleaving it almost down to the level of the Forest below, Sarqi and M’Ateliana would face the twin stairs. The Jalmin Stair descended into the notch from this side of the Spinetop, and the Zalmin Stair ascended back up on the other side.

  Named after the twin Djin brothers who had been commissioned by an ancient Wasketchin King to cut a trail into the unyielding stone, the result might more properly be called “ladders” than “stairs.” The stone of the Spine—dragonstone—was the hardest known in all of Methilien, and even given twenty years to complete the task, Jalmin and Zalmin had been forced to limit their ambitions. No great soaring verandas. No sweeping curves of tread upon tread, ascending with stately grace. All they had been able to achieve was a simple series of notches, wide enough for a man to place two boots into, side by side and toes deep. Nothing more. Fearing that their Wasketchin friends might slip and fall on such scanty stairs, the brothers had cut them in a zig-zag course, leading first left and then right again, alternating back and forth as they ascended the steep, stony face. This way, if any should fall during a climb, at least they would not be likely to plunge straight down the path of the ladder, dragging any who followed them down to join them in death.

  And many times in the centuries since, that foresight had proven to be wise.

  So this now was the puzzle Sarqi pondered. How to take a near-comatose Wasketchin, who had to be led by the hand even to walk a straight line, and get her safely down the Jalmin Stair? She would not even close her hand around food. How was he supposed to get her to hold herself tightly to the rungs? The Stairs were as treacherous a journey as any Wasketchin could ask for in any of the stony places at the top of the world—even for those who were fully conscious. It was the chief reason that so few Verge-folk had ever visited this bare and treeless strip of land, even though the terms of the Dragon’s Peace had ceded it to them eons ago.

  “Must I carry you, my Lady?” Sarqi knew he could manage it—if she behaved. But that was a risky assumption. What if she moved suddenly? What if she awoke from her dreaming prison at just the wrong time, and startled in fright when she opened her eyes to see the world yawning so far below them? It would only take one small shift of weight to topple them both from the Stair.

  But treacherous as it might be, it was the only route open to them. The east and west faces of the Spine were slick with the constant runoff, and speckled with nearly-invisible patches of stone-dark lichens that clung weakly to the damp rock and were so slippery that not even the toughened skin of a Djin could grip it. Only an experienced climber, in good health and fully alert, could hope to make such a climb.

  Which only left the Stair. And Sarqi, with the silent Queen slung over his back.

  Having reached the same conclusion a dozen different ways, Sarqi snarled his irritation to himself and pushed his fears to the back of his mind, then he pulled the cup from the fire and set it aside to cool. He’d given the Queen a helping of water earlier, which she had swallowed mechanically, but he worried that she had taken no other nourishment—not for several days at least—so he had prepared this tea soup. With any luck, some little spill of it would reach her stomach, where it might do some good. But for the moment, the brew was still too hot.

  “So yes, down into the Cleft,” he said. “But then where?”

  Beside him, the vacant Queen said nothing.

  “Shall I take you down into the Verge and east, to your Court at Bethil Glen?” Not likely, he thought, answering his own question while waiting to see if she might respond. Take her through a Forest now brimming with Gnomes? They would be captured within a day, and he didn’t think it likely there would be a second Ambassador waiting in the Throat to free her.

  “Perhaps west is better, into the wilder reaches.” Better to avoid the Gnome raiders probably, but also harder to find the Wasketchin Court, or to find anyone else who might be able to help her. Sarqi sighed. “Does Shaleen not say that difficulty is brother to merit?”

  He jabbed a finger into the soup, as though testing mash for an infant. “Cool enough,” he said to the slack-willed queen at his side. Her unseeing eyes stared past him as he brought the cup up and held it to her lips.

  “Please, my Lady. Take some. Do not be yet another light going out of the world.”

  She answered him with silence.

  Chapter 35

  They had been walking for half a day since they’d broken camp and the sun was high in the sky above them when the Gnomes came.

  M’Ateliana had indeed taken a dribble of the soup he had prepared for her, and today he thought she showed signs of improvement. They’d been making good time since breaking camp, and the Queen seemed a trifle less sluggish, though she still showed no signs of awareness about anything—not the howling of the wind that tugged at her hair and clothes, nor the slickness of the stones she stumbled and slipped over. She just followed along, oblivious to it all, wherever Sarqi led, holding to his hand with the faith of a blind woman. As they crested a small hump on the uneven ridge, Sarqi was pleased to see the dark gap of the Cleft ahead in the middle distance, visible as a deeper darkness set into the dark stone of the Spine. They had nearly reached it when the Gnome Hordelet boiled up at them from its closer lip, climbing up from the very Stair that Sarqi had been making for.

  At first, he thought the squad’s presence was mere coincidence, and he hurried to move M’Ateliana into what scant shelter he could find. A slight crevice in the ground. Little more than a crack really, running along the ground, behind a low flat stone, but it was all there was. He could do no more than lay her lengthwise along the gap and hope that between the slight depth of the crack and the slight height of the flat stone, she would not be too obvious from a distance. It was barely even shelter from the swirling winds, which had shrilled awake with the rising sun, let alone safe from prying eyes. And of course, her kirfa would be damp before long too, but that could not be helped.

  Sarqi crouched himself as low as he could and positioned himself to watch the Gnomes, but having gained the ridge, they did not hesitate, and hurried swiftly forward. Sarqi’s heart sank. This was no chance encounter. Despite his efforts to keep hidden, the Gnomes must have known they were there. Had they been spotted from below? That seemed unlikely. Had Qhirmaghen betrayed them? Probably captured and forced to talk. But it mattered little now.

  “Stay hidden here, my Lady,” Sarqi said, patting her on the shoulder. Then he moved forward, still in his crouch. The wind was cold and fierce, and Sarqi marked how erratically it buffeted the Gnomes as they approached, forcing them to hunker lower down and seek more carefully for their footing on the damp stone.

  There were three of them, and behind them, a tall, pale figure loomed almost twice their height. A strange, fur-covered creature, the likes of which Sarqi had never seen before. The group was close enough that he could see their mouths moving as they communicated their plan of attack, but the wind did not chance to carry their words to him. The two in front separated and spread out wide, cutting off any chance that Sarqi might have of flanking them. And then the entire group advanced.

  Growing up in the
shelter of the Dragon’s Peace, Sarqi had never fought a battle before, but times had changed, becoming more perilous of late, and he judged that this gap in his education was about to be filled. The nearest he had ever come was in boyhood. He’d been adventuring out on the back shoulders of the Anvil, alone, hoping to prove to his brothers that he was just as daring as they were, just as capable.

  And then he’d been cornered by a mountain cat.

  Had it truly been the lean and hungry beast he had thought it to be, an adolescent Djin like himself would not have been much of an opponent. But at the time, Sarqi had not known this. Quaking with fear, certain that he was about to be devoured by the ferocious beast, Sarqi had turned to the only defenses available to him—the stones scattered about him on the mountain slope. With a scream born more of fear than aggression, the young Djin had picked up a dozen or a hundred stones and hurled them as quickly as he could. Too frightened to take careful aim, Sarqi’s missiles had rained down upon the startled predator in a pitiful squall of clattering stone. But it had been enough, and the cat had elected to sleep off its recent meal somewhere less troublesome.

  But today was different. These were no well-fed cats creeping toward him on sleepy legs. They would not startle at the first clatter of stone, and they would offer more than a simple hiss of irritation in reply. Their every step and the determined set of their shoulders told their story plainly. They meant to kill him.

  Sarqi quickly gathered five or six hefty rocks from the meager choices around him and then straightened up into the wind to face those who would come between him and the oath he had sworn to this silent Queen.

  He stood there, silent himself, eying the Gnomes as they advanced. They were some seventy or eighty paces distant. Still too far for a sure throw, so Sarqi held his ground and waited. Let them think him cowed, afraid. So far they had made no aggressions toward him, but he knew that he could not wait for them to make their intentions plain. As with the cat, Sarqi knew in the pit of his being that a timid Djin would be a dead Djin. He knew nothing of fighting. He was a worker of stone and a sometime Way Chanter for the Wagon of Tears—skills of little use in a fight for one’s life, surely. But the woman behind him had even less, and he intended to do right in her service.

  The Gnomes had closed to sixty paces now, but still he could not hear their chatter over the fluttering winds that filled his ears. Which of them would be the most trouble? The tall pale one? Sarqi knew from his boyhood tussles with Zimu that the creature’s longer arms would put him at a grave disadvantage if it came to grappling. But the two closer Gnomes held themselves in what looked to be a practiced fighting stance, while the tall creature at the back seemed almost disinterested, its matted fur twitching and flapping in the wind as it shuffled along vacantly behind them. No, the Gnomes were the greater threat.

  The two in front each carried a dragon’s leg, the vim-imbued staffs that the Gnomileshi had always favored. He knew that they would each be charged with death vim, giving the Hordesmen a slight advantage in the strength of the charms they might command, but they were scarcely a match for him in physical size and power.

  Sarqi had no illusions about his fighting skills. Unarmed Djin to unarmed Gnome, his size alone would ensure him victory, but he doubted he could best three at once. And with the shambling giant added to their number, he was unlikely to even give them pause. Clearly, he could not allow them to get close.

  Shifting his feet slightly on the damp rock, Sarqi dug in, making sure his footing was secure. The Gnomes continued to sidle and creep forward, never taking their eyes from him. Sarqi remained still, his head bowed, glaring at his opponents from beneath his furrowed brow as they advanced. The wind whistled in his ears and flapped at the leather of his vest, while his arms hung at his sides, each hand wrapped around a heavy stone the size of his foot. They had closed to perhaps fifty paces, but still Sarqi waited.

  The giant in the back was a puzzle, but beside it, the third Gnome was less so. This one advanced with his comrades, and though he did not shamble like the giant, he too stayed well to the rear. Nor did he carry a dragon’s leg. Instead, he held something close to his chest. Something small, and round. He also appeared to be talking, constantly. But to whom? To the other Gnomes? Or maybe he was chanting? If only Sarqi could hear him. Perhaps it would give him some clue about how to fight them, but the swirling chorus of winds shredded the Gnome’s words into the sky.

  The closest was perhaps forty paces distant now, and closing with increasing confidence, as Sarqi just stood there, waiting. He knew that he could throw that far, but he had chosen heavy missiles. Could he be accurate at such range? If not, he did not think he would get many chances before his attackers came too close for throwing, and that would leave the grappling. One Djin against two dragon’s legs, a sorcerer, and a giant. Sarqi took a breath. He would give them just five more steps.

  The wind shifted around him then, sighing down, and Sarqi saw the third Gnome puff himself up, making to shout his song higher into the subsiding winds. For a moment, Sarqi thought he could hear the Way Chanter’s Song. He cocked an ear and turned his mind to follow it, his presence melting off into the gap that hovered between worlds. Floating.

  Drifting.

  A shriek of wind tore through Sarqi’s mind like a dragon’s call and he opened his eyes. Suddenly, the Gnomes were less than twenty paces away, and almost running in their exuberant lurching gait. How had they closed so suddenly?

  And then he knew.

  Uncoiling like a snapped spring of fear, Sarqi whirled his arm. His first throw arced out across the stony terrain and took the rearmost Gnome in the throat, crushing the song from his lungs in mid-warble. The sorcerer spun with the force of the blow and collapsed unmoving upon the ground, but Sarqi did not linger to watch.

  The Gnome to his left was the more distant of the two, but he’d raised his dragon’s leg high over his head and was preparing to cast some vile mischief with it. Sarqi tossed his second missile into the air from his left hand, grabbing it with his stronger right, which was already moving into its arc. Again he whirled and released. At first, Sarqi thought his throw would go wide, but the Gnome, who had been rearing back to wield his staff, chose a bad time to unleash his attack, lunging forward to hurl his words with greater effect. Instead of delivering the deadly charm he had prepared though, he leaned into Sarqi’s incoming package, catching it square in the temple. The rock clattered to the ground at his feet. The dragon leg fell beside it. And then the Gnome joined them.

  Sarqi stooped to snatch up another missile, but there was no time left to let fly, and he felt a hot fire rake across his ribs, as the fore-edge of his third attacker’s staff scored a touch, enhanced by some charm of burning. Pain lanced through Sarqi’s chest and he spun away from the thrust, pulling sharply on the staff and jerking the little Gnome toward him. The Hordesman’s eyes widened as he lunged unexpectedly forward, arms extended. He seemed too surprised to let go of his spear, but it was already too late and Sarqi brought his fist down, landing a furious blow on the hairy shoulder that now loomed unguarded in front of him.

  A terrible crunch ripped the air as the rock-wielding fist tore through sinews and scraped past shattered bone. Sarqi ignored the sounds and wrenched the stone free, raising it again above his head for another blow. But the Gnome was already down, writhing upon the wet stones. His shoulder had been completely shattered and the arm now hung uselessly from tatters of exposed muscle and bone. Sarqi could only stare at the wreckage in horror. A simple fist cannot do such damage, he thought, watching dumbfounded as the little creature thrashed on the stones before him. Sarqi’s arm spasmed, and his hand jerked open, releasing the mass of granite, which tumbled to the ground beside his victim. It was almost as big as the Gnome’s own head, he saw. The Gnome gave a last twitch and then, with a gurgling sigh, stopped thrashing.

  Sarqi stared in horror, his chest heaving from the exertion of battle. Within his chest, an egg-like bubble of power had swelled as he
fought, and now it cracked, releasing a wave of heat that washed through him. A feeling he had never felt before, both euphoric and devastating. And in that moment, he recognized it. From the stories of old. It was battle fury, fleeing his sickened heart. The fury of war. A rage that stole a Djin’s mind, making him a demon to behold. Like the quaking of mountain.

  And as the fury fled him, Sarqi was left shattered by its legendary cost: the Gahrama. The knowledge that he was safe, that no enemies remained. And the full tragedy of the lives he had taken.

  Three Gnomes, killed in the space of as many heartbeats.

  Sarqi fell to his knees and wept.

  * * *

  After a long while, Sarqi gathered himself to his feet and took stock of his situation. It was an eerie landscape that greeted him. Filled with people, yet none of them moving. Three Gnomes, dead at his own hands, lay scattered on the rocks in front of him, a white furred creature stood vacant beside the body of its fallen master, and the Wasketchin Queen lay wedged into a crevice behind him—living, but showing no greater awareness than the dead. It was a chilling scene.

  When the Gnomes had first appeared, Sarqi had taken the white beast’s dull-eyed shamble as a sign that it was no more than a pack animal of some kind. But as he circled it now, with its long, muscled arms hanging motionless at its sides and its eyes fixed firmly on the horizon, Sarqi recognized the same spell-wrought listlessness that he had begun to loathe in his own lady Queen. This creature was more than a bearer, despite the heavy pack that hung from its back. He felt sure that this had once been a sensate creature. A person, of sorts, now ensorcelled by vile Gnomish magics. One simply did not bother to bewitch a cow.

  Judging the White One harmless, and knowing the Gnomes to be beyond aid, Sarqi returned to M’Ateliana. A shudder ran through him as he looked down upon her motionless form, still tucked into the shallow ditch, her kirfa stained and damp. She would stay that way until she starved to death or froze, and never make a sound. He knew it as an ugly truth. A certainty. It was an abomination that made his skin tremble and his blood rage. He had tasted the emptiness for himself, if only briefly. The Gnome Mind-Chanter’s song had held him for only a few short moments, but even that had been too much. He had felt his mind being drawn into the abyss, sliding down a thin, oily trail of thought into nothingness. Maybe it had been the wind, rising up to shred the music of the song, or maybe the singer had stumbled, but Sarqi knew that he had only narrowly avoided the same fate as the Queen, who now lay uncomplaining in the dampness at his feet. It had almost taken everything from him, almost robbed him of his… selfness. The realization left him shaking and unnerved. Almost as much as the battle-fury had done. The Gnomes had fashioned a song of utter undoing. The unmaking of minds.