Lan’ia glanced significantly at the child, catching Arin’s eye as she did. There followed an exchange of meaningful gestures and nods, as they expressed their mutual understanding and agreement. Winry must be taken separately, so that Arin could concentrate on her own climbing, without having to worry about the child. With a final nod, Lan’ia turned to survey the rest of their party.
“Keshlin! A word, please?” Then she wandered away from Arin, drawing the story uncle aside with her, where they could work out a plan without the child overhearing. Keshlin was happy to assist and between them, they determined that a slumber charm would be best, keeping Winry’s fanciful imagination from creating ill-timed chaos on the climb, and it would also allow them to secure her tightly to his back, leaving his hands free for the climb. When they returned to share the plan with Arin, they were surprised to find the girl already asleep in her grandmother’s arms.
“Figured you’d not want her wavin’ her arms and talkin’ in your ear the whole time,” Arin said.
Lan’ia nodded her thanks to the old woman and then stepped in to assist with the bindings as Arin hoisted the girl up into position on Keshlin’s back. When the Wayitam saw that it was done, and that this part of their group was ready, she took her leave. It was time to get their party moving again.
“Arkenol!” A gust of wind whipped her words away and flung them around the notch of the Cleft, but the clothier must have heard her anyway, because he turned at her summons.
“I’m going up now. You follow with the rest, quick as you can. Mother Arin will come last.” Arkenol nodded his understanding and turned away to get the others organized.
Then, when it appeared that she had done everything she could do to see to the safety of her people, Lan’ia Sha pushed all other thoughts of them aside, reached up to her first handhold, and started to climb.
* * *
The first stray glimmers of dawn were teasing at the eastern horizon, framed by the dark walls of the Cleft, when Sarqi finally stepped onto the floor of the pass and reached up to help the M’Ateliana down to the uneven stone beside him. Around them, the winds were picking up again, driven by the coming of the light. As he watched, several small shapes bobbed up into view, silhouetted in the east against the dawn sky.
“Oh fracture!” Sarqi spat, as he pulled back against the Cleft wall, leaning close to the Queen. “The Gnomes have arrived,” he said, raising his voice just enough to be heard over the swirling wind. “They approach even now.” He pointed his long, muscled arm, indicating the silhouettes to the Queen.
The two watched for a moment as a group of Gnomes climbed up from the Apron Trail to stand upon the stony pass. For now, there were just the three, a single Hordelet, like the one that had attacked them above, but this group had no Yeren. If Halar’s information could be trusted, this was just the first of many more to come. Soon enough, the entire pass would be choked with Gnomes.
Sarqi turned to look the other way. The western end of the Cleft still brooded in the pre-dawn gloom and he could see nothing. But he knew they were there, already climbing the western Apron, no doubt. They may not have reached the pass yet, but the way was as good as blocked, just the same. The only way open to them was the Zalmin Stair that climbed the far wall. The morning light had not yet penetrated deeply enough to reveal its sinuous trail of handholds rising up the rock face, but Sarqi knew it was there, waiting for them, scarcely thirty paces away.
But the Gnomes were no more than fifty paces.
“It will be a close thing,” he said.
M’Ateliana nodded. “And the longer we wait, the closer it will be,” she replied, and she was right. Any moment could bring more Gnomes up to join their fellows, or the ones already here could decide to explore further into the pass. And with every passing heartbeat, more light filled the Cleft, making it harder for anyone to cross unnoticed from one Stair to the other. “How well do they climb?”
“Gnomes?” Sarqi shrugged. “In tunnels of filth, where no fall awaits them, they are the demon kings of scurrying, but out here, in the bright and open air? Away from the damp embrace of their soils? Here their terrors rule them.”
“Then they’ll be slow. We have to hurry.” Sarqi shook his head.
“We sneak until we are seen,” he said.
“And then we run,” the Queen replied. Sarqi smiled his agreement and led the way out into the pass, crouching low and keeping himself between M’Ateliana and the Gnomes, so that they would present as little to see as possible.
They were half way across the gap when it happened.
Sarqi placed his foot a little too firmly, a little too quickly, and the tiny vibration of his step caused a small pile of stones to collapse. They clattered like glass shattering on the floor. All three silhouetted Gnome-heads jerked at the sound.
“Run!” Sarqi hissed.
And so they ran.
* * *
They hit the base of the Zalmin Stair at a dead run, with Gnomes scrambling toward them across the stony ground almost as quickly. Reaching the wall first, Sarqi placed his back to the stone and laced his hands together in front, making a quick lift-ladder for the Wasketchin Queen, who stepped into it without any hesitation. Sarqi had to restrain himself from throwing the woman up the wall, and simply raised her up as high as he could reach. Once she had found her footing and stepped up off of his palms, the tall Djin stooped to scoop up several piles of stones that were lying about the base of the Stair. He stuffed these quickly into his travel sack and began to climb.
The winds of morning had strengthened to a shriek and they tugged at Sarqi as he climbed, trying to pry him from the Stair, but he was a Djin upon the stone and he laughed his joy at their frustration. Below him, the Gnomes were just now beginning their ascent. Sarqi was ten full paces above them. It had been a close thing, but it appeared that he and the Queen had won the race. She was climbing well, and even though her hand grips were not as sure as they could be and she fumbled more with her toes than he would have liked, still they had gotten to the wall first. And even a tired Wasketchin could climb faster than a Gnome.
Looking down again, Sarqi could see that the last Gnome—the captain—had one of Kijamon’s urns strapped to his back and he appeared to be singing his song of befuddlement, but the winds whipped his melody from his throat and dashed it against the wall. Sarqi heard none of it. For a moment, he considered taking the captured urn from his own travel sack and returning it to the Gnome captain. Violently. Or maybe he would present his little neighbors with a stone or two, to make them cautious, but there was no need. With M’Ateliana climbing two rungs for every one the Gnomes managed, their hairy pursuers fell further and further behind.
Sarqi was still beaming his delight down upon the heads of the Gnome squad when his own head bumped against something softer than stone. He looked up, startled to see that he had dislodged the Queen’s foot from its rung. She scrambled against his forehead with her boot for a moment before she regained her stance, but why had she stopped? He looked up at M’Ateliana, letting his expression ask the question that the wind would not allow his voice to ask. Horror shone from her eyes as she looked down at him, and then turned to look up, drawing his own gaze up with her. There above them, an old woman struggled her way up the Stair.
And she was climbing much, much slower than the Gnomes.
* * *
All witness the great Ambassador Sarqi. See how he severs diplomatic ties with the Gnomes on one day, and then gets the Wasketchin Queen killed on the next. Inciting war with two neighbors in a matter of days. Did this not make him truly a master of diplomacy? For a time, it had appeared that things might actually work out for Sarqi, but no. The appearance of the old woman upon the Stair above them was a return to a familiar universe, with death and destruction looming, and nobody to blame but himself. Still, he must try.
Sarqi waved his arm at the Queen, indicating that she should climb on. She would not reach the old woman for a few minutes yet, and in
that time, perhaps he would think of something. He looked down again at the hunched shoulders and large noses that climbed the wall below. Small hands. Big feet. Being squat of build, the rungs were placed too far apart for a Gnome’s comfort, which is what made them so slow upon the Stair, but those tiny hands produced a powerful grip, and even though Gnomes did not climb quickly, their stance was solid. They would be hard to prise from the wall. Sarqi considered climbing down to kick them from the Stair, but that would only bring him close enough to hear their spell song, and he didn’t have to be a brilliant warrior to know that if that happened, he would never get to the kicking part of his plan.
The closest Gnome was two zig-zags below him, and Sarqi watched as the Gnome reached out, straining up on his toes to reach for the next rung. Each “step” of the Stair consisted of three horizontal notches cut into the stone: one notch for the toes, and then two more notches at chest height, one just above the other, creating a bar of rock between them that could be gripped by fingers and thumb. This was how Djin and Wasketchin climbers used the Stair. Once secure on a step, the toe notch of the next step was knee-high, to the left or right of the current step, and was not a difficult height for most people to step up to, and from there, they could then reach up for the next hand hold quite easily.
But Gnomes were not tall enough to reach the hand holds above the toe wells, so instead, they crab-climbed, standing with their toes in one well and then reaching back to use the hand grips of the lower step beside them. It meant that they had to lean themselves over at an angle as they worked their way up the Stair, but with the phenomenal Gnome grip, it was not as taxing as it looked. Just slow. The real trouble, from what Sarqi could see as he watched, was that their large powerful feet, designed for digging tunnels, were almost too thick to fit into the toe wells.
And that gave Sarqi an idea.
After making sure that M’Ateliana was progressing well, he backed himself down to the middle of the span of steps behind him, then he reached into the sack that hung from his shoulder and pulled out a stone. Smaller than his fist, it wasn’t large enough to do much damage if he threw it, but it was just the right size to jam into a toe notch. And if anybody knew the ways of working stone, it was Sarqi. Aside from his command of the Way Chanter’s song, stonework was his greatest skill. Working feverishly, before the Gnomes could get close enough to serenade him over the howl of wind, Sarqi jammed his stones into the toe wells of three successive steps in the middle of the run. It might not be enough to stop the Gnomes altogether, but it would certainly slow them down. Maybe even long enough for the old woman to reach the top of the Stair. The Gnome captain glared up at him, and Sarqi watched with satisfaction as understanding illuminated the captain’s eyes.
Satisfied that he had bought them some time, Sarqi nodded a caustic greeting to the angry Gnome and then climbed quickly up to see what else he could do.
When he reached M’Ateliana, he found her in a loud conversation with the old woman, each straining to be heard by the other over the swirling wind. The woman’s name was Arin and apparently, she had been traveling with the Wasketchin Wayitam. The Queen was excited to to be reunited with the group, and seemed pleased that learn that the wise woman had survived as well and was even now waiting for them at the top of the Stair. But she was also disappointed when Arin was unable to say whether the King had arrived upon the Spine as well.
With Sarqi’s arrival, the conversation turned from travelers’ news to the more immediate problem of getting everybody to the top before the Gnomes overtook them. With the full winds of mid-morning already blowing through the Cleft and tugging at their bodies as well as their words, Sarqi was not confident that he could leave the Stair and climb the bare rock without falling. He would risk it, of course, if no other solution could be found, and he was fairly certain that he could catch himself if he did lose his grip, but who might he hit and sweep from the wall before he regained control?
The old woman assured them she could reach the top, provided she had time to do it at her own pace, but the Hordelet below now made that seem unlikely. Perhaps Sarqi’s trick would slow them for long enough, but none of them wanted to hang their futures on that thin hook.
Nor was there any way for Sarqi or M’Ateliana to climb past the old woman. Stories were sometimes told of two travelers meeting upon the Stair, in the middle of their climbs, with one going down and the other going up. And while some few had managed to pass one another with acrobatic feats of daring, most commonly, one traveler would reverse course and climb back the way they had come, allowing their chance-met friend to leave the Stair and clear the way before resuming their own journey.
They were still debating their options when Sarqi saw the Queen’s eyes go wide and she pointed back down the Stair. Sarqi turned to follow the line of her pointing finger and his heart sank.
Below them, the Gnomes had reached his blockade, but instead of being slowed by it, they had simply abandoned the toe wells altogether, swinging their bodies from hand-hold to hand-hold and relying on their powerful grip to keep them safe.
As a result, they were now moving much, much faster. And they had Sarqi to thank.
* * *
“Hey, Granna! Want me to make you fly?” Arin craned her neck upward to see young Winry’s face peering back down at her from the safety of the Spinetop above. She was surprised to see how close she was—close enough to actually hear the little imp over the wind—but she knew she was still not close enough. The Gnomes were almost dancing up the Stair below them, and she could tell that they would be close enough to use their vile song of mind fog before she could pull herself up the last row of steps.
“Be quiet, child!” she called out, putting more venom in her tone than she actually felt. It wasn’t Winry’s fault that they were all about to die. It was her own. Just a slow and clumsy old woman who hadn’t been able to do anything right for years. A constant drain on good folk.
Reaching sideways for the next handhold, Arin grabbed at it and then used it to pull her sorry old bones over to the next step. Plod, plod, plod. Her knees screamed their torment at her, her back ached, and the fire of ill-used muscles flamed up both arms. So close, but not close enough. Behind her, the Queen urged her on. The Queen! Another fine person who was going to die because of some stubborn old mare who clung greedily to the last few heartbeats of a useless life.
Movement above caught her eye and she glanced up into the deep scowl of her granddaughter’s face. What in the Dragon’s name…? But before she could complete her question, Winry’s face exploded in a comic impression of adult rage. “Bydalovada hopless hairy dragon!” she shouted, flicking her hand with an imperious wave. Arin recognized the invocation, and a sudden smile twisted her lips. It was one of her own favorite curses. Or close enough. The child was trying to repeat the charm Arin had uttered in her sleep a week or so back. The one that had flung that Tayna girl into the sky and flown her off to a cliff top. Winry was trying to help her grandmother fly to the top of the Stair. Arin paused with one hand half-way to the next handhold. Could the child possibly… ?
But of course, nothing happened.
Up at the cliff’s edge, Winry held her dramatic pose for a moment, but when she saw that the charm wasn’t going to kick in after all, she lowered her hand. “How come it worked for you, Granna?” she called, inspecting her hand intently. “That’s the charm you done to get her to fly.”
Arin sucked a “tsk” under her breath and turned a glare up toward her granddaughter, as she pulled herself to the next step. “It most certainly is not,” she said. “Besides, you’re too young for charms. You haven’t flowered yet. Now get back from that ledge before I come up there and—”
Suddenly, the cliff itself began to shake. Arin grabbed tightly to the handholds and pulled herself in close to the rock. A frightened scream ripped the air above her head and she looked up…
…into the terror-filled eyes of young Winry, who had toppled from the ledge and was now hur
tling toward her.
* * *
Sarqi surveyed the scene, trying to judge the situation. He did not like what he saw. Beside him, M’Ateliana was half way across a run of steps, climbing upward to the right. They were holding back a ways, leaving the old Wasketchin woman room to struggle her way up the switchback, which she insisted on doing by herself, lest she fall and drag them all with her. Arin had only one more course of steps up to her left and then a half run up beyond that to the right and she would be at the top. But she moved so slowly!
If all they had to worry about was Gnomes grabbing at their ankles, there would be plenty of time to reach the safety of the Spinetop. Once there, they could threaten their pursuers with heavy rocks and the chase would be over. But the danger was not in the grasping Gnome hands. It was the voice of their captain that held the peril. So long as the Gnomes were three courses below them, the rush and flutter of the wind seemed enough to obscure his song and pull its teeth, but Sarqi did not think the wind would protect them at any closer distance than that. Already he had felt a tug or two of oblivion, when all the winds had chanced to pause together for an inhale.
No, at their current rate of climb, the Gnomes were going to reach effective charm distance well before the old woman could complete her journey. Even something to stuff in their ears might be enough to protect them for what little time they needed, but sadly, there was nothing to be found in any of their pockets that might do the trick. Nor could anyone above throw anything, for fear of striking Arin, who was between them and the Gnomes below.
Sarqi looked down again, trying to judge the speed of the rapidly climbing Gnomes. They were too fast. For the moment, they had bunched together at the right-hand switchback, only three courses below them. The Gnomes seemed clumsier on the switchbacks, slowing down and bunching together, getting in each others’ way, but soon they would be free of the snarl and swinging quickly again, like monkeys dancing along a branch. Sarqi judged that they had only minutes remaining. Three? Two? He was frantically trying to think of another stalling tactic when the very world itself began to shake.
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