by James Enge
“Maybe it was just an accident?”
“Eh. Charis doesn't make mistakes with golems. If he made that golem, and presumably the other golems in the house, a danger to himself, it must have been deliberate in some way.”
“Why?”
I thought he was just going to shrug again, and if he had I swear I would have gotten up on my feet and beaten the snot out of him. But what he said was, “Charis sold off little bits of himself until there was nothing left but the bargains he had made, and the fear of breaking them.”
“So?”
“Death ends fear. Maybe you can't understand that.”
I tried to tell him that I did understand, and that I wasn't sure he was right about Charis, and how Charis had understood how I felt about Naeli and being grateful, and that was why I had done what I'd done, but I wasn't sure it was enough—
“No,” said Morlock interrupting me.
“No?” I asked, a little angry. Who was he to tell me how I felt?
“You owe Naeli nothing. She owes you nothing. That's not why you risked everything to save her. You are not debts on each other's balance sheets.”
“What is it then?” Roble asked.
Morlock shrugged. “The bond of blood. Blood has no price! You don't buy it or sell it. When the need arises you shed your own to protect your own, and you don't count the cost.”
I was appalled. Charis's balance sheets of debt and obligation I could understand. The fierce credo of blood-loyalty announced by this cold-eyed white-faced man was too irrational. I couldn't believe it any more than I could have reached the river of fire running behind us: it was completely impractical. Suppose you didn't like someone you were related to? What about people you weren't related to: what did you owe them?
Roble seemed to be thinking along these lines. He said to Morlock, “What about you and us? We're not your blood.”
“Aren't you?” Morlock asked.
“Are we?”
Morlock looked away toward the burning river. After a moment he said, “My people—the people who raised me—said there were two kinds of blood: given and chosen. The blood you're born into is given. The kinship you choose is no less binding.”
“Makes sense,” said Roble casually, and turned to Thrennick, who was standing nearby with a few of his soldiers, all of whom wore rather blank looks. “You've caught up with Vennon's troops and cancelled their orders,” he said, “so what happens next?”
“Officially,” Thrennick said, “I'm to take you all into custody and bring you back for questioning.”
“And unofficially?” Roble asked.
“Unofficially, I'm supposed to slip a knife into Morlock here and bring his head back to the new commander as proof he's dead.”
“And actually?”
“Oh, I suppose you all will have gotten away while I wasn't looking. I'd like to bring Charis back, though. It might mean a promotion for me; the new commander would like to know what kind of information he was selling to the Khroi, and for how long.”
“He'll be with Naeli at our rendezvous point,” Morlock said.
“Let me send my men with these trackers back to their barracks; me and one of my soldiers will tag along with you.”
He must have gone to do that, because the next thing I remember was someone whining with a Sarkunden accent, “Why do I always get picked for these rotten jobs?”
“Because,” Thrennick replied, “I like to know who's behind me and, whenever there's a fight, there you are behind me. You and my butt, Tervin.”
I tried to get to my feet, but Roble just picked me up and started to carry me. I tried to tell him I was still bleeding and he'd get stuff all over him, but he just told me to shut my piehole. My piehole, like the rest of me, was pretty damn tired by then, so I did as he suggested and pretty soon fell asleep.
“I don't like the sound of it,” Thrennick was saying when I woke up.
We were still underground, not too far from the fiery river; I could tell by the red gloom in the air. We were standing at the foot of a steep black cliff. The men were all staring upward with listening looks, so I tried to listen, too. What I thought I heard, from high above in the red gloom, was the clash of metal on metal.
“If your people are fighting someone,” Thrennick was saying to Roble, “I don't think they're our soldiers.”
“Then,” said Morlock, and gestured at either side of the cliff. Following his gesture, I saw there were two narrow paths climbing upward.
“Huh?” said Thrennick, and then, “Oh, I get it. We go this way, you go that way. All right, why not?”
“Uncle Roble,” I said as the two soldiers turned to the left and started scaling the narrow path, “I can walk.”
“Good,” said my uncle grimly. “I think I'm going to have to use my hands.”
He meant he'd need to fight, of course, but we used both hands and feet to scramble that steep crooked rockslide pretending to be a path. I was thinking about asking Roble whether he wanted to give his favorite niece a piggyback ride when I noticed the clashing had gotten a lot louder.
“This is it,” Roble said to Morlock, who nodded. They both looked back at me. “Stay out of this,” Roble said firmly, and Morlock said the same thing without saying anything.
“Hey!” I said. “As if I want to get my head cut off after everything I've been through.”
That wasn't really an answer, of course, but what did they think…that I wanted to get my head cut off, after everything I'd been through?
Morlock, who was in the lead, drew his sword. It was weird looking, more like dark glass than metal, with pale veins of lighter crystal running through it. Roble drew his shorter, broader blade and leaped up to stand by Morlock on the narrow ledge. They stood there for a second and I almost caught up with them, poking my head up over the level of the ledge. Between their legs I could just see what was going on, but I didn't understand it at first.
This is what I saw, or thought I saw: my mother and my brothers and Charis, surrounded by a bunch of little men all wearing the same weird costume. It was a funny dark purplish color and shiny, like the shell of a beetle. They had knobby armored legs, and each costume had three legs and three arms. And on their heads they wore buglike pyramidal masks with one eye on each face of the pyramids. The ends of their arms were covered by metallic sheaths with long clawlike protrusions. They could stab with the points like foils, or slash with the edges like sabers.
Then I realized the obvious: they weren't men, and those weren't costumes. But they were attacking my mother and brothers. There were so many of them—I'm not sure how many, but a lot. Only the narrowness of the ledge was working in my family's favor. But, Death and Justice, they looked desperate, and my mother and Thend had blood on their faces. They were facing us, with these beasties facing them. Beyond them Stador and Bann were fighting against another crowd of monsters on the other side of the ledge. In the middle sat Charis, doing nothing for anybody, even himself. It wasn't clear if the bug-things were trying to capture him or rescue him from Naeli and company, but he couldn't have been more indifferent either way.
“Khroi,” Morlock muttered to Roble. “Watch out: they have three arms.”
“Noticed,” Roble replied, obviously pleased to be more taciturn than Morlock for once.
“Eh,” Morlock replied wittily, and they charged into the battle.
There were at least five ranks of the buglike Khroi between Roble and Morlock and the rest of my family. The men took out the first rank almost before the Khroi knew they were there.
What, you think they should have announced themselves and cried out a challenge, all orderly and sportsmanlike? Try it when your family's life is at stake. Personally I was glad those sneaky bastards were on our side.
I was glad, but I wanted to do something. The joy on Naeli's wounded face when she saw Roble and Morlock was a beautiful and painful thing to see. I wanted to earn a piece of that, honestly; I was always pretty jealous where my mama was conc
erned, I guess. But it was more than that: Naeli was fighting for her life, for my brother's lives, and what was I supposed to do, just stand there on a pile of rocks?
Then it occurred to me: I was standing on a pile of rocks.
I wasn't reckless about it; I realized that a bunch of ill-thrown missiles could hurt my people more than the buglike Khroi. But some well-thrown ones…they might at least have some surprise effect.
There was a long heavy pointed rock digging into my knee. I grabbed it and lifted myself up onto the ledge. Picking my time, I hurled the stone at the Khroi who was fighting Naeli. The blunt end struck the Khroi on one of its eyes. It swung half around, its three arms waving. Naeli stabbed low, just above its tripod legs, and it crumpled.
“Hey!” I shouted, and added a suggestion the Khroi probably would have found impossible, even if their reproductive system were like ours. (It isn't, I found out later.)
Now instead of looking happy Naeli looked worried. That made me mad, and I took it out on some more Khroi. I didn't feel like I could reach the Khroi on the far side of the ledge (not without risking a strike on Stador and Bann) but I kept the rocks flying at the narrowing field of Khroi on the near side of the ledge.
Then Roble hewed one in half, and the fight on our side of the ledge was over: the Khroi had been reduced to severed bug-parts scattered over the stone.
Roble and Morlock charged past Naeli, Thend, and Charis without so much as a Hi, how are you?
“Bann, give way!” Roble shouted. I knew he wanted to take Bann's place in the front line, probably have Morlock take Stador's. The ledge wasn't wide enough for the men to shoulder past the boys.
But Bann didn't fall back and he didn't answer. Maybe he didn't hear—it was pretty hard to hear anything over the clashing metal. Maybe he felt like he couldn't risk stepping back. Anyway, he wasn't moving. And he was bleeding; so was Stador: I could see it staining their shirts.
Here's where it gets a little weird. Morlock takes his sword and stabs it into the ground. Then he runs up and launches himself over Stador's shoulder, like he's playing leapfrog. In midair he shouts, “Tyrfing!” and the sword flies out of the ground and into his hand as he lands. And he hits like a boulder and takes down a couple of the Khroi as he lands. Then he grips the sword (it is called Tyrfing, but I have no idea how he gets it to come when he calls) with both hands and starts swinging it like a reaper harvesting wheat.
Stador was on the ground, now, and Bann was slumping beside him. Roble shook his head and jumped over them shouting, “Behind you!” (So, like, Morlock wouldn't cut his head off.) Morlock shifted back to a single grip as Roble took a stand beside him, and they settled down to the business of clearing all the Khroi off the other side of the ledge.
There were more Khroi over there than there had been on the near side of the ledge, but pretty soon they had help: the imperial soldiers, Thrennick and Tervin, were attacking the Khroi from the other side.
I cheered them on with a few more obscenities I'd learned while working in the cathouse, and then decided to help out with a few well-thrown rocks. I was bending over, scrabbling for a good missile, when something grabbed me by the ankle.
I was bent over, so I looked through my own bloodstained legs at the thing. It was one of the Khroi who'd been cut almost in half. It had lost the metal sheath from the ends of its arm (it only had one left, and no legs at all). There were six or seven snaky things, like boneless fingers sprouting out of the end of its arm, and it was gripping my ankle with those.
I tried to shake loose, but it was terribly strong. It dragged me down to the ground and started to pull me toward the edge of the cliff.
I screamed, of course. Who wouldn't? The trouble was, my scream wasn't terribly loud. The fall had knocked my breath out of me, and the battle noise was reaching a crescendo just then. I could see Naeli bending over Stador and binding up one of his wounds. Bann and Thend were sitting nearby, gasping for breath and staring at nothing. Nobody seemed to hear me or see me. It was as if my death were taking place in some secret place worlds away from these people who had been my family.
Then somebody landed on top of the Khroi, making its carapace crunch horribly. It was Charis. The Khroi released my ankle to pound feebly at Charis, who rolled with it over to the cliff's edge and pushed it off.
But it had caught hold of him just long enough to keep his momentum going. His feet tumbled over the edge and his body began to follow as he clutched desperately for a hold on the bare dirt and rock of the ledge.
This, I guess, was the moment for a Charis-like calculation of who owed what to whom. Should I have tried to figure out if Charis was still in my debt? (I had, after all, saved his life twice, and he'd only saved mine once—but I hadn't acted in order to save his life whereas he…) Well, I didn't. I didn't even think about Thrennick wanting Charis alive. There was a roaring in my ears like a river of fire, and I rolled over to seize the arm of this evil icy man who was, apparently, one of my blood—chosen, if not given.
He was saying something. I didn't pay any attention; I was trying to dig my feet into the ground. I hoped my weight, pressing down on the rough surface of the ledge, would be enough to anchor his.
The trouble was: it wasn't. In a silence that seemed to fill the whole world I heard the most horrible sound I've ever heard: my body scraping over the stones of the ledge.
“Help here!” I shrieked, into the sudden silence, and slipped a little further toward the gulf. I really should let go now, I told myself. Can't do this, can't go over the edge with him. But I clung even harder to his arm, so hard that my fingers sank deep into the flesh. That seemed weird, even then, but I didn't have time to think why.
Then Naeli grabbed on to my feet, arresting my slide toward the cliff. I sobbed gratefully and hung on to Charis's arm.
But he was still sliding away from me. I didn't understand it. I wasn't moving, but he was still sliding off the edge of the cliff.
Then his arm ripped away from his body. I was left with it and, no doubt, a dopey look on my face. I'll never forget Charis's expression as he slipped, one-armed, away from me into the abyss.
Morlock was abruptly there. One leg thrown forward so that his foot was at the brink, he bent over and seized Charis by the neck. As Charis gasped and choked Morlock lifted him out of the brink and tossed him beside me on the ledge.
I was still gripping the severed arm tensely. When I realized this I let it go, kicked Naeli away hysterically, and jumped to my feet. I didn't know what Charis was, but I didn't want to be near him.
Morlock, however, had no such qualms. He was kneeling down beside Charis. At first I thought that he was holding Charis's one remaining hand: a pretty sentimental act for a man like Morlock, but you never know. Then I realized: he was feeling for a pulse.
And not finding one, apparently. “Remarkable!” he said to Charis's tormented face. “The skin temperature is lifelike. If there were a heartbeat, the likeness would be perfect.”
“I was working on that,” Charis said sullenly. “It's a minor issue.”
“You still have a heart, though?” Morlock inquired, with an air of polite interest.
“Oh, yes,” Charis replied. “I couldn't dispense with it. The entire torso is essentially intact.”
“May I?” asked Morlock.
“If—Oh, I suppose it doesn't matter,” Charis said gloomily.
Morlock reached into the horrible man's open shirt and felt around a little.
“That's not human skin,” he said flatly, withdrawing his hand.
“Well, I decided to venture on a clay integument for my torso,” Charis admitted, “but the organs are still functioning. They have less to do now, of course.”
“You anticipate an extended lifespan?” Morlock asked. “Less wear and tear on the organs? You may be right. Anyway, this is an admirable achievement. Really remarkable.”
That was when I started to laugh quietly to myself. An admirable achievement! That thing!
&nb
sp; “What's wrong?” Bann said to me. “What's happening?”
“Don't you see?” I said, or shrieked, I'm not sure which. “He's turned himself into a golem.”
Morlock looked over at me. “Not entirely,” he said mildly. “Charis's limbs and skin may be golemic but the rest of him, his core, is as it was. Do you,” he said to Charis, “get full sensation from your clay skin?”
Charis shuddered. “No, thank God Avenger. Really, Morlock the Maker!” he said, drawing himself up. “I don't think you fully appreciate what you call my achievement.”
“Explain it, then,” Morlock suggested.
“Do you suppose that I myself did these delicate operations on my own frame? I had to have golems do it. For each operation I created a team of golem-surgeons with careful and elaborately written life-scrolls. The slightest error in any golem's composition and I would not have survived a single operation.”
“What makes you think you did survive?” I shouted. Then I put my hand over my mouth and sat down. I didn't feel that great; I don't suppose any of us did. Naeli and Thend both came and sat down on either side of me, each one putting an arm around me. That made me feel a little better.
Charis droned on wearily, “My face became so many masks. It wasn't mine anymore. As the Khroi's agent, I spied on the city. As your debtor, I spied on the Khroi. As the Khroi's agent, I had to hunt down the man spying on them. If my plans had succeeded, all my debts would be paid. I would have given you your information, surrendered you to the Khroi, and destroyed the spy in the city. But now all my bargains are broken.”
“You would have destroyed yourself to fulfill a bargain?” Morlock asked.
“My crowning deed as a maker,” Charis replied, smiling faintly. “When this…business interrupted me, I was writing the life-scroll of a golem which could replace my entire face.”
“Oh.”
Charis seemed to think Morlock was insufficiently impressed. “Don't you see? The delicacy of the operation—the need to inculcate the golem with my every skill so that the new face would be such a masterwork of artifice that no one would realize it was artificial!”