by J. C. Hendee
Next to any hopes, that last bit made hopelessness rise again. As Fiáh’our neared the temple proper, amid the great chambers and tunnels of the temple of Skâpagi, his foul mood was almost festering.
“A’ye!” he grumbled, “a little mercy, oh bothersome Bäynæ… and maybe a little help!”
“Get your feet well planted, my little ones!” someone shouted.
Fiáh’our paused at laughter echoing from the temple proper. Much like a child’s giggle, it boomed as loud as the huge signal drums atop the mountain. Then came a chorus of little grunts and yelps from young voices followed by the sounds of tumbling bodies.
Fiáh’our stepped back to peek through the archway but never got a chance. Someone much smaller than him rolled to a stop at his feet. He looked down into the roundish stunned face of a young rughìr girl.
She wore a plain and white felt vestment without quilting or padding, marking her as mere acolyte of the temple. Flat on her back, she blinked rapidly in a daze, not noticing him at first.
It was certainly a welcome distraction after a long worthless day.
“Need a little help?” he asked.
Her dazed eyes cleared. Looking up into his face from upside down, her gaze then fixed on the thôrhk around his neck. She went white, utterly mortified.
“Oh… oh, thänæ, I am… excuse me… I did not see—”
“Fiáh’our!” shouted that deep humor-laden voice. “Pardon the disturbance, as I did not notice you lurking. Done with the day’s training for your new apprentice?”
Fiáh’our grumbled as the girl scrambled up, awkwardly dusting off the seat of her pants as she bowed to him.
“Yes… if one could call it training,” he answered.
But he lost more of his foul mood at the girl’s embarrassed fidgeting under his gaze. He suppressed a smile about that while looking to the only one left standing in the temple proper before an immense statue of Skâpagi—“Shielder” the Guardian… the Bäynæ of this temple.
And that one he saw was a bit huge as well for a rughìr.
Though not tall, calling Háttê’mádzh a walking boulder was not far from the truth, and well aside from his wide, bald head. His fully quilted vestment could offer enough cloth for all three other young acolytes now picking themselves up around the wide chamber. The head shirvêsh had tossed them all about without even taking one step.
“Are we now training in the temple proper?” Fiáh’our jibed.
“Bah! What is a little play, even in temple?” Háttê’mádzh returned. “In a serious calling, one should laugh whenever, wherever. Our great Skâpagi had a worthy wit and needed it!”
Háttê’mádzh was always full of warmth and laughter, which was only part of why his acolytes and the other shirvêsh here loved him. Humans might have called him “Tickler,” though his name meant, “prod of good-humor.” What the rotund head shirvêsh had just claimed of the Bäynæ that he served was also why Fiáh’our favored this temple most of all.
He liked it even more than that of Stálghlên, “True-Steel” the Champion, where he had received his thôrhk and become a thänæ more than fifty years ago. Also here was where Fiáh’our had first met an even younger Gän’gehtin, full of fury and bitterness back then, and poisoned with hatred.
“Not fair!” someone cried.
Fiáh’our glanced sidelong across the chamber. Beyond the huge stone platform bearing the even huger statue, one young male acolyte regained his feet and now glowered in a pout.
“It is not fair, master,” that one whined. “You are too… too big for us to topple.”
The other two young males, equally pouty, nodded in furious agreement. One even kicked the stone floor in frustration.
Fiáh’our was trying to ignore the fourth, the girl, still sheepishly peeking up at him. He could not help but chuckle this time.
“What is all this complaining?” Háttê’mádzh chided the young ones, his sternness obviously faked. “Maybe next time a little brains to supplement a lack of brawn? Now, off with you all to studies. I want to hear you recite the ‘Last Lament of Skâpagi’—from memory—by supper.”
All four little acolytes were struck mute.
“But… but Master…” stuttered the girl, “that one is… so… so…”
“Off with you all,” Háttê’mádzh said, truly stern this time. “And do not dawdle about it.” As the four scurried out the far archway, the head shirvêsh nodded to Fiáh’our. “Walk with me, old friend, while I see they get where they are going.”
Much as Fiáh’our had a first task to complete concerning an old weapon, he followed along, for this place of good humor offered him at least another moment’s solace. But as the two old friends walked the passages behind the quartet of acolytes, who all whispered to each other amid rearward glances, the head shirvêsh became too somber.
The sudden change worried Fiáh’our quite a bit.
“Will you be heading out again any time soon?” Háttê’mádzh asked.
Fiáh’our grumbled incoherently and then, “Not likely… with the present task at hand.”
“That bad is he, this new apprentice?”
“I might regret any words I said aloud.”
“Some might ask why you bother, but…” and Háttê’mádzh shrugged with a sudden smile as he looked at his little acolytes.
Indeed, a head shirvêsh for any temple understood that not all who came to be acolytes would remain to become shirvêsh. Of the four young ones scampering ahead, perhaps one would continue on the path of Skâpagi to become a “guardian.” Maybe not even that.
It was not a life suited to everyone, but all—well, almost all—were warmly welcomed to come, to try, to learn, and to benefit for whatever life they eventually chose. This was not the situation with Karras or what was truly on the mind of the head shirvêsh.
“It is the season, you know,” Háttê’mádzh said, no longer smiling. “Well after they rise from partial hibernation.”
Fiáh’our remained silent, waiting for what they both knew.
“The sluggïn’ân grow bolder—or perhaps more desperate—every year. More packs are ranging far from the Broken Lands into the west and staying longer. We, along with the other two warrior temples, always spare what shirvêsh we can to patrol against them, but…”
The rest need not be said.
Fiáh’our had ranged the northern wilds in defending villages and settlements, including those farther north among the more inland Maksœ’ín Veallaksê, the “People of the Bear”—or what other humans called Northlanders. He should have been out there by now, or rather sooner than now, if not for the kitten.
Sluggïn’ân—or gôb’elazkin, “the little gobblers” or goblins to nearby Numans—were a plague that he had watched grow over a lifetime. They were both less and more than what most thought of them. He groaned at this reminder of his failed duty; it certainly was not any help from the Bäynæ.
“I am sorry,” Háttê’mádzh said quietly. “I did not mean to further burden you.”
“Hopefully I will find a way to again take up that burden properly… and soon.”
“Then let us say no more about—”
“No!” Fiáh’our cut in. “Please… keep me informed of all you hear, whether I can do anything about it or not… for now.”
They fell to idle talk, reminiscing about the memorable past, and even to how much Gän’gehtin had changed over the years. Háttê’mádzh quipped that the young shirvêsh might make a “decent” head shirvêsh in maybe fifty or so years. That was a short but suitable time for a rughìr to mature in wisdom, but once again, Fiáh’our felt the pressure of time.
He had far less than fifty years to make something out of Karras, so he said his farewell. Háttê’mádzh clapped him once on the back before quickly heading off after his acolytes.
The situation was worse with Karras, who had no knowledge within him for what was necessary. Everyone who sought the way of the warrior had to have a hidden
inkling or talent, some aptitude to build upon. Some might learn combat by rote, but they would never go far, and even in that, Karras had failed…
Which meant that Fiáh’our had failed as well.
Watching his friend and the acolytes vanish off to their studies, Fiáh’our worried about the kitten surviving a first battle; that was the first test of a warrior’s path. There was another trick to play in that concerning an old weapon, but only if Karras found some personal bit of en’nag within himself. Until Fiáh’our saw that with his own eyes, he was at a loss in all of his efforts here.
But if it could happen just once, perhaps a weapon out of old tradition might bring Karras a little wisdom where his want of Skirra was concerned. And a first lesson in true honor as well—her kind of honor.
2. Homeless Away From Home
Karras barely noticed his surroundings as he shuffled out through the temple. This time, he did not pause to peer into the temple proper at the immense stone statue of Skâpagi rising some ten or more yards into that round chamber’s heights.
The effigy of that supposed great Bäynæ, the Guardian, stood with a heavy and long head-high iron-shod cudgel in one hand, much like the one that Gän’gehtin had brandished in the training hall. On Skâpagi’s other wrist was a very small shield, or so Karras would call it. He could not imagine what that was worth compared to the greater shield strapped upon the Bäynæ’s back.
Karras did not need that sight again to remind him of all the nonsense this place had put upon him. When he reached the front entrance, he nodded politely to the attending shirvêsh but pushed out through the large double doors before they were opened for him. Karras then stalled halfway down the outer steps, knowing he should go home for a visit.
Brief messages he had sent over the last half moon, to let his parent’s know that he was well, would not be enough for them. While he was obligated in apprenticeship, they might not raise the subject of an arranged marriage again. But amid failure with Skirra, he could not bear it if they did so. Even out on the open mountainside, under a late summer’s dusk and looking down upon sun-sparked waves far below, Karras felt trapped.
It was as if he clung to a rock spire in a stormy sea with no shoreline in sight. That the spire was Fiáh’our made it all the worse.
Karras dropped in heavy steps to the switchback street snaking up and down through Chekiuní, the “Point-Side” settlement of Dhredze Seatt. With few others about in the early evening, he freely followed the broad stone road down toward the next tight turn and the way to his clan’s réhanâkst.
Most of the twenty-seven clans maintained or shared one such “commonhouse” in each settlement. Humans used this term for any community structure, but a réhanâkst was for the exclusive use of a clan, its families, and occasionally their guests. Perhaps he could wait until morning to decide about the long tram ride through the mountain to face his family. But he barely made the first switchback turn when he paused with the réhanâkst in sight, halfway down the street’s next leg.
Karras neared the squat retaining wall on the street’s outer side and again looked down along the peninsula’s steep point. Below to the left was the vast Beranklifer Bay, which in Numanese meant “Bear’s Claw” Bay; it had the shape of such a huge paw when seen from high above. Even from a distance, it was easy to make out Calm “Seatt,” the great port and king’s city of the nation of Malourné. It was so named by the Numans, the humans of the region, out of respect for rughìr allies who had long ago helped build its many greater constructions. That included all three castles erected over four centuries for the royal family of the reskynna.
It was not that long ago since Karras had walked into the last and greatest of those castles with Fiáh’our and Gän’gehtin, after they had rescued a prince of Malourné. How could he have known then that such a service would land him in servitude to the old man?
To the vista’s right and west lay the open ocean, and further around the point was Karras’ home settlement of Chemarré, “Sea-Side.” Between east and west, the peninsula’s primary ridge dove into the glittering waters and marked the division between bay and ocean. But there were other ridges down there where the mountain’s roots—its feet and toes—sank deep beneath the water.
Karras knew so, for he had seen them with his own eyes, and that memory carried him back to a day some twenty years ago. On a special voyage to become a true sea-trader upon the family’s hulking ship, a two-masted bark, he had been frightened.
He stood at the vessel’s side with a thick rope tied about his waist.
“You can do this,” his father said, smiling warmly with pride for a child come of age. “We have all done so, back beyond my grandfather and grandmother, first of our blood to set foot on their own ship.”
Young Karras, just seventeen years old, avoided rolling his eyes, though his father’s certainty quelled some of his fear.
Far too many times he had heard family “tellings,” the tales, of paternal great-grandfather, Uinfeald. Much as he did not care for tellings, he at least preferred hearing about his paternal great-grandmother, Donshê. She had been the shrewd one at trading, and more likely the one to barter the family into their first vessel. Donshê—not Uinfeald—was the ancestor Karras thought he was most like. As to the most ludicrous telling about his paternal great-grandfather…
One dark night under a new moon, a pack of brigands aboard a smaller vessel harried Uinfeald’s two-masted bark up the southern coast. He made a run past the mouth of Beranklifer Bay for the small port below Chemarré, but the brigands somehow cut in front of him. Uinfeald had to turn his ship at full sail back around the point for the bay.
That other vessel was faster than great-grandfather’s cargo-laden one, and he realized that he would never reach any port before his ship was boarded. He would be caught in the dark, amid the bay at best, and far out of sight of any friendly Malourné patrol ships that might come to his aid. So Uinfeald resorted to a daring or foolhardy maneuver… if any of this was at all true.
First, he lowered a skiff over the side with three or four of his crew—the number varied from one telling to the next. As the skiff fell behind and rowed off into the dark, Uinfeald cut his ship’s sail lines. With sails flapping loosely in the night wind, the bark began to slow, but he did not wait for it to halt. He immediately ordered the crew to drop the bow anchor. Likely there was some pause of shock before they did so. And when the anchor sank deep enough, and bit into the mountain’s toes beneath the water…
The bark lurched violently as the crew clung to anything they could.
Everyone feared the deck or even the hull would be ripped to pieces by the force, and all aboard would sink to their deaths. But the anchor’s chain neither broke nor tore the hull as Uinfeald’s vessel came around broadside. He ordered the rear anchor dropped as well, and his two-masted bark stood its ground—water—in the path of the brigands.
Now the story varied in the next part.
Whether it was a bump or a hull-shuddering bash, when the brigands saw what their quarry had done, they turned their smaller vessel too late. They collided side to side with Uinfeald’s bark, and a so-called mighty battle ensued below their people’s mountain. It all ended when that skiff with three—or four—crew rowed quietly in on the other vessel’s exposed side.
Uinfeald’s skulking crew came at the brigands from behind. That other ship was taken as well. Limping into port as the next dawn broke, Uinfeald turned over his captives to the port authority at Calm Seatt, more than two hundred years ago…
Or so the story went.
But twenty years ago, as that younger Karras had stood beside his father at the rail of the family ship, he looked to the bow turnstile.
The anchor had been lowered to keep the ship in place, but much of its stout chain was still visible. It was as thick as his father’s arms, though it was not made of steel or iron, like those of human ships, or likely even Uinfeald’s first vessel. No, it was forged of something stronger a
nd rarer.
Meá—the Ore.
It was not truly an ore but an unknown metal of some kind, perhaps even an alloy. No one that Karras had even met knew what it truly was or how it was worked. Grayish in color but duller than steel, it was reserved for the chains of the mountain lifts and other community fixtures subject to immense duress. How those chains had been acquired for the family’s private vessel was something even Karras’ father said he did not know. Karras’ maternal grandfather, Hurôl, had somehow arranged that shortly after Uinseil had taken over as captain of the bark.
The cost must have been immense, but that day on the ship, Karras had no more time to ponder this.
“Take slow deep breathes and remain calm,” Uinseil had admonished him. “When you are prepared, one last deep breath before you go. I will wait for the line to go slack, count to twenty, and bring you back.”
Even under his father’s steady and calm gaze, young Karras grew nervous once more. The family life of a sea-trader, though scoffed at by others of his kind, was all he wanted and where he had grown up from his earliest memories. To visit other people, other lands, even just those nearby, was better than being trapped in the backward ways of rughìr traditions. With one last deep breath, he turned to the rail, and the steep shore of the mountain’s point filled his view.
Young Karras vaulted over the ship’s side.
He hit the water and sank like a stone, as did any rughìr unfortunate enough to fall overboard at sea. Amid the splash, that latter thought overrode trust in his father as he fell farther and farther into the depths. He kept his mouth tightly shut, as well as his eyes, and held his breath.
The lungs of a rughìr could hold air much longer than a human’s, or so his father had said. To test that this way for the first time was horrifying, and every instant that passed seemed too long. But it took less time than in his frightened imaginings.
Karras opened his eyes only when his boots settled suddenly. Two small silt clouds rose around his feet as he heard the water-amplified sound of barnacles cracking under his weight. And then he raised his eyes.