In Siege of Daylight

by Gregory S Close

  “A dozen! By what reckoning is that enough?” laughed Symmlrey. “Anyway, I thought you said fighting would be foolish.”

  “Aye, it would,” he conceded, “and I don’t intend to fight. Once we gain entrance through the cave, we bring the mountain down on them. By the time the survivors dig their way out, we should be well on our way.”

  “I told you he could be useful,” Kassakan chided Two-Moons quietly.

  Osrith smiled as he concentrated on navigating the narrow trail. He wished he’d been privy to that conversation. He could guess most of it.

  I’m not much for first impressions.

  They continued on in silence, saving their breath for the travail of the steep climb. The air was thin here, and each breath was precious. The gradient was increasingly unforgiving, eschewing the luxury of switchbacks for a direct ascent to the summit. The trail was a loose tumble of scree that lined the bottom of a narrow gulley. The footing would have been poor even in temperate weather; now, with knee-deep snow covering the slick sheen of ice on the rocks, each step was more treacherous than the last.

  Osrith marked off time by the rasps of their labored breathing and grunts of pain. Two-Moons occasionally confirmed that they were remaining a safe distance ahead of their dogged pursuit but losing ground slowly. Osrith knew his own injuries encumbered their movement, and without him escape would be a less tricky situation. The wounds he received at his last encounter with Dieavaul’s hrumm, though healed in most part, still fatigued him, and the fire that burned inside the long jagged scar on his belly delivered him constant torment. Thanks to Kassakan’s careful ministrations, however, he endured.

  As the sky began its subtle transformation into the purple haze of twilight, they approached the tree line, where only the most tenacious and gnarled vegetation clung stubbornly to the barren rocks. Up beyond this point would be the old entrance, where it could command a good view of the trail. If the watch-kin were alert, they might already have been spotted, although most likely the kin were not keeping an active lookout on such a seldom-used track.

  The wind picked up as the trees thinned, blowing a chill into their bones. Osrith could make out the dark shadow of the cave coming into view ahead. He jumped when Two-Moons appeared, as if from nowhere, at his left. Osrith swallowed a curse, trying to hide his surprise.

  “They are very near, now,” Two-Moons said, catching his breath. “Their scouts are almost in bow shot. You take the others into the cave and make your arrangements. I’ll follow shortly.”

  Or not at all, noted Osrith silently. If Two-Moons tarried too long, he would be cut down in short order by the main battle group, no matter how cunning a warrior he might be. There was one thing he’d decided for certain about Two-Moons, however – the old man knew what he was doing. Despite his air of superiority and pseudo-mystical tongue waggling, he knew how to keep himself alive.

  As did Osrith. He didn’t delay his own escape to argue.

  “Kassakan, Symmlrey, come with me,” Osrith said. “Oghran’s luck, Two-Moons. We’ll wait for you inside.”

  They tarried only long enough for Two-Moons to assuage the automatic protest of Symmlrey, who, as always, wanted only to stay and fight. But she turned from the promise of battle with a strained look of obedience and helped Kassakan with Osrith as they struggled up the last thirty feet of the slope.

  The cave loomed nearer, its mouth swallowing the scant light of burgeoning night. Osrith halted his escort and removed the glove from his right hand. He took two steps toward the opening, raising both hands, palms outward. If kin were indeed watching, they would understand the gesture, and they would see the mark on his forge-hand.

  “Mishtigge! Ahi benm Shaddach Chi!” he yelled in fluent kinspeak. “Osrith behnett-kinne Dulghazz, schlaggar ven Pakh Ma Goiilus, denndar ta -”

  “Shut up and get inside!”

  Osrith grinned at the sound of the deep, resonant voice. This was why he liked life with the kin, he remembered. They were a people decidedly short on pointless ceremony. He stumbled forward, followed closely by Symmlrey and Kassakan, entering the darkness with an inaudible sigh. His eyes adjusted quickly, and soon the shadow that wavered before him took on a firmer outline.

  The guard standing in the cave was little more than four feet in height and covered from head to foot in protective steel. In his left hand was a short broad blade of the ruddy iron their race was famous for forging, on his right arm a stout shield bearing the crossed hammer crest of the Watch, and on his face the frown of a man who would rather be sleeping.

  “Mishtigge, friend,” said the sentry, reaching up to pound Osrith firmly on the chest with his fist. “I am Vaujn. What in the Pits is going on?”

  Osrith returned the greeting with his own fist, leaning down but not kneeling to reach Vaujn’s chest. For a human to kneel on one or both knees when speaking to a kin was considered a sign of belittlement and disrespect. He had learned that lesson himself the first time he had met Duragun Two-swords. The painful way. “Shelter,” he answered. “We’re being hunted by a small army of hrumm.”

  “Really?” said the kin, his tone reflecting the deep respect his race held for sarcasm. “I hadn’t noticed. Every nook and cranny of my mountain’s been echoing with hrummish footfalls for a day now, and I haven’t slept two winks. Bring in your damn friends and let’s be done with the brutes.”

  Vaujn indicated the grey outline of a doorway behind him, and they darted inside to a smooth-hewn passageway lit by a series of glowing wall sconces. Osrith breathed in the familiar smells of oil, coal and sweat that thickened the air in the tunnels of his adopted people. Already he felt the pain in his old scar diminishing, fading with every step he took into the mountain. Vaujn turned an iron wheel set into the wall, lowering several tons of granite slab that served as the door with little noise or effort.

  “Osrith!” yelled Symmlrey, clutching his shoulder from behind. “Two-Moons is still-”

  “I know. I know.” Osrith held up a conciliatory hand. “Vaujn, there’s a wilhorwhyr out there at rear guard.”

  Vaujn stood in the half closed doorway peering out into the cave. “Is he a lanky old man with silver hair who runs pretty damn fast?”

  “That would be him,” confirmed Osrith.

  “Hurry up, old man!” yelled the guard. “You’re about to be part of this mountain!”

  Not a breath later, the door almost slammed down on Two-Moons’ ankles. Symmlrey went to him, supporting him as he caught his breath. His leathers were slashed open in at least two visible places, and his winter cloak was missing altogether. His hair hung limp and wet about his face. He still clutched his bow in his right hand, and Osrith couldn’t help but notice there was not an arrow to be found in his quiver, although a rather large throwing axe was embedded in its cracked shell.

  “You met with resistance, I see,” Osrith said dryly, but couldn’t see the wilhorwhyr’s face to know if his jest was appreciated. Somehow, he doubted it.

  Vaujn ignored the injured man and turned to a metal pipe sticking from the polished stone wall. “Bhakkash!” he yelled into it, striking it three times with his sword to produce three loud ringing tones. He turned around to his guests and shrugged. “Well, that should about do it. In a click, half the west slope is going to be knocking all those noisy hrummish feet on their asses.”

  Vaujn lit a torch from the nearest wall sconce, further illuminating his bearded face. His hair was black and wiry, falling just to his shoulders, and his beard had less than half a dozen war braids. He was young, perhaps only fifty years by human reckoning, but seemed confident despite his relative youth. He brushed past the two wilhorwhyr and the hosskan to walk next to Osrith as he led the way deeper into the mountain.

  Osrith recalled his amazement the first time he laid eyes on the artistry of kin engineering: the smoothness of the stone, the doors fitted with nearly invisible joints, the pulleys, the levers, the intricate systems of pipes and bells and gongs. Machines that heated, cooled,
circulated and filtered the air, somehow powered by the boiling waters of cauldrons or hot springs. It was all rather incredible to the eyes of a common man such as he, and far beyond the mechanical prowess of any other race he’d seen.

  Such things bordered on heresy in the upper world. Physience. The Forbidden Art. He remembered when, as a boy, he had seen Balduoun of Lot burn fifty alchemists at the stake for treading too close to this forbidden ground. And such acts were ignored, if not supported, by the waning powers of the Collegiate Arcana and the growing influence of the Church.

  But Lord Balduoun had never warmed his feet at a vent in the wall that reached, through leagues of hand-carved stone, down to the bowels of Wyn for its heat; or but turned a crank in the wall to pour already heated water into his bath; or laid waste to the castles of his enemies with a kin-worked siege engine. At that last thought, he decided that it might be best that such ambitious human physients were not given free reign.

  Osrith looked back at Symmlrey. She was hovering next to Two-Moons, confirming that he was not too seriously hurt. She looked about, taking in her environment with wide, wary eyes. This was far from her natural element. Two-Moons seemed nonplussed. Judging from his age and breadth of experience, that wasn’t surprising.

  Osrith nudged Vaujn and jerked his thumb back at the aulden. They exchanged a wry grin at about the same time the deep rumbling began. As they walked, the sound took on a physical presence, shaking the walls and the floor beneath their feet as the bone-jarring rhythm grew in speed and intensity. Two-Moons pitched forward and hit the ground, and Symmlrey was thrown against the wall, her breath shooting out of her lungs in a loud rush rendered silent by the deafening cacophony all about them. She slid down slowly, eyes wide, until she sat on the floor next to her shaken Guide. Kassakan stood with legs spread out and claws dug into the ceiling, her tail held out for added balance. Osrith and Vaujn rode out the rumblings with a loose, well-balanced stance.

  Then it was over, leaving only faint echoes of the mountain’s thunder to rattle in their ears. Osrith looked over again at Vaujn, who was now beaming with pride.

  “Well, thank you for that!” the kin chortled. “It’s not often we get to do that anymore out here!”

  “Don’t worry, you’ll probably be getting more chances than you’d want soon enough if Dieavaul has his way.” Osrith sighed. He felt safer with the comforting weight of the mountain above his head, his pain only a distant ache. “With any luck, we caught him by surprise. I’d love to have him buried out there for eternity and a day.”

  “Who’s Dieavaul?” asked Vaujn as they set off again, leaving the others to help themselves to their feet.

  Osrith considered a moment. The kin were not, as a people, overly fond of the supernatural. In fact, they had a downright mistrust for most magic not linked to their mountains. And although he didn’t want to panic them or raise their ire, it would be more dangerous for them if they didn’t know the truth. Still, he didn’t want the news coming from his lips.

  “Kassakan, you know your history. Tell Vaujn about Dieavaul.”

  “As you wish.” The lizard’s voice was soft, but reverberated in the passageway. Osrith knew she relished such opportunities to speak as much as he despised them. “He is called the Pale Man in legend, as were his predecessors. He is the wielder of what the humans call Deathbringer, a weapon forged from a piece of Ewanbheir’s twisted soul in his attempt to unmake reality hundreds of years ago. As such, the Pale Man can control and channel energies that would burn the life out of any mortal man and-”

  “Stop!” barked Vaujn, halting in his tracks and holding up his hand. He turned and looked up at Osrith with a disturbing glare. “This is a joke, right?”

  “No,” replied Osrith. “She could continue, but I suppose there’s no point. I’ll summarize. You would call him one of the Guhddan-kinne. He was the reason I came to the Deeps eight years ago, and the reason I’ve returned.”

  Osrith could see Vaujn’s jaw clenching even beneath his thick beard, and his black and gold eyes held no sign of amusement. “Well piss on my head! I don’t even want to know what you did to invoke the wrath of this whatever-he-is.”

  “I’m sorry for bringing my trouble under the mountain,” said Osrith, “but we had nowhere else to go.”

  Vaujn shook his head and pounded his fist on Osrith’s chest to accentuate his words. “No! Don’t be sorry! You are Shaddach Chi. It’s an honor to face death for you if that’s what it comes to.” He tugged on Osrith’s beard to emphasize his sincerity, then smiled ever so slightly. “But in case you’re curious, it’s this kind of mess that convinced us to cut off the surface world in the first place.”

  Osrith didn’t doubt it. Without further comment, they moved on.

  Osrith awoke from a dreamless sleep. He peered into the darkness around him, lit only by the purplish incandescence of the nightmoss that grew near the short arched doorway. He felt rested for the first time in months, his mind untroubled by Dieavaul’s ceaseless intrusions. The dreamstone still hung around his neck, cold and unnaturally weighty, but no longer burdensome. His companions lay sleeping around him. They all welcomed this respite.

  Osrith’s thoughts drifted for a moment back to the Hall of the High King and the life he had lived for those many years with Duragun and Härgrimn and the others of the Shaddach Chi. Their victories were just short of modern legend, their friendship as true as any he had known. Why then, was he here, in the midst of a mission for a foolish old seer? Why had he not left well enough alone and stayed where he belonged, beneath the earth with the kin?

  He didn’t know the answer to that question any better now than when King Ruuhigan had put it to him. He only remembered the immediate and certain desire he had felt to be Gai’s messenger. Perhaps it was practicality. In these times, the human world was not receptive to the fae, and any kin who accepted the charge would be unlikely to succeed. And old Fellhammer wasn’t about to let his good friend Gai’s request for aid go unanswered. The high king always repaid his debts and honored his alliances. So shouldn’t Osrith have been the natural choice? Still, his eagerness to take up the journey had surprised even him.

  No matter now, he told himself. He wasn’t the type to sit and endlessly muddle over the choices he had made. It was enough that he’d made them, and here he was. A fool on a fool’s errand. But hopefully, in the end, a rich fool.

  “Excuse me, sir.”

  Osrith turned to the voice of the kinsman who stood in the doorway, visible only from the tinge of the nightmoss light. “What?”

  “Captain Vaujn would like to brief you now.”

  Osrith slid from bed and slipped a pair of soft-soled boots onto his feet. He threw a plain tunic over his head and belted it. He rummaged through his pack for a moment and pulled out a pair of rounded spectacles. The rim was of kinsteel, and the lenses were a polished amethyst glass. He set the finely crafted glasses on the bridge of his nose, and the room around him jumped into view with the crispness and clarity of a sunlit day. One of Ruuhigan’s most treasured gifts, the magical spectacles gave him the unhindered eyesight of the kin in the dark.

  You’d be a fine and tempting target as the only member of my battle company with a torch, Old Ruh had said with a laugh. Osrith smiled at the memory.

  “Let’s go, then,” he said to the kinsman.

  It wasn’t far to the briefing hall. Vaujn had given them quarters in the reserve barracks just down the hall. With only a token complement left here in the outskirts of the Underkingdom, finding space for the unexpected visitors hadn’t been a concern. He had offered Osrith his own personal quarters, as any good kinsman would have done for one of the King’s Own. Osrith had turned him down. He’d have welcomed the softer bed and the privacy, but a small company stayed together. Eat, sleep, fight, die. Together. Old habits died hard.

  Vaujn waited inside the room, sitting alone at a table that could seat at least twenty, a stack of parchments spread out before him. He stood and motione
d to one of the empty seats beside him. “Sit. If matters are as urgent as you say, you’ll need to make up some time.”

  “The faster we reach Dwynleigsh the better, I say,” said Osrith, taking the offered seat. “What have you got there?”

  “Maps,” replied Vaujn, “lots of ‘em. I can get you there any number of ways. Depends on the risks you want to take in the process.”

  Osrith looked at the pile of papers, all marked with the faintly luminescent ink the kin manufactured from crushed nightmoss. Each had detailed routes planned out to a dark smudge with Duinlesh spelled out boldly beneath in the blocky, efficient letters of kinspeak. From other markings on the map, it was clear it had been drawn up at a time before Providayne was even a border province, let alone a sovereign realm. Most telling was the enormous size of the forests, complete with their ancient aulden names.

  “What do you suggest, Captain?”

  “I’d suggest you stay here, but I know that’s not about to happen. The surface is buried in snow, and most of the tunnels have been out of use for a couple of centuries – at least. Ktharn’s Gouge is probably serviceable, and Buingarr’s Passage is mostly clear.”

  “How long?” asked Osrith.

  “In surface reckoning, hmm, that’d be a halfmoon or more, if I had to guess – either way.”

  “Too long. What else?”

  Vaujn was tapping a quill pen against his nose, inadvertently leaving a luminescent indigo dot behind. He pulled a map from the bottom of the pile and shoved it in front of Osrith. “That’s the quickest way. I don’t recommend it, but if you’re in that much of a damned rush….”

  Osrith read the ancient script at the bottom of the map. “Mordigul’s Plunge. Why does that sound familiar?”

  Vaujn got up and walked to a sideboard at the far end of the room. He poured two drinks from a stone jar and returned, setting one in front of Osrith. The strong hops scent sang to Osrith’s nose, and he took a deep drink of the rich ale. None could compete with the underkin when it came to the art of brewing. Of that, there was no dispute.