by Welcome Cole
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Sure you do. That there’s a Water Caeyl boil.”
Mawby’s stomach twisted.
“Funny thing about that. Not many blue caeyl mages in the area. Appears we’ve got us a common friend. Reckon it’s a small world, eh?”
“If you treated me just to keep me alive for questioning, you wasted your time. You should’ve just let me die out there on that hill, because I’m not saying a word. Not to you, not to any stinking Baeldon.”
The Baeldon let slip a snort. “Khe’naeg’s balls,” he said, shaking his head, “Looks like you’ve got it all figured out, then, yea? Truth is I only treated you because I’m a healer. But if it’d serve your honor better, I can always strip the dressing off and rub shit back in the wound.”
Mawby twisted against the ropes, which only made the pressure in his head surge. The mud covering his oteuryns was irritating as hell. He shook his head again.
“Apologies for the clay on your horns. Got to protect myself. Reckon you’ll understand that.”
Mawby looked up at him. The mountain was miles thinner than most of his kind, almost svelte, actually. It made him look kind of sickly. Then he put it all together. “You’re a runner. Isn’t that right? A foot scout?”
The Baeldon nodded. “Yea, it’s the truth, though I ain’t much fond of the term scout. And you’re a tracker.” With that, he laughed and shook his head.
“Something funny?” Mawby asked.
“After a fashion, I reckon. We’re on opposing teams, but kindred disciplines.” The mountain swiped a hand back over his bald crown. “You don’t see no irony in that?”
The hairless scalp intrigued Mawby. It went completely against all he knew about the mountains. The few other runners he’d ever encountered wore their hair long and in mops of braids like a nest of snakes. There were a few fresh nicks on his crown, indicating he’d only shaved it recently.
“Never seen a bald Baeldon before,” he said.
The runner again ran a hand back over his head. He looked over at the freshly turned dirt, but didn’t linger there. “Ain’t usually this way,” he said carefully, “It’s an act of respect among my kind. It’s how we honor the newly dead.”
Mawby understood that by ‘my kind’ he meant runners, not Baeldons in general. The dirt patch on the other side of the tree was a grave. “The Prodes,” he said, looking back at the runner, “They killed a friend of yours.”
The man nodded.
Mawby understood the runner was steadying himself. The pained shadow of grief clearly simmered just behind his large eyes. Whoever lay in that grave over there must’ve been close.
“You have my respects,” Mawby said, not knowing the Baeldon custom for such a thing, “No warrior should die that way.”
“You’ve a grave of your own out there.” The runner nodded back toward the dripline behind him. “On that next hill. Prodes had a bit of a party with him. You wouldn’t have liked it much.”
The memories of that event swept in like an attack. The Blood Caeyl. He’d lost the Blood Caeyl. Despair soured his gut. He should’ve just died out there in the grass with Maeryc. Maybe then, he’d have at least left his world with some scrap of honor.
“Who was he?”
Mawby looked out past the great tree’s low hanging drip line. The indicated hilltop simmered under the summer sun in a mellow amber glow. For all the despair it represented, it looked almost pretty. “He was…” Mawby shook his head. “Doesn’t matter.”
“You were tracking him. Was he a renegade? He was dressed like a warrior.”
“I said it doesn’t matter.”
The Baeldon shrugged. “As you will.”
They sat there for a time, face to face in their mutual silence.
Mawby didn’t know what to make of the mountain. He didn’t seem overtly malicious. He showed no anger or obvious hostility. In fact, it’d been little more than a friendly chat since he woke up. Except for the ropes digging into his ribs, they might’ve just been sharing camp. It had to be some kind of ploy, a trick to sow complacency and false trust.
“Seems I find myself in a bit of an awkward position,” the runner said abruptly.
It was the single most surreal statement Mawby had ever heard, delivered as casually as a morning greeting, but with all the kick of a threat to kith and kin.
“What’s awkward about it? I’m your prisoner. You’ll either kill me or steal me back to your leaders, then they’ll kill me. Seems fairly cut and dried.”
The Baeldon didn’t respond. His huge eyes focused intensely on Mawby. There was a sense of hard determination in them, like he struggled with a question he wasn’t sure he wanted answered.
“What are you staring at?” Mawby said sharply, “You got something to say, just say it, for the love of gods.”
The runner slowly reached a fist the size of a melon out toward Mawby. Mawby recoiled back as far as the tree allowed, but the hand stopped harmlessly a few inches short of his face. Then it twisted upward and slowly unfurled. A gold chain spilled from his palm, sifting between his fingers. Dangling from end of the chain was a round, golden pendant.
The sight sent Mawby’s already dour spirits spiraling. It was his. The runner had taken it from him while he was out.
“I’d say that there’s a most interesting piece of jewelry,” the runner said matter-of-factly.
Mawby watched the pendant swaying lazily at the end of its chain just inches from his face. The gold was dulled and tired with age. Etched into the cover was the image of an ancient tree not much different from the one he now sat under. This was the single most valuable thing he owned. Seeing it in that foreign hand sent his heart pounding.
“Had this long, have you?” the runner asked.
“What do you care?”
The runner shrugged. “Curious, I reckon. It’s in a sorry state of dirty. Must be old, yea?”
“It’s a family heirloom. You won’t get much for it.”
“Calina’s tits!” the mountain said, laughing like he meant it, “Do I look that desperate? Besides, I’d throw down a month’s wages that its value goes a mite past the weight of its gold.”
Mawby looked out into the plains. He forced himself to breathe.
The runner continued swinging the pendant back and forth before Mawby’s face. “Where’d you come across this?”
“My father gave it to me on his deathbed. His father gave it to him before that. Been that way for generations.”
“Ah, a regular family tradition. That’s sweet.”
Mawby scowled.
“Seems like a hell of a lot of trouble for a worthless piece of metal.” The mountain reeled the chain in and held the pendant between his thick fingers. “Or is it worthless? Mayhaps it has some secret value, something you just ain’t overly keen to speak on. What do you think?”
“I told you, you won’t—”
“Get much for it. Yea, I heard you the first time.”
This conversation was taking a desperate turn. If the bastard was going to keep it, what benefit could he get from taunting Mawby with it first? Why didn’t he just take it and go?
“I asked you a question,” the man said seriously, “Where’d you get it?”
“What’re you so worked up with it for?” Mawby said, looking up at him, “You have some kind of fetish for jewelry or what? It’s worthless.”
“Worthless again.” The runner held the pendant up before his eye like an eclipsing moon. He grinned through it at Mawby. “Reckon I’m inclined to doubt that.” Then, without breaking gaze with him, he took it in both hands and gave it a gentle twist. The pendant clucked softly. The top popped open.
A hole opened in Mawby’s gut. The situation was rapidly growing worse than he could have ever feared.
“What’s this, then?” the runner said with clearly feigned surprise, “Why, just look at that, will you? It’s not so much a pendant after all, is it? In fact, it looks m
ore like it may be a secret locket.”
Mawby twisted against his restraints. “Put it down! It’s no good to you.”
“Well, ain’t that queer?” The man turned the open locket toward Mawby. “Just look at that there, will you? You probably didn’t even know this was under here.”
Mawby knew exactly what was beneath that dulled gold lid: four delicately cast golden birds set like petals around an elongated eye. The sight of that precious locket held in the hands of someone so far outside the family fed his anger. “That’s not for the eyes of strangers,” he demanded, “Show some respect and close it.”
The humor washed out of the runner’s face. “You’re right,” he said carefully, “I’d say this is definitely not for foreign eyes. Still, it inspires my curiosity.”
“I told you, it’s a family heirloom.”
“That’s what you said. So why do I have the strangest feeling there’s a secret hidden inside here somewhere?”
“There’s no damned secret. Why the hell do you care about my jewelry, anyway?”
“I don’t know… but my intuition is generally spot on. Just makes me wonder, I reckon.”
“Look, if you’re going to kill me, then kill me. But as men of kindred trades, as tracker to runner, I’m asking you to honor me by burying it with me.”
The Baeldon grinned at that. “Don’t reckon I’ll be killing you anytime soon.”
Mawby saw something in the man’s huge eyes, some knowing glimmer that told him this wasn’t likely to end well regardless of what he did or didn’t say. The mountain might not be doing any killing, but he could easily do worse.
“You’ll waste your time torturing me,” he said determinedly, “No way you’ll make me talk. Not now, not ever.”
“Of that, I have no doubt,” the runner said as he produced a long, thin knife.
Mawby wrestled against the binds again. “There’s no secret! It’s just a pendant.” The words arrived louder than he’d intended, and he cursed himself for it.
The runner stared at him for a long, uncomfortable moment as he playfully flipped the wood-handled knife in his hand “No secret,” he said as he continued tossing the knife, “Interesting. Well, mayhaps you can explain this then?” Holding the open locket against his palm, he applied the thin blade tip to a slot in the middle of the eye.
“What are you doing? You’ll break it, you ox!”
The eye in the locket recessed into the metal under the steady pressure of the Baeldon’s knife. A faint click resounded and each quarter of the face beneath each of the four birds flipped open like tiny portals. The surface beneath was black as night and etched with a circle of tiny runes.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” the mountain said, grinning at him, “How about that? What do you make of this?”
Mawby sawed his wrists against the ropes hoping to spur enough blood to lubricate them. Maybe if they were wet enough he could slide his hands free. If the Baeldon understood what that pendant signified, he was a dead man for certain.
The runner stabbed the knife into the dirt between them. “The more you struggle against the knots, the worse it’ll go for you. You’re a tracker, I shouldn’t have to tell you that.”
The Baeldon was right. Mawby felt like an idiot for even having tried. He was just making himself a fool in front of the enemy. He threw his head back against the tree and sighed. “All right, you son of a bitch. What the hell do you want?”
“I want you tell to me what this means.” The man still held the unlocked pendant tirelessly before Mawby.
“You seem to know so much,” Mawby said, carefully, “How about you tell me? Tell me what you think they are and maybe I’ll nod or wink or shrug if you get close. It’ll be like a game. Baeldons play games, don’t they?”
“Or,” the runner said, pressing a cold stare into Mawby, “Mayhaps I should just slit your throat and wash my hands of the inconvenience.”
“Ay’a, I think you most definitely should.”
The runner fell silent. He squatted there before Mawby forever, breaking their gaze only occasionally to study the open locket. He was clearly a man with the patience of Calina.
Finally, he seemed to relax a bit, and as he did, a knowing grin spread across his wide face. “All right,” he said with obvious care, “Since you feel so obliged to profess ignorance, I’ll tell you exactly what this means.”
“Profess ignorance? Is that what you think?”
The Baeldon shifted forward, settling on both knees before sitting back on his ankles. “It’s what I know. I’ve seen these symbols before. There ain’t many alive today who can read them, but I can.”
Mawby’s heart raced so hard, he felt lightheaded. “Is that right?”
“That is indeed right. These symbols here form a secret message.”
“A secret message?” Mawby faked a laugh. “You’re soft in the head.”
The runner held the pendant up into a rogue streamer of sunlight, then squinted at it for a moment. “Ain’t so easy as it used to be. Reading letters so small. The price of living too well, I reckon.” He threw Mawby a half grin that smelled of embarrassment. Then he turned back to the pendant, held it a few inches further out and read:
“Vigilance. No greater honor can be found than to protect the flock from the weakness of the shepherd.”
Mawby suddenly felt like he was falling.
The runner lowered the pendant and looked hard at Mawby. “Lamys te’Faht.”
Mawby’s stomach lurched. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“Well, allow me to clear it up for you, then. This pendant is a kind of symbol, a token of passage, I reckon. Means you ain’t just some savage out trespassing in the Baeldonian plains. Means you’re an Eye of the Faithful, just as your father was before you and his father before him, and on and on for dozens of generations. Feel free to nod or wink or shrug if I’m getting close.”
Mawby could only look at the mountain and pray his heartbeat didn’t break any ribs.
“Shall I continue?”
“You can do whatever the hell you want,” Mawby whispered, “You’re the jailor.”
“All right, then. What this means is that you’re a kind of guardian, one of a long line of cleric knights who’ve watched and waited since the Divinic War a thousand odd years ago. If I take the message right, it means you’re charged with watching your own rulers for the time when the darkness returns. No big surprise there, considering the whole affair started with your kind.”
Mawby couldn’t believe what he was hearing. How could a Baeldon possibly know this? It was the most deeply entrenched secret in the Vaemysh culture. Precious few of his own people even knew of the order.
The runner pulled his knife out of the ground and swiped the rich dirt off on his black breeches. “So tell me, did I get any of it wrong?”
Mawby watched the knife tip waving back and forth before him. It was as long as a small sword. “Why ask me this?” he said carefully, “Doesn’t much matter what the hell I say. If I can’t persuade you you’re wrong, and I’m pretty sure I can’t, then I’m a dead man anyway.”
“And if you can?”
“If I can what?”
“Persuade me.”
This time, Mawby laughed. “Well, then I suspect I’m still a dead man.”
“Mayhaps. Mayhaps not.” Then the runner slowly raised a massive fist and held it before Mawby. It hovered there, just inches from his eyes, suspended on an arm that was longer and thicker than most Vaemyn’s legs.
The fist was so close to his face, Mawby could barely bring it into focus. “What is this?” he asked impatiently, “Am I supposed to understand this gesture?”
“Look at my ring.”
Mawby hesitated a moment, but then did as the man ordered. The worn face of the ring was a bit larger than his pendant. The gold was similarly dirty, and engraved with the image of a mountain. The details
weren’t especially clear at such range. It appeared he shared the same affliction of failing near-vision with the mountain.
“Very pretty,” Mawby said, “Make that yourself, did you?”
The runner pulled his fist back and manipulated the ring until a click resounded. Then the ring face flipped open, and in a moment that was as short as a breath and as long as winter, Mawby knew exactly what he was looking at.
Hidden beneath the ring’s decorative case was the image of an elongated eye exactly like his pendant. The only difference was that replacing the four birds were a sun at the north point, a moon at the south, and two stars flanking east and west. It was delicate and beautiful, and utterly impossible!
The runner pressed the knife tip into the slot in the eye exactly as he’d done with Mawby’s pendant, and just as with the pendant, the ring clucked and the quarters with the celestial objects sprang open. He turned the ring toward Mawby. “Look at it,” he said, “Look at it closely.”
Mawby did as instructed. He immediately wished he hadn’t. Behind the open portals were tiny runes, runes that had no place on a piece of Baeldonian jewelry. He’d heard the stories of other orders in other countries, but he and most of his brethren wrote them off as fe’h tyr, wishful dreams.
“Read it,” the Baeldon said.
Mawby looked up at him.
“Read it. I know you understand the runes. Read it out loud.”
Mawby’s mouth was drier than he ever remembered. He felt both terrified and exhilarated. He turned his attention to the ring. The runes looked to be engraved by the same hand as his pendant.
“Read it.”
“It’s too close,” he whispered.
The mountain withdrew the fist a couple inches. “Read it.”
Mawby studied it for a few moments, and then he read:
“Vision. The insight to…”
His breath locked in his chest. He looked up into the Baeldon’s huge eyes, eyes studying him so intently that he felt their purpose as plainly as the heat of a fire.
“Read it,” the Baeldon whispered.
Mawby wanted to resist, wanted to tell the bastard to go to hell. Instead, he turned back to the ring and did exactly as he was told.