by Welcome Cole
When they finally reached the end of that vile room, Beam fell into the wall and buried his face in his arms. He felt violated and sick. He willed himself to wake up, to wake up now! He told himself this was only a dream! It was only a miserable nightmare brought on by that wretched rabbit he’d eaten back in the cave! Nothing so vile as this could possibly be real!
This is no dream, Be’ahm.
Beam slapped the wall, but didn’t pull his face away. “Get me out of my head! And get me the hell out of here! Do you hear me, Prave? You get me the bloody hell out of here now!”
The ground shifted. Beam felt the sensation of falling. When he opened his eyes, he was back in the street again. He lowered his arm and drew a trembling breath. He spit into the dirt and dragged a sleeve over his mouth. Then he turned to face Prave full on.
“I will never forgive you for that. Do you hear me? I will never forgive you. You are one depraved son of a bitch!”
“You needed to—”
“Remember! Yeah, I got that! Damn you, Prave! No one should have to face a horror like that! What is wrong with you? A description isn’t enough? You couldn’t have just told me? You had to drag me through that… that hell?”
Prave only stood there in silence, watching Beam from those darkening eyes. There was so much sorrow in his gaze, so much regret and guilt. The man was fading even faster than before. For just an instant, Beam considered that the mage’s changes might mean his miserable journey was nearly at an end. But even as the thought took wings, he felt a sour pang of guilt for it. Dream or not, the wretched truth was he’d grown deeply attached to the man.
Finally, he surrendered to the futility of his anger and the sorry truth of his affection. “All right, Prave,” he whispered, “All right, I surrender. I can’t take any more of this. What tidbit of knowledge do you want me to take from that unsavory encounter? I’m too tired and disgusted to figure it out myself.”
“In the beginning, there were only the Faen,” the old Prave said with great deliberation, “There were no other races on all of Calevia. There were only the early peoples you now think of as Vaemyn.”
“Only the Vaemyn?”
Prave watched him in silence.
“What about the others? The Baeldons? The Mendophians and Parhronii? Where did the rest of us come from? Did the rest of us land with the God Caeyl?”
“You’re closer to the mark than you realize. Earlier, you asked about the off-colored caeyls. When I indicated that their demise was a fortunate event, you expressed surprise.”
“Well, of course I was surprised. Doesn’t make sense for a caeyl mage to be happy at the loss of caeyls. It’s like a fish celebrating the pond drying up.”
Prave scowled at that.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by that. Truth is I thought there’d always only been the three caeyls.”
“There were more than that in the beginning. Hundreds, even thousands of unique caeyls. And each colored caeyl possessed a different attribute.”
Beam glanced back at the asylum looming behind him. The image of the misshapen terrors lurking beyond those doors seized him like a winter chill. And with that, he suddenly understood. “Not necessarily helpful attributes,” he said, turning back to Prave.
“You are exactly correct. The energy of the most troublesome caeyls died out relatively quickly. Few lasted over the span of a few decades. Sadly, before they devolved, they caused grave mutations in those who handled them extensively. And you must know that many, many people handled them extensively.”
Beam looked around at the passersby. He realized that nearly everyone sported some version of a caeyl. Necklaces, horn rings, broaches, walking sticks, wands, they were everywhere and in dozens of colors.
“Our people saw what the Blood, Water, and Fire Caeyls did for the seers and healers,” Prave whispered, “Soon, everyone wanted the power. The populace horded the caeyls. Many had them sewn into their skin in the belief that they, too, could harness their powers. In the end, all who embraced this misbelief paid miserably for it. Some changed very slowly, over years and even decades. Others changed with alarming speed. Most of the worst mutations died early on. The more unfortunate ones lived for a time with their changes. The very worst ended up like those pitiful creatures you witnessed inside, unable to live and unwilling to die.”
Beam thought about Gael’vra’s changes. He remembered the lack of oteuryns on a man Prave had insisted was Vaemysh. “You said Gael’vra was a Vaemyn,” he said, “But he has no horns now. He’s one of those mutating, isn’t he?”
“Ay’a,” Prave said solemnly, “He allowed himself too much exposure to the fouled caeyls.”
“Why in the Nine would he do that? He knew they were bad, right? He knew that the primary three were the only safe caeyls, didn’t he?”
“In the beginning, his actions were selfless and self-sacrificing. He loathed the anguish his people endured because of the foul caeyls, and he was desperate for a means to reverse the horrid mutations. He dedicated himself to that cause, just as we all did. But for Paex, it’d become far more personal. His wife and daughter died from exposure to the caeyls, and the grief of their loss nearly killed him. In the end, it drove him toward recklessness with his experimentation. He was determined to find a treatment to save the others, and he believed that cure lay in the original source of their torment, in the off-colored caeyls.”
“He’s bigger than he was back at the crater,” Beam said, “And he’s lost his horns. He looks something like a Baeldon now.”
“A perfect observation, my boy. That was one of the few endurable changes induced by the caeyls.”
“Endurable changes?”
“Some mutations occurred more commonly through the people. Some left their victims altered, but still healthy and functional. These were able to live fairly normal lives, save for the fact they were no longer Faen. In time, their numbers became more common. They tried to integrate normally into our societies, but our people had no experience with other races, let alone living among what appeared to be abominations. Our suspicion of these new creatures grew into outright mistrust and fear. The Faen became chauvinistic toward these new people. They ostracized them. Some were even murdered.”
Beam shook his head. “Then nothing much has changed since those early days, has it?”
“These new people were forced to band together to survive. They gradually migrated, grouping with others who experienced similar metamorphoses. Together, these similarly mutated people ventured out into the world and formed tribes of their own kinds. In time, they found a sense of normalcy. They married within their groups. They bred among themselves. They ultimately perpetuated their mutations. These cast-out tribes became the new races.”
Beam just stared at him. It was too much to absorb. “Prave, I swear to Calina, this had better not be another trick!”
“There is no trick, Be’ahm,” Prave said seriously, “The Parhronii, the Baeldons, the Mendophs, the Pendts, the Watchers all arose from these mutant clans. Even the Morv’grel Vox evolved from the Faen.”
“The blood drinkers?”
“You think that so strange? Why would you expect that all the survivable mutations would be benevolent? Even shimlins and a few other humanoid-like wild creatures arose from those early mutations. The tribes that formed from the functional transformations shared distinct attributes. From the Baeldons with their incredible size to the Watchers and their telesthesia, each was unique, each blessed with new attributes and cursed by the loss of their oteuryns and their sense of identity.”
The memories of the infirmary again rushed into Beam’s head. The misplaced eyes, the second face, the writhing tentacles, it was all too unbearable. He grabbed his brow and forced the images away.
“I’m still not sure why you’re showing me this,” he whispered as he rubbed the fatigue from his eyes, “Why subject me to this woe? It was a hundred centuries before I was even born, for Calina’s sake!”
�
�I show you because this is the beginning. Because you need to remember the truth about the caeyls so you can understand the world that follows.”
“You couldn’t just tell me the truth? You’ve sure as hell had enough time to do it. How bloody long have we been locked away in this miserable timescape now! Years? A decade? A century? You thought it more humane to expose me to… to that?” He waved at the dour building.
“You weren’t ready before this.”
“Well, I’m sure as the Nine not ready now! Good gods, Prave! How in the hell could anyone be ready for what was in that cursed building? Damn you to hell, I may never sleep soundly again!”
“Why such revulsion? You know the end result. The mutated races thrive over time. In fact, they eventually dominate the Faen, don’t they? In time, they ally together and collectively rule the world! So please, tell me, Be’ahm… what is there to revile about them?”
Beam dragged a hand down his face. The images from the infirmary burned in his mind like a fresh brand. He doubted he could ever forgive the man for exposing him to such wretched corruption unprepared, the lesson behind it be damned. He needed no such punishment to learn that all races evolved from one; he knew from his education at the Priory that some theories to that effect were studied in scholarly circles in modern times. In truth, he would easily have taken the man’s word for it and been less insulted for the omission of this horror.
Yet, in the end, he knew his anger would serve no greater purpose than to simply wear him down. There was nothing more to say. It was done, and he’d spend the rest of his life trying to forget what he’d seen in this horrible place. Complaint was a useless effort.
“Are we done here?” he whispered to Prave.
“No, my boy. There is one more thing I must show you.”
“Well, of course, there is. This day hasn’t been effectively enough ruined yet, has it?”
XIII
THE WATCHERS
FRISS WEDGED HERSELF TIGHTLY BACK INTO THE DARK CORNER.
She’d entered the grand hall through the main doors perfectly undetected, sauntering past the guards stationed there as easily as picking the purse of a blind man. Now she loitered at her leisure amongst the rich shadows of the banquet room, in perfect position for a relaxed evening’s eavesdropping. And for executing such a laudable exhibition of stealth, she was completely and reasonably pleased with herself.
Still again, the sorry truth was that skill didn’t matter overmuch in this fool’s neighborhood. One needn’t be a Watcher or possess her psychic mindblades to sneak up on quarter-wit guards employed by a half-wit king. Why, the very heart and spleen of the Vaemysh army could be standing right yonder in empty doorway and these imbeciles would take no notice until the wine cask ran dry and they be forced to make a courageous march to the cellar to restock.
She quickly chastised herself for enjoying such merriment at the expense of the dimwitted. It wasn’t the way of Calina, was it? Nay, charity was the way of the Lords, and she truly needed to make a finer effort at showing some herself.
The great hall stood tall and deep, and was dark as grief, comparing more favorably to a grain bunker than a royal chamber. Moth ravaged tapestries sagged from the high walls. Neglected portraits of long dead patrons moped above the cavernous fireplace, their faces moldering beneath decades of soot, mold, and regret. The long banquet table squatting alongside that most ambitious fire was a battlefield, strewn with battered platters of meat, abused pitchers of wine, and time-wearied candlesticks. Dozens of chairs lined both sides of the long table, each seat filled with a pile of drunken flesh, the ragged collection of guttersops posing as the King’s Guard. It was the same vile exhibition of sloth and excess she stomached with every visit to Palace Tumbledown.
Nonetheless, she was immensely pleased to note that the night hadn’t fully deprived her of surprises. A Baeldonian military ghanter paced a rut in the planks between yon fireplace and the long banquet table running alongside it. And judging by the storm cloud following the mountain, this wretched little kingdom was about the last place on Calevia he prayed to spend his evening. Worried hands wrestled tellingly behind him as he paced. Clearly, matters of great importance consumed this one, and he had no attention left to spare for the raucous foolery of the table.
Friss watched him with keen interest. The Baeldons had intrigued her since she’d first abandoned her mother’s tit, though she couldn’t say if it was due to their shocking size or the grace and speed they possessed in spite of it. A most impressive race they were, not easily goaded into anger but unrelenting once so driven. They were a people much worthy of admiration.
This specific god pacing the floorboards before the fire was particularly admirable. He still wore his dusty field armor, heavy leathers, and tall, fortified boots, and he was obviously wretchedly uncomfortable for it. Each step pitched a metallic tinkle from his under-mail that whispered back from the dank gray walls like water dripping in a cavern. His great seconds sat at the table alongside him, towering over the lout-ridden King’s slovenly soldiers peppered among them.
“Grab yourself a bite to eat, dear Ghant’r!” a wheezy voice yowled from the table, “It’ll be a hellish stretch before you’ll be seeing another spread as dear as this one! As Calina is my Lord and salvation, it will!”
The Baeldon stopped pacing and yielded to the voice, though judging by the grim vapors possessing his great face, he was nothing like happy for the interruption. The light of the flames roaring behind him ignited the torrid red hair of his beard and head like Calina’s own halo. The image sent Friss’s heart into a spin.
Even from clear across the banquet hall, she was certain he stood in at (praise Calina!) nine and a half feet. More than that, he was wonderfully burdened with muscle. He was a warrior god, an idol of fire and wrath and passion. Why, he was the very image of the ancient war god Balga Yow’dt himself, and she felt giddy as a schoolchild just watching him.
In dour contrast, however, the man with the gall to interrupt this warrior-god’s thoughts was a frumpy, obese old codger with an unruly shock of white hair screeching from beneath his tarnished crown, and a shredded mess of a beard that was a logjam of fallen food. The tattered remnants of his once fine clothes were so thoroughly streaked with food and grease, she doubted they’d be good enough to farm in. He appeared more likely to be begging food outside the castle than ruling from the inside.
The dumpy King waved the Baeldon toward the table with a rib of meat. “Come here and eat something before I finish the lot of it, hey? Lords help me, I’m certainly up to the task!” His motley excuse for guards broke into dutiful laughter.
Friss pondered how it must gall this splendid Baeldonian Ghanter to see this miserable excuse for a man squatting in yon royal chair. This halfwit king and his kin owed fealty to the Baeldons. He and his inbred family had governed the neighboring lands in and about Graewind Castle these past dozen decades only by the good grace of the Baeldons, who owned the estate and the lands surrounding it. This old miser was merely a steward of the lands, and a damned sorry one about it. The once grand castle was slowly sinking into ruin, and its people were amongst the poorest in the region. Called Tortock, he was mocked as King TickTock due to the tedium of his endless blather.
Tortock slammed the table with his fist, bellowing, “Damn me to hell, man! Come have a drink with me. I command it, by gods! I’ll not be left to drink in this miserable company alone, I swear I won’t.”
“You’ve done well enough without me thus far, sire,” the beautiful Baeldon growled back, “By your leave, I believe I’ll continue with my thoughts.” With that, he resumed his pacing.
The old King watched the Baeldon with no hint of amusement in his rheumy eyes. Finally, he smeared his dirty mouth across a dirtier sleeve and turned back to his wine.
“I apologize for the lack of proper reception for your illustrious horse soldiers,” he hollered as he picked the last of the greasy meat from his boar’s rib, “We were caught off g
uard by your arrival. But, fear not! Tomorrow the townsfolk will throw a festival the likes of which this kingdom hasn’t seen in generations. By the gods almighty, your infantry will receive a welcome that’ll bless them the rest of their lives.”
The Ghanter again stopped pacing, again with obvious reluctance. “With due respect, sire,” he said carefully, “When my infantry arrive tomorrow, they’ll be in need of rest. There will be no celebration.”
“No celebration?” the King shrieked, “Why, I’ll simply not hear of it! It’s been nigh on fifty years since King Saulbrit’s Royal Army last visited our humble kingdom. Just a youth he was at the time, too. Protocol demands my people show their appreciation for our benefactors and good friends to the north.”
A smart man would read the writing on the Baeldon’s glowering face. Tortock appeared not to notice. The four Baeldonian soldiers sitting at attention around the long banquet table did.
The King again harrumphed, and returned to his food. “Well, it’s a wasted trip anyway, isn’t it? The hills have been dull to the point of tears of late. Dull as a dead man’s sermon, I tell you! Why, it’s all I can do to find chores enough to keep my Forelord occupied and his men in fighting condition.”
Friss choked back a laugh. The Forelord was a fat, stupid fellow who couldn’t reckon his way out of a ditch without a young lady’s bared ass as bait.
The Baeldon sent a stern look at the Forelord sitting at the end of the long table opposite the King. It was obvious to Friss that she and the good Ghanter shared the same summation of the laggard.
“Fighting condition,” the Ghanter said, “And yet you claim to have found no evidence of Vaemysh activity in the area. Even when the locals have seen enough of it to petition my King directly!”