by Sean Heslin
Well, that’s the thing, exuded Ihjundas, I don’t know what they need, it was all on the memo.
“Oh, bureaucracy. That could perhaps be a problem.” Grinwalder mulled, then smiled cheerfully. “Let's all just go and poke about a bit anyway, see what catches your eye. We can sort out the…” Grinwalder shuddered, his vestigial wings flapping in agitation “…paperwork later. Ok?”
Fine, nodded Ihjundas. As long as I never have to see any of it.
Chapter 11
“Come see the world-famous Chasm of the Damned! More impressive than the Landsunder Range! Greater majesty than The Forgotten Abyss of Prall! The most exciting natural gorge this side of the Kinhest Mountains! (easy to find just off the Lingrit road. Bring the family! Have a great day! No parking.)”
- Chasm of the Damned Tourism Board, 4100 C.M.
A bloodcurdling yell rent the air, as the heavy sword ripped through flesh, sinew and bone, cleaving its way through untold masses of growling warriors. One misplaced blow, one unblocked thrust and a fight for victory could easily turn into a fight for life. In a temporary break in the fighting, a hand wipes sweat from bloodstained brow, before plunging back into the fray with renewed vigour. The uncanny speed and agility of the sword-bearer perplexes the attackers, but many grinned to see their foe slow and falter as tiredness and muscle ache set in.
Soon they knew the head of this pathetic creature would be ripped from its shoulders and carried away in the weak water streams already polluted by the fallen. Soon they knew, the tables would turn and the one who had slain so many of their number would be impaled on a stained blade.
Hack, parry, thrust, slash. The battle was unending, bodies piled up higher than the head of a man, and the scavengers of the battlefield knew they would feed well this night. Already a dark cloud of scavenger birds and little chittering skrit had gathered, anticipating the feast to come. Something howled in the distance, eerily mingling with the sound of clashing metal and the cries of the dying. Feral animals skirted the edge of the field, licking their slavering chops as they waited for the last to fall, the last to die.
And they waited as the bodies crashed to the ground. And they waited as limbs were severed.
And they waited while men were dismembered by the score.
And they waited through the death of dozens of souls.
And they waited, and they waited, and they waited.
A statement of truth rose in the collective minds of those watching.
The lone warrior was not easy prey.
Death. Near endless death.
Then, finally, eventually, the killing was over. Only one person was left in the centre of the field, sword nosing about for a target, panting for breath, blood and sweat dripping off in slews of viscous fluid. Then, seeing no target remaining, a grunt and a stretch, then to falling over slowly, taking care to pillow their head on a nearby liberated stomach.
A minute or so passed, then one of the wild eight-legged rodents known as a kiti came sniffing around the recumbent form of the survivor. There was a deep sigh, and a hand rose and swatted the side of the kiti's head. It ran away yelping. The form sat up, glanced about momentarily and then proceeded to methodically wipe down meagre armour and mighty sword, after first carefully removing their still tightly clenched fist from the numbed grip around it. Tradition needed to be observed before priority.
Next, wincing, a needle and thread was produced, and most of the major wounds were forced shut. The number of scars on the bare flesh showed that this was something the victor had had to do far too often. By now the nearby stream had cleared and the reddish tinge had left it. Lumbering over to the cool water, the warrior washed away the rest of the dirt and encrusted blood from skin and clothes. Limping and grunting, a few items strewn about this former battlefield at the bottom of an immense gorge were collected and stowed in a leather haversack, before walking a little distance away to a grass-covered knoll, where they fell over again. Watching the scavengers doing what they must to survive, the figure lay back on the slope and rested.
A time long enough for healing, but miraculously and mercifully swift, passed. A few moments more of wincing while the temporary stitches were removed and cast aside. Arms and legs were flexed and tested, then a deep, heart-rending sigh. Then, the process of pulling up onto unsteady feet, adjusting clothing, shouldering the pack, sheathing the sword, and cricking of joints, the warrior was ready once more to travel and slowly began the arduous and time-consuming task of climbing out of that well-bloodied, bloody chasm.
Chapter 12
“I fully support gargoyle rights! They are a valuable people!”
- Chairman of the board for the Etheric Blood Service, 2534 C.M.
Twelve minutes after leaving the tiny office in the corner of the vast warehouse, the group were lost and Grinwalder had to work his way back to the little cabin room to get a map before Perci caused something to explode. Despite periodic warnings, the errant knight insisted in prodding intriguing items, making them wobble alarmingly. Another six and a half minutes after the gargoyles return found them in the “Q-E-N” section, which they were duly informed translated as “Quest equipment (Non-standard)”. These groaning supports took up the floor area of a moderately sized house.
“This is one of the more general sections,” explained Grinwalder. “It contains pretty much anything you might or might not need. Be careful though of the things in lead, glass, crystal or double thickness vacuum-sealed plexiglass cases, as they can be pretty dangerous if mistreated. Or looked at funny. Fill a basket for a bit while I go fetch some bags. Why they have to be in the bloody B section at all the way at the other bloody end of the sodding...” The eight-foot gargoyle trotted off in a cloud of irritated mutterings, leaving them to their own devices. And gadgets. And doodads. And wotsits. And thingimibobbies. And for some reason a crate of crackers and cheese.
Well, motioned Ihjundas, Dig in then you two. We haven't got all decade you know.
“Where are we supposed to start exactly?” Rancha indicated the towering pile “It will take forever unless we know what we are supposed to be looking for. Maybe if I had more clues as to what the quest actually is..?”
Ihjundas smiled briefly at the poor attempt to winkle out more information.
Try starting with the basics like tents and things and pick up anything else that you happen to fancy, he suggested, We can pile it all up over here while we are waiting for Grinwalder to get back.
“And that’s another thing I've been meaning to ask,” Rancha said, “I didn’t know you had any gargoyles working here. Weird that I have not met him before.”
Well, we don’t like to discriminate, at least not actively, emoted Ihjundas, But Grinwalder has been here longer than any of us. Practically came with the grounds. He claims he wasn’t always a gargoyle, but you know how it is.
Rancha nodded mournfully. “I know exactly how it is. My mother’s mother once told me that...”
Ihjundas rolled his eyes. Save your political speech, I already support urglon rights. And I’ve met your mothers mother.
Rancha frowned and turned his attention back to sifting through the piles for anything useful. He mused on how similar urglons and gargoyles were in the public eye. Officially urglons were a Created species and gargoyles had most likely evolved in the usual multi-millennia-long way, but there was a fundamental doubt in the arguments of many naysayers. Gargoyles had a distinctly designed aspect to them, though admittedly by a really bad designer.
Grinwalder was a classic example. Despite his colossal height, he walked with a stoop most of the time, probably as a way of trying to fit in. This echoed terribly with the habits of many less forward-thinking examples of urglons that Rancha had met over the years, who had developed all kinds of nervous habits to stop themselves doing something untoward. Grinwealder even seemed to have regular chisel pedicures, as normally the species tended to take chunks out of the floor when they walked on their mega-scary talons.
While urglons were scaly and relatively sleek in design, Gargoyles had a standard grey stone-based skin with plenty of obvious sharp and horny protrusions all over the place, so much so that any that they rarely bothered with clothes and when they did, they had to have them custom made out of really durable fabric. They had arms and legs like the proverbial tree trunks, and chests that were not so much like barrels, as the entire brewery. Most examples had scaly membranous wings, fixed just below their shoulder blades, that were weirdly exactly the right size for a creature of the gargoyles proportions. But therein was one of the obvious problems. These wings were a frequent talking point for the evolution critics, because as they put it, why would something so damn heavy have wings? Also, as they pointed out, gargoyle hands were surprisingly lithe and dextrous, with four long fingers and two opposable thumbs apiece, another sign that gargoyles were probably Created, as in only something made by committee could have such goofy looking digits. Not to mention their sparkling blood, which was reputed to be jam-packed with Ether.
“Dirty creature isn't he?” stated Perci, breaking into Rancha's thoughts.
“What?”
“That...thing, it is not the sort of thing I want to be associating with.”
Is he joking? projected Ihjundas.
“And his manners! Did you see what he did to me a moment ago?”
“Perci...” began Rancha gently.
“Master Yansul.”
“Fine, Master Yansul. I assume that you believe that when he waved us goodbye, he was giving you the finger, yes?”
“I know! The cheek! Unholy beast.”
“That was a claw, Perci. Right in the middle of the back of his hand. He can't help it. Gargoyles use them to break rocks and things.”
“I knew it! Common work beasts, should all be in the mines and...”
“They eat the rocks,” sighed Rancha. “Sometimes. Igneous for preference but most types of metamorphic will do. Sedimentary is generally an acquired taste, but too grainy for most.”
“Well, that's just plain unnatural and...”
Rancha closed his eyes. “Of course they don't entirely subsist on bits of stone, that's just to grow their exoskeleton. The outer one at least. They eat much the same things as the rest of us. Swampchuck legs, mooin steaks, those lovely little cornflakes covered in nuts and honey. Y'know. Food.”
“Well I like eating those things too but he...”
“It.”
“It has... What?”
“Gargoyles are its. But don't call it an it, they get very tetchy.”
“What do you mean that it is an...”
“Gargoyles are asexual. They reproduce through a rather complicated process with a sac of moss just below their wings. But don't call them an it. Best avoid personal pronouns altogether.”
“Why do you keep inter...!”
“Because I'm your guide,” said Rancha, suppressing a sly smile. “I'm supposed to inform and advise you, correct?”
“Granted, but, you hear things about that sort of thing, that just seems plain grub...”
“All untrue, they don't even have a sex drive. Bluntly, they are too damn ugly for the whole thing to be worth it. Even other gargoyles can’t stand the sight of each other.”
Sad to say true, chipped in Ihjundas. The ignorant seem to think they are more disgusting behind closed doors than the rssscli tend to be.
“What is a rsss...”
“Gelatinous green blob people? You must have seen at least one of them about?” said Rancha.
Perci was quiet for a few moments, the comment about 'the ignorant' having tweaked his pride, leaving him seeming unsure if he had been insulted or not.
Look, Master Yansul, emitted Ihjundas, Gargoyles are pretty secretive and solitary at the best of times. Grinwalder is pretty typical of his kind in that he had taken an indoorsy sort of job, but he is less typical in that he had the compulsion to be helpful. After years of being accepted in this place as his home, he is something to akin to happy and it shows. Nice breeds nice.
Predictably, Perci jumped when that individual returned to the group, clutching heavy-duty bags and his next few moments were spent staring at a specific spot on Grinwalder's back trying to discern less than surreptitiously exactly how his 'plumbing' worked. Rancha smirked, glad for something to laugh at during the very boring job at hand. There were few things duller in his life than gathering together camping gear, except possibly watching the waterproofing on the tent canvas dry.
“Ho people! Anything you've not found yet?”
No, they appear to have most of the basic necessary gear, breathed Ihjundas, They could do with a spare machete though.
Grinwalder nodded and fished one out the pile.
Other than that, all we need now is some items of the more mystical or technological mystery type.
“I know just what you mean,” Grinwalder said, “Questing-type people are always wandering down here for that sort of thing in the hopes of it suddenly becoming useful at the dramatically necessary point and saving the day. Half the time it's just useless junk which you could probably stick on a coffee table and call it a talking point. Anything you had in mind?”
“I still don’t know what the quest is yet,” said Rancha pointedly, “So, I couldn’t tell you. Perhaps he can?” he said indicating the rigid Perci who appeared to be now desperately trying to both look and not look at the spiny Grinwalder simultaneously.
“Or not,” Rancha added when it became apparent Perci was not going to answer with anything other than disgusted sounding “Uhrk!”
“Not to worry,” said the highly amused Grinwalder, who was used to that sort of nonsense. “I'll take you all down to the Pit.”
Chapter 13
“Fear is not the thing to be afraid of. Eternity without fear is a horror beyond reason.”
- The immortal Shofi Renwood, before casting himself into the Worlds Edge void, as recorded by his official biographer, 3822 C.M.
As he sat in his throne, the ruler of Fear mused on his recent misfortunes. How easy it would be to simply ignore them! How very mundane and fail-worthy to sweep concerns under the carpet for someone else to sort out. How very like lesser overlords whose names were a mere footnote in history. How very, what was the word? Overdramatic.
There was union talk amongst his army, his chief sorceror had lost his teeth (again) and had mistakenly summoned twenty gallons of soup, production schedules for the siege weapons were behind thirty percent and some bugger of an imp had run off to take his favourite shoes to be polished and was now too terrified to bring them back again. Still, other jobs to do, so little time.
He was conducting interviews for new regional generals today, greatly behind schedule and getting progressively later into the day as each heavily built recruit was forced to excuse themselves for a few minutes at a time; Every one of the monstrous men was ill-prepared to bask in his Majesty. It was a pain in the arse, frankly, but he could not truly blame them for the effect he had on people, so only had the biggest streg, who had soiled himself not ten feet away, gently rebuked with the minimum of whipping.
He needed everything to be ready, then freedom would be inflicted whether the world liked it or not. Still, so very busy, so many things to sort out. So many brutish types to force to learn to read so they could usefully follow his orders, so many books to make his scholars pore through to secure that last important enchanted phrasing, so many giant horrors from beyond to feed last year's direhorses to.
Life would be simpler with advisors, he found himself musing, not for the first time. Having a group of people who would bend their heads to nod and mutter, who would write things down when he said them, and most importantly, who would not wet their pants and turn mute like every other group of advisors he had employed over the years.
Busy, busy.
The evening would bring more unnecessary tasks for a reasonable world. Many more minions to kick and papers to sign. Many more architects to bully, many more quartermas
ters to order tallies from. Also, he had heard that some enterprising hero had taken to stalking the nearby countryside and killing off all his potential recruits. How pointless!
Soon though. Soon the world would be a much simpler place and perhaps he could, at last, find that fnugging sorceror who had made him this way and rest at last.
Chapter 14
“Many wander the world like wisps of cloud, drifting and falling where they may. Watch my son, for the ones that rain.”
- Daguric Carpenter to his son on the day of his final press interview, 4112 C.M.
There was a place in the heart of a valley, where spirits trod, where little lives hid and hope grew. This was a secret place, a warm, green loving place, a place where rest and sustenance for the soul could be found. Here, nature did what nature does, only quieter and with less blood. To rest here would be a safe thing, a cherished set of moments, taking in the beauty and splendour of somewhere wild and free.
And here, someone rested. A pair of intertwined souls, on a long and fruitless journey, a wayward stumble across land and sea to seek a little bit of peace. Here, they were finding it. The air filled their lungs with crisp and welcome life, the ground soft upon their bodies with light, springy moss and the forest creatures politely keeping their distance. To use the word paradise though, would be a folly. To speak of this place and this time as perfection would be a gross injustice.
Though the very trees surrounding them sang their low windswept song, though the babbling brook nearby counterpointed the rhythmic rustling from the undergrowth, though the harmony of the very energy of the hollow was melodic and stunning, there was a sour note in their brief respite.
The two seekers of solace knew of the problem, though they did not speak of it. There was more than simple words between them, though many they used. In a way, this spot was built for them; an escape, a refuge, a space to be shared away from the rigours of the world. A long life for one, a longer one still for the other, had taught them much. Shared experience had bound them irrevocably, a history that many knew of, a history rarely mentioned and that was the way they preferred it. They came here to replenish themselves at least once a year if they could. This is where they had met, where one soul had found the other so long ago. Where one wanderer and seeker of truth had knelt and wept and prayed at the nature of this place and the other had responded with simple kindness. They had gone forth that day, carrying each other in their hearts and minds, growing old together, shrinking the boundaries of the world together, sharing the message of this place with any who would care to listen. But, as always, time had passed, so much time for the two and they reflected themselves in each other's eyes. Still, the world had turned too many times and the problem in the now grated painfully on the nerves, against the very nature of the harmony, against the grain of the bark, against the flow of the water, against the push of the breeze.