Rhapsody: Child of Blood

45

“Everything we need to conquer the Bolg is right here—everything. In a matter of a few weeks they will be a united kingdom for probably the first time in their history, on their way to becoming the greatest force to be reckoned with since the Cymrians invaded this land fourteen centuries ago.”

Rhapsody looked askance at her friend. She was certain she had never seen Achmed this excited, and she didn’t want to take away from it in any way, but what he was saying made no sense to her.

“Care to let us in on how you plan to accomplish this?”

Achmed pointed to the table. “I’ve seen this instrumentality, or one like it, before. It belonged to the Seren king in the old world; it was the way he determined the movements of troops and migrations of population centers. I’m not surprised Gwylliam brought it with him, or made a new one; it’s a useful tool for a king to have. What?” he asked Rhapsody, who was staring at him strangely.

“I learn something new about you every day, Achmed. Here we’ve spent the last fourteen centuries together, and I never had any idea you were so well traveled in circles royal. How did you get a chance to hobnob with the blue bloods?”

“’E was a bloody assassin; ’oo do you think ’ired him most often?”

Jo looked at Achmed in wonder. “You were an assassin?”

He ignored her and glared at Rhapsody. “This will give us the ability to determine where the largest groups of Bolg are, and how frequently they move. We’ll start by recruiting a small, mobile tribe that can be trained as elite guard. The word will spread, after a few victories, that the earlier you come on board, the better your training and rank will be in the end.”

“Victories? You make it sound so clean and simple. Aren’t you talking about battles?”

Achmed snorted. “Hardly; skirmishes, really. Any race that has remained disparate after four centuries lacks the staying power to put up much of a fight.”

“When I was scouting in Bethe Corbair, I heard some town guards make mention of an annual ritual called ‘Spring Cleaning.’ The soldiers of Roland, out of Bethany, ride down on the outlying Firbolg villages every year and destroy the inhabitants. They put the Bolg they can find to the sword, women and children included, and burn the crude huts.” He ignored the expression of horror that washed over her face. “Now, what Bolg racial trait do you think is indicated by the fact that this happens, year after year?”

“Stupidity?”

“Not at all; it’s actually rather clever. The Bolg have figured out that if they sacrifice a few of the weak and the sick they can keep the Orlandan army from coming further into their lands, which they call Ylorc, by the way. So they rebuild the same tattered village and stick a few unfortunates in it. The mighty men of Roland sweep through, setting the sham ablaze and butchering a few defenseless waifs, then ride back to Roland, having achieved orgasm as a result of their brave and manly actions.”

“I assume you’ll be putting a stop to that practice immediately,” said Rhapsody, still pale.

“Of course.”

“Bastards,” muttered Jo. “Count me in when that happens. I’d be delighted to help you skin some Orlandan soldiers.”

The look of shock returned to Rhapsody’s face. “No, you won’t. Achmed, you talk like the four of us are going to personally subdue hundreds of thousands of Bolg.”

“Right.”

“Wrong. I don’t mind helping you, even though I think that a hundred thousand to four are suicidal odds. But it will have to be a hundred thousand to three, because Jo stays out of it. I didn’t bring her along to get her killed.”

“Who asked you?” spat Jo. Rhapsody turned to see her sister’s sallow face florid with anger. “This mother-hen routine has got to stop, Rhaps. I’m a big girl and I’ve lived my entire life on the street. I can take care of myself, thank you very much. Now stop coddling me or I’ll set your hair on fire.”

“That won’t work with ’er, you know she’s got that strange thing with fire. But Oi can help you come up with somethin’ else if she won’t leave you alone,” offered Grunthor, casting a playful look in Rhapsody’s direction. “Come on, Yer Ladyship; she sounds an awful lot like another lit’le girl Oi use to know.” He winked his large amber eye at her. Rhapsody laughed in spite of herself.

“Oh, all right,” she said, giving Jo a hug. “I guess I can’t keep you out of the fray forever. Where do we begin?”

“Well, Jo begins by handing over the crown, and any other valuables she looted from Gwylliam’s body while we weren’t looking.”

“What?” Rhapsody pulled away and looked up into Jo’s face; the expression on it was a mixture of defiance and sheepishness. The Singer looked over to the body that was sprawled backward on the table. The crown was indeed missing, and the corpse had been picked clean of every valuable, gem, ring, and button.

Grunthor stretched out his massive palm reproachfully, though Rhapsody thought she saw a twinkle in his eye, and Jo slowly returned the crown, looking humbly at the floor.

“Now let’s ’ave the rest, lit’le miss,” said the giant Firbolg. Jo looked up and, seeing the stern look that had replaced his smile, dug reluctantly into her pockets and handed over a fistful of jewelry and other trinkets.

“Is that all, now?”

The street wench nodded.

“Bad answer,” said the silty voice from behind her. Quick as lightning, Achmed’s hand shot out and tore the pocket off the vest Rhapsody had bought for Jo in Bethe Corbair. A shriek of protest caught in Rhapsody’s throat as a golden ring tumbled out and fell to the stone floor, where it spun on its end in ever-smaller circles.

Achmed stooped to pick up the ring.

“You are a bad judge of value, Josephine,” he said, using her hated given name. “This might have bought you a decent horse, or ten acres of land in Bethe Corbair, but it has cost you far more than it was worth. Your lie has been purchased at the price of my trust. No one here would deny you your fair share of treasure, but you must understand that the valuables, as well as the bodies, we find in this place, are artifacts, clues to the puzzle of our survival here.”

“I admire your self-reliance, but it makes you dangerous to have on the team, and I can’t risk that. Too much is at stake to take a chance on a disobedient brat who doesn’t understand the rules. Tomorrow we will choose one of the horses to leave with you and take you back to the outskirts of Bethe Corbair.”

“You had better choose two, then, because I’m going with her,” said Rhapsody, battling to keep her temper in check. She looked up into her sister’s face and grew even more furious at the sight of Jo struggling to keep up a brave front while fighting back tears. “And if that’s the way you feel, you can speak to me from now until we leave in the morning. I don’t want you to say another word to her.”

Achmed regarded her coolly. “You wish to split up now? Leave us for her?”

“If necessary.”

“Why?”

Rhapsody looked from the quivering girl to Achmed’s blank face. “She needs me more than you do.”

“Come on, sir, per’aps we can work out a compromise,” offered Grunthor gently. “It’s gonna take ’er a while to get use to bein’ out of danger and off the street, eh, Jo? Oi’ll vouch for the lit’tie miss; she won’t do it again, will ya, darlin’?”

“And we can ban her from the library. She can stay in whatever home base we establish,” Rhapsody said.

“I’m sorry,” Jo whispered. The three looked at her in astonishment; it was the most unlikely thing they had ever heard her say.

“Well, Achmed? One more chance?”

“I can see I’m outvoted. Very well. I’ll relent this last time, but I think it is a mistake. You’re rash, Jo, and headstrong; it must be a family trait.” He glanced at Rhapsody, who smiled at the floor. “I can’t stress to you how serious I am about this being your final chance. We can’t have a half-member of the team; either you’re all the way with us, with full privileges, or you’re out. I will not continue to jeopardize my life for your immaturity, nor the lives of Grunthor or Rhapsody. You’re not worth it.”

“That’s enough,” Rhapsody said bluntly. “She’s got the message.”

Achmed looked at the Singer and spoke one sentence in the Bolgish tongue.

“Mark my words; we will regret this.”

“Strange words coming from someone who wants my help in pitting four people against an entire mountain range of monsters,” Rhapsody retorted, wrapping a protective arm around Jo and leading her over to a chair. “Are you all right?”

Jo nodded; her jaw was clenched so firmly that a tiny muscle vibrated in her cheek.

“Just sit here for a few minutes and keep out of trouble. Achmed can seem harsh, but he’s just trying to ensure our survival.”

“I understand and accept what he’s saying,” muttered Jo. “It’s you I can’t stand at the moment. Please leave me alone.”

Stung, Rhapsody walked away and back over to the two Firbolg, who were conferring by the stone table.

“The vaults are under ’ere,” said Grunthor, pointing to the center of the table.

“How are we supposed to move this?”

“Let’s worry about that in a moment. Watch this.” Achmed rested his hand on the dome over the map and, as before, the crystal began to glow. Beneath the clear covering the table began to glisten in spots, glimmering for a moment and then moving to another area of the schematic nearby, then disappearing altogether to reappear a moment later on the other side of the table. The flickering lights meant next to nothing to Rhapsody, but Achmed and Grunthor seemed to understand them, and began conferring Rhapsody, glanced back at Jo, who was staring resolutely at the floor, arms crossed tightly over her chest. When her attention returned to the two Bolg, they seemed to have reached consensus.

“We need to do some investigating,” Achmed said, slipping on his gloves. “I suggest you and Jo wait here in the library and look around for whatever manuscripts you can find that might be useful. The Bolg have never opened this door, and so if we leave it barely propped, there is little likelihood that they will even notice it’s been opened.”

“And what if they do? What if we’re trapped in here when they come?”

“Well, you have a pretty fair sword, and the kid has been longing for some battle action. Do the best you can.”

“Your concern is overwhelming,” Rhapsody replied sarcastically, glancing back over her shoulder at Jo again.

“We won’t be that long. Grunthor has already made sure the door opens from the inside, so if we don’t return after a day or so—”

“A day or so?”

“—wait until you are sure nothing’s moving around and head back for Bethe Corbair. You should be comfortable there; they have a good-sized market for shopping.”

“You’re a pig, you know that?” she retorted, watching Grunthor smile out of the corner of her eye. The giant went over to the chair where Jo was glowering.

“Keep your nose clean, lit’le miss, and have a look around. See if you can find anythin’ we can use, eh?”

“All right,” Jo muttered. Grunthor patted her head encouragingly and gave Rhapsody a hug.

“See ya soon, Duchess,” he said, then followed the shadow that had already slipped out of the great stone doorway without a sound.

“Night Man. Killed Brax-Eye and Grak-Claw with sky-fire.”

“Gave Grak’s woman a slash-iron. Now she carries his child.” The Bolg glanced rapidly around, their eyes searching the black tunnels for movement.

“Maybe here now. Night Man’s blood is darkness.”

“Night man comes to kill Bolg?”

“No. Night Man is Bolg. Maybe Bolg-god.”

“Maybe Night Man comes to challenge Fire-Eye. And the Ghost.”

There was silence in the darkness. Then a sentiment that left each of the huddled Bolg nodding. “Much blood spilled there will be.”

After the two men were gone, Rhapsody, and eventually Jo, searched the library. They started with the maps and logbooks of Gwylliam’s journey from the Lost Island, which Rhapsody read aloud, translating from the Old Cymrian.

They then progressed throughout the repository as they figured out the organizational system. Everything seemed to be based on groupings of six; plans for buildings and base structures were hexagonal, following Gwylliam’s belief that the six-sided construct was the most architecturally solid.

In addition, they found another door, this one unlocked, and after a good deal of debate decided to risk opening it without waiting for their companions to return.

With great effort they pried the heavy stone slab open to discover a tunnel that led to caverns filled with rusting machinery, great wheels and gears and pipes that ran vertically up the sides of the mountain. The mechanisms in the cavern were each large enough to have easily filled the town square in Bethe Corbair.

“What do you suppose all this is?” Jo whispered.

“I’m not sure,” Rhapsody answered, paging carefully through a manuscript she had found in the repository. “I think it must have something to do with the ventilation system.”

Jo had walked down a few of the stone steps that led down into the cavern, and was staring at the huge gearwheels above her. Each of the countless cogs was twice the size of her hand.

“The what?”

“This is the machinery, if I’m not mistaken, that managed the air within the mountain. As you can tell by the dankness of the tunnels, it doesn’t work anymore.”

Jo turned around, her eyes still transfixed by the mammoth pipes attached to the mountain’s interior. “How’d it work?”

“I’m not exactly sure. One of the things Gwylliam brags the most about in his writings is his wonderful accomplishment of bringing fresh air and warmth into the mountain. The fortress here inside the Teeth was his headquarters, where he had his Great Hall, his throne room, and the various bulwarks that kept enemy armies at bay. I have to admit it was a brilliant system. The ventilation made the mountain inhabitable for the Cymrians who lived within the Teeth.”

“I’m confused. I thought all Gwylliam’s Cymrians lived within the Teeth.”

“Most of the Cymrians who lived in Canrif actually lived past the canyon behind the Teeth, beyond what Gwylliam called the Blasted Heath, whatever that means. The lands are so vast it’s indescribable, and it’s impossible to tell from outside the Teeth, because all of them are shielded from sight by the mountains. I’ll show you that manuscript when we go back.”

“Won’t do any good,” Jo said, casting her gaze around the quiet stone and metal gears, still looking threatening in the dark, even in their silent state. “I can’t read.”

Rhapsody nodded. “I thought as much. I’d be happy to teach you. I taught Grunthor.”

“Really.” Jo started to walk farther down the stone steps hewn into the mountain along the cavern walls.

“Let’s go back,” said Rhapsody hurriedly. “I think we should wait for the other two to go exploring down here.”

Jo sighed in annoyance but did not protest, following her sister back up into the library again.

The better part of a day had passed before Achmed and Grunthor returned, little the worse for wear. Grunthor had sustained a minor injury to his hand, which Rhapsody washed and bandaged over his protests of the wound’s insignificance. Both seemed satisfied with the day’s reconnaissance.

“We found a few in the crumbling city—by the way, their word for the Cymrians is Willums,” Achmed related over supper.

“Interesting,” Rhapsody said. “Well, at least someone remembers old Gwylliam fondly.”

“I thought you might enjoy that, Rhapsody. Anyway, the tribes are dispersed throughout the Teeth and deep within the old Cymrian realm; we only saw a few groupings.”

“Yeah, we saw a lot o’ Claws and Eyes but no Guts,” added Grunthor, chewing on his rations.

“Claws and eyes? Guts? What are you talking about?”

“That’s one method by which these Bolg describe themselves. The Claws are the soldier types, the hunters and marauders. It’s that kind of tribe that Roland generally gets to clean out every spring.”

“The Eyes are the spies, obviously. They live on the mountaintops, facing the steppes, and on some of the higher slopes that look inward, facing the heath. They tend to be thinner of body, less muscular, and scavenge more than they raid.”

“And the Guts live deep within the mountain and elsewhere in the hidden parts of the realm. I couldn’t glean much about them except that they are some of the more feared tribes. Generally they keep to themselves, but when they spill out of their lands, there’s havoc.”

“Spilling Guts. That’s precious,” said Rhapsody.

“Their chieftains incorporate the type of clan they are into their names. Oh, by the way, we now own some Claws of our own, a small herd called the Night Reavers.”

“Excuse me?”

Grunthor grinned, showing his carnivorous smile. “Yeah, the Warlord ’ere—that’s what they call ’im—got ’is own personal ’onor contingent now.”

“Warlord?” Rhapsody asked.

“Well, it’s an improvement on ‘the Night Man,’ which is what they called me at first,” Achmed said, chewing.

“I’m not callin’ you no damn Warlord,” Jo muttered into her mug. “Warthog, maybe.”

Rhapsody hid her smile. “Where are these—these Night Reavers now?”

“Tied up in one of the lower hallways.”

She dropped her bread in alarm. “Tied up? You left them tied up? Won’t the other Bolg wandering by attack them?”

“Well, possibly, but the Night Reavers were considered the most fearsome of the groups we could find within a day’s travel. I doubt the other Bolg would want to risk the wrath of anything that could subdue the Reavers and leave them trussed like turkeys in a hallway.”

Achmed was correct; other tribes did wander by the captive Reavers, but did not seek to attack or loose them. They were able to see this on the great marble table beneath the dome. Achmed showed the women which lights represented his prisoners, and the flickering movements that indicated the visiting tribes.

Jo had made a remarkable discovery that went a long way toward redeeming her in Achmed’s eyes. It was she who had determined the purpose of the apparatuses next to and above the stone table.

The pipe that hung from the ceiling above the table was a speaking tube, a form of acoustic address system that allowed for a speaker’s voice to be transmitted throughout the mountain or to specific regions, depending on what had been selected on the table map. The apparatus that protruded from the floor was the opposite, a listening tube, that allowed the sounds from specific areas to be transmitted back to the library through the pipe structure.

Both of these apparatuses were tied into the duct and ventilation system that ran throughout the mountain, a complex series of tunnels and vents that drew air from the fierce winds that circled the mountaintop to cool and cleanse the air within the mountain fortress. When heat was needed in the cold months, the air could be diverted through Gwylliam’s mighty forges, which now lay dormant in the depths of the Teeth.

At one time from those forges great vats of iron, steel, and bronze, as well as precious metals, had been poured and beaten into some of the finest weaponry and armor in the known world, as well as impressively crafted items of ornamentation.

Achmed had gathered a collection of weapons from the various display cases to analyze, and had spread them out on one of the long study tables. Rhapsody came upon Grunthor running his hands over one of the swords from the vault. There was a look of sadness on his face that reached down into her heart. She walked up to him and wound her arm through his. “What are you thinking?” she asked.

Grunthor looked down at her as a smile crept over his face. “Oh, nothin’, darlin’.”

“Missing your troops?”

“Naw. Oi’ll ’ave some new ones soon enough, Oi suspect. Oi was just thinkin’ what a waste it all is.”

Rhapsody sighed; she had been thinking much the same thing. It was painful to see what the Cymrians had been, their fellow Seren, their countrymen, perhaps even descendants of their loved ones.

In the artifacts left behind she could see the life’s work of craftsmen, engineers, architects, draftsman, builders of intricate roadways and great machines that had outlived their civilization, men and women of great vision and the ability to bring it to life, now gone, crushed beneath the heel of senseless power-hunger.

“Cheer up, Grunthor,” she said, forcing a smile. “Just think about how Gwylliam will spin in his grave, knowing all his sophisticated machinery and weaponry will soon be in the hands of the Bolg for use in building up their civilization.”

The Sergeant chuckled. “Oi don’t think the ol’ boy ’ad a grave, if that’s ’is body over there. But maybe if we get ’im to spin fast enough on the floor, ’e can get the machin’ry goin’ again.”

Achmed had selected his next tribe to recruit. The Dark Drinkers were an Eye tribe, a group of swift scavengers that used the shadows of the mountain to ambush solitary travelers or the weak among other Bolg clans.

This time all four of the companions took to the tunnels, lying in wait for those Bolg who relied on the element of surprise. The rout was messy, but thorough, and within an hour Achmed had a new group of loyal spies who would act as spokesmen for him.

“Go throughout the tunnels with this warning,” the new Warlord instructed the survivors. “The King of Ylorc has come to the mountain. Those who wish to be part of the realm will gather in the canyon beyond the Teeth when the moon is full, ten days hence.”

“In three days you will feel me inhale, cold as the winter wind; anyone I touch thus is summoned. The following day you will feel me exhale; the warmth of my breath will touch you again. You must come at full-moon’s night to the canyon. Anyone who ignores my summons will be consumed in the fire of my belly on the eleventh day.” The night eyes of the ragged cave dwellers blinked rapidly in the dark at the words.

Deep within the Hidden Realm, the Bolg shaman woke in the darkness of his cave. His eyes, cracking open as sleep fled, stung around the edges, even bled a little as awareness slowly came back to him.

The vision was almost upon him. He had time to sit up and grasp his head before it broke across him like a strong wind.

Something had come to the mountain. There were whispers of it from the Eye clans, a low buzzing hum about a man who blended into the darkness, but they were only fragments of a story. The tale itself had not yet made its way here, to the Deep lands, far beyond the Teeth.

Saltar, whom the Bolg called Fire-Eye, rested his hand on his chest, concentrating on the vision, but it was still unclear. The images were strangely familiar, but far beyond his comprehension. He would wait, keeping watch, until the visions became clearer.

“How right of you to threaten to breathe on them without making sure the vents worked first,” muttered Rhapsody. She sat atop Grunthor’s shoulders, trying to pry loose one of the main gear levers.

They were deep in the belly of Gwylliam’s ventilation system, having found the architectural drawings and notes indicating how the operations had been designed and implemented.

It had been an arduous process, trying to locate where the massive structures matched the drawings. Once they had figured that out, the task had become dangerous. More than once the men had needed to climb out to the exterior crags, digging loose centuries of rock and debris from the wind that clogged the outer vents. The wind howled around them, tearing at their clothes, all but pulling them into the canyons below.

The ventilation system had been built from the same strange metal Achmed and Grunthor had seen in the cathedral in Avonderre, and was seemingly impervious to rust, despite centuries of disuse. The machinery itself seemed to still be in working condition, but occasional fittings and levers were rotten with age or decay from exposure.

“Just because you open this once doesn’t mean it will work when we need it to, Achmed,” Rhapsody warned from her perch on the giant Firbolg. “There are so many pieces to this apparatus, and many of them are close to rotten or sticky from having sat so long untended.” They had already had to reopen several passages which worked the first time, only to catch and jam shut the second time around.

“This is the last one. If you can open this area we will have cleared the system for all the tunnels within the Teeth; not bad for two days’ work,” said Achmed. He and Jo were oiling an enormous gearshaft next to a giant fan. He gave the securing chain one final pull, then turned to the other two again. “How’s it coming?”

“Let’s try it,” Rhapsody said to Grunthor. The giant Bolg nodded and lifted her down from his shoulders, then gave the lever a firm tug. The grate it was attached to slid open with little resistance.

“Perfect; now close it up quickly,” said Achmed. “Let’s hold our ‘breath’ a little longer.”

Rhapsody closed her eyes. She was already holding hers.

The next morning the sun rose over the Teeth in a deep fog. Just as it crested the horizon a terrible grating sound was heard within the mountains, a scraping sound like a sword against the grinder’s wheel. Moments later the tunnels of Canrif were filled with an icy wind, whipping through the corridors with a ferocious whine, blasting the Bolg with gale-force intensity.

Even within the belly of the ventilation system Rhapsody could hear the cries of panic. She turned to the others with alarm on her face.

“Enough, Achmed; you’ll freeze the children and the injured.”

Achmed nodded, and Grunthor and Jo pulled the levers, shutting the outside vents. They went about closing down the rest of the system while Achmed and Rhapsody hurried up the stairs to the speaking tube.

As they climbed, Rhapsody grasped Achmed’s elbow.

“It isn’t always going to be that violent, is it? Canrif will be uninhabitable.”

“Not once it’s been running regularly. I think the air just needs to come into balance on both the inside and the outside of the mountain. And, by the way, we call the place Ylorc now. In case you hadn’t noticed, Gwylliam’s century is over by a millennium or so.”

When they reached the stone table, Rhapsody drew forth her lark’s flute. They had agreed the night before that Achmed’s voice, while frightening in person largely because of the sandy quietness of it, was insufficiently frightening for an initial address. Rhapsody planned to compensate for that musically.

She started a discordant melody that served to pick up on the tones in the Dhracian’s voice and exaggerate them, adding in the sounds of howling winds and voices that shrieked and moaned. Achmed cleared the speaking tube and delivered his message.

“Tomorrow I exhale, one breath, long enough for you to feel my heat without being ignited this time. Those who come to me in the canyon when the moon is full will be part of the new power of Ylorc. All others will perish under my heel.” His voice reverberated in a monstrous echo. Achmed closed the speaking tube.

“Well, that was horrifying,” said Rhapsody as she put her flute away. “Do you think we convinced them?”

“Some of them. Others will be convinced tomorrow. And some will remain defiant, preferring to pit themselves against a new warlord than take a position of secondary power.”

“And what about them? What are you going to do to convince them?”

“Let’s just say they won’t live to regret their skepticism.”

He breathed on us, the Fist-and-Fire spies were saying. Cold, like the screaming wind.

Saltar rubbed his eyes, trying to make the vision clearer, but he could hear nothing more. The sight that was his gift was not a sign from the Future, or a prediction. It was merely the ability to see something that was here, and inevitable, an eye with especially long vision.

The screaming wind. The words reverberated in his head.

The Spirit was always looking into the wind. Perhaps whatever was coming was what it sought.