Rhapsody: Child of Blood

46

“This is never going to work.”

“Don’t be so negative, Duchess; give it a try.”

Rhapsody turned to face the smiling giant. “You don’t understand. Forges this size are stoked constantly for centuries. If we had a week we couldn’t gather enough fuel to get this up to the point where it could melt ice, let alone steel again.”

“It doesn’t have to melt anything,” said Achmed patiently. “All it has to do is be hot enough to heat the air. There’s a warm spell on its way, I can tell by the clouds. Besides, if you think back to your fiery baptism and concentrate, I’m sure the forge fires will burn hot enough to convince the Bolg I’m breathing on them.”

“If we could duplicate your real breath, they would surrender in a heartbeat,” said Jo, who was working the bellows over the small fire that the others had built. “Perhaps we should throw some stinkweed in there.”

Grunthor rubbed his chin. “Might not be a bad idea at that, sir.”

“Not this time, but thanks for the suggestion, Jo,” Achmed said. He turned to the Singer again. “Well? Come on, it’s almost morning.”

Rhapsody looked up at the giant copper-banded bellows, sagging and full of holes. The forges were deep in the belly of the mountain, reachable only through dark, forbidding caverns that crumbled as they descended. The sheer size of the forge-works took her breath away. It must have taken a thousand men to run and maintain the equipment, night and day, feeding it constantly.

They had located a trove of hard coal, a black underground hill, around which had been scattered trowels, picks, and scuttles for transporting the lump fuel to the forges.

A number of skeletons lay nearby, the trapped workers who had never made it out again when Gwylliam’s mountain had been overrun by the Firbolg. The bones had been the first fuel committed to the flames, with a dirge sung by Rhapsody, four hundred years too late. The skeletons were those of wide men with broad shoulders and ribcages—Nain, Achmed had noted, to Grunthor’s agreement.

Taking a deep breath, she seized the side of the firepit and concentrated, clearing her mind of the doubts that had filled it since they had begun the conquest of the mountain.

She called on the fire within her soul and set a tone to it, humming with her mouth open, until the music swelled out of her being and filled the endless cavern. She could feel the flames roaring to life, shining on her face, heating the fabric of her shirt until it felt about to ignite.

In the distance she could hear the shouts of the others as they began to work the great bellows. She cleared the outside noises from her mind and concentrated once more on the burning coal in the pit below her.

The inferno in the forge crackled and roared, drowning out all other noise within the mountain. Rhapsody maintained her shuddering grip on the firepit while Grunthor and Jo continued to work the hole-filled bellows, itself screaming along in time to the cacophony that was blasting through the bowels of the Teeth.

The sound of the grates opening again shattered her concentration, and she fell back into strong, thin hands that steadied her and kept her from losing her balance on the edge of the pit. Again, deep in her ears she heard the cries of the Bolg within the mountain, but they seemed more of excitement than panic this time.

“That’s enough; shut the vent,” Achmed instructed Grunthor and Jo. “We don’t want them to get used to the heat yet; it is winter for a few more weeks still.” He turned to the panting Singer and patted her arm. “You did it.”

She nodded between gasps for breath. “Yes, I did; may they one day forgive me. I’m not sure if I’ll ever forgive myself.”

Gurrn feared the Night Man more than he feared Hraggle, despite the fact that Hraggle was standing before him. As chieftain of the Bloody Fang clan, Hraggle took what he wanted, bullying and brutalizing the others, Gurrn among them.

The chieftain had survived the raids of the men of Roland, and even had a broken sword as a trophy; he was the most powerful Bolg on the western crag known as Griwen. Hraggle did not fear the Night Man, even when his voice and breath had come forth from the Earth itself.

Gurrn now stood in silent fury, watching Hraggle raid the supply of food he had set in store, rations that were intended to keep his family fed over the thin hunting season of winter.

The other members of the Bloody Fang clan eyed Hraggle as well. He had threatened Gurrn’s woman and was holding their child under his arm, the boy screaming in protest, the woman in fear. Gurrn held her back; Hraggle would be satisfied with the food, and would leave the child when he left, unless he was feeling particularly cruel.

Then, suddenly, Hraggle stopped. He dropped the child and stood motionless, his hand at his throat, the same hand that moments before had been pilfering Gurrn’s hoard. A narrow crimson line bisected Hraggle’s neck, put there by thin white hands that had emerged from the darkness. The red line quickly spread into a wide, dark stain as Hraggle fell, lifeless.

Gurrn caught sight of strange eyes in the shadow behind the falling corpse. A vague outline surrounded the Night Man, who appeared as part of the darkness, formless as liquid night.

“Tomorrow.” The voice had a dry whisper of death to it. The clan watched, wide-eyed, as the figure dissipated into the darkness again.

On the tenth day the Firbolg began to gather on the ledges facing the canyon at sunrise. Achmed had not been specific in his message as to the time of their summons, so over the course of the day they came, Eyes and Claws and Guts, the tribes of the mountains that served as the barrier reef of the Bolglands.

Beyond the canyon that separated their lands from those of the mountain dwellers, some of the deeper Firbolg watched, the tribes and clans that made their homes on the Heath or far within the Hidden Realm. Their curiosity was self-serving; they knew it was only a matter of time before this new warlord came for them as well.

The sinking sun had touched the tops of the tallest crags when a hush fell over the crowd. It had been a day of noise and violence, of positioning and brawls over proximity, but as the Bolg had no idea where this king would appear, it was impossible for them to be sure of where the site nearest his feet would be. It made for an unpleasant atmosphere.

The stillness that descended had been engineered; Rhapsody stood at the edge of the tunnel onto the ledge from which Achmed planned to speak and began to whisper the name of silence. It had echoed off the rock walls and ledges, touching the crags and peaks with a heaviness that shut down the babbling below him. Achmed smiled; it looked as if almost all of them had come.

Noticeably absent were the Hill-Eye, the most bloodthirsty of the mountain dwellers. It had been Grunthor’s assessment that this clan would withdraw deeper into the Hidden Realm and wait to be flushed out, or attack once the others had established peace. His guess seemed accurate; not one of their markings was visible.

Achmed surveyed the assemblage. There were perhaps thirty thousand of them, gathered in crags and standing on ledges, perched on high rocky outcroppings, staring down at him. Some were huddled in packs at the base of the foothills, backing up to the canyon’s edge at the bottom of the ravine that rose up a thousand feet or more to the heath.

It was a heady, disturbing feeling to see them there, similar to the sensation of walking into a pit of scorpions. From every crevice and rise the Bolg stared down at him, a truly bastard race of near-men, of an elder origin that had been adulterated with the blood of every other race it had contacted.

There was a twisted beauty to them, this mutant strain, a pollution that would appall men but that served to preserve their species; in all the worlds he had never seen another race as adaptable and diverse. No matter what condition they were subjected to they would survive and develop a response over time. And he was one of them.

It was a feeling similar to being among the wolf pack at rest, the chieftains of each tribe placed higher on the crags than the others, better to see their power fall.

Into each face, or, in some clans, every arm, was carved or burned the insignia of the clans. The Bloody Claw, the Fangs, the Shadow Stealers, each lineage was written in scar tissue. Clothing had been replaced in most cases with scraps of hide that passed for armor. Even the young had been outfitted with an eye toward protective value rather than comfort, though this was largely illusory, since the few bits of useful armor had been torn and split among so many wearers that it wouldn’t have shielded them from the wind.

Rhapsody was waiting behind him; he heard her catch her breath, and instantly knew why. The children had been placed forward, closest to the edges of the rock outcroppings, as if prepared for sacrifice. He saw her bite her lip; she was aware that this was not a culture she was akin to, nor one she understood at present. Then her face softened, and she smiled.

He followed the direction of her eyes to see what had initiated the change, and was not surprised to see her looking at a group of small, dark faces, grinning repulsively back at her. Children; Rhapsody was a soft touch when it came to any child. It was a weakness he liked in her in spite of, but that posed a threat he was unwilling to risk.

Grunthor was in place; it was time to begin. Achmed took a deep breath. He had studied over the six intervening days since his summons with Rhapsody, practicing the musical cadence she had given him to compose the speech by which he would address his new subjects.

It was like a symphony, with an overture and movements, rising to a thunderous crescendo early on; he had melded his innate understanding of the rhythms of the Bolgish tongue with her composition skills, resulting in an address he hoped would serve in place of a bloody insurrection. He stared at the waiting Firbolg, meeting their eyes.

“I am your new king. You live in the mountain, and the mountain serves me, as soon the Heath will, and the canyon, and the Hidden Realm. Ylorc will rise in power again, in ways it never has before. No more will we live under the heel of Roland.”

A great rasping roar issued forth from the assembled Bolg; it echoed off the mountain and spread down the canyon, vibrating through the Heath and into the deeper realms. Here and there rocks slid from the cliffs, and dust rose. Achmed smiled; the overture had gone well. Now he timed the opening movement to punctuate the rhythm of the echoes resounding off the canyon.

“Whatever you are now, you are but the splinters of a bone, perhaps once of one blood, but now without strength. When you move it causes pain, but comes to no purpose. Join me, and we will be as the mountain itself moving. I will not be a king like the one before, not a warlord like any you have known. We shall bring the mountain to life around us, and our enemies will come to our terms.”

“Is there anyone who would deny me the crown?”

Achmed knew where to look; all afternoon they had been at the listening posts to get word of the possible strategies of the arriving Bolg. He knew that one Janthir Bonesplitter, a Claw chieftain who claimed to be descended of Gwylliam’s line, had been calling himself Emperor of the Teeth. It would be a matter of honor for him to object. Many of the clans knew his name and his reputation for cruelty and his desire for more territory and more slaves.

Bonesplitter had positioned himself between two massive, waist-high boulders, perhaps to avoid arrow fire or to conceal his position until he chose his time to act. At Achmed’s challenge he drew a heavy, ancient sword that still had some gleam to it in the glow of the bonfires that burned throughout the canyon.

With a roar, he moved out from between the rocks, raising his sword above his head. “I Emperor of the Teeth! And fire breath or ice breath I will wring from you, Usurper! This night, I swallow your eyes!”

The collective attention of the assemblage shifted toward Achmed, who was much smaller and thinner than Janthir Bonesplitter. According to Firbolg custom, it was his turn for a boast or an acceptance of the challenge.

Achmed smiled condescendingly. “You have a strong back; perhaps you will be of use to me. If you are able to prove yourself worthy I might take you for a chieftain. I have already taken your lands. Swear fealty to me now and you may unspeak your threat.”

The roar of fury that echoed in response conveyed Janthir’s answer. As a stream of violent invectives rumbled across the canyon and up through the crags to the night sky, Achmed could feel Rhapsody shiver behind him, hidden in the shadows though she was.

“As you will,” Achmed said patiently. His voice did not reveal even a hint of nervousness or anger. “I gave you the opportunity. I command the mountain, but even I cannot save a fool from himself. I told you the mountain serves me. Know my words to be true.”

The Bolg spectators gasped collectively as one of the two massive rocks flanking Janthir unfolded itself smoothly, rose to a monstrous height, plucked the heavy sword from the upraised claw of the speechless Bonesplitter, and struck off his head. Even before the gasp resolved into a stifled scream from the nearby onlookers, the head rolled down off the ledge. The rock which had attacked Bonesplitter tossed the sword into the canyon, returning to its position again. The entire incident had taken less than half a minute.

Achmed waited until Grunthor had blended back into the rock ledge before addressing the assemblage again.

“Who else wishes to challenge me?”

No sound answered him except the howling of the wind through the canyon and the crackling of the roaring bonfires.

“Very well, then; this is what you will do. Each clan will send me their five best warriors and one child, with its mother. These groups of five shall be my chiefs and elite guard, and will receive my blessing and training superior to that of any army in Roland.”

“Each child, if it passes a test, will be given a gift. Choose well. Send soon. You have three days. For any who would doubt my resolve, hear this: I come. You will be part of this body, or you will be cut off and the tribe you sprang from cauterized like a stump—in fire.”

Achmed stared across the silent assemblage for a moment longer, smiling as he took in the sight of the frozen Bolg gazing down from their lofty perches. Then he turned on his heel and vanished from the ledge, pausing long enough in the tunnel to pluck the trembling Rhapsody from the shadows and take her back into the depths of Canrif with him.

“That may not have been the single most repulsive thing I have ever witnessed, but it certainly was up there.”

Grunthor looked offended. “What are you talkin’ about? It was great; no blood got spilt, and the Bolg are still out there now, pickin’ their captains. We can start trainin’ in the mornin’. Whaddaya mean, repulsive?”

“I think Janthir might take issue with your assessment of blood not being spilled,” Rhapsody said as she and Jo rolled bandages and packed medical kits.

“Well, ’e might, but Oi don’t think we’ll ’ear the old boy too well, ’is mouth bein’ down at the bottom of the canyon and all.”

“I can’t believe you wouldn’t let me come and watch,” Jo pouted. “It sounds like a great time.”

Rhapsody started to answer, but reconsidered and said nothing. Both Achmed and Grunthor were reveling in their victory; it seemed unfair to deny them their celebration. “How long before we take the Heath?”

Achmed looked up from the map he was drawing. “I’d say within two weeks we’ll be well set to consolidate the Heath and the outer sections of the Hidden Realm in time to have a united front for Spring Cleaning. The experience the army will gain there will make it easy to take whatever stragglers have not already joined forces afterward.” Rhapsody nodded and returned her attention to the bandages.

Saltar closed his burning eyes as the cold mist descended on his face and shoulders.

The Spirit had come. He knew it would show up eventually, once he had heard about the new warlord’s meeting in the canyon at the edge of the Heath.

What do you see?

“Nothing yet; still cloudy,” Saltar said. As always, he heard the voice in his mind, the sensation akin to being violated.

Look harder. Search the wind for one who walks between the gusts of air.

Saltar closed his eyes, feeling the sting abate a little. He put his hand again to his chest, but saw no more clearly.

“Nothing yet,” he repeated. “But he will come.”