Жаклин Кэри - Banewreaker

For the first time, Skragdal of the Tungskulder Fjel was ill at ease underground.

It was a short journey through the Vesdarlig Passage, one he had made before. All of them had. It was the oldest route through the tunnels to southwestern Staccia. It was a good tunnel, broad and straight. The walls were wide, the ceiling was high. The floor had been worn smooth by the passing tread of countless generations of Fjel. The Kaldjager patrolled it ruthlessly, ensuring that its egresses remained hidden, that its safety remained inviolate, that its ventilation shafts remained clear. It should have been a haven of comfort. It would have been, before.

It was Blågen, one of the Kaldjager who noticed it, loping back from a scouting excursion. His broad nostrils flared and his yellow eyes gave Skragdal an assessing glance. “You have the reek.”

Skragdal grunted. “I was in the Marasoumië.”

Blågen shrugged. “Ah.”

The Men had it too, but Men often reeked of fear, except for General Tanaros. It didn’t seem to bother the Nåltannen or the Gulnagel, and the Kaldjager hadn’t been there for the terrible moment when the world had gone away in a rush of red light and stone had closed in upon them all. And now all that was gone, too, and the old wizard trapped inside it. The Men were talking about it, had been talking about it since they entered the tunnels, talking without cease, talking over one another, releasing nervous energy.

“ … tell you, I’d rather be above ground, where you can see what’s coming at you. Who knows what’s down here now?”

“Yah! What, are you afraid the wizard’s gonna get you?”

“ … keep telling you, he’s not dead, not with a Soumanië on him. He’ll be back.”

“ … love of his Lordship’s weeping wound, they’re not even the same tunnels, the Ways aren’t the same as our tunnels!”

“Sometimes they are, sometimes they aren’t.”

“ … Kaldjager would catch him a mile away!”

“ … even hear what happened? The old bugger’s got a Soumanië, he can come out of nowhere and turn our arses to stone!”

“ … Godslayer!”

“ … back in the marrow-fire, where it belongs.”

“And a right lot of good it’ll do us there.”

“Shut it, Einar.” Osric, delivering an order. “That’s treason you’re talking.”

“Lieutenant, I’m just saying —”

“Shut it!”

Skragdal wished Men wouldn’t talk so much. Their restless minds grasped at thoughts like squirrels at nuts, gnawing and stuffing, dashing here and there, burying some and discarding others. And then words. Words! An endless stream, spewing from their lips, wasted with careless ease. It stemmed from Haomane’s Gift, he supposed, and he ought to envy it. That’s what Men and Ellylon said.

Only Lord Satoris had ever said otherwise.

They made camp in a vast cavern that night, a day’s ride away from the Vesdarlig Door. Countless thousands had camped there before; Skragdal had done it himself, as an eager young pup on the way to honor the Fjel oath. The sleeping-places were worn smooth, broad grooves in the cavern floor, with suitable rough spots left untrammeled. He took comfort in seeing his fellows situated, freed from their cumbersome armor, rumbling and grumbling, working backs and shoulders against the stone. There was comfort in the evidence of countless members of the tribes who had done the same, leaving faint traces of their scent. It felt good to scratch itching hides against the rock.

Osric’s Men took the southern quadrant, as was tradition.

They scratched the rock, too; only differently. Marks, etched with shards onto the cavern walls. Men lit fires, huddling under the ventilation shafts, sharing their fears and dreams, griping about the journey’s hardship. Ruddy flames danced on the walls, showing the marks clearly. Scritching lines, narrow and perplexing. Sometimes they formed characters; sometimes, only shapes. Always, the lines shifted and changed, taunting him with elusive meaning.

Skragdal studied them, blinking.

“You can’t read, can you?”

He glanced down at the Staccian commander. “I am Fjel,” he said simply. “We do not share Haomane’s Gift.”

Osric’s brow wrinkled. “You’ve tried, then?”

“No, lieutenant.” He did not tell the story. None of the Fjel did; not to Men, not to anyone. Only to their pups. A long time ago they had wanted to learn. Neheris’ Children had wanted it badly enough to plead with the wounded Shaper who had fled to their lands. And during the long years of his recuperation from Haomane’s Wrath, Lord Satoris had tried to teach his people. In the end, it came to naught. The meaning of scratched lines—on stone, on parchment—was too evasive. How could a handful of symbols, which bore no intrinsic meaning, represent all the myriad things in the world? What relationship did they bear to the thing itself? It was a pointless endeavor.

Osric glanced at the scratchings. “Well, you’re not missing much. Lads’ folly for the most part, writing their names to let the ones who come after know they were here. That, and empty boasts. You’ll have the Kaldjager stand watch again tonight?”

“Aye, lieutenant.”

“Good man. Get some sleep.”

He tried. Others slept, rumbling and snoring, comforted by stone’s solid presence. It did not bother them that they had seen stone turn to an engulfing enemy in the red flash of a Soumanië’s power. It should not bother him. Fjel had the gift of living in the present. Only important things were carried in the heart; only sacred memories, passed from generation to generation. All that was not worth carrying—fear, envy, hatred—was left to be washed away and forgotten in the flowing rivers of time.

Do not mourn for the Gift Haomane withheld from you. Did Neheris-of-the-Leaping-Waters not Shape her Children well? This I tell you, for I know: One day Men will covet your gifts. Treasure them, and rejoice.

Lord Satoris’ words.

Those were the words that had restored Fjel pride and faith, the ones they passed on to their offspring. Those were the words that had inspired their ancient oath. Skragdal had heard them as a pup. He had carried them in his heart with pride, but he had never understood them as he did now, lying sleepless beneath the earth. Could such gifts be lost? Could the nature of the Fjel change, tainted by long exposure to the ways of Men? Was it the burden of command that weighed upon him, shaping his thoughts into fearful forms? Would he, if he could, scratch his name upon the wall?

No, he thought. No.

Reaching into a pouch that hung from his belt, Skragdal withdrew a half-carved lump of green chalcedony and examined it in the dim light of the cavern. There were flaws in the stone, but the fluid form of the rhios was beginning to emerge, a sprite as blithe as water flowing through a river bend. This is a thing that is not the thing itself, he thought. Yet it has a shape. I can hold it in my hands, and I can coax a truer shape from it. It is a stone, a real thing. It is a green stone that looks like water. These things I understand. He cupped the rhios in his hands and whispered a prayer to Neheris-of-the-Leaping-Waters. “Mother of us all, wash away my fear!”

There was an ease in saying the words. Words held power when they were spent with care. He felt a measure of fear ebb. The surrounding stone became a kinder companion. The memory of the Marasoumië faded, taking with it the image of the wizard with his terrible, glaring eyes, his lips working in the thicket of his white beard as he spoke the words to command the Ways, the red gem of the Soumanië ablaze on his chest. He would not forget, but neither would he carry it with him.