My friend.
She felt too dizzy to turn her head, but she sensed his eyes might be on her in the dark, able to see in the dimness as cave dwellers could. She thought of Grunthor, and how easily he could travel through tunnels and caverns, and of the name she had given him, too, the lore that had allowed for his safe passage through the fire as well.
Child of sand and open sky, son of the caves and lands of darkness. Bengard, Firbolg. The Sergeant-Major. My trainer, my protector. The Lord of Deadly Weapons. The Ultimate Authority, to Be Obeyed at All Costs. Faithful friend, strong and reliable as the Earth itself. It had been the nomenclature that had tied Grunthor to the Earth, had allowed its heartbeat to echo in his own.
In the deepening fuzziness something occurred to her.
No, he was already tied to it, she thought hazily. Elynsynos once said that the race of Firbolg came from a pairing of Children of Earth, the race of the Sleeping Child, and Kith, the Firstborn race born of elemental wind. The name itself, Fir-bolga, meant wind of the earth. So he had that tie from birth, she mused.
With great effort she brought her son’s head to her lips.
Wind of the Earth. The words were louder, as if she was hearing them from somewhere—or someone else.
Suddenly the darkness cleared.
The perimeter of Ylorc secured, Grunthor made his way in the dark down the long earthen tunnel to the Loritorium, trembling with fear at what he might find in the wake of the dragon’s attack.
As he crested the mound of rubble, the last barrier between the upworld and the Child of Earth, his face was brushed by the cool rush of air in the underground chamber, a wind of the earth that carried with it a sense of ease he had not felt in a long time.
He made his way down the moraine as quietly as he was able and approached the sepulcher, relief spreading over his broad face.
The Child slept on, undisturbed, her smooth face of polished stone cold and dry, her eyelids motionless. The sunken circles around the bones of her face had vanished, the withering of her body had ceased. The tides of her breath were gentle, rhythmic, in tune with the beating heart of the Earth he could feel in his soul. Grunthor would not have been able to form words to explain what he was witnessing, but the return of well-being to the subterranean chamber which had seen so much destruction was palpable.
He leaned over carefully and pressed his bulbous lips against her forehead, finding it cool, its tension gone.
“Sweet dreams, darlin’,” he whispered.
Rhapsody struggled to sit up. She carefully lowered Meridion onto Achmed’s lap and, seeing his hands clasp around the child in surprise, turned to the wall that had once been the body of her father-in-law, a kindly, scholarly man whose desire to right the wrongs of his youth and his family had severed him from the family he so dearly wanted to see prosper.
Now was nothing more than a vessel of fired elemental earth.
Her hands trembled as she clutched at the wall.
From her throat came a sound that Achmed had never heard before, a harsh, guttural noise that vibrated against his sensitive eardrums, issued forth from deep within her. At first he didn’t recognize the words, discordant and coarse as the noise was. A moment later he realized what she was chanting . . . in Bolgish.
“By the Star,” Rhapsody chanted from deep within her throat, “I will wait, I will watch, I will call and will be heard.”
She’s calling for a Kinsman, he noted absently, looking down at the tiny baby in his arms. It’s a waste of time, and air. But stopping her could waste even more. Let her cling to worthless hope; it’s not going to matter.
“Grunthor,” she intoned in the same scratchy vibration, almost a moan now, “strong and—reliable as—the Earth—itself.”
Nothing happened.
Achmed’s head throbbed from the sound.
“Stop it, Rhapsody,” he muttered.
She shook her head, still clutching the wall, and continued to intone the call, over and over, from deep within her throat. She continued to sing for what seemed like forever, until stars began to swim in Achmed’s eyes.
Darkness came for him.
47
Anborn could hear the screaming even above the cacophonous noise of the tannery.
Night was falling, and the city of Jierna’sid was beginning to shut down its legitimate operations for the night. It was during such time that the Lord Marshal took the opportunity to sleep, as the later hours were some of his prime time for watchfulness, when many of the more nefarious aspects of the city’s operations were revealed. Thus he was in the throes of a fitful slumber in his cubby beneath the leathermaker’s shop when Faron returned to the city.
The titan had emerged at the far end of the main thoroughfare that bisected Jierna’sid, leading at its terminus to Jierna Tal itself.
The sounds of strife at first were unnoticeable to the townspeople of Jierna’sid, who continued with their nightly preparations; the merchants closed their booths, the soldiers maintained their patrols, the workmen struggled to get a little more of their tasks finished in the fading moments of light. But Anborn’s ears were more sensitive, whether from his centuries of military leadership or the latent dragon blood in his veins, he was aware almost immediately of the sound of panic.
By the time he had dragged himself to the opening of the alcove, the town itself had begun to recognize that something terrible was wrong, and it was coming toward them.
From the western gate of the city a shadow was lumbering, a titanic shadow the color of the desert earth in the fading light of the sun. Anborn could feel its approach in the tremors that resounded through the cobbled streets.
God’s underpants, he thought to himself. In this place of routine horror, what could possibly be so terrifying?
The answer followed a moment later in the twang of bowstrings and the shouted orders of a full cohort of soldiers running forth from the barracks at Jierna Tal toward the western gate.
Screams rent the air as the soldiers who had been stationed at the western gate charged the gigantic man, a soldier of primitive race by his garb and flat facial features, with eyes of a milky sheen that seemed intently fixed on the palace of Jierna Tal. In a great fountain of blood the charge was rebuffed; bodies were hurled left and right, smashed into oxcarts and torn asunder, their limbs tossed aside as easily as chaff in front of the thresher.
From beneath the step of the tannery Anborn watched the shadow pass, saw it pause long enough to seize hold of an abandoned miller’s wagon and heave it, laden with heavy barrels, out of its path and through the window of a boyar’s shop a hundred yards away. But unlike the rest of the populace, which was either frozen in fright by the sides of the roadway or scattering like leaves before a high wind, he recognized in the colors of the lurching man’s flesh something that no one else had seen. The sight of it caused the ancient hero, general of Gwylliam’s army in the Cymrian war, Lord Marshal of the Cymrian Alliance, and a vested warrior in the brotherhood of Kinsmen, first to stare in shock, then to mutter prayers beneath his breath.
Because Anborn could see that it was made of Living Stone.
Having seen more than enough, he waited until the titan had broached the doors of the palace of Jierna Tal, then, in the confusion that was roiling the streets, dragged himself forth from the tannery, stole a horse that had been left riderless, and made his way, in all due haste, back to Haguefort.
Talquist could hear the screams as well.
He was in the midst of a very pleasant dinner when the noise leaked in through the windows on his balcony; it started as a high-pitched chorus in the distance, but quickly rose to the level of cacophony such that he was given to sudden indigestion.
Irate, he rose angrily from his meal, tossed his linen napkin violently onto the floor, and strode to the balcony, slamming the doors open and stepping out into the chilly air.
From the balcony he could see the world below falling into madness.
The height of the upper terrac
e afforded him a terrifying view of the streets of Jierna’sid, their roadways a grid visible from the air. Down the central street a human shadow lumbered, gigantic given its ability to be discerned from such a distance. Around it tiny human figures the size of ants were scattering, some of them toward it, to be flung away seconds later, others away, some successful in their flight, most not. Talquist lost his water onto the floor of the balcony.
There was no mistaking what was coming.
In a heart’s beat he was screaming orders to the captain of his guard, commanding cohorts and divisions to be activated from the barracks below. He watched in terror as his orders were carried out; an entire column of mounted mountain guard thundered into the streets, firing at the approaching titan, oblivious of townspeople who were fleeing in their path. Talquist could only stare as the immense statue, now more man than stone, waded through the horsemen as if they were surf, pummeling men and beasts with brutal efficiency that led to such a bloody result he could only turn and flee himself.
He knew the statue’s destination.
He ran from the balcony to the tower stairs, climbing two at a time, his heavy velvet robes no longer a cherished luxury but a fatal hindrance. He had barely broached the doorway of the tallest tower when he heard the shattering of the palace’s massive gates; the screams echoed throughout Jierna Tal, shaking the walls of the minaret.
There was nowhere else left to run.
Gray sweat poured from his brow and neck as the thundering steps of the titan approached. The resistance noise had disappeared; after the decimation of the soldiers sent to battle it, the household staff had fled or was hiding. Now the regent emperor could hear the heavy footfalls thudding as mercilessly, unfalteringly, the titan came closer.
The tower shook violently as Faron mounted the stairs, climbing four at once, honing in on his prey. Talquist lost what little was left of his composure and screamed, slamming and bolting the door of the highest tower shut behind him, knowing as he did what a pathetically futile action it was.
He had taken cover behind an overturned table of shiny walnut wood when the door split open and the titan emerged, dragging his massive body through the stone opening that was too small to accommodate his height.
Talquist screamed again. Knowing that Faron had come for vengeance, he dropped to the floor on his knees, hopelessly praying that the titan might recognize the gesture of surrender and be moved by it.
Faron broke through the stones of the doorway.
With all hope lost, Talquist began to weep.
“No, Faron,” he gasped, struggling for breath in the grip of terror. “Please—I meant only to—”
Fear got the better of him as the living statue’s eyes, blue and milky with cataracts, stared at him stonily, and he fell silent.
Slowly the titan crossed the small room until it was standing directly in front of the regent emperor.
Its stone arm reached out at the level of Talquist’s neck.
Its gigantic hand opened.
In it were five colored scales, each tattered about the edges, each inscribed with runes in a language long dead in the material world. Each was of a different hue, though in the fading light of dusk they gleamed iridescently in all the colors of the rainbow.
Humming a symphony of power.
With great care, the titan crouched down and placed the five scales on the floor at the regent emperor’s feet.
Dumbfounded, Talquist could only stare at Faron for the longest of moments. Finally he found his voice and thoughts again.
He reached into the folds of his robe where he always carried his treasure, the violet scale, and drew it forth, holding it up before the statue’s milky eyes.
“Is this what you seek, Faron? A return to Sharra’s deck? Are you looking to join forces with me, and combine them into a set again?”
The titan nodded slowly.
The regent emperor let out a sharp gasp.
Then a chuckle of relief.
And finally an unbridled laugh of manic glee that echoed off the broken tower, down the stairways, over the grounds of the palace, and out into the night, where it rang, triumphant, through the streets of Jierna’sid.
A thudding shook the foundations of the cavern that was once Llauron.
Achmed sat upright, jolting the baby awake.
Rhapsody had collapsed against the wall where she’d sung. She barely stirred as the thudding ceased.
A light appeared on the wall, forming a doorway in the side of the great stone beast. Achmed summoned the strength to rise to his feet, his eyes stinging, and pulled Rhapsody up behind him, still clutching the baby in his arms.
A dark humanoid shape, taller than a man by half over, filled the opening.
“Oh, right, ya can’t manage ta stay in Ylorc yerself, so now yer draggin’ me away from there now?”
Achmed stumbled forward, using his right arm to shove Rhapsody into Grunthor’s while cradling the baby with his left.
“Air,” he croaked.
The light dimmed and vanished. The giant Bolg grabbed the Lady Cymrian and lifted her out of the cavern, depositing her quickly and gently onto the snowy ground outside, then pulled Achmed through the opening as well. Then he leaned back into the cavern, letting out a low whistle as he did.
“Criton, what’s this?”
“It used to . . . be . . . Llauron,” Achmed said, choking on the fullness of the snow-filled air of the forest. He took a moment to catch his breath, then looked up at the giant Sergeant. “He died rescuing us from Anwyn,” he said when he could speak.
“Ah, she made it ’ere, then?” Grunthor said under his breath. “That bitch. Glad Oi brought this with me.” He held up the key of Living Stone that had once opened Sagia’s root. “Oi was right there in the vault when the call came, and Oi jus’ ’ad a feelin’.”
Grunthor looked down into Achmed’s arms and froze, his amber eyes widening in the morning light. “Whatcha got there, sir?”
Achmed shook his head and nodded at Rhapsody, who was rising weakly to her knees, staring at the carriage that was waiting in the glen a short distance away.
She was watching her husband approach the cavern, the end of the world on his face.
48
Winter had returned in all its fury by the time the caravan returned to the sheltered courtyard of Haguefort.
Gwydion Navarne watched the carriages arrive from the tall windows above the library; the firelight reflected off the glass in the panes, warming a room that had felt cold for some time. How long, he did not know; he waited anxiously for the doors to open, but the carriage driver took his time, endeavoring to position the coach as close to the steps as possible.
Melisande stood beside him, wrapped in the drapes, dancing impatiently to see the baby.
“Why aren’t they hurrying?” she demanded, pushing in front of her brother again.
Gwydion’s hands came to rest gently on her shoulders.
“They want to keep him as warm and safe as possible,” he said, thinking back to what he had seen in Ghant, and what it portended for the future. His hands gripped her shoulders a little more tightly, as if to hold on to her without worrying her. “I guess that’s the natural impulse with babies—and sisters.” He smiled as reassuringly as he could as Melisande looked up at him, her face contorted in humorous doubt.
They continued to stand at the window and watch as Ashe finally exited the carriage, followed by the shadowy cloaked figure Gwydion recognized immediately as the Bolg king. The coach swayed from side to side for a moment, and to his delight the young duke saw Grunthor step out as well.
“They’re—” His words choked off; Melly had already run from the room. He could hear her footfalls dashing down the steps of the Grand Stair. Gwydion smiled and followed her.
By the time he reached the entranceway of the keep, Ashe had already carried the newborn inside, and had handed him, with an awkward smile, to the chambermaid who had opened the door. The servant took the baby
and moved out of the draft as the Lord Cymrian reached through the doorway and assisted Rhapsody over the threshold, where a bevy of other household staff descended upon them, taking cloaks, hats, and winter wear out of the way.
Excitement overran his natural reserve; he dashed across the foyer to the doorway and threw his arms around Rhapsody, whose smile was bright, though her face seemed pale and somewhat drawn. He looked up happily at his godfather, only to see him staring absently over his shoulder at the chambermaid, who was cooing to the baby; a chill went up his spine, though he had no idea why.
Melisande hugged Ashe, oblivious of his preoccupation.
“Can I hold him? Please, please?”
“By all means,” Ashe said quickly. “Portia, please bring the baby to Lady Melisande.”
The chambermaid nodded respectfully, then, seeing the door close behind the Firbolg king, carried the child across the entranceway and put him into the waiting arms of Melisande.
“I’m sorry to interrupt your homecoming,” Gwydion said quietly to Ashe, “but I have a matter of great urgency that I must discuss with you once Rhapsody and the baby are safely settled in. I regret having to impinge this way, but—”
A loud metallic clanking sounded down the corridor in the Great Hall.
The two Firbolg, the Lord and Lady Cymrian, the children of Navarne, and the household staff all looked up to see Anborn appear at the doorway of the hall, standing erect and without his crutches, in the center of the great silver walking machine that had been brought to him from Gaematria.
“Sweet All-God,” Ashe exclaimed. “I thought I’d never live to see this day.”
“May you live to see many such days that you’d never expect to see,” said Anborn seriously.
“What changed your mind, Uncle?”
Anborn exhaled deeply, his eyes going to the bundle in Melisande’s arms that had started to kick.
“The need to be ready for what is to come,” he said seriously. “You and I have need to speak now, Gwydion; your ward may already have told you what he and I have witnessed since we left. I have even worse news to add.” He blinked as Ashe took the baby from Melly, walked over, and offered the baby to him.