The Weaver's Lament

He pushed carefully on the rightmost of the two, but could see very little.

  The darkness was devouring in its depth, the immensity of the place even more than Achmed could fathom. There seemed to be no border to it, no walls below limiting it to edges, but rather it was more like opening a door into the night sky, or the depths of the universe.

  Achmed patted his Mythlin armor, finding it reassuringly wet, then opened the vault and stepped inside.

  It was silent and utterly dark.

  Quickly and carefully he pulled the key from the latch and shut the door.

  The noise of closing it, or the breath of sea air that slid in, caused a disturbance he could feel.

  The dead air of the massive enclosure thudded loudly and echoed throughout the enormous vault.

  At first he saw nothing move. Then, at the most distant edge of his vision, he thought he could make out tiny flames which began to flicker, then surge forward. Achmed felt suddenly weak, dizzy, as his head was assaulted from within by the cacophony of a thousand rushing voices, cackling and screeching with delight.

  Like fire on pine, the living flames began to sweep down distant ledges within the mammoth pit, some nearer, some farther, all dashing toward the door, churning the air with the destructive chaos of mayhem.

  Achmed, whose head was throbbing now with the gleeful screaming that was drawing rapidly closer, put Tysterisk behind his back, waiting as a legion of individual flames scrambled down the dark walls toward the doors.

  From the floor of the place a figure rose, almost human of shape, and began stiffly charging toward him.

  As it came, seven or so of the faster screeching flames leapt upon it, whirling about it wildly in cackling fire, followed by a galaxy of stars all roaring toward him.

  The enormous chamber rocked with the sound, the hissing, screaming, laughing, sobbing, bellowing, whispering, and hooting of a thousand or more individual voices.

  Steady, Achmed told himself. Steady, now.

  The figure was almost upon him, being egged on, it seemed, by the half dozen or so flames whipping around it. Achmed saw its dark eyes sight on him, its skeletal bones clad in rotten cloth reaching for him.

  Just as it was upon him, he drew forth the ancient sword of elemental air and, rather than slashing, impaled the charging beast where he believed its heart would have been, holding it as steady as he could.

  For a moment he was engulfed in white flashes of searing heat as the pure air of Tysterisk swept the flames into even hotter fire, exploding them into bright white blinding light, singeing the backs of Achmed’s forearms while blasting the human-like creature’s arm and shoulder off.

  The seven fastest flames, hooting and catcalling in glee a moment before, let loose agonizing wails of anger and pain, and expanded violently until they winked out, as more behind them disappeared into the darkness, the rest fleeing until their noise could be heard no more.

  Both he and the humanoid creature were tossed back in the directions from which they came, both of them impacting walls of stone.

  Silence, encompassing and menacing, filled the enormous prison once more.

  Slowly Achmed rose to a stand, using the wall against which he had fallen for cover of his back, and sheathed the sword. It appeared as if the skeletal creature had been blown apart, its shoulder and arm lying separate from the rest of its body.

  The Bolg king pulled his pack from his back, keeping one hand free to draw the sword again. When nothing approached, he opened the pack and did a quick check of the supplies closest to the top and the gear in his bandolier.

  The swords and the cwellan were all intact, as were the herbs and potions that Rhapsody had made, tonics of health and healing, as well as many capsules of lightning-bug fluid which, when shaken, cast a gentle light. He cursed quietly when he discovered that several of the fungi similar to the ones they had used long ago when traveling the Root, which also emitted a glow when crushed, had already been activated by the impact of his pack against the titanic doors. He moved those to the top of the pack, and the black liquid tincture of silence he had originally planned to poison the Sea Mages with to the bottom.

  He also had a supply of Tanist Root, which would keep him hydrated without the need for water, and Vigil Root, which would allow him to remain awake without the need for sleep, a small still to turn seawater drinkable, food rations, several skins of water, and the poles of potable drink he had purchased from Barney.

  Finally, tucked away at the very bottom of the bag was the key of bone.

  Mostly satisfied with the condition of his supplies, Achmed turned to the gigantic doors one last time and secured them again, assuring himself of their solid closure. He had laid his hand on the door in the course of his check and so knew that the sea had returned; the pressure was palpable, and the thudding of the Deep echoed off the entranceway and the ceiling above, so high up that he could not even see it for the darkness.

  As he was finishing the check of his equipment, he noticed a terrible hissing sound coming from the pile of rags and bones that had been the creature the flames had ridden to attack him.

  He spun, sword in hand, and pointed it at the pile of human refuse.

  He heard the hissing sound again, louder this time, dry and brittle, and realized suddenly what he was hearing.

  The creature was chuckling.

  “Thank you,” it said, its voice waterless on the verge of cracking. “Good to have ’em off me.”

  The Bolg king came closer. The creature appeared scorched and damaged, but purged of its flame passengers, at least temporarily.

  “Don’t move too quickly, if you value your life,” he said to the rags and skin-wrapped bones.

  A hissing sound erupted again, stinging the sensitive nerves on any exposed area of Achmed’s skin.

  “No worries about that,” it rasped. “Been dead a very long time. Wish they’d let me stay that way permanently, but they use me; they need me. If I’d valued my life, I never would have stayed behind to guard the Island for my king. So, clearly you can see that I didn’t value it much.”

  The Bolg king squinted in the dark. “Hector?” he asked.

  A wheezing sound answered him, echoing in the oddly angled cave. He had the momentary impression that the sound was a full-blown laugh, but the concept of laughter existing in this place disappeared the instant it occurred.

  “I was never Hector,” the creature hissed. It had still not risen, but lay where it had fallen after the blast.

  “Who, then, are you?”

  “Not who I was.”

  Achmed scanned the cave, looking for movement or light, but saw nothing, heard nothing, except the faint rustling where the creature moved slightly against the earth.

  The creature seemed to at one time have been human, being in possession of one remaining arm, two shriveled legs, and a human head covered only partially with what resembled hair. There was something about it that reminded Achmed strongly of a mummy, all except for the dark eyes, which were still set in the hollow face, eyes that burned angrily, even when it had been recovering from the shock of the air sword. It pulled itself up, slowly and deliberately, struggling to make use of only one arm, until it was sitting, leaning back against the heat-baked wall of the cavern.

  “What do you have for me?” it demanded.

  Achmed still did not answer. He noticed that the floor seemed natural, formed from some mineral other than basalt or clay or anthracite, but that there was not a single rock or stone or broken piece to be seen, nothing to kick, scatter, or throw.

  “What do you want from me?” he asked in reply.

  “I hope,” the creature coughed, “you brought beer.”

  “Beer?” Achmed gave a short chuckle. “No beer. Sorry. Would have obliged if I had known I’d be making your acquaintance.”

  The creature spun slowly, like a snake, raising itself up a little higher. “Show some respect in the presence of a mighty desolation,” it said, puffing raggedly in the dry, airless place
. “Twenty-five or more centuries of thirst gaze upon you at this moment.”

  “I do have this.” Achmed reached into his pack and withdrew one of the poles of Canderian brandy he had purchased from Old Barney what felt already like a lifetime ago.

  Guardedly he approached the creature, which seemed to have trouble righting itself between its stiffness and the loss of its arm. “Brandy—of a quality vintage. Will this do?”

  The remaining arm shot out, quivering. “Give. Give. Give-give-give.”

  Achmed hesitated, then removed the seal and cork and handed it down to the seated creature, which he then had a chance to examine.

  It might once have been a man. Few clothes remained, of indeterminate color or shape.

  It snatched the flask from his hand, waved it in front of its face, as if it could smell, then poured the dark liquid into its mouth. Achmed could almost trace the path of the drink down the gullet into its leathern belly.

  It paused, took another long drink, holding the brandy in its mouth for some moments before tilting its head back.

  “Ahhhh,” it said, its voice greatly warmed and wetter than it had been. “Bless you.”

  The Bolg king bowed his head slightly, making note of the word bless.

  The desiccated man, if it had been a man, took another swig, then opened its mouth in a long aaaahhhhhhh again. The sound seemed to come from the depths of its body, down to its twisted feet.

  “It is dry here,” it said wistfully. “Dry as the heart of a sandstorm. Dry as—well, dry.”

  “Indeed. Who are you, and what can you tell me about the remaining F’dor?”

  For the first time, the creature smiled, revealing sunken teeth and gums.

  “Everything,” it said.

  38

  THE VAULT OF THE UNDERWORLD

  The all-but-mummified creature held up the pole of brandy and gazed at it intently.

  “This is not beer—but it was not bad, either.”

  “Who were you?” Achmed asked, thinking of past times when he had commerce with strange creatures in strange places, though none could even begin to compare to where he was and what he was beholding.

  What he thought might be the living remains of a man turned and looked at him intently, his dark eyes gleaming.

  “I am honored that you thought I was Hector,” he said quietly. “Hector was a great man. It was an honor to serve with him.”

  Achmed thought back to what Aurelia had told him in Gaematria, trying to remember names.

  “Were you one of the men who stayed behind with him? Anaias, perhaps?”

  The skeletal man chuckled again, another hissing sound that scratched Achmed’s ears. “Yes. And no. Anaias stayed behind on the Island. I imagine he died in the arms of the Tree—he was Liringlas. Hector sent him home before he and I rode north.” He struggled to sit up again, to little avail, exhausted from his words. He took another drink.

  “No,” he said when his throat was a little less dry. “I was Jarmon, an ordinary soldier in His Majesty’s army. Came up through the ranks.” His eyes broke with Achmed’s and he sighed, a rattling sound. “Hector died in the water; I died in the dust.”

  From behind his veils, Achmed inhaled, but just nodded.

  “Now go up there,” the skeletal form whispered, and tipped its head toward a gently sloping passage. “When you return, tell me what you see. I shall stay here and finish my libation, and dispose of my arm.”

  The Bolg king absorbed the words, then turned and made his way up the slope that the dried man called Jarmon had indicated.

  First he walked as far as he could go and still be certain there was nothing hovering or hiding around him. A hum was brewing from the space beyond which he could see, so he lay on his belly as he climbed.

  The watery armor left a thin, dark trail in the dust.

  The farther he ascended, the more certain he was that he had come into the Vault almost at the very top, at what would have been similar to the highest floor of the tower of Gurgus Peak that held the Lightcatcher, and that the rest of it existed lower, deeper, wedged in the depths of the Earth. He was more convinced of it when he reached the top of the passage, which opened up before him, like the highest balcony in a concert hall.

  He peered down over the edge.

  A bottomless darkness lay below him, like an enormous stomach cavity. Spun around it were buttresses that appeared to be longbones or ribs, reaching down into the devouring darkness, with glowing, crackling flames crouched along the edges.

  The pit seemed to go on forever, twisting into blackness.

  The noise he had remembered from the last time he had been here echoed against his eardrums distantly, the sounds of pain and twisted laughter, the pounding of the drums of war and the wailing of children whose parents had been taken in front of their eyes. Armored as he felt by the Mythlin hauberk, coif, and mantle, it did not seem to spare him from the overwhelming wheedling, the taunting and the weeping, sounds of a sick world that thrummed against his skin and eardrums.

  It was almost impossible to hear the noise of the Vault and not succumb to utter despair, a physical compulsion as well as a mental one.

  Achmed shook his head and thought of the song in the darkness of his bedchamber that had wrapped around him while he slept some time before. It did little to ease the pain now, but it did coat his senses a bit, senses that were growing heightened with each beat of his heart.

  He stared at the closest of the flames, high atop the descending stone longbones, gripping the hilt of the air sword as he lay there.

  The creatures seemed to be hanging like bats at the top of the passage he had just ascended, asleep perhaps, or biding their time, buzzing with ugly noise.

  It was almost as if they were snoring.

  As his sight sharpened, he began to see each creature not as an indistinct flame, but rather like a moving shape within a screen of pure vibration, buzzing inconstantly, incorporeal. The fire it seemed to profess was actually very unlike real fires he had encountered over his very long life; it was more as if in seeing what looked like flames he was actually seeing vibrations of hate, of lust, or avarice, the dark, evil thoughts of dark and evil beings, rather than the natural element from which they came.

  Suddenly, from around him was a swirling of flames that swelled like a flock of subterranean bats, screeching and snarling as their high-pitched voices, each a different tone of hatred, struck him, dashing against him and sliding off against the water armor.

  Rolling fully onto his back, Achmed did a quick reconnaissance.

  There appeared to be three or four; it was difficult to be sure, as they dashed, flashing like fire-colored lightning, strafing him, snapping like feral dogs but without form.

  He drew the hilt of the air sword again and held it close to his leg.

  Hooting, sneering, and howling, the fireless flames charged him from all sides as one.

  Just as they attacked, Achmed struck with the air sword.

  His speed was such that he was able to slash the first one on him before he swung back and slapped another as it flew past, shrieking in rage. He caught the second one on the now-visible blade of the sword and, using all his strength, held it still, above him, for a moment.

  The flame-like creature screamed, flapping and fluttering on the blade of the air sword, seeming to spread apart the longer it was in contact with the weapon.

  Then it blew into pieces with a horrifying shuddering sound, exploding as a small candle would be melted by a torch or as the sound of a bell might be erased by the wind.

  Achmed waited, still on his back, but nothing else attacked him.

  He remained a good while, listening to the noise over the edge of the opening, but the seething and jeering, the hooting, spitting, and whispering, had gone silent.

  He rolled onto his front again and, like a spider, crawled back down the slope, noting that it went higher beyond where he’d been attacked.

  * * *

  When Achmed retur
ned, Jarmon was standing erect, his skeletal back to him, engaged in what appeared to be a slow, ominous dance.

  He was spinning painfully, stiffly raising one leg, planting his heel, deliberately and heavily pivoting, and then doing the same with the other foot. Achmed could not determine the meaning of the dance, nor whether Jarmon was conscious of him or his surroundings. The remaining arm limply held the empty flask that had contained the brandy. Gesturing with the arms is apparently not part of this ritual, he thought, still wondering what was going on.

  Finally, Jarmon turned his head slowly toward Achmed and hissed in either greeting or amusement, it was impossible to tell. Then he fell to his knees, and began to use the round flask as a pestle to complete his purpose, pounding the floor repeatedly with it.

  Achmed came closer to observe what was going on.

  He was crushing the amputated bones of his arm into dust.

  “What are you doing?”

  Jarmon looked up at him and gave him a grisly smile. He did not stop in his task.

  “When they return, I have no intention of digging again, especially—” He gave the Bolg king a knowing look and turned back to the tiny fragments of his arm bone as they yielded with whispers to his insistence, dissolving into dust as he rocked the flask over them as if he were rolling out dough. “I’m surprised they didn’t think of using my bones before. I’ll be damned if they’ll force me to dig with what’s left of my arm as a tool.” The hissing laugh returned. “Well, I suppose I’ll be damned in any case.”

  As he watched the mummified man grinding his bones into dust, every loneliness or stubborn determination Achmed could ever recall making seemed crushed with those bones. The academic and theoretical opposition he held for the race of F’dor stole away, and he discovered in its place, at last, comprehension of Rath’s passion and urgency to see the race extinguished.

  “My apologies,” he said to the ragged being.

  Jarmon shook his head. “Seven. Seven dead when you arrived,” he said, almost happily. “If I had seven hundred arms, I’d give them each again. This is a good day. How many did you find? Tell me what you learned.”