The Wound of the World

by Edward W. Robertson

  As they neared Whetton, they left the road to ride around it; they were still telling stories about Blays in the city. Miles later, Dante considered detouring to Shay to check in on the norren monk Gabe, but it wouldn't be more than a pointless social nicety. Anyway, according to Nak, they still hadn't found any trace of the true Cycle in Narashtovik. Every day they lingered was another day for it to get more lost.

  The towns gave out, and the farms too, and there was nothing but wilderness: forests, hills, blue mountains beyond. The only sound was the thump of the horses and the snow sifting through the branches.

  They entered the mountains. The pass was ugly. It took Dante two days to alter the rock enough to where the horses could make it through. When he'd first seen the blue glaciers and searing green lakes in the heart of the Dundens, he'd thought they were the starkest, most beautiful things he'd ever seen. But after their crossing of the Woduns—a range that had been designed to be impassible—the mountains of his childhood homeland felt rather tame.

  The raggies handled the heights well, delivering them to the endless hills of what had once been southern Gask. The grass was buried under two feet of snow. Boulders and haggard trees poked from the white blanket.

  "Look." Blays nodded.

  Dante followed his gaze across the hills to where a pair of towering figures stood underneath a copse of trees, spears in hand. Norren. The two figures watched them for a minute, then turned and vanished over the hill.

  Dante didn't expect any trouble from the norren—after all, Narashtovik had helped liberate them—but norren were nothing if not unpredictable. Fractious, too. It wasn't out of the question that a clan would assault them simply because they were enemies of another clan that was friendly with Narashtovik.

  Unfortunately, winter had killed all the bugs, leaving Dante nothing obvious to scout with. As they entered a small forest, leading the horses by the reins, he kept his eyes open for field mice, getting so absorbed in the hunt that he nearly walked right into the waist of a norren warrior.

  The man gazed down at him from a height of seven feet. He wore a long cloak over weatherbeaten buckskins and carried a spear with an oval-shaped point the size of a human man's hand. Behind him, a score of others emerged from behind the trees. Dante pulled the nether close.

  The norren looked disappointed. "You got older."

  Blays laughed. "Mourn? What are you doing out here?"

  "Speaking to you. And wondering why you didn't recognize me."

  "Come on, man. Between the hood and the beard, I wouldn't be the wiser if you were a talking dog."

  Blays strode through the snow and wrapped Mourn in a hug. Mourn appeared to tolerate this. At any rate, he didn't look any more perturbed than he usually did.

  "How long have you known we were here?" Dante said.

  "Since we saw you." Mourn glanced up at the snowflakes trickling through the branches. "This wasn't a very good time to choose to go through the mountains."

  "It wasn't much of a choice."

  "Then I'll have to have my scouts beaten. They must have missed the hostile army marching you through the Dundens in the dead of winter."

  "Ah, how I've missed you," Blays said.

  Mourn invited them to the Nine Pines' wintering grounds, which it turned out were only a few miles northeast. The clan had set up its yurts in a stand of pine trees on the south face of a hill.

  "You look at least a hundred strong," Dante said. "The clan's recovered nicely. No wonder they won't let you step down as chief."

  "I know," Mourn muttered. "I need to trick a few of them into walking off a cliff. Or hunting kappers. See how long they tolerate that."

  Blays waved to a few of their old friends. "Is it really that bad? Leading these people?"

  "It's awful. The only thing worse would be if one of them was leading me."

  They found seating on a line of logs encircling the camp's central fire. Around them, many of the norren were casually working away at their nulla, the life-craft they dedicated years to perfecting. Some were carving wood or bone; two were dabbing black lines on a canvas, arguing after every stroke; some were carefully stretching hides into bossen, the seamless clothing that remained popular with humans across Gask.

  There was nothing hurried about their efforts. Presumably, the clan had already done the bulk of the work needed to see itself through the winter. They didn't depend on selling their work, either, although that did allow them to purchase weapons-grade steel, which was still rare in the Norren Territories. Yet bit by bit and day by day, they all became skilled enough that the least of them could turn their talent into a trade. Meanwhile, the best of them created art and artifacts that looked like they'd been handed down from another age, or burgled from the houses of the heavens.

  Warmed by the fire, enjoying the smell of the smoke, they caught up with Mourn. The Nine Pines had been rather quiet for the last few years. The occasional skirmish with another clan, but otherwise, the most exciting thing to have happened to them was the discovery of an ancient norren cave system loaded with stone statues of such quality the Nine Pines' masons were still trying to reproduce their techniques.

  Behind the curtain of clouds, the sun moved toward the horizon. As the light began to dim, most of the norren who'd been at work on their nulla packed away their projects and set to work preparing dinner or tightening up the yurts for the night.

  As they set to their chores, others who'd been laboring earlier—chopping wood, cleaning a deer—cleaned themselves up and got out flutes and small drums. As they began to play, practicing their nulla, those working smiled, humming along with their favorite bits. The rhythm of the clan's actions felt as cyclical as the comings and goings of the tide from day to day and season to season. It was as if they were all players in some great symphony, yet they moved without a conductor, or any orders at all.

  They ate, talked more, fell asleep in the warm comfort of the yurt. In the morning, after a leisurely breakfast, Dante went to prepare the horses to continue their journey.

  Mourn crunched up behind him through the snow. "What are you doing?"

  "Preparing our dragons for the flight to Narashtovik."

  "You're leaving already?"

  "Trust me, if I could spare the time, I'd stay here for a month. It would be a thousand times more pleasant than what I'm off to do."

  "You should stay for another day. It will improve your mood. When you lighten your heart, you lighten your responsibilities."

  Dante gave Mourn a sidelong glance. "Don't tell me you've missed us that bad."

  Mourn sighed, breath steaming from his mouth. "Go on, then. I'll just tell Sonn he won't be able to play Nulladoon with a human after all."

  "You have a Nulladoon set?"

  "Would I lie to you?"

  "Have you forgotten how we met?"

  Behind his beard, Mourn might have blushed. "The hunt for the Quivering Bow led to every norren in Gask throwing off their chains. If every lie could accomplish that much, only sadists would tell the truth."

  "One more day," Dante said. "But Sonn better be good."

  Sonn turned out to be a fifteen-year-old girl—though, being norren, she was still taller and heavier than he was. Seeing how young she was, Dante felt mild disappointment in his prospects for a challenging match, but as long as she wasn't a complete pushover, he still expected to have fun.

  As they laid out the board and selected their pieces, half the clan dropped what they were doing to come watch. Bets of nulla flew fast and furious. The action was mostly on Dante, but the bets on Sonn were large enough to make him suspect the game would be better than he'd thought.

  They began. Through the first few rounds, both Dante and Sonn played cautiously, until a minor skirmish of slingers turned into a wholesale slaughter of drakes, swordsmen, and sorcerers.

  Both sides withdrew in tatters. Dante consolidated his forces on favorable terrain, then advanced with methodical precision. Sonn arranged her defenses with impeccable str
ategy until Dante played a run of three cards that allowed his cavalry to ford a river and rush her flank. The attack should have been crushing, yet Sonn fought back so hard that Dante wasn't certain he'd win until six rounds later, when he claimed her last pieces.

  Sonn pressed her lips tight, face going red. "You got lucky. You should have lost the first battle."

  "Strange, considering I didn't," Dante said. "Then again, 'you got lucky' is about the level of analysis I'd expect from someone who thinks you need to keep your sorcerers hidden in the rear." Suddenly aware he was taunting a teenager, he stuck out his hand. "Thanks for playing me. It's been too long."

  She shook his hand. After a moment, she returned his smile, too. She'd said her nulla was sculpture, but it took a form he'd never seen before: the skeletons of mice glued together and equipped with tiny spears, bows, armor, and little tiny bossen, all of which she'd also made. Sonn presented his figurine with her eyes downcast, blinking rapidly.

  "Are you embarrassed?" He lifted it for a closer inspection. "The craftsmanship is great."

  "Yeah, but it's…" She risked a look up. "Silly."

  "You're right. It's a mouse with a spear."

  Her voice fell to a whisper. "I'm sorry."

  "But that's part of what makes it great," he said. "Life is serious enough. We need songs and stories and armored little mice to remind us it can be silly, too."

  Sonn lifted her eyes to his, blushing harder than ever. She made a small noise that might have been gratitude, then bobbed her head and walked away.

  Blays ambled up beside him, watching her go. "You do realize you essentially just stole from a child?"

  "It's not stealing if you earned it." He leaned closer to Blays, sniffing. "How much beer have you had?"

  "Lots! They've got a guy whose nulla is brewing!"

  This was interesting enough to occupy them through the afternoon. It likely would have held their interest throughout the night, too, but they were interrupted late in the day by the arrival of another clan. In most cases, this would involve the hoisting of weapons and the preparation of threats, but the Nine Pines looked completely unconcerned.

  As the other clan neared, Dante found Mourn hanging around at the fringe of the camp. He stood beside the norren. "Expecting guests?"

  "Bet you'll recognize them."

  As the other clan grew nearer, Dante thought he recognized the gait of the man in their front. Seeing him, the man gave a cheery wave.

  "The Broken Herons?" Dante's jaw fell open, then lifted in a grin. "Was this why you wanted us to wait another day? Why didn't you just tell me Hopp was coming?"

  Mourn gave him an affronted look. "If you had a good reason to stay, then what would it prove if you did so?"

  The two clans met, exchanging handshakes and hugs. Once Hopp had done some chatting, he made his way to Dante and Blays. He was starting to sport some silver around his temples and in his beard, which he'd finally allowed to grow long enough to cover the R branded on his right cheek—once, he'd kept it shaved to remind the world he'd once been a Gaskan slave. It seemed he no longer felt the need.

  "Are the rumors true?" Hopp said.

  Blays tilted his head. "You'll have to be a lot more specific than that."

  "That you were going to go straight to Narashtovik without so much as saying hello to your own clan. What have we done to earn such disgrace?"

  "You made the mistake of not causing a disaster worthy of Dante's attention."

  "Sorry about that," Dante said, meaning it. "There's trouble in Narashtovik. It could be bad."

  Hopp studied him. "Have you ever noticed that there seems to be trouble everywhere you go?"

  "So just imagine how much more there would be if I didn't show up to deal with it."

  Hopp went to greet a few of the other Nine Pines, who'd remained on relatively terrific terms with the Broken Pines ever since the war. In time, Hopp joined them outside Mourn's yurt, where they were continuing to appreciate the craftsmanship of the Pines' brewer.

  Hopp took a tankard and then a seat. For close to an hour, he rambled on about the particular coldness of that winter, his recent squabbles with nearby clans, and an expedition into the Woduns he was planning to make during the coming summer. After asking several dozen questions about the kappers that infested the mountains, he fell silent. Blays and Mourn excused themselves to find more beer.

  Once they left, Hopp's eyebrow perked up. "Did I tell you why we're here? No, of course I haven't. Or why wouldn't I remember it?"

  He twisted in his chair and rooted around in his pack. With a noise of satisfaction, he turned back around and extended his hand.

  An empty shaden shell rested on his broad palm. "Do you know what this is?"

  Dante blinked. "Do you?"

  "Is it the former home of a snail?"

  "And this is remarkable to you?"

  "It's a large, fine shell, isn't it?" Hopp ran an oversized finger over the shell's black swirls. "Very pretty."

  "Why don't you tell me what you know?"

  "Why don't you ask the right questions?"

  Dante pressed his lips together. "Where did you find it?"

  Hopp waved a hand at the low hills. "Oh, somewhere out there."

  "Which is strange, right? I know I've been gone for a while, but I don't think it's been long enough for a new ocean to form in the Norren Territories."

  The older norren smiled, fox-like. "That's what led me to ask our clan about it. And when they didn't know what it was, to start asking other clans."

  "You were that interested in an empty shell?"

  "I should see a strange thing, say 'How strange,' and think nothing more of it? If you found something unusual in your house—someone else's shoe, say—you wouldn't wonder how it came to be there?"

  "At this moment, the only thing I'm wondering is if this conversation could be any more baffling."

  Hopp gave him a crooked look. "What do you think matters more? The point? Or how you come to reach it? No matter how widely I asked, no one knew much about the shells. But I did hear that you'd know about them."

  Dante blinked. "How did you hear that?"

  "With my ears."

  "You norren gossip worse than fishwives."

  "Do you humans think you're so clever that no one else will notice what you're up to? Don't answer that question. Answer this one: should I be concerned to find the shell inside the Norren Territories?"

  Dante took the shell, turning it over in his hand. "They're called shaden. They come from an island far to the south. The meat is like a warehouse of nether. Exceedingly useful to people like me. Until very recently, the Mallish priesthood was gathering them in great numbers."

  "Am I to infer this practice stopped when you arrived?"

  "More of that 'trouble' you were referring to earlier."

  Hopp's face had been sobering rapidly. "Why would Mallish priests be using the nether inside the Norren Territories?"

  "I have no idea. Could be they were just passing through on their way to Narashtovik. If so, these people might be the same ones I'm on my way to deal with. But we can't assume it'll be that easy to settle. It could also be an arm of something far more sinister. Will you and the Herons keep watch on the pass?"

  "What are we to watch for?"

  "The aforementioned Mallish priests, for a start. And anyone else who looks suspicious."

  "What if all humans look suspicious to me?"

  "Then only tell me about the ones I'd think were suspicious."

  Hopp nodded, satisfied. "What brought you to this island of nether-snails in the first place?"

  Dante took a deep breath and began to explain. He hadn't meant to say more than a few vague sentences, but before he knew it, he was relating a detailed account of the last half year since being called away from the tunnel he'd built for Gallador. The note from his "father," the business with the Kandeans, the pursuit of Gladdic, the warring in Collen. It took some time.

  When he finished, Hopp was
frowning. "That sounds dreadful. Why take on so many worries for people you'd never met before?"

  "It seemed more polite than letting them get slaughtered."

  "And it sounds like you're sick and tired of it." Hopp snapped his fingers. "You know what you should do? Join the Broken Herons."

  "In case you've forgotten, we already did that. Blays nearly drowned himself in the effort."

  "I'm suggesting you join us and stay with us. Don't you want to walk the prairies? Explore the mountains? See the sun touch a new hill every morning? Set down your concerns, pick up your bow, and hunt the deer with us?"

  Dante was about to reject this out of hand. Instead, he found himself gazing across the trampled snow of the camp, envisioning himself out in the wilds in the company of a hundred brothers and sisters, with no worries beyond what they'd catch for the night's meal. He could still practice the nether—clearly, it would be his nulla—but from then on out, his pursuit would be purely for himself. If he wanted, he could even resume leading, to whatever extend Hopp would welcome. It would be far easier to take care of a clan of a hundred than a city of a hundred thousand.

  "It's tempting," he said. "Genuinely. But I can't."

  "Why not? If you leave, will the walls of Narashtovik come crashing down? Will the townsfolk fling themselves from the bridges in despair? Will Arawn get so angry he'll smash his fist down on the city, leaving nothing behind but a crater?"

  "If I left? No. But what if everyone tossed aside their responsibilities?"

  "Do you always worry about things that aren't happening? Do you know why norren don't build towns?"

  "What are you talking about? Plenty of you do."

  "Do you think I'm talking about them?"

  "Why don't norren build towns?"

  Hopp opened his hand as if releasing a trapped bird. "So we can always walk away."

  It would have sounded self-congratulatory if not for the fact it was true. The norren looked after themselves and their clan. Other than the occasional scuffle with a foe-clan, their lives were more or less open to do whatever they wanted, which they took full advantage of. If the norren acted like this, and were perfectly fine people, why couldn't humans do the same? Why couldn't he?