The Keeper of Tales

by Jonathon Mast

  Cerulean struck the flint. Bright white flames flared across the bridge and shot through to the lines around the tunnel’s entrance. The goblins were caught between fire and darkness. They squealed and tried to find a way around the bright flames. Thesairh backed away another step but continued watching.

  The Blue Rider’s horse stomped at the flames below, even as it ignored the blue flames of its rider.

  The elf shouted again, but now I could tell she was speaking an entirely different story. The words flowed about her, forming into armor and a great sword. The armor looked like a great heron. Its wings spread wide behind the elf, as if she had grown the ability to fly. The blade was a bright yellow, its edges sharper than any metal blade I might wield.

  Finally, Yolian’s wall collapsed.

  Cerulean ran to meet the Blue Rider, her sword swinging and her mouth still speaking. Words surrounded her. She sprinted through the flames, ignoring the burns on her body.

  All around, boulders fell onto goblins. Screams filled the cavern.

  Cerulean struck at the Blue Rider, and her blade of words seemed to find some purchase. She brought back the sword to heave another mighty blow, but as she did so the rider raised two fingers and blocked the sword with them. More whispering, and the blade itself began to flicker.

  Cerulean continued her fevered speaking. Sweat poured down her face. The flames below her wrapped around her legs.

  The rider spoke new words in a language I understood. “How long can Chariis stand if we devour the stories that protect it?”

  Cerulean faltered, her feet on the bridge, her blade held high for another strike. She shook her head clear and prepared to heave another blow, but it was too late. The rider stepped forward and reached toward the elf. It did not try to slash a blade, nor even take hold of the words that formed the armor. It simply pushed.

  Cerulean fell back onto the island, her legs blackened by the now-dying fire. The rider advanced. “There will be no escape this time, elf. You are dead. I will strip you of your stories, just as we will your fabled city. And then the goblins will kill you and use your flesh for clothing and meat.” The Rider chuckled.

  Cerulean gathered her legs under her, her jaw clamped shut to keep from screaming as her burned skin and muscle rubbed against stone. She bent her knees into a crouch.

  The whispered voice continued. “Once upon a time, elf, the darkness overwhelmed the light. And every story bowed into submission to us. No more victories for Chariis.” It ignored the boulders still falling around it, the screams of the goblins, the flames now gone. It looked right at me, and I forgot to breathe. “And the Keeper of Tales will rejoice in our victory.”

  Cerulean sprung. Her muscles tore through the burns. She would never be able to walk again. She spread out her arms, catching the Blue Rider in its chest, tackling it, knocking it out of its saddle, off the horse, down, down over the bridge, down into the chasm.

  Blue flame flickered below, and then darkness swallowed even that light.

  I returned to myself and gasped for breath. Yolian was beside me and put a hand on my shoulder. “What is it?”

  “Cerulean has fallen to the Blue Riders.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  We climbed. What else could we do? As we struggled up the vertical shaft toward the sky, I told the others what I had seen. Lazul cried aloud in rage. I understood; a dwarf is not meant to be helpless.

  After I had fallen to silence, Yolian took up a mourning song. It was meant only for elven ears, but it did not matter here. Cerulean was dead and must be mourned in the way elves mourn.

  The language was the same that formed the spells the elves had spoken, but I could see no words weaving any pattern. It was merely a song of an ancient tongue. It was slow and lilting, and the sound of the words reminded me somehow of the pale full moon moving through bare branches. Yolian’s voice rose and fell in long vowels that I knew I would never be able to write into human words, yet I found myself joining in. Above I heard the others do the same. Even Lazul lifted his voice.

  The words did not matter, nor did the notes. The emotion of it, of the loss, carried us into all we needed to know.

  We sang for hours. The dirge was our companion as our muscles ached and our breath grew ragged. I lost myself to the dirge.

  I have learned that sorrow protects. The numbness that comes with grief can keep a man sane. It also kept me from thinking about what the Blue Rider had said. It didn’t matter now. I didn’t need to dwell on it. Not yet. I didn’t have to think about stories and what they meant. I didn’t have to think of being used or the stories slaying Korah. Or Cerulean. Or what it said about the Keeper of Tales. All I had to do was give myself to the dirge, to sing, to lose my voice in the song.

  We climbed ever upward, toward the mountain’s summit, toward the moon that seemed to reside in the song that lifted from our throats.

  My muscles were the first to fail. I could no longer haul myself upward, so I clung to the side of the tunnel, helpless. My arms shook, and I closed my eyes. How long would it take to fall to the bottom?

  Yolian changed his tune briefly, and I saw words seeping into my skin. I felt rejuvenated.

  I tried not to think of this as a story using me. No, this was Yolian using a story to support us. Just like I tried to do before the goblins came. Before Cerulean sacrificed herself for us. Just like Korah did.

  As the night passed, Yolian did the same for all of us and himself several times.

  Finally, dawn was coming, and light filtered down to us. This illumination caused us to redouble our efforts. The dirge faded. For a time, the only sound was our heavy breathing and the sound of flesh slapping stone as we searched for new handholds.

  Then Abani took up a new song. It was a good song, one with a strong beat that drove us forward. It was a training song, perhaps used in Abani’s own youth. I was thankful for it.

  Soon we all joined in on the choruses.

  “Kai, march on! Sing the eagle’s song!

  “Let us fly ever onward, toward the sun above!”

  Our voices grew more and more ragged, and I longed for a cool drink, but we could not stop. Even if we could, I had but one canteen of water. How long would that last?

  Abani led the song twice, and then a third time. After that, she started wheezing from the climb.

  Daragen led the next song, a marching one. The beat was a bit more driving, and the words thrust from his mouth as if practicing with a blade. After a few verses, we all again joined in the chorus.

  “Spin round, slice the feet,

  “Touch the ground, upward slice, dodge!”

  It was a song that outlined several simple swordplay maneuvers. It kept us moving for a time, but it was basic and did not last nearly as long as Abani’s song had.

  Below me, Lazul grunted out a digging song in his dwarvish tongue. None of us understood, nor could we join in, since we found it much more alien than Yolian’s dirge had been.

  When Lazul had finished, I raised my voice. Rather than a marching tune, I sang a love song.

  “May the land support and aid us,

  “Ever blessed in comfort stay us,

  “Keep us fed from day to day,

  “And may we love it e’er the same.”

  It was a basic farming song, one sung by many generations of Northerners. It kept the feet moving while plowing and often urged the cattle on as they dragged farming implements. The song made me think of green growing things and all that Garethen would destroy if he conquered Chariis. The other men seemed to know it and joined in on a few verses. Daragen even added two verses after I was done, ones I had never heard before.

  Galatea sang a chantey then. “What do you do with a drunken sailor?” she rang out.

  When we got to a verse about pickles and eggs, Daragen called up, “You’re not using that trick on me ever again!”

  The songs had rejuvenated us and moved us upward for hours. Now the light poured down on us. My limbs grew tired
again, though, and I didn’t think another spell from Yolian would help.

  Just then Galatea cried out, “We’ve reached the top!” and her form slipped from view above me. Daragen and Abani soon disappeared, and then my head was above the tunnel and looking at a level floor. I heaved myself over the edge and lay panting, while on the other side of the hole Lazul did the same. Yolian had the grace to step over me before collapsing.

  All five of us lay there, gasping for breath. I drank the last of my water, using every ounce of self-control I had to not gulp it down in one long drink. I heard the others around me do the same. We all lay helpless, exhausted, at the crown of the mountain. Sleep enveloped me.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  I dreamed.

  I was at the last checkpoint we had passed. A dwarf named Cadmus led the men there. He was short, even for a dwarf, and his beard shorter than most, but his arms thicker. He wore metal armor that did not impede his movement. Cadmus oversaw thirty warriors, guarding the path to both the capitol city as well as the path to Bergaroc, a small mining community.

  A knock sounded at the gate, and Cadmus investigated. He feared what he might find there.

  He peeked over the palisade to see a flurry of arrows. He ducked, calling the alarm. Beyond the wall the goblins wailed a chorus of shrieking laughter. The gate boomed, and several warriors ran to make sure it would hold. The stone door shuddered as a second boom rang out, echoing off the rock roof.

  Ten warriors rushed to the palisade and nocked arrows before lifting their heads to take aim. Whispered twangs warned them to duck, but they had the opportunity to respond in kind before more shafts showered them. A few goblins fell.

  Unarmored enemies began climbing the cave walls to get past the stone fence. Dwarven archers held back the first wave, but a few made it through during the second wave. Warriors with axes met those who escaped the arrow.

  Cadmus stayed on the palisade and risked one more look below to number the enemy. A great dark form banged on the stone gate with a gigantic club. It looked up and met his eyes. I recognized Thesairh. Goblins ranged far behind him.

  I saw no Blue Riders.

  Cadmus rushed to the other gates and dispatched messengers to both cities, warning them of what was coming. I spied a tiny form clinging to the back of one of the messengers. Her eyes were wet.

  Swarms of goblins climbed the walls, and the archers fired on as many as they could. Those with axes cut down any that came within reach. The goblins had quickly learned to stay above the reach of the axes, though, merely passing over on the ceiling. They began to rain arrows down onto the dwarves from there, forcing everyone to seek shelter and allowing more goblins to cross over. The booming at the gate continued, drowning out all other sound.

  Cadmus ducked under a stone portico, cursing. He looked to a fellow warrior. “They’ve not come in such great numbers for hundreds of years!”

  His companion agreed, but the observation did not help them.

  The goblins started dropping from the ceiling, arrows already nocked. They drew as soon as their feet touched the ground, sending a hail of shafts wherever they could. Dwarves ran forward with axes, and they hewed through many goblins. Finally, Cadmus himself charged into the melee, swinging his great axe.

  The goblins seemed to wear no armor. Whatever they might be wearing his axe bit through. He screamed his rage. His fort would not be taken while he yet breathed!

  A green-gray goblin stood against him with a jagged curved blade. It swung it at Cadmus’s head, but he blocked with his axe and shoved into the goblin’s chest with his shoulder. As the goblin stumbled back, he let the axe drop and then swung upwards across the center of the thing’s chest, sundering skin and flesh and bone.

  A hail of arrows struck at him. Most of them bounced off his armor, but one found a joint and bit into his shoulder. The dwarven leader swung around to face his new enemy. Another three goblins had just dropped from the ceiling, taking aim at him. He charged, his axe held close to his body as he ran. Blood from the axe’s edge dripped down its handle and onto his gauntlets.

  He charged the center goblin, ducking and taking the creature with his shoulder. It crumbled under his weight. Cadmus pivoted on one leg, letting fly his weapon to smite another foe. He continued his spin, taking the third with his axe. He dashed to aid a warrior who was falling back before four more goblins.

  The vermin continued to fall from the roof, and dwarven blood began to spill in earnest. Young Degrin was the first to fly to stone halls beyond mortal mines, and his brother in arms Mercius fell while protecting Degrin’s body.

  Soon the goblins were so thick Cadmus could swing his axe in any direction and strike at least one. Still the hail of arrows from above was unceasing and unbiased in who it might slay. It didn’t matter; there were goblins to spare.

  And over all, the booming of the gate. Dust began to fly from the stout hinges, and the stone doors creaked.

  Three dwarven warriors leaned against the gate, and goblins gathered against them there. Deros, Cadien, and Porthos all fell with their backs to the enemy, trying to hold back the tide that would soon sweep over them all. The goblins shoved the dwarven bodies out of the way and began lifting the heavy bar.

  Cadmus saw all this and moved to attack. He swung his axe, crushing armor and weapon. Gray form after gray form got in his way. Arrows pierced his armor again and again, but he did not stop his charge to the gate.

  He raised his axe to strike the goblins raising the bar.

  Too late.

  The gate burst open. The great dark form of Garethen’s general looked down on him. Thesairh dropped the club and drew his long blade, sneering at the dwarf who stood against him. He roared, and the goblins skittered away from Cadmus.

  Once again, the voice as deep as a grave sounded. “My Lord will accept your surrender. He will not kill you, but will use you in his service. He does not wish your death, only your fealty.”

  Cadmus let his actions answer. He charged the great fell beast, his axe raised high.

  Thesairh’s blade crashed down on the axe, shattering its head. He left Cadmus unharmed. “Let there be no more death today. Surrender.”

  The dwarf continued his charge.

  I awoke with the flash of a dark blade burned across my vision, my breath coming in bursts.

  Yolian was beside me. “Another dream?”

  “Yes.”

  The elf awaited an explanation from me.

  “The goblins have taken the first dwarven checkpoint from the cavern below. Cerulean didn’t collapse it enough to block their forward movement.”

  Yolian was silent for a time and then looked behind me. I turned to see that all the others listened.

  It was then that I noticed where we were. The pit was still beside me, yet I could see we were in a room of stone with vast open windows that looked out onto a reddening sky. It appeared as if it was the high watchtower of a fortress. I tried to get to my feet, my muscles so sore they caused me to cry out at first.

  Yolian helped me up. “I am sorry. Stories will only work so long before a body starts disbelieving them.” He walked me to a window where I could look out.

  We were perched on a mountain height. Around me were snow covered mountain slopes, painted pink in the sunset. Dark stone jutted out in smaller peaks all around us. In the far distance, to the east, I made out lower lands covered in green and gold. To the west I saw dark valleys stretching into the white and black of the mountains.

  We were high atop the Jazen Mountains. The air was thin and crisp, though not as cold as I would have expected seeing all that snow.

  I looked to the others. “Now where?”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Yolian gestured to the pit. “We cannot go down. Even if Cerulean’s spell didn’t block the cavern itself, we know she collapsed the chimney so we can’t reenter dwarven lands. Even if we could, the way is likely blocked by hundreds or thousands of goblins and possibly other fell beasts.”
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br />   “Well, we had best decide soon,” Lazul commented. “Usually the tunnel channels heat here from below, I’d wager. With the tunnel sealed, it may grow cold soon.”

  I glanced around us at the summit of the mountains. “Then we continue here?”

  Abani sighed. She did not appear eager at the prospect of crossing through so much snow. I wasn’t surprised. Her silks would provide little protection against the cold.

  I turned back to Yolian. “Is there any way we can warn others of the attack on the Graz?”

  Lazul broke in. “Do you see the stonecutting here, Adal?” He pointed to the walls around us. “This is much shoddier than dwarven work, even Graz work. This was made by men, and I suspect they send someone here on occasion to try and speak to the dwarves below. It’s odd what some men think they must go through to talk to us! But if we look around, there may even be a manned watchtower near here.”

  We spent the remainder of the light looking out, trying to find such a place. At the last dying of the sun, Yolian pointed. “There. That summit. Do you see? A light’s in it, almost as if pouring from a window. Someone’s carved out some of that peak and is residing there, at least tonight.”

  We decided to travel to the inhabited peak the next morning. We had much to discuss, but it could wait until then. We were exhausted. Galatea looked around the small room we were in, but couldn’t find anything to fuel a fire. She swore.

  We lay down to rest there that night. Though I had slept most of the day, my body was eager for rest. I was exhausted from the many days of travel and the little mirth we had shared with the Graz. And now more sorrow.

  The stories spoke of sorrow, but it was another thing to experience it yourself.

  I wondered how much of a hero’s pain came from the Fallen Lord and how much came from stories themselves. It was the stories that spoke of sorrow. It was the stories that spoke of sacrifice and loss as the heroes strove to defeat the Fallen Lord. We were living out that same story again now, falling into its forms, following its directives. We were strengthening that story by telling it again. We had fed it another sacrificed prince, another fallen companion, and our own hearts heavy with loss. How often I must have unwittingly fed these stories by speaking them, reveling in their tellings, by choosing to follow them. Was my love of stories to blame for those deaths?