by J. P. Ashman
‘Not until later, ye shites,’ Jevratt said, pulling on Belcher’s arm. ‘Off we go to rouse the families. We’ve folk to remember.’
Couig winced at the thought of those lost. ‘Off ye go, lads. I’ll catch ye.’
‘Ye sure, uncle?’
Couig shoved Legg on and the lad chased after his departing cousins.
‘I’m getting too old for dis,’ Couig said to himself, as he climbed atop his vardo. Once on the roof, he rummaged in some of the chests and withdrew a dented, curled horn. After spitting on the mouthpiece, he drew in his lips, pressed them to the cold metal and blew a long, sorrowful note that lasted long after he’d stopped blowing.
Tonight’s for remembering. And I’ll be staked and stamped if we don’t wake the gnomes of Chapparro Minor whilst doing it.
As soon as the horn finished its remembrance call, the shouts, cheers, wails and singing started, and increased in volume… and increased some more. Smiling to himself, Couig returned the horn to its chest and stood to take in the view. Turning, with the star-filled sky above and the smoke of his fire catching his nose, he looked on at the ring of rings with fires at the centre of each. It was a special sight and one he never tired of, even when a wake preceded Grounding.
Ah, but Grounding is all the better for such things. Makes us remember what we have, what’s ours and what we could have lost, rather than what we did. Couig pulled his lips into a tight smile and turned around again, fingers tapping on his leg to one of the many songs he could hear. For we could’ve lost it all today. It really came that close. And what would become of Grounding then?
Breathing in the smoke-tainted air and sighing with satisfaction, Couig took one last look around and climbed down from his vardo. Now to find the lads, before they start a fight. Couig wandered from the centre of his circle and off into the night, into the eye, a multitude of family circles to choose from.
The beat was kept with a goat-skinned drum, but dozens of feet about Couig’s circle followed and increased the beat until it resonated within the muffled heads of all present.
On top of Couig’s vardo stood Jevratt, a cow-horn of ale in each hand. At the top of his voice he continued the song he’d sung three times already that night, but despite his hoarse voice, the crowd couldn’t help but scream for more and sing the chorus when it came.
We turn our wheels and we set our course
Dues are paid by the traveller’s purse
Me ma takes coin that’s business done
And that’s the life on the road and run!
The ground gets thumped and the laughs are long
The instruments played and the spirits strong
The life we lead is both hard and fun
And that’s the life on the road and run!
The raiders try and slow us down
We fight our way to the nearest town
We all go down when our time is done…
And that’s the life on the road and run!
Scores of people cheered after the last chorus and despite Jevratt’s attempt at continuing, the people demanded he drank both horns at once instead. He obliged.
Another cheer and many followed his example, grabbing horns from one another so they could try two at once. It was said later that Grounding drank more ale than the Caravaneers that night. It was also said that the gnomes of Chapparro Minor could not sleep and a song was written of that very thing. But before the night could end, it was time for Grounding.
‘Families!’ Couig shouted over the chants for Jevratt to drink more. They all fell quiet at the sound of their caravan master’s voice.
‘Families,’ he shouted again, taking all those in that he could see. The crowd tried to push in from outside the circle, from the darkness and the light of circles farther afield, but there was no way they could all fit in. Dozens of travellers mixed amongst the Caravaneers, many suffering from wounds, most from drink. There were those who were sober: a hedge knight and two robed and hooded men.
‘It is time!’ Couig shouted as loud as his spinning head would allow.
A tremendous roar erupted and before Couig could shout another word, the families exploded from the centre of the great eye and raced to their own circles and wheeled homes.
Couig laughed, lost in the din of his running and cheering kin. ‘Well,’ he said to Legg, who moved alongside him, ‘that saved me a speech.’ Legg slapped him on the back before moving off to prepare their own vardos for Grounding.
Couig felt a gentle tap on the shoulder and turned to see the priest of tears stood behind him. The hooded man pointed to the Caravaneers rushing here and there, attending to the vardos, but not the carts; he shrugged.
‘Ye want to know what we’re about, Priest?’
The priest’s hood dipped low; a nod.
Pulling the man in close, Couig hesitated, surprised at the hard muscle beneath the robes. Shaking it away, the old man proceeded to explain Grounding to the quiet priest.
Listening intently, Cheung’s eyes widened under his hood as he saw the explanation in practice mere moments later. All the vardos in Couig’s circle were surrounded by swiftly erected bamboo scaffolding, their wheels removed. No carts were touched, but with practised ease and efficiency, despite the amount of ale each man and woman had consumed, the wheel-less vardos were lowered on pulleys to the grass below. The circle now resembled a miniature hamlet of gaudy, box-like structures, many with the rampart-like roofs of Cheung’s own.
What possible benefit is this? Cheung thought, bemused. He was pulled around the circle by Couig, who talked him through each vardo; which family lived in which, how they were related to him and how old that particular ‘home’ was.
If we’re attacked, Cheung thought, hardly listening to the man, there’s no escape. The camp is spread wide and thin… defenceless.
Well, apart from that mage.
Cheung’s eyes locked on the hooded figure stood opposite him, but before he could pull away from Couig, the mage was lost to the shadows beyond the circle.
Before he knew it, Cheung was introduced to various families and any travellers they had with them for the journey. The knight who Cheung had already seen, greeted him with suspicion, but others greeted Cheung with the respect a priest would expect. Most of the travellers knew each other from the journey, but Cheung had kept himself to himself, even during the wake.
By the time Couig and Cheung made the rounds, with Couig saying several times how proud he was to have a priest of tears travelling with them and how grateful he was for the priest’s attempts to save the girl in his vardo, despite her not pulling through, Cheung was startled by the silent arrival of an eagle-owl. The barred and mottled bird appeared as if from nowhere and approached a woman’s leather-clad arm. That arm dipped as the large bird alighted on it. Craning its head around at impossible angles, the owl took in all present before pulling a dead chick from the woman’s gloved hand and swallowing it whole.
I’m suffering from a lack of training, Cheung thought. I should have known of the bird’s approach, especially one that big.
‘What news?’ Couig asked, moving across to the bird handler. She leaned into the owl and her eyes glazed over for a moment, before clearing again.
Stroking the back of the eagle-owl’s head, the woman grinned at Couig. ‘The eye is complete,’ she said. ‘It’s time for Grounding.’ She heaved the bird up into the air, and after a low swoop that left its wings brushing the grass, the majestic bird disappeared into the night like a spectre.
Shaking his head in amazement at the true silence of the creature’s flight, Cheung cringed as the Caravaneers began to shout and cheer once more. They spread like ants from a disturbed nest. All about they ran and leapt, before encouraging their guests to follow them into their grounded homes. Cheung was wary as Jevratt appeared and pulled him towards the chicken-filled vardo he’d been travelling in. He could see the same trepidation on other travellers’ faces, including the hedge knight, Sir Xand’s.
Steeling himself against the strange ritual, Cheung allowed the tattooed arms of Jevratt to drag him up the steps and into the now familiar vardo. Once inside, Cheung was taken aback by what he saw.
A gaping hole opened out where the inner floor of the vardo had been, stone steps leading into the depths below.
Cheung had one thought as the transformation sank in.
Where is my satchel? Where are my kamas?
Chapter 6 – Silence broken
Cheung felt his way down the steep steps below his vardo, the air about him damp. His soft-soled boots gripped the stone well, but he would have felt better knowing where Jevratt was leading him.
Do Caravaneers bring travellers to Grounding to lead them into… what? Dungeons? Worse? Cheung clenched his teeth, nostrils flaring. Is there any unrest in Sirreta at all, or was that a lie to drive us north?
‘A little way more, Priest, and we’re there,’ Jevratt said from behind and above Cheung.
And where is there? Cheung wanted to ask. Gods, a growl or hiss would have satisfied him. I am losing myself, he thought, aware of how his temper was flaring quicker and easier of late. I suffer from my lack of true meditation and training. Swallowing and taking a deep breath, Cheung forged on, down the steps into the darkness below.
‘Ah, see ye’ll love this, Priest. I know ye will.’
Cheung ran his gloved hands along the rough stone walls either side of him. He hit the bottom. He’d moved to step down again and his right leg buckled as he struck the flat stone floor.
Before he could do anything, Jevratt brushed past him and there were half a dozen flashes of flint on steel and several curses before a torch flared to life. The yellow light illuminated a yellow door at the end of a short corridor.
‘Down here, me man. Follow me.’ Jevratt strode down the short space, torch in hand, before wrapping his bare-bone knuckles on the yellow wood.
Cheung balked at those knuckles, those fists topped in polished bone, illuminated by the torch as they were. He’d taken Jevratt’s knuckles for dusters, much like the brass ones Legg used. But no, Cheung realised that Jevratt’s knuckles were literally bare bone. His bone. Cheung swallowed as bile rose. He’d seen a lot of grim sights, caused some, but for some reason Jevratt’s knuckle-bones, like snow-capped mountains lifting from a fog of flesh, knocked the assassin sick.
A hacking cough came from the far side of the door.
‘Ma! It’s me!’
Cheung forced the nausea away and shook his head in disbelief as a latch clicked and the bright yellow door swung inward. In its place stood a red-faced Collett, a tallow candle in hand. The smell of the tallow hit Cheung as the light of both torch and candle danced across Collett’s lined face and the grimace she maintained. That grimace dropped as soon as she saw Cheung.
‘Ah, Priest,’ she said with glee. ‘Ye bless us with yer presence. Come, come.’ She waved Cheung forward and shoved Jevratt to one side. Bowing respectfully, Cheung moved past Jevratt and into his mother’s… whatever the place was.
On the other side of the door, a plush expanse of fur rugs, wooden chairs, dressers and gaudy totems stretched left and right. Opposite Cheung stood another yellow door identical to the one he was passing through. He glanced left from beneath his hood and noticed a couple of much younger children playing in a large stone basin, carved from the floor itself. The water steamed as the children played and Cheung realised the warmth of his feet.
‘They call it thermal something or other,’ Collett said, following Cheung’s hooded gaze. ‘Keeps the water and floor warm, from below.’ She laughed. ‘But don’t be expecting more explaining than that, for I don’t have a mind for telling ye the details.’
Jevratt entered the chamber behind Cheung and his mother closed the door behind them.
‘Welcome,’ Jevratt said, tattooed arms wide, ‘to Grounding.’
Cheung turned to Jevratt and bowed low. These Caravaneers are full of surprises.
‘And now we eat,’ Collett said, before coughing up something wretched and reaching for a long pipe in one. ‘Follow me,’ she added, packing the bone pipe with tobacco. Cheung followed the woman right, away from the bathing children and round a right-hand corner, where a cavernous space opened out before them. The stone ceiling rose up conically, making way for a large chandelier of candle topped antlers. The light the magnificent piece gave off created a warm glow that made Cheung smile involuntarily. This place is truly magical, he thought, taking in the scene and smell of cooking meat. Frowning, the assassin looked about for a fire. I smell cooking… but not the burning of wood?
As if sensing his thoughts, Jevratt rushed across to a glowing alcove where he pointed with excitement. ‘Hot coals,’ he said. Cheung looked to Collett, who was lighting her impressive pipe. The woman nodded for him to go on. Cheung bowed to her and crossed the fur covered floor of the hall-like space. Reaching Jevratt’s side, he saw the white-hot coals in question. There was no wood about the fire, nor was there much smoke, but the oven glowed red in the centre. Above them sat a large pot and the smell was wondrous.
‘The ground heat is enough on that spot there,’ Jevratt explained, ‘to allow the coals to get cooking hot.’ The hardy man folded his arms and grinned at Cheung, before unfolding them again and motioning for the assassin to take a place at the large stone-hewn table below the chandelier. Obliging the man, Cheung sat on one of the few wooden chairs.
Collett placed a dozen or so half-horns for drinking, pouring a good measure of mead into each. She did it all whilst pulling and puffing on her pipe.
Cheung motioned around the round table, much of which was surrounded by curved benches, if not chairs. Grinning again, Jevratt indicated the way they had entered by lifting his chin.
‘Some of the family will be joining us, once their own Groundings are set—’
A door banged open and children shouted out in pleasure.
‘Good timing,’ Jevratt said, taking a seat next to his guest.
Before Cheung could do or think anything, Couig, Legg, Belcher and several others piled into the hall. And before the assassin could rise, they all came to him in turn, telling him what an honour and pleasure it was having a priest of tears come to Grounding. He was pleased they expected little from him, knowing, as they did, that the priests of that order never spoke, and so as the food was placed before him and the drink supplied, Cheung enjoyed some rare relaxation and enjoyment as he did his best to play the role of priest, guest and friend.
The food proved plentiful, as did the mead, and once Cheung took his fill of both, Jevratt showed him to a small alcove with a shelf-like bed carved out of the wall of a dark tunnel. On the bed lay furs and down-filled pillows of linen. The luxury was beyond the assassin, used to the roof of a house as he was. He bowed his thanks several times, before climbing up onto the bed and pulling the heavy drapes across the opening. Cheung removed his hood and gloves, before running his pale fingers across the stone above and to the side of him. It wasn’t long until he discovered the hole running perpendicular to his knees. Reaching into it carefully, he was relieved to feel the familiar satchel and kamas within. Reassured all was where he had packed it, and unopened, Cheung stretched out, yawned and closed his eyes. If nothing else, he had experienced a wonderful evening at the hands of the Caravaneers, and that would be something he would cherish whenever he allowed himself the time to truly relax.
Relax? Cheung’s eyes opened, although it made no difference in the black alcove. I’ve let my weapons leave my side. I’ve drunk far more than I should. I have a mark… and here I am thinking of relaxation and pleasant evenings with, what? Friends? He rubbed his scarred face with both hands. I hardly know anything about this Grounding I have descended into. Steeling himself from the weariness of the road, and the comfort of the bed that begged him to close his eyes and succumb to its embrace, Cheung retrieved his satchel, donned his gloves and pulled up his hood. He drew the drapes aside and lowered himself down into a crouch, taking in the f
eint outlines of the tunnel. Torches were lit somewhere beyond a corner and it gave him enough ambient light for his eyes to soak up. Moving quietly, Cheung set off in the opposite direction to Collett’s subterranean home.
Voices reached him, from back in the hall, but Cheung crept on, curious as to what else lay about him; beneath the expansive plateau above. More alcoves opened up on both sides of the passageway as he moved along, although all seemed open and empty from the little he could see. Following the winding path, the light brightened until he came across another yellow door, much like the one he entered Collett’s Grounding via. Pulling back his heavy hood and pressing his ear to the wood, Cheung listened for signs of life on the other side.
Nothing.
Testing the handle, he found it unlocked, and so opened the door. Slowly. Quietly. Hood covering his face.
Beyond lay… nothing. Another tunnel with another torch. He passed into the space and closed the door behind before moving along the new path. There were no alcoves here, no features whatsoever, but it led somewhere of importance, the stone floor worn smooth. As he travelled further along, the darkness crept back in, the torch left far behind. Eventually, another light became apparent, albeit around a sharp bend. Checking behind him before moving on, Cheung heard muffled shouts and cheers as he came closer to the light source.
Unable to do anything about it, Cheung, whilst continuing to move cautiously, came face to face with a young, bare-chested boy walking barefooted the other way.
Both jumped, startled. Both stared wide eyed, although Cheung’s eyes weren’t visible to the boy. It was the stern-faced lad who spoke – priests of tears do not speak, after all.
‘What the shite’re you doing here, Priest?’
Cheung looked behind him, struggling for what to do. His first instinct was to silence the boy, but that would do him no good, surrounded as he was; trapped as he was. Fortunately, it was his silence and inactivity that saved him any action at all.
