Rhapsody

by Elizabeth Haydon

  “No,” she said shortly. “There is very little you could say that I haven’t heard before. I’m used to men making jackasses out of themselves.”

  “’Ey!” said Grunthor in mock offense. “Watch it, sweet’eart, I haven’t ’ad a good meal in a good long time.”

  “Another example,” she said patiently. “You see, men have the upper hand in size and strength, and many of them have little compunction about using it when they can’t win with their wits. Who do you think came up with the idea of prostitution in the first place—women? Do you think we enjoy being degraded on a daily basis? I find it incredibly ironic; it is a service in great demand, and one that I can assure you few women go into unless they have to.” She dabbed a little of the healing tonic onto her own cuts and vermin bites, then offered the phial to Grunthor, who shook his head.

  “Men are the ones who want it,” she continued. “They often go to great lengths and great expense to obtain it, and then turn around and insult the women who provide the salve for this overwhelming, insistent need of theirs. Then the men act as though such women are somehow to be ashamed for their actions, when it was the man’s idea in the first place; that’s what I cannot fathom.

  “Anyone can understand a starving person resorting to stealing in order to feed his family, but somehow a woman who is forced into that life by the same threat, or that of violence, is less than a person. Never mind the man who is making use of the service. He has nothing to regret, and in fact it is usually he who expects her to accept the scorn and derision as something she deserves. I say all of you can blow in the wind. I’m going to remain celibate.”

  “Right,” Grunthor chuckled, “sell a bit here, sell a bit there—”

  Rhapsody spoke another word, and the giant’s leering commentary was choked off in midword. The giant continued to move his mouth, but no sound emerged for a moment. His eyes widened with surprise, and he looked over at Achmed.

  Achmed reached over and roughly took hold of her collar. “What did you do to him? Whatever spell you cast, take it off now.”

  Rhapsody didn’t blink. “He’s under no spell; he can speak if he wants.”

  “Oi doubt it—oh, Oi guess Oi can at that, now. Sorry, miss. Oi didn’t mean to be offensif.”

  “No offense taken. As I told you, there’s very little you can say to insult me that I haven’t heard before.”

  “Well, no one here will sit in judgment of you. We have sort of a ‘live and let live’ philosophy, wouldn’t you say, Grunthor?”

  Grunthor snickered, then nodded. “Oh, yes, miss. Live and let live. Or, pe’raps ‘kill and eat’ might be more like it. You got to remember, Oi’m a Sergeant Major by trade; Oi kills and eats folks as part of my job. Well, actually, just kills ’em; the eatin’ part is actually what you might call a side benefit. Countin’ coo, as it were.” Rhapsody just nodded and went back to rewrapping the bandages.

  “So how did you take away his voice, then, if it wasn’t a spell?”

  “I spoke the name of silence,” she said, “and it came, for a moment, anyway. It was the most powerful thing in this, well, this space, because it was in the presence of its name. How’s your wrist feeling?”

  “Fine. Thank you.”

  “You’re more than welcome.”

  “Oi ’ate to break up this lit’le love festival, but we ought to get movin’, eh?”

  “You’re right,” said Achmed, rising from the taproot and brushing off the dead vermin that remained around them. “I’m running out of disks. We’ll have to make the best use we can of them from here on out if the vermin return.”

  Rhapsody shuddered as the carcasses fell around her, covering her head to keep the pieces out of her hair. She repacked the flower and healing herbs, and followed Achmed back off of the outcropping and onto the root, to begin once more the seemingly endless climb to nowhere.

  11

  You’re the dirt of the ground Oi walk on,

  You’re pond scum under my heel.

  Just try disobeyin’ my orders,

  Oi’ll feed ya three feet o’ black steel.

  It’s a crime to despise the Sergeant,

  No matter what ’e thinks o’ you

  Be sure not to spread your opinion

  Or you’ll wind up for sure in the stew.

  Rhapsody smiled to herself as Grunthor’s ringing bass died away below her. The Bolg Sergeant clearly missed the troops that had been under his command, though he had not elaborated much about who they were, or what had happened to them. His marching cadences helped him pass the time, and gave her an interesting window into Bolg military life. More than anything, it made her appreciate that she had not yet become part of the menu.

  A small thicket of rootlets offered a moment’s respite from the climb, and she took the opportunity to stop, trying to find warmth. As she rubbed her hands furiously up and down her arms, Rhapsody endeavored to stop her heart from pounding in the anticipation she could not control. The sickening feeling in her stomach from too many disappointments did little to quash the hope that was now lodged in her throat.

  Finally, after an interminable amount of time, they were almost to the tunnel’s break. Above them in the darkness stretched a vast ceiling, too far to see the top, where Rhapsody hoped they might soon see sky. Perhaps it’s dark outside, she thought, but in the pit of her stomach she knew they had been traveling for far more than the span of a single night since the opening had come into view.

  “Wait there,” Achmed called down to them as he approached the opening. Grunthor came to a halt as well and waited as the dark figure climbed the rest of the distance up the thickening root tower.

  As the taproot grew closer to the opening of the tunnel it widened dramatically, and seeing the outside edges became impossible. Grunthor and Rhapsody watched as Achmed faded from view, scaling the enormous root trunk above them and disappearing over its edge.

  While they waited, Rhapsody looked over at Grunthor. During their interminable journey she had grown quite fond of him, and grudgingly friendly with his comrade as well, though she still had not forgiven him or determined his motives. Now that it seemed as if they might be near the end, she had come to realize how the giant Bolg was more a man than many she had met, not at all the monster she had been told of in childhood horror stories.

  “Grunthor?”

  The amber-eyed Sergeant looked over at her. “Yes, miss?”

  “In case I don’t get a chance to thank you after we get out, I want you to know how much I’ve appreciated your kindness, in spite of, well, the way we ended up together.”

  Grunthor looked up to where Achmed had disappeared and smiled. “Don’t mention it, Duchess.”

  “And I apologize if I hurt your feelings in any way, back in the meadows when we first met, by my comments about thinking of Firbolg as monsters.”

  Grunthor’s smile brightened noticeably. “Well, that’s awful nice o’ you, Yer Ladyship, but Oi got a pretty thick ’ide; Oi didn’t take no offense by it. And you’re not so bad yourself, you know, for one o’ them glass-Lirin. They’re the worst-tastin’ o’ the lot.”

  Rhapsody laughed. “What kinds of Lirin have you known, besides Liringlas?”

  “Oh, all kinds. Oi’ve seen Lirin from the cities, and Lirin that live in the dark ’ills, and Lirin from the sea. They all look somethin’ the same, you know, all angles, skinny lit’le buggers with pointy faces and big wide eyes. Come in all different colors, mind you. You’re not a full-blood, are ya?”

  She shook her head. “No, half. I guess I’m a mongrel among Lirin.”

  “Aw, well, mutts make the best dogs, they say, miss. Don’t feel bad. It makes for a nicer appearance, Oi think. You’re a pretty lit’le thing, as Lirin go, not so sharp-lookin’ and fragile.”

  “Thank you.” She smiled at the odd compliment. “You’re the nicest Firbolg I’ve ever met, but, as you noted, I’ve only ever met one.”

  “Two.” The voice from the root above her caused her
to jump a little. Achmed had returned.

  “No, I’ve never met any but Grunthor.”

  Achmed’s expression turned into something more resembling a sneer than a smile. “Well, far be it from me to correct the facts of the All-Knowledgeable, but you’ve met two.”

  Rhapsody looked puzzled. “Are you saying you are also Firbolg?”

  “Perhaps we shouldn’t use her for food, Grunthor; she shows a glimmer of intelligence.” The giant made a mock sound of disappointment.

  She looked from one to the other, vastly different in appearance. Grunthor was at least a foot taller than Achmed, and where the giant was broad and muscular, with massive arms and hands that ended in claws, Achmed, from what she could see beneath the covering of robes, was wiry and of thinner build, with bony human hands. She turned to the giant.

  “Are you a full-blooded Firbolg?”

  “Naw.”

  The robed man snorted. “Did you think you’re the only half-breed in the world?”

  Color flooded Rhapsody’s face, visible even in the darklight. “Of course not. I just thought Grunthor was Firbolg.”

  “Grunthor is half Bengard.”

  Rhapsody nodded. The Bengardian race was a little-known tribal one, reputedly from a distant desert. They were said to be monstrously tall and covered with a snakelike hide. She knew a bit of their lore, and a few of their songs. “And you?”

  The two men looked at each other for a moment before Achmed spoke. “I’m half Dhracian. So you see, we’re all mongrels. Shall we be on our way?”

  She had never heard of the race he mentioned, but had been around the two of them long enough to know when it was better not to ask. “Certainly,” she replied. “I don’t want to stay here for one moment more than I have to.” She stood, stretching the cramp from her leg as she did, then secured her belongings and followed the two Bolg up the vast root once more.

  “’Ere, miss, give me your ’and and Oi’ll pull ya up.”

  Rhapsody gratefully took hold of the massive paw and allowed Grunthor to hoist her off the ridge of the taproot up into the opening in which he stood. Against all hope she closed her eyes, praying that what waited above her was the darkness of the night air, beneath the glimmering firmament sprinkled with stars. When she opened them again, all she saw above her was darkness, a void extending as high above as she could see and beyond.

  Before her stretched a remarkable sight. The ground below their feet was pale like the root they had climbed, but glowing faintly, with a humming pulse she could feel behind her eyes and through her entire being. Just as the taproot had dwarfed the trunk root of Sagia, by comparison, the size of the taproot was minuscule in contrast to this.

  Grunthor whistled. The endless glowing ground that gleamed with pulsating energy stretched forth wider than the mighty river that bisected the Island of Serendair. This colossal roadway branched out in many directions, each of which was crossed by a network of rootlike veins and radix, hanging and sprouting from the main pathway.

  Rhapsody struggled to contain her disappointment. “Gods, what is this?”

  “It’s the main line; this is the real Root. What we climbed was just a small tributary, probably the trunk that connected Sagia with the Axis Mundi. You didn’t think we were at the end, did you? We’ve barely begun.”

  She fought back the tears she had been forbidden to shed. “I can’t go any further,” she said, her voice coming out in a whisper.

  The robed figure took her by the shoulders and shook her slightly. “Listen! Can’t you hear the music around you? How can a Singer, a Namer, particularly a Lirin one, not be awed by the music of this place? Even I can hear it, I can feel it in my skin. Listen.”

  Over the beating of her sorrowful heart Rhapsody could hear the hum, a great vibration modulating in the endless cavern around them. Against her will she closed her eyes and drank it in. It was a rich sound, full of wisdom and power, unlike any she had ever heard. Achmed was right, as much as she hated to admit it. There was something magical here, something unique in all the world, a melody that moved slowly, changing tones almost infinitesimally, unhurried by the need to keep pace with anything. It was the voice of the Earth, singing from its soul.

  Rhapsody let the music flow through her, washing over the pain and the anger, healing the wounds from their combat with the vermin. She attuned her own note, the tone that was her musical name, to the voice of the Root, as once she had to the song of Sagia, and felt it fill her with its power. A moment later she opened her eyes to see the men conferring, pointing to the different pathways that extended out from this juncture. It was as if they were at a crossroads, trying to decide which way to go.

  Finally Achmed turned to her. “Well, are you over your crisis? Are you coming, or are you staying here forever?”

  She shot him a look of hatred. “I’m coming. And don’t speak to me in that tone. It wasn’t exactly my idea to come in the first place.” She rubbed her hands, beaded with moisture. At first she thought it was from her anxiety, but a moment later noticed that she was similarly damp on her clothes and boots. The moisture in the air hung heavy here; it was a dank place.

  “At least we don’t have to climb anymore, darlin’, eh? That’s for the better, anyway.” Grunthor winked at her as he shouldered his pack.

  “This way,” Achmed said, pointing to a path leading off the left side of the Root.

  “Why?”

  “Because it feels right,” he said without rancor. “You, however, are welcome to go whichever way you please.” He and Grunthor climbed over a thick rise in the ground and began following the enormously wide, glowing path into the darkness of the cavern. Rhapsody sighed, shouldered her gear, and followed them.

  They made camp when they could walk no longer. The ceiling of the cavern was now in sight, visible in the darklight as they approached the place where the Root seemed to pass through a tunnel in the Earth.

  “Since this Root runs through the Earth, there will probably be extremes in the space around it,” Achmed observed as they made ready to eat and get some sleep. “Right now we’re in a cavernous place, probably because so many of the Root’s tributaries meet here. Soon I fear we will be in very close quarters. That tunnel ahead may be the normal space the Root has around it, and if that’s the case I think we will be doing a good deal of crawling. In addition, the air is unlikely to be very pleasant. Perhaps if Grunthor is going to train you in the sword, he’d be best do it here, while we still have some space. After we’ve had a rest, of course.”

  “You think he needs to?” Rhapsody asked anxiously.

  “No, I think you have need for him to,” said Achmed tersely. “Those worms came from somewhere. I doubt they were just on the taproot. I would guess we will see them again. It’s your choice.”

  Rhapsody turned to the grinning Firbolg giant. “If you’re willing to train me, I would be grateful,” she said, “but I don’t have a sword.”

  “Oi can loan you one, darlin’. Actually, it’s just a longknife for me, but for you it’ll serve as a sword.” Grunthor plucked a long dagger from behind the small of his back and presented it to her with a deep bow.

  Rhapsody took it shyly. The blade was longer than her thigh, and sharp. It made her nervous even to hold it.

  “I’m not sure,” she said hesitantly.

  “Listen, miss, them worms are gonna eventually get you if you don’t keep a better distance,” the Bolg Sergeant said. “Ol’ Lucy there will ’elp ya.”

  “Lucy?”

  “Yep, that’s ’er name.”

  Rhapsody looked down at the short sword. “Hello, Lucy. Do you name all your weapons, Grunthor?”

  “O’ course. It’s tradition.”

  Rhapsody nodded, understanding coming into her eyes. “That makes perfect sense. Do you find that you fight better with a weapon you’ve named?”

  “Yep.”

  Her eyes began to sparkle with excitement. “Why, Grunthor, in a way, you’re a Namer, too!”
>
  The giant broke into a pleased grin. “Well, whaddaya know. Should Oi sing a lit’le song?”

  “No,” said Rhapsody and Achmed in unison.

  “Get on with the lessons,” added Achmed. “I’m only willing to wait for so long before pressing on.”

  Grunthor was feeling about his back, trying to decide on a weapon with which to spar. He pulled two more of his blades out. The first one was a long thin sword he called Lopper. Rhapsody shuddered at the imagery, remembering the night in the fields with Michael’s men. The other was a thick, three-sided spike he introduced as the Friendmaker. He must have decided to use this one, because a moment later he slid Lopper back into its place behind him.

  “Why do you call it ‘the Friendmaker’?” Rhapsody asked nervously.

  “Well, you may ’ave somethin’ there, with all that name and power stuff,” said Grunthor as he took his position. “Take the Friendmaker, for instance. Oi called ’im that, and now, when people see ’im, they instantly want to be my friend. Those that live, o’ course.”

  “Of course.” Rhapsody smiled sickly. “I know I do.”

  “Well, that goes without sayin’, miss. Oi should ’ope we’re friends, we been sleepin’ together and all.”

  Rhapsody smiled in spite of herself. “All right, friend. Let’s have at it.”

  The sound of clashing steel rang through the cavern around the Root. The giant Firbolg had swept Rhapsody off her feet repeatedly. She was beginning to tire of getting up, only to find herself on her back a few moments later. Most disheartening was that she knew he was holding back, taking it easy on her as a beginner.

  Grunthor had left many openings for her that she had tried to follow through on, only to find herself disarmed or compromised in some other way. Finally she took to seeking the openings he had not made obvious, and his approval was growing.