Rhapsody

by Elizabeth Haydon

  Jo had made a remarkable discovery that went a long way toward redeeming her in Achmed’s eyes. It was she who had determined the purpose of the apparatuses next to and above the stone table.

  The pipe that hung from the ceiling above the table was a speaking tube, a form of acoustic address system that allowed for a speaker’s voice to be transmitted throughout the mountain or to specific regions, depending on what had been selected on the table map. The apparatus that protruded from the floor was the opposite, a listening tube, that allowed the sounds from specific areas to be transmitted back to the library through the pipe structure.

  Both of these apparatuses were tied into the duct and ventilation system that ran throughout the mountain, a complex series of tunnels and vents that drew air from the fierce winds that circled the mountaintop to cool and cleanse the air within the mountain fortress. When heat was needed in the cold months, the air could be diverted through Gwylliam’s mighty forges, which now lay dormant in the depths of the Teeth.

  At one time from those forges great vats of iron, steel, and bronze, as well as precious metals, had been poured and beaten into some of the finest weaponry and armor in the known world, as well as impressively crafted items of ornamentation.

  Achmed had gathered a collection of weapons from the various display cases to analyze, and had spread them out on one of the long study tables. Rhapsody came upon Grunthor running his hands over one of the swords from the vault. There was a look of sadness on his face that reached down into her heart. She walked up to him and wound her arm through his.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked.

  Grunthor looked down at her as a smile crept over his face. “Oh, nothin’, darlin’.”

  “Missing your troops?”

  “Naw. Oi’ll ’ave some new ones soon enough, Oi suspect. Oi was just thinkin’ what a waste it all is.”

  Rhapsody sighed; she had been thinking much the same thing. It was painful to see what the Cymrians had been, their fellow Seren, their countrymen, perhaps even descendants of their loved ones.

  In the artifacts left behind she could see the life’s work of craftsmen, engineers, architects, draftsman, builders of intricate roadways and great machines that had outlived their civilization, men and women of great vision and the ability to bring it to life, now gone, crushed beneath the heel of senseless power-hunger.

  “Cheer up, Grunthor,” she said, forcing a smile. “Just think about how Gwylliam will spin in his grave, knowing all his sophisticated machinery and weaponry will soon be in the hands of the Bolg for use in building up their civilization.”

  The Sergeant chuckled. “Oi don’t think the ol’ boy ’ad a grave, if that’s ’is body over there. But maybe if we get ’im to spin fast enough on the floor, ’e can get the machin’ry goin’ again.”

  Achmed had selected his next tribe to recruit. The Dark Drinkers were an Eye tribe, a group of swift scavengers that used the shadows of the mountain to ambush solitary travelers or the weak among other Bolg clans.

  This time all four of the companions took to the tunnels, lying in wait for those Bolg who relied on the element of surprise. The rout was messy, but thorough, and within an hour Achmed had a new group of loyal spies who would act as spokesmen for him.

  “Go throughout the tunnels with this warning,” the new Warlord instructed the survivors. “The King of Ylorc has come to the mountain. Those who wish to be part of the realm will gather in the canyon beyond the Teeth when the moon is full, ten days hence.

  “In three days you will feel me inhale, cold as the winter wind; anyone I touch thus is summoned. The following day you will feel me exhale; the warmth of my breath will touch you again. You must come at full-moon’s night to the canyon. Anyone who ignores my summons will be consumed in the fire of my belly on the eleventh day.” The night eyes of the ragged cave dwellers blinked rapidly in the dark at the words.

  Deep within the Hidden Realm, the Bolg shaman woke in the darkness of his cave. His eyes, cracking open as sleep fled, stung around the edges, even bled a little as awareness slowly came back to him.

  The vision was almost upon him. He had time to sit up and grasp his head before it broke across him like a strong wind.

  Something had come to the mountain. There were whispers of it from the Eye clans, a low buzzing hum about a man who blended into the darkness, but they were only fragments of a story. The tale itself had not yet made its way here, to the Deep lands, far beyond the Teeth.

  Saltar, whom the Bolg called Fire-Eye, rested his hand on his chest, concentrating on the vision, but it was still unclear. The images were strangely familiar, but far beyond his comprehension. He would wait, keeping watch, until the visions became clearer.

  Bright of you to threaten to breathe on them without making sure the vents worked first,” muttered Rhapsody. She sat atop Grunthor’s shoulders, trying to pry loose one of the main gear levers.

  They were deep in the belly of Gwylliam’s ventilation system, having found the architectural drawings and notes indicating how the operations had been designed and implemented.

  It had been an arduous process, trying to locate where the massive structures matched the drawings. Once they had figured that out, the task had become dangerous. More than once the men had needed to climb out to the exterior crags, digging loose centuries of rock and debris from the wind that clogged the outer vents. The wind howled around them, tearing at their clothes, all but pulling them into the canyons below.

  The ventilation system had been built from the same strange metal Achmed and Grunthor had seen in the cathedral in Avonderre, and was seemingly impervious to rust, despite centuries of disuse. The machinery itself seemed to still be in working condition, but occasional fittings and levers were rotten with age or decay from exposure.

  “Just because you open this once doesn’t mean it will work when we need it to, Achmed,” Rhapsody warned from her perch on the giant Firbolg. “There are so many pieces to this apparatus, and many of them are close to rotten or sticky from having sat so long untended.” They had already had to reopen several passages which worked the first time, only to catch and jam shut the second time around.

  “This is the last one. If you can open this area we will have cleared the system for all the tunnels within the Teeth; not bad for two days’ work,” said Achmed. He and Jo were oiling an enormous gearshaft next to a giant fan. He gave the securing chain one final pull, then turned to the other two again. “How’s it coming?”

  “Let’s try it,” Rhapsody said to Grunthor. The giant Bolg nodded and lifted her down from his shoulders, then gave the lever a firm tug. The grate it was attached to slid open with little resistance.

  “Perfect; now close it up quickly,” said Achmed. “Let’s hold our ‘breath’ a little longer.”

  Rhapsody closed her eyes. She was already holding hers.

  The next morning the sun rose over the Teeth in a deep fog. Just as it crested the horizon a terrible grating sound was heard within the mountains, a scraping sound like a sword against the grinder’s wheel. Moments later the tunnels of Canrif were filled with an icy wind, whipping through the corridors with a ferocious whine, blasting the Bolg with gale-force intensity.

  Even within the belly of the ventilation system Rhapsody could hear the cries of panic. She turned to the others with alarm on her face.

  “Enough, Achmed; you’ll freeze the children and the injured.”

  Achmed nodded, and Grunthor and Jo pulled the levers, shutting the outside vents. They went about closing down the rest of the system while Achmed and Rhapsody hurried up the stairs to the speaking tube.

  As they climbed, Rhapsody grasped Achmed’s elbow.

  “It isn’t always going to be that violent, is it? Canrif will be uninhabitable.”

  “Not once it’s been running regularly. I think the air just needs to come into balance on both the inside and the outside of the mountain. And, by the way, we call the place Ylorc now. In case you hadn’t noti
ced, Gwylliam’s century is over by a millennium or so.”

  When they reached the stone table, Rhapsody drew forth her lark’s flute. They had agreed the night before that Achmed’s voice, while frightening in person largely because of the sandy quietness of it, was insufficiently frightening for an initial address. Rhapsody planned to compensate for that musically.

  She started a discordant melody that served to pick up on the tones in the Dhracian’s voice and exaggerate them, adding in the sounds of howling winds and voices that shrieked and moaned. Achmed cleared the speaking tube and delivered his message.

  “Tomorrow I exhale, one breath, long enough for you to feel my heat without being ignited this time. Those who come to me in the canyon when the moon is full will be part of the new power of Ylorc. All others will perish under my heel.” His voice reverberated in a monstrous echo. Achmed closed the speaking tube.

  “Well, that was horrifying,” said Rhapsody as she put her flute away. “Do you think we convinced them?”

  “Some of them. Others will be convinced tomorrow. And some will remain defiant, preferring to pit themselves against a new warlord than take a position of secondary power.”

  “And what about them? What are you going to do to convince them?”

  “Let’s just say they won’t live to regret their skepticism.”

  He breathed on us, the Fist-and-Fire spies were saying. Cold, like the screaming wind.

  Saltar rubbed his eyes, trying to make the vision clearer, but he could hear nothing more. The sight that was his gift was not a sign from the Future, or a prediction. It was merely the ability to see something that was here, and inevitable, an eye with especially long vision.

  The screaming wind. The words reverberated in his head.

  The Spirit was always looking into the wind. Perhaps whatever was coming was what it sought.

  46

  “This is never going to work.”

  “Don’t be so negative, Duchess; give it a try.”

  Rhapsody turned to face the smiling giant. “You don’t understand. Forges this size are stoked constantly for centuries. If we had a week we couldn’t gather enough fuel to get this up to the point where it could melt ice, let alone steel again.”

  “It doesn’t have to melt anything,” said Achmed patiently. “All it has to do is be hot enough to heat the air. There’s a warm spell on its way, I can tell by the clouds. Besides, if you think back to your fiery baptism and concentrate, I’m sure the forge fires will burn hot enough to convince the Bolg I’m breathing on them.”

  “If we could duplicate your real breath, they would surrender in a heartbeat,” said Jo, who was working the bellows over the small fire that the others had built. “Perhaps we should throw some stinkweed in there.”

  Grunthor rubbed his chin. “Might not be a bad idea at that, sir.”

  “Not this time, but thanks for the suggestion, Jo,” Achmed said. He turned to the Singer again. “Well? Come on, it’s almost morning.”

  Rhapsody looked up at the giant copper-banded bellows, sagging and full of holes. The forges were deep in the belly of the mountain, reachable only through dark, forbidding caverns that crumbled as they descended. The sheer size of the forgeworks took her breath away. It must have taken a thousand men to run and maintain the equipment, night and day, feeding it constantly.

  They had located a trove of hard coal, a black underground hill, around which had been scattered trowels, picks, and scuttles for transporting the lump fuel to the forges.

  A number of skeletons lay nearby, the trapped workers who had never made it out again when Gwylliam’s mountain had been overrun by the Firbolg. The bones had been the first fuel committed to the flames, with a dirge sung by Rhapsody, four hundred years too late. The skeletons were those of wide men with broad shoulders and rib cages—Nain, Achmed had noted, to Grunthor’s agreement.

  Taking a deep breath, she seized the side of the firepit and concentrated, clearing her mind of the doubts that had filled it since they had begun the conquest of the mountain.

  She called on the fire within her soul and set a tone to it, humming with her mouth open, until the music swelled out of her being and filled the endless cavern. She could feel the flames roaring to life, shining on her face, heating the fabric of her shirt until it felt about to ignite.

  In the distance she could hear the shouts of the others as they began to work the great bellows. She cleared the outside noises from her mind and concentrated once more on the burning coal in the pit below her.

  The inferno in the forge crackled and roared, drowning out all other noise within the mountain. Rhapsody maintained her shuddering grip on the firepit while Grunthor and Jo continued to work the hole-filled bellows, itself screaming along in time to the cacophony that was blasting through the bowels of the Teeth.

  The sound of the grates opening again shattered her concentration, and she fell back into strong, thin hands that steadied her and kept her from losing her balance on the edge of the pit. Again, deep in her ears she heard the cries of the Bolg within the mountain, but they seemed more of excitement than panic this time.

  “That’s enough; shut the vent,” Achmed instructed Grunthor and Jo. “We don’t want them to get used to the heat yet; it is winter for a few more weeks still.” He turned to the panting Singer and patted her arm. “You did it.”

  She nodded between gasps for breath. “Yes, I did; may they one day forgive me. I’m not sure if I’ll ever forgive myself.”

  Gurrn feared the Night Man more than he feared Hraggle, despite the fact that Hraggle was standing before him. As chieftain of the Bloody Fang clan, Hraggle took what he wanted, bullying and brutalizing the others, Gurrn among them.

  The chieftain had survived the raids of the men of Roland, and even had a broken sword as a trophy; he was the most powerful Bolg on the western crag known as Grivven. Hraggle did not fear the Night Man, even when his voice and breath had come forth from the Earth itself.

  Gurrn now stood in silent fury, watching Hraggle raid the supply of food he had set in store, rations that were intended to keep his family fed over the thin hunting season of winter.

  The other members of the Bloody Fang clan eyed Hraggle as well. He had threatened Gurrn’s woman and was holding their child under his arm, the boy screaming in protest, the woman in fear. Gurrn held her back; Hraggle would be satisfied with the food, and would leave the child when he left, unless he was feeling particularly cruel.

  Then, suddenly, Hraggle stopped. He dropped the child and stood motionless, his hand at his throat, the same hand that moments before had been pilfering Gurrn’s hoard. A narrow crimson line bisected Hraggle’s neck, put there by thin white hands that had emerged from the darkness. The red line quickly spread into a wide, dark stain as Hraggle fell, lifeless.

  Gurrn caught sight of strange eyes in the shadow behind the falling corpse. A vague outline surrounded the Night Man, who appeared as part of the darkness, formless as liquid night.

  “Tomorrow.” The voice had a dry whisper of death to it. The clan watched, wide-eyed, as the figure dissipated into the darkness again.

  On the tenth day the Firbolg began to gather on the ledges facing the canyon at sunrise. Achmed had not been specific in his message as to the time of their summons, so over the course of the day they came, Eyes and Claws and Guts, the tribes of the mountains that served as the barrier reef of the Bolglands.

  Beyond the canyon that separated their lands from those of the mountain dwellers, some of the deeper Firbolg watched, the tribes and clans that made their homes on the Heath or far within the Hidden Realm. Their curiosity was self-serving; they knew it was only a matter of time before this new warlord came for them as well.

  The sinking sun had touched the tops of the tallest crags when a hush fell over the crowd. It had been a day of noise and violence, of positioning and brawls over proximity, but as the Bolg had no idea where this king would appear, it was impossible for them to be sure of where the sit
e nearest his feet would be. It made for an unpleasant atmosphere.

  The stillness that descended had been engineered; Rhapsody stood at the edge of the tunnel onto the ledge from which Achmed planned to speak and began to whisper the name of silence. It had echoed off the rockwalls and ledges, touching the crags and peaks with a heaviness that shut down the babbling below him. Achmed smiled; it looked as if almost all of them had come.

  Noticeably absent were the Hill-Eye, the most bloodthirsty of the mountain dwellers. It had been Grunthor’s assessment that this clan would withdraw deeper into the Hidden Realm and wait to be flushed out, or attack once the others had established peace. His guess seemed accurate; not one of their markings was visible.

  Achmed surveyed the assemblage. There were perhaps thirty thousand of them, gathered in crags and standing on ledges, perched on high rocky outcroppings, staring down at him. Some were huddled in packs at the base of the foothills, backing up to the canyon’s edge at the bottom of the ravine that rose up a thousand feet or more to the heath.

  It was a heady, disturbing feeling to see them there, similar to the sensation of walking into a pit of scorpions. From every crevice and rise the Bolg stared down at him, a truly bastard race of near-men, of an elder origin that had been adulterated with the blood of every other race it had contacted.

  There was a twisted beauty to them, this mutant strain, a pollution that would appall men but that served to preserve their species; in all the worlds he had never seen another race as adaptable and diverse. No matter what condition they were subjected to they would survive and develop a response over time. And he was one of them.

  It was a feeling similar to being among the wolf pack at rest, the chieftains of each tribe placed higher on the crags than the others, better to see their power fall.

  Into each face, or, in some clans, every arm, was carved or burned the insignia of the clans. The Bloody Claw, the Fangs, the Shadow Stealers, each lineage was written in scar tissue. Clothing had been replaced in most cases with scraps of hide that passed for armor. Even the young had been outfitted with an eye toward protective value rather than comfort, though this was largely illusory, since the few bits of useful armor had been torn and split among so many wearers that it wouldn’t have shielded them from the wind.