Solineus

by L. James Rice

  “This is not for us to say. It is for you to earn, and for Ôls-hûin to bestow, if you are able and he is willing.” The priestess stopped and gestured to another near-invisible passage. “Feast. I have matters to attend, but I will return soon to guide you to your quarters.”

  Solineus bowed. “What’re the odds of the Great Finder gifting me with the vision to see?”

  She clutched her hands at her waist and smiled. “If you survive the journey to the summit… Well, what isn’t possible?” She gave a solemn nod before turning and strolling back the way they came.

  Morik said, “Come. It is time we fill our bellies in preparation for your death.”

  Solineus laughed, a levity he couldn’t regret despite the frown on the man’s face, and he spoke in Silone. “You are one morose son of a bitch.”

  The Kingdomer shrugged. “In my experience, the more times I speak a thing true, the less likely it is to happen.”

  “In that case, my friend, lead me to this meal and pronounce my doom often.”

  After a supper of goat in a mushroom sauce, which threatened to burst his innards, they slept and didn’t awaken until the sun careened toward midday. Solineus didn’t know what to expect, sitting lonesome in a room made comfortable by a bed and chairs covered in velvet plush, but by the time Morik arrived he welcomed something to do.

  They climbed into the outer world to stand beside the lookout tower he’d seen the day before. Morik handed him a walking stick and they strolled at a gentleman’s pace. The ascent stood steep for the first several hundred yards, and Solineus’ lungs labored more than he expected by the time they reached the top of the first climb.

  Morik opened his canteen. “Practice now. Deep breaths, three swallows, and breathe deep again. The higher we get the more important this will become. The mountain can dry a man to the bone, but drinking too much you might forget to breathe.”

  “And die.”

  “Yes.”

  Solineus drank as he was told, slapped the bung back into its hole. “Lead on.”

  Morik led him slow and steady, and by early evening they reached the camp known as Nelflûk. Compared to the Temple of Arumbor it was a collection of puny hovels, but the three stone buildings were more than he’d hoped. A handful of pilgrims greeted them, but Morik insisted they didn’t waste their breaths on banter. They stood, gazed at the wonder of the rises and falls that were the Dragonspan Mountains across a distance too far to fathom. Then, Morik lead him back down the mountain, where they ate, drank mugs of water, slept, and awoke to climb to Nelflûk again. For six days they did this, but on the seventh eleven porters reappeared with packs filled with supplies.

  They climbed to Nelflûk again, and this time they claimed the largest building, built a fire, and shared meals with the men and women who carried the supplies. Morik called these folks Temerêun , something akin to “summit people” when translated. They lived their lives in encampments above the lives of most folks: hunters, explorers, prospectors, miners, a people hardened by their choice of lives, and so they were the finest porters for scaling these heights. They were respected throughout the Eight Kingdoms and seen as outside the normal politics; no kingdom claimed a Temerêun as their own even when they lived within their borders.

  A call arose from outside and all eleven porters rose in unison and filed out the door. Morik jabbed him with an elbow and stood, leading him outside. The Temerêun stood in a row staring into the mountains, and he and Morik joined them.

  The setting sun illuminated blue skies, white peaks, mottled brown stone mountain faces, and green valleys; harsh and beautiful in the heights falling to plush and hospitable valleys below. The Dragonspans offered a glimpse of the risks, rigors, and rewards of every mortal’s life in a single awe-inspiring view. Solineus’ breaths came deep and easy, his eyes and thoughts lost in the distant wonders, and so he didn’t notice when a lone woman raised her voice in song. A drone which slipped him further into meditative thoughts until he wobbled. He blinked and steadied his feet as one porter, then another, joined in her tune, but he didn’t understand the words.

  He leaned into Morik’s ear. “What are they saying?”

  All the Temerêun sang now, eleven voices in harmony despite saying nothing the same. “These are not words; it is known as the Mountain Tongue. The mountain fills their souls, and their voices carry life and inspiration.”

  Solineus smiled and gazed back to the mountains and the orange sun setting, his muscles mellowing, fingers relaxed at his hips. Morik’s voice rose beside him, deep and touched by a melancholy tone, and moments later Solineus joined in the song, though he had no memory of ever singing before. The Mountain Tongue rolled from his lungs to vibrate his tongue. His song was sound without words, emotion without source, wordless and without meaning, and yet somehow, he knew that in the Mountain Tongue his song mattered.

  4

  Hollowing Breaths

  Do you recall the city of Mâgmermôn?

  No, you wouldn’t, couldn’t, or at least, shouldn’t.

  It stands in a time lost to all but my mind,

  the hind kind biting on the rind,

  choking on the marrow while crunching the bone.

  Where She stood I stand, a foul and cindered land,

  boiled low and smoked high,

  the cost of a singular and crucial lie.

  — Tomes of the Touched

  Morning came and they climbed alone from Camp Nelflûk to Camp Ûlf-Hôtindîn, named for two builders who oversaw its construction. The trek was longer but less steep and marked by growing fields of snow; they arrived by midday hale and whole. His lungs felt the strain of the air, but with purposeful and steady strides Solineus figured he’d acquitted himself well enough for a low-lander. The camp consisted of five buildings, all small but sturdy and thick-stoned.

  Eight pilgrims greeted them on their arrival, three on their way back down the mountain, but as before, they didn’t converse long before Morik had him practicing his breathing and drinking. They descended in time to make Nelflûk well-before nightfall, and they sang at sunset after supping.

  Five more days they followed this routine, and on the sixth, the second half of the Temerêun porters joined them, and they claimed a building at the new camp, and they sang at sunset, but this time, from below came the Mountain Tongue of those porters left behind.

  Camp Îrginhîn was next, a twin of Nelflûk with three buildings, and the routine was much the same, as they then struck for Camp Zjindinfôk, which was when the journey changed. Every step strained him to the marrow as fatigue crept into his muscles with a weakening ache, and thirst came stronger than before. A coughing fit lightened his head on the climb, and he took a knee to keep from tumbling, to take deep recovering breaths. Snow and ice surrounded them now, not just in patches as before, and Morik handed him spiked straps to attach to his boots for traction. The cold approached the bite of the Treaty Lands, but so far, no fresh snows.

  When they reached the lone, tiny building which stood as camp Zjindinfôk, Morik led him straight inside and spoke words over a white boulder sitting in the middle of the room. The stone glowed, and Solineus rushed to its side to find it emanated a pleasant heat; he hugged its girth until sweat beaded on his brow, and it forced him to step away. They practiced breathing and drinking as the room grew warm enough to remove their gloves, and Solineus didn’t have the urge and energy for chatter. All he wanted was to get his ass the hells back down the mountain, but he’d need to climb through clouds to get there.

  The descent was a different form of hell, slipping and sliding in sections, but it was a stroll compared to the journey up. Two more days they made the journey light in the packs, but on the next day they loaded supplies; the porters would travel no further, Morik and he were on their own. The weight they carried, with an extra day’s food and water, would’ve been nothing in the valleys far below, but nonetheless it grew heavy on the shoulders at these heights. His thighs and shoulders, hells, every mus
cle he knew to name and then some, burned under the extra weight, and they toted the supplies for five days before Morik declared they’d stay the night.

  The next morning, they didn’t climb. They ate, they drank, they breathed, and they rested in the stone’s glowing warmth. In six days, he would set forth for the summit as accustomed to these heights as he’d ever get.

  Three swallows and breathe, it was fast becoming habit, and he wondered if he might carry it with him back to lower ground. “Who the hells put a shrine so high folks die trying to see it?” Half-humor, half-serious, he didn’t expect an answer, and at first, he didn’t get one.

  Morik stood and warmed his hands as wind howled outside. “Holy scripture says it wasn’t always so. The Shrine of Hîmr was once within reach of all pilgrims, but during the Age of God Wars, they say the mountain rose.”

  “Hells of a lever to lift a mountain.”

  Morik smirked. “In those days, in a time the holy name the Black Watered Years… a god of an allied people, the Trickster, brought Markîk the Blessed Fool to the World’s Mouth.”

  While Solineus had picked up on the name Markîk before, one of the gods killed during the God Wars, the story lost him in its words. “Tell me, how would anyone let themselves be fooled by someone named Trickster?”

  Morik chortled. “This god’s real name has been Forgotten for over five hundred years.”

  “And this world’s mouth?”

  “A cavern which drops deep into the world’s bowels, so far as to reach magma. We know where it lies, though the lava below has cooled. I’ve never made the pilgrimage but have heard the tales of those who’ve lowered into its depths. At this hole in the world, the Trickster drove a spear into the Fool’s belly and shoved him into its depths. This Trickster assumed him dead, took his shape, and sought out the Storm-Eye, to deceive and kill him as well. Rînkodûl could not be found, but this false Markîk deceived Hîmr, the Eye’s Hammerfall, who commanded the armies of the Foundations. With guile he led Hîmr into an ambush in the mountains, but Hîmr survived and fled into the caves, where he found Sanzumôk and Korhânun to aid in his fight.”

  Solineus held up his hand. “Hîmr I’ve heard before, named the Sleeping Dead?”

  “Aye, but his proper name is Eye’s Hammerfall . These three Foundationals battled with ferocity, but were outnumbered, so they fled deeper until all three fought their final battle somewhere in the depths of these mountains.”

  Solineus knew the man well enough to understand that his squinting eye meant he was in thought. “What more?”

  “Heresies… But since you will die soon, I will speak of them.”

  Solineus breathed deep, took three swallows, and breathed again. “I reckon he wasn’t renamed the Sleeping Dead without cause.”

  “A name you shouldn’t have heard. Yes, the Sleeping Dead. The Canon of Helmveline maintains these gods died, but some claim they still live.” He leaned against the heating stone, heavy furs guarding him from a burn. “Some sects say these gods fled into an underground river and disappeared… died most of these even agree, but survived say others. They say the Trickster followed, and unable to kill one or all of them, he trapped them for eternity in a rush of lava. Defeated and imprisoned, but alive. The Storm-Eye and the remaining Foundationals never recovered from the loss of their greatest war-leader, and so the enemy subjugated and enslaved us.”

  Solineus squinted, he missed something. “What’s this to do with this mountain?”

  “The shrine above is dedicated to Hîmr, and the initial battle was fought here, and when he first fell in ambush, the fighting was so fierce that the world-shaking blows raised Himr’s Foundation so high to the sun that its rays burnt away the air. But… others claim when the Trickster trapped Hîmr in lava, that the god used the last of his strength to connect his being with this shrine, to steal the air, to continue to breathe this air, and so stay alive in his tomb of lava. Meditating. Sleeping. Waiting to be freed.”

  “The Sleeping Dead.”

  “Yes. A story for a child! But many believe some version of the tale.”

  “The Trickster, a god of the Hokandite?”

  Morik stepped from the boulder with a shrug. “No one knows, but many assume it so.”

  “And if the air above is stolen still…” The implications furrowed his brow. “They believe he’s alive and still connected to the shrine; he wasn’t banished from the world.”

  Morik’s gaze fell heavy on him, his eyes dark with shadow from the boulder’s glow. “You are quick, for a barbarian. They are fools, but fools with powerful ideas are the most dangerous sort.”

  Solineus stood and moseyed to the boulder’s side. “What would these people think of a foreigner claiming Himr’s Coin?”

  Morik snorted, tugged his beard. “I don’t rightly know. Worry about it after you don’t die, which you will.”

  I won’t be some hero to anyone but the Helmveline, maybe not all of them. “Well, hells. Life’d be a bore without a bunch of people wanting me dead.”

  “Nobody cares. Not yet.” Morik sat, then stretched out in his bed of heavy furs. “If the weather holds, you will climb and die soon enough.”

  When the three priests arrived, Solineus realized his time to climb neared without counting the days. The next morning the five of them ate breakfast and stepped into a blinding world dominated by the sun above, and the priests held hands, turning back to back in a sort of triangle. A droning prayer arose in unison and their eyes scanned the horizon up and down in every direction, as if able to see through the mountain upon which they stood, and all those around. The prayerful drone concluded, and a priestess declared:

  “Not today.” And the devout filed back into the building.

  Solineus stared at Morik. “What the hells was that?”

  The Kingdomer shrugged and stepped back into the building without a word; Solineus followed with a grumble. No more than a candle later he got his answer. Buffeting winds howled and brought snow enough to bury a man standing if it weren’t wiped from the mountain by the same winds which carried the flakes to Zjindinfôk in the first place. The snows relented within candles, but the wind remained for three days, so stiff it might remove a man from the mountain side with a gust. So, they ate and drank and breathed in damned near silence, as the three priests spoke nary a word, and Morik pinned his mouth shut.

  The fifth morning after the priests arrived, they awoke to sunshine and a quiet sky, and the trio prayed. When they stopped, the woman pronounced: “Today.”

  Morik strapped a light pack to his back and handed him five canteens of water. “Drink slow, you don’t want to swallow the hot rocks keeping the water from freezing.”

  “What’s it matter if I’m going to die anyhow?”

  “Because they won’t kill you… it’ll just hurt like a shit-devil until you squat it out.”

  It made an ugly sort of sense. With a hot rock in his mittens and boots, freezing to death wasn’t the issue he’d feared, and no doubt eating one would be unpleasant without the kindness of killing him. Solineus smirked. “I see. Personal experience?”

  “There’ve been drunken wagers… not my own, mind, but suffice to say I never heard of no man swallowing one twice.” Morik slapped his back with a bear hug. “Die peacefully, my friend.”

  Solineus shrugged the grasp away. “Death isn’t for me.” A muted clap came from his mittens as he slapped them together, then he hit the latch on the Twins and they fell to his hips. “Just in case it ain’t the air, and there’s something up there wanting to eat me.” He tested his cleated feet, and Morik handed him two climbing sticks, sturdy and tipped with steel to penetrate snow and ice. The sky was a peculiar, dark blue so high in the sky.

  He turned to face the climb as the priests broke into a chanting prayer, and he strode forward. Slow. Steady. Breathing. Steady heart, steady steps. Half a horizon’s climb, and it’s down I go.

  After a hundred strides he turned to look back, his breath already thin
. Wisps of cloud raced by and he raised a hand in salute. Soon after, he rounded a corner, a pillar of jagged ice, and wouldn’t see a living soul again until his return. The ascent here was tame compared to previous locations, and there were no crevasses to bridge, thank the gods, so he kept his head down and eyes focused on the packed snow in front of him.

  The first landmark he reached was a cliff which bore the name Râkêr’s Rope, for the man who first scaled its height three hundred years earlier. He was also one of the first to die striving for the peak. A thick, frozen stretch of rope dangled from the slope’s top to a steel spike driven into the ground at the base, but in fact it was several ropes, none the original. Solineus pulled a fresh rope from his pack and tied it to the stake before taking hold of the old rope and climbing higher.

  Cleats sinking into snow and rope in hand made the climb less brutal than he’d expected, and once at the top he tied off his new rope, a salute to the original, and a boon to future climbers. Two candles into the climb by this time, he sat and stared at the sky while breathing and drinking, taking a few bites of jerked goat. He groaned to his feet and trudged onward along a slender ridge with falls to either side no man without wings would survive, but with his eyes trained tight to the snow in front of him, and counting to one hundred over and over to test his mental acuity, he managed to ignore the doom at either hand until he reached a flat stretch on the other side.

  Looking back, he imagined that this narrow stretch of ice was a place many climbers met their end with heavy winds. More water. More breathing. And as he took his first stride to round a bend, he stopped. A mound of ice and snow sat frozen to a stone wall, too human in shape to ignore. He swiped at the form, and a fur collar appeared from beneath falling snow. A climber, no doubt, but with an odd tilt to his head.

  He drew a Twin, and regret struck him with a wave of nausea as the sword’s voice wormed into his consciousness. He wobbled, hilt clacking the icy ground to stabilize himself. “Easy, Sister.” Deep breaths, and the voice relented, the whispers soft and gentle. He blinked in a flurry as he recovered and brought the Latcu edge to bear against the ice, shaving layers, careful not to remove parts of the dead man. The corpse’s head was well-preserved and tilted with an unnatural lean; his throat was cut to damned near removing his head. “Nothing ate you, at least.” He sucked a deep breath and drank, recalling the priestess’ words about competition in the quest for Hîmr’s Coin. If one had killed the other, the next question was what ended the murderer’s climb.