“How do you know they are of the dark and not just soldiers from the king’s castle still looking for us?"
“It is the stone people who told us what lies in the hearts of those who have taken up watch far below. You are safe here among us in the clouds. Unless those of evil can fly, then none can breach these heights.”
“Then it is good that there are no more dragons. Remember the Druids had trained the flying serpents so the great beasts could hold a rider and a spearman.”
“I remember our ancestors telling tales of when the Druids attempted to storm our mountain stronghold. Thank the gods for our skilled archers. If not for them, then our cities of Skye would be a palace of Druids and their like. Our great spear catapult’s slew many a dragon as well.”
“There was a tale of such a battle I read in the old manuscripts of my father,” says Natsha while looking at Amari to see if she had that memory. “Like all tales of old, we think they were spun from the mind of one that consumed too much ale. Now I hear that the stories are true. I am beginning to think that whatever was either told or penned to paper may have actually happened in ages gone past.”
“Legends and tales repeated are often founded in reality.” Amari says. “There are lessons to be learned from the truth. All the great legends, ancient as they are, have a certain truth in their beginnings.
“Who knows” Mimna says. “Someone could be crafting a tale about you and your friends here. Now come. Let’s be on our way. The sands of the time flow through the glass, with it, my father's agreement to follow the law of hospitality. He fears those below will bring death and darkness.
Already, several of the foolish who surround the base of our mountains had tried to climb the sheer rock walls. They have died at the hands of our friends of stone. The death the Cylok exact is not pretty. For centuries, they are the best allies to have at your side. Neither spear nor arrow can pierce them. Hardened steel shatters.
The stone guards are of the earth. Using magic, whether light or dark is useless upon them. They also possess a special ability to see into the hearts of men. If it be the curious and adventurous who try to climb these mountains, then they are turned away unharmed by our friends of stone.
Just the Cylok’s rumbling presence scares the inquisitive never to come back. However, if within their hearts lies darkness and deceit. Then the crushing weight of stone upon their frail bodies is the punishment rendered.
“I understand what the Cylok offer you, but what do they require from your citizens in return?” Natsha asks, always seeking to add to her wealth of knowledge.
Mimna looks deep into Natsha's eyes. “Let’s journey for a spell. When we rest and partake of a midday meal we will talk of this.”
Down the streets and paths of the second city they travel. Wonder upon wonder of the architecture is beheld. Tall needle-sharp spires of brass pounded smooth reflect the strong sunlight can be seen on many a roof. The sheen appears as gold.
Mimna points to the spikes. “These points of metal are left from the days of the Druids and their dragon riders. The great winged beast could not land on the roofs and attack those who sought shelter and safety within. Over the years, we have removed those old defenses and use the brass for cooking pots and jewelry. As we have no wealth here, or needed. Our spies who travel to the lowlander’s villages use the brass trinkets to barter for information or a place to rest and eat.
The people’s houses are the same as the city of Marsgate. Bare of doors or window shutters to bar the entrance.
“This is refreshing,” Gareth says, while looking into an open doorway. He spies a woman sewing with children playing at her feet. “I know a man in an Aventine village that has no less, than four locks and a stout bar on the inside of his door. He keeps a cocked crossbow and sword at the ready. I for one am always on guard and prepared, but anyone who does not trust his closest neighbor is a sad lot.
I think Skye would be a realm a man could settle down and not be always wary of attack. Even still, this high up, a man is closer to the gods.”
“My brother” Natsha says. “You would not be happy unless you were bashing in some lout’s head.”
“True sister, but the passing of years is catching up to my time. I still carry pains from our last fights. In youth, I would not feel the ache as much as I do now. Pain or not, I stand sword ready with you and the others.”
Natsha strokes his rough cheek. “I am sure our sister the Maiden has a spell to sooth your aches.” She looks at Amari. “Have you not?”
“I have several which will work on one such as Gareth. Later this day, when we rest, will I take care of our sword brother’s niggles and pains.”
At midday, we stop at an inn where food is brought to their table.
Gareth opens his coin pouch to pay for the meal with a pearl. Mimna shakes her head and stays his hand. “He will not take your money. For the innkeeper; a great honor you have given him for eating his wife’s food. After we leave, he will tell all his neighbors we dined at his inn.”
Gareth looks to the man clearing away the dishes and empty tankards. “Kind sir, your faire was tasteful. You must let me do something to honor your woman’s fine cooking.”
The innkeeper just shakes his head.
Natsha leans close to her brother. “The man before you has been eyeing the knife in your boot. Make him a present of it.”
Gareth reaches into his boot, pulls the ivory-handled short knife from a concealed sheath and hands it to the innkeeper—hilt-first. “Can we trade this for what we ate?”
The man looks to his wife standing in the doorway of the kitchen.
She shakes her head vigorously.
“Warrior, that is a fine blade, but I have no need for such that ended the life of another.”
Gareth smiles at the humble man and his wife. “This knife saw no battle or cleaved an enemy’s heart. I bought this from a mariner many years ago in land far over the sea. I use it strictly for eating—please, take it as my gift to you.”
The innkeeper gives in and takes the blade from Gareth’s outstretched hand. He touches the hilt to his forehead in a sign of thanks. He goes to his wife to show her.
“That was kind of you Gareth,” Mimna says. “The innkeeper will never use it, but put it on display as a gift from a warrior who fought beside the Maiden.”
Gareth nods his head and winks at her.
With bellies full, the band of warriors settle out of the sun under the thick branches of a Ballycon tree.
Natsha considers Mimna. “Sister, I have not forgotten you owe us a story about the rock people. In every life situation, there is a give and take. Those of stone protect you and these mountains. Is it out of the goodness of their hearts? Do they even have hearts?”
“I will tell you, but you must keep this a trust as well and not share with the lowlanders.”
Natsha and the other warriors all nod their collective heads.
Mimna is satisfied they will not reveal this to anyone. She thinks they would sooner take any of this knowledge to their graves.
“This story goes back many centuries. Exactly, how long ago it started; no one really knows. You have all seen two of our cities close up, and one in the distance. What do you not see? What is missing that should be found in every city, town and village? Of the low lands in your travels what gives you a measure of time to pause and reflect?”
They all look about their surroundings expecting the answer to appear out of nowhere.
They stare at each other and shrug. Amari answers for the group. “We see houses, shops, tradesmen, farms, animals and people—even many children. Trees, flowers, and growing things abound everywhere. The scent of life is carried on every breeze.”
The answer alludes all of them. Suddenly, Dian stands and looks out onto the landscape. Turning in a circle, she sits back down. “I see no grave markers, no stone upon stone to say a body lies there.”
Natsha and Holl-tu look about as well. “Dian is right,” says t
he wizard. “Where do you place those that have gone on to the next life?”
Taking a deep breath, Mimna begins. “We have a special tomb hidden within the mountain under Marsgate. In a great cavern is one central grave chiseled into the rock floor. Beside the hollowed out grave is a stone altar. Upon the platform is a lamp that never goes out. The fire has burned without wavering long before my father’s, father’s father tread upon these mountains.
Although it is not often as one would think; when a person dies here above the clouds, their remains are placed within that stone burial chamber. It is a great ceremony as the body is passed from one person to another all the way to the chamber.”
“So everyone who lives on these peaks has touched the remains at least once,” says Amari. “Notable respect is shown to the great and small of this realm. There is no caste separation here it seems.”
“No—everyone has a purpose and skill which benefit the whole. Although, we have leaders and elders, no one is richer or poorer than the next. We share all things. My house is the same as every other house and home erected upon these mountains. It was not always so, and it took eons before we learned.”
The Black Angel goes on. “After the body is placed in the grave, a rock person will sprinkle some mixture of white dirt and dust upon it. Whatever it is, the aroma is reminiscent of lavender and mint. We do not know what purpose it signifies, or what it is supposed to do. No soil is thrown upon the body as it lies in the hollowed out stone grave.
Next comes a layer of dried hornberry leaves, then large flat stones. Boiling sap from the hornberry is poured over the whole grave sealing it. The sap dries quickly and is hard to the touch. We are only watchers as the stone people perform the ritual.”
“So the body is sealed as you say,” asks Gareth. But what if another dies?”
“The next time we carry another body to be buried there the grave is empty and clean. Originally, we thought our dead kin were reburied in another place.
T’was the Oracle who told us what mysteries have transpired? It takes at least a moon’s cycle, but the remains turn to stone and lives again as a rock being. The Cylok has no memory of their former life as humans. They only have the deep desire and drive to serve us.
You see those who protect us—are we! The stone who walks among us, may be a brother, sister, or parent. We do not know which. It is an earthly cycle. We are cast from the dirt, live as humans, and returned to the land.”
“That is the strangest thing I have ever heard,” mouths Dian. “Still, I was a Nix for a time. I never thought that possible until it happened to me.”
Gareth decides to ask a question which has been rattling around his mind since he first heard it. “Mimna, it is said you are called Black Angels. The words taken in this way seem to be of the darkness: from whence did the name spring?”
She smiles at the question. “Though none exist any longer—it was said the name came from a large white bird which inhabited these peaks before my people settled here.
The one which soars the skies appeared as a godly angel when its wings were outstretched. The whole of it is pure white with the exception of a large black spot upon its head.
The first of my kind settling here called it a Black Angel, as they did not know its true name. We took this name for ourselves as well. This tale has been passed down from our beginnings. My people came from a land outside Aventine and over the great sea. Why we departed, our original homeland is not known, even in stories passed down through the generations.
Nevertheless, this is our home now, as it has been for centuries.”
Gareth nods his head, a little ashamed of his thoughts that the Black Angels may have their roots in the Shade.
Mimna stands. “We have sat long enough my friends. We have one more city to behold. There is also a man I who may know something to help on your quest.”
Once again, they are crossing the bridges joining the three cities on the peaks.
Natsha peers over the wall to the clouds billowing below. “To fall from here, one would have much time to contemplate life before striking the ground below.”
Mimna looks to Natsha and the others. “In fact, that is exactly how we are going to get you back down to the low lands and away from those who skulk below.”
Everyone stops walking and looks at the Black Angel woman.
She smiles and says. “You are going to jump off these mountains so to speak, but not the way you think.” Mimna does not say another word, but walks away over the connecting bridge to the final city. We all hurry to catch up—wondering if she is playing a game with our thoughts.
They enter into the third great mountain-top city and marvel at the differences in the buildings and people from the other cities they visited. The material used to build the houses and central-square are of an ebony stone. The only common factor is the lack of windows and doors, and openness of the houses. Part way up more endless stairs, Mimna abruptly changes direction and heads toward the outskirts of the city.
Before long, we are walking in tiered open fields—newly planted. The little band of men and women walk upon the stone walls separating the levels of crops as not to trample what is planted there.
As they travel around the mountain, a small cottage comes into sight. The foundation is built right into the hill. At one time, it may have been straight, but now it appears to be sitting at an odd angle. It has the appearance of ready to tumble down the mountain and over the edge.
Wooden and stone racks of drying plants spread out from the small building like spokes on a wheel. Scents of flowers and shrubberies drift on the wind and tickle our noses. Smoke from the fieldstone chimney climbs into the sky and is quickly lost.
“What a quaint little cottage,” says Dian. “I expect that is where you be taking us Mimna?”
“Yes! There lives a man, ancient and wise. No one knows how old he really is, but some say he has been around long before the connecting bridges were built to join our three cities. He uses those plants and flowers that are drying about his place to make remedies and potions. Our physicians seek him out for his medicines.
Amari, he was the one that nursed me back to health after our battle with the Druids. Those foul creatures that served the dark ones infected me with one of their poison darts. If it not for Lanz Tarris, I would have surely perished.”
“Lanz Tarris,” says Amari. “I know of that name. My memory comes back slowly, but if I remember correctly, he once was a physician to the old king, Atyl Borin. Atyl was the grandfather of the present king. No less a tyrant than his heirs.”
Mimna pushes her hair back and adjusts her legging at the hip. “I know not this man’s history before living here. In our talks, he has only spoken of inhabiting these mountains. He rarely leaves his house, except to gather the plants and flora he uses in his potions. The people of Skye who have need of his wares—come to him. His only payment is that you must sit and listen to the tales he weaves. Some stories are just myths and legends. Still, others seem to hold a bit of truth.”
I want you to meet him, as he told me a story a long time ago when I used to visit him in my youth. Your quest has stirred in me, what was once told, now moves to the foremost of my remembering.”
Gareth looks to Mimna and asks. “From what of our quest do you think this man will reveal?”
“Be patient my big friend—you will see. Please look past his quirkiness and consider what he has to say. For most people, he tolerates them to a point. For me, I am treated as a daughter.”
Mimna walks to the front and yells across the open ground toward the little cottage. “Lanz, Lanz Tarris, it is I Mimna, come to share a fire with you. I have brought good friends you can regale with your stories.”
As Amari and the others draw nearer, a small slightly bent over man emerges from the front entrance of the house. This place is also without a door or shuttered window.
The man Mimna knew since she was a child, face brightens at her. He is dressed in the brown
tunic and trousers of a landsman. He waves with a gnarled and twisted hand…the result of countless years digging the soil.
The fingers are stained black. His hair, what little is left is sparse and gathered in small clumps, tied off with animal hide. No shoes or sandals adorn the dark feet with crooked toes. Upon his back with a cord about his neck, is a wide brim hat made from straw.
His voice crackles with age. “Young warrior and teacher, too much time has passed since your last visit. Come closer so I may touch your face.”
Only as the others get close that they see the man is blind. His eyes stare at nothing.
Amari takes notice. This is the third person she has met on the journey who is blind. First is was here old friend Truk, then the Oracle; now the ancient Black Angel.
Mimna takes his hand and moves it to her face. He caresses it gently as if it was one of his flowers.
“You still have smooth little-girl skin and soft voice my Mimna.”
“Old man, your hands lie to you, and your ears play tricks. My face holds many lines of the passing years, and my voice is beginning to crackle like an aged crone.”
He smiles with crooked teeth. “Who travels with you?”
“Lan, these are my sword brothers and sisters. They have traveled far, and still have leagues to go.”
The ancient man reaches out, and Amari takes his hand.
He rubs the outstretched hand with rough calloused fingers, “ah, the Maiden of the Light.”
Amari looks at him, then Mimna, and back to him. “How doth thou know of me?”
“From the saber you wear at your side. I can feel its power pass through your hand. It has been countless years since I felt the magic from one of the Kcaj swords.
“You know of the Pentadiene?”
Maiden's Saber Page 22
