***
tugging, pulling, downwards, falling away from the dragon, tumbling through the clouds, many voices rushing past, many hands tugging, annoyance and irritation, go away, falling faster now, the mountains looming larger, larger still, plummeting like a falling star, the Sight growing sharp, hot, white hot, lights from the Inn, hotter, faster, too fast
***
“Too fast, sidi. Slow down.”
***
too fast, slow down, faster, blurring, rushing, spinning
***
Kirin’s head was spinning. Fallon’s head was spinning. Kerris’ head was spinning.
Quickly, Kirin tried to imagine hands, reaching upwards to slow the fall, stop it, felt the soul pass through like a shooting star, much too fast, they were all going to hit—
Four souls burst with the clap of thunder, throwing them in four separate directions across the room, knocking over benches, crashing into walls. Sherah threw her arms over her head to avoid the chaos and flailing debris. When finally all was still once again, she peered out again, three cats lying prone and barely conscious on the floor. The Seer, however was sitting up, eyes bright and glistening, breathing as if just coming in from some mad cross-Kingdom dash.
“Amazing,” he panted, “Absolutely amazing. Now, please excuse me while I go outside. I think I’m going to be sick.”
And with that, he clambered to his feet and staggered toward the door. He didn’t quite make it to the threshold before his prophecy came true.
Fallon lay sprawled on her belly across an overturned bench. “Yep. Like trilling little birds, layahlayahlai...”
Kerris lay propped against a table, grinning. “By the Kingdom, Kirin, we’re going to need a great more than opium on this trip.”
Major Ursa Laenskaya sat up, eyes glassy and unfocused.
“Opium,” she growled. “I hate opium.”
She pushed herself to unsteady feet and stomped up the stairs to her room.
And Kirin Wynegarde-Grey, Captain of the Imperial Guard, placed his hands over his face, for his own vision had proved faithful, his own prophecies true. Madness and blasphemy would rain down upon his head, for they were about to embark on a journey, a sojourn to the Ends of the Earth, to find this Soul, this Solomon, not tiger, not even cat, but the last of the Ancestors, revered and idolized by every living creature in all of the Nations.
A human.
And with his very sword, the Captain of the Queen’s Guard would kill him.
Switzerland
Somewhere, far to the north and far to the west, far beyond the boundary of even the Lower Kingdom, there is a range of Mountains splitting yet another part of the earth in two. There are peaks that rival Charta, spears that mock Kathandu, although none can come close to matching Shagar’mathah. She is ours alone. But there are mountains, up there on the Edge of the Earth and answers to mysteries from the beginning of time. Perhaps even before this.
This is a land of green grass and orchards, lush slopes and steep winding rivers, of wild goats and dahl sheep and otters, storks and cattle as sturdy as yaks. There are no cats. There are no dogs. There are no people of any sort, for one cannot in truth consider rats as people even if they do chatter and have the arms of monkeys. True monkeys, those called Chi’Chen, can hold a conversation. Chi’Chen have homes, raise families, barter and sell wares like people. Chi’Chen hate dogs, envy cats, enjoy laughter. Rats kill. There is considerable difference.
This land is full of rats.
The temples are old, more like the temples of Gobay made of paper and steel and stone. They are broken and ruined and supposedly carry on for days without end. There are rivers of stone, also broken and ruined and these run to and from the temples in confusing patterns, weaving and twisting like the most intricate KallaShakra wheel. For the most part, this land is dreadful.
And yet, there are mountains.
Magnificent, towering, powerful mountains, perhaps even a worthy consort for our Great Mother should she ever find the need. Mountains are a source of purity and strength, so perhaps once this land was likewise. But no more. It is the way of things.
High in these mountains, there is a village.
Rather, there was a village, so very long ago.
Kandersteg, Switzerland.
And buried deep beneath such an old village, beneath layers of snow and soil and rock, sat a man called Solomon, head in hands, waiting for the nausea to subside.
It was black, save for the dim emergency grid-lighting along the floor. It was also cold, which probably was a blessing since it seemed those horrible rat creatures seemed to have a preference for warmth. The air was stale, at least 500 years stale (but he couldn’t shake the feeling that it might be more) and stank of rat urine, liquid nitrogen and blood. He had been able to chip ice from several of the cryo-tanks so he was in no danger of dehydration just yet but his stomach had long since given up rumbling for attention, having begun the process of metabolic enervation for what it assumed would be another long hibernation.
He wished it were so easy.
“Hello? Anybody there?” he called again into the darkness, knowing it would be futile. These stray contacts were fleeting at best, chaotic at worst, and this time had left him with a sensation of vertigo. But at least he was not alone. He was not alone and for that, he was infinitely grateful.
It had all started three nights ago. Actually, it had all started centuries ago, but that was a little out of his purview. MAX, the orbital computer satellite, had made a colossal miscalculation, somehow allowing him to waken before the revival process had been complete. Now, his first memories of this new time, of this new world, were those of extreme cold and panic. Even now, they continued to haunt him with their vivid sensations. Truth be told, it was a danger he and his colleagues had thought they had long overcome. In the beginning, prototypes had produced the same effect and the SANDMAN Project had almost been scuttled because of so many early fatalities. He shuddered to think of it. It would not be a pleasant way to go.
He paused in his thoughts.
They had saved him.
These strange, backwards people, people who used horses and shamen and terms like “sidi,” had saved him.
For the first time since he could remember, he found a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. The irony amused him. Actually, it kind of hurt, so he stopped smiling and ran his palm across his face, finding stubble in its wake.
Somehow, they had saved him.
The others had not been so lucky.
Six fellow supervisors had met grisly fates, frozen and contorted, their tanks little more than sophisticated Arctic tombs. And then the rat-things had done their work, smashing in the plexiglass and pulling what they could of the bodies onto the floor. Solomon remembered that first morning when he had crawled warm and dry from his unit and tumbled unceremoniously onto the cold metal floor onto part of someone’s arm. Not the waking he had expected. Certainly not what they had planned. And the rat-things had been plaguing him ever since, likely the start of every evening but since he was underground, he wasn’t entirely sure. He also wasn’t entirely sure how he had managed to stay alive for this long and avoid their many scrabbling hands, their sharp slicing teeth, their sheer, savage numbers.
One thing he was sure of, however, was that unless he got the computers back online, they would surely kill him. And he had not survived this long just to become this century’s version of frozen dinner.
Not when he had 2000 others depending on him.
“Okay, Captain,” he announced to the empty room, “If you”re coming to find us, we’d better be ready. Let’s see if I can find the welcome mat...”
He pushed himself to his feet and staggered over to the main computer terminal in Ops.
It was black, like the past. Like the present. And very possibly like his own future.
He adjusted the wire at the base of his skull, pulled over a creaky, rattling chair, and got down to work.
Th
e Great Mountains
It is impossible to remember all the things which transpired that night as we worked into the very hours of morning. In fact, I’m not entirely convinced that any of us found more than an hour of sleep before we were forced to begin our preparations for the journey that awaited us. But truth be told, I believe none of us missed those hours for a challenge had gripped us in invisible claws, the knowledge that we were about to embark on a journey where no cat had journeyed before, a sojourn unlike any other. We would be riding beyond the very edges of the known world. Even I must admit it was exhilarating.
The Seer was repeatedly sick for most of the night and cold too from the effects of the raw opium. But he aided us as best he could as my brother and the Scholar drew map after map, changing and refining them with Kerris’ familiarity and the Seer’s memory.
Soon it became apparent that where we would be traveling, no map existed, and I began to question the accuracy of the vision that was sending us so far from home. I also began to question whether the journey was necessary at all for if there was indeed only a single Ancestor so far from our Empire, it was doubtful that he alone could bring down enough devastation to cripple the Matriarchy. But I was under orders to kill him. Could I do this thing? Could I not? As the maps were being drawn, I sat and wrestled with these thoughts, all the while under the golden eyes of the Alchemist.
She disturbs me.
Not only that but my scroll is missing. I wish to believe that, in the madness of the night’s events it was simply discarded, swept into the fire with the crushed remains of the coals. I pray this is the case for if one of these people were to discover that our quest is now one of retribution then I am convinced that their assistance would be neither whole-hearted nor unsolicited. For the most part, they are not soldiers.
Finally, after several hours more, I called a halt to the process, for it was obvious that the maps were of limited value and my people were growing giddy with exhaustion. The Major had preceded us to the upper rooms after our unceremonious ‘crash’ from unnatural places, and I had assumed she was sleeping. I found out she was completely otherwise, and had thoroughly dismantled one of the beds. She had carved an intricate sign into the rough mahogany headboard and was carrying it down the stairs as we dragged ourselves up them. I noticed her eyes still manic with opium. The five of us stood on the steps and watched as she threw open the Inn’s front door and pounded the headboard into the hard earth by the entrance. She then stormed up past us and disappeared once again into her room, slamming the door with such force that the black windows rattled in their frames. The Scholar trotted back down the stairs to take a look and returned promptly with the news that the Inn at the Roof of the World now had a name.
“The Mother’s Arms.”
I thought it fitting.
We retired for the rest of the night but were up at the first light of dawn. Every bone in my body ached but Kerris seemed bright and eager to set out. Perhaps it is simply the difference in our natures. I am Metal, a creature of habit, preferring the routines of my job and the stability of the Kingdom, whereas Kerris is Fire and thrives on adventure and change. We both serve the Empress well, however, for as I work to maintain that which we already have, he sees what might be, and works toward that end. I could not do what he does, living such a free, independent life, and I know for fact that he could not survive within the confines of my responsibility. It is the way of things.
At first light, I had sent the guards to the markets to load our packhorses with tents and supplies, for I was beginning to believe that this journey would take weeks, if not longer. As the horses were made ready, I made certain to give the Innkeep a promissory note for his lodgings, for so many meals and for the destruction of at least one window and two beds. The Major had no memory of the events of the night previous, and I found her, fresh and well-rested, admiring her own handiwork on the improvised sign outside the Inn. The Seer still looked ill but as I bid him good-morning, he touched my arm and asked if I had indeed brought him back from the lost last night. I told him that, with the help of others, I had, and then he said to me a very strange thing.
He said perhaps I was Enough.
We set out immediately, for our aim was to follow the Shi’pal River northwest through the Great Mountains. Although the Shi’pal flows west most of its course, and then east, and then south, ultimately it finds its source in the north, and does indeed meet up with the Great Wall along the way. I was hoping to head due north, and reach the Wall by sunset, for it is equipped with frequent battle towers, cisterns of fresh water, and level footing. However, Kerris disagreed, citing the unpredictable nature of our quest thus far, the treachery of the northern pass and the fact that we were a large party, traveling with heavy-laden horses. I was forced to concede. So, just after dawn, we left the Inn, ‘The Mother’s Arms’, and the mountains of Sha’Hadin. I knew we would not be seeing them again soon.
-an excerpt from the journal of Kirin Wynegarde-Grey
The morning mist had lifted, allowing them an unparalleled view of the Great Mountains. They were a study in contrasts, these mountains, laying down steep, U-shaped valleys of pink shale aside level plateaus of snow. Stone hedges ran at unnatural angles, as if some cat had devised to create Walls of his own in miniature. Rocks as large as yaks alternated with stunted cedars to speckle the land like the back of a leopard and in the distance, spires of white and purple ruled everything.
Kerris and Quiz had naturally taken the fore, leading the party down the narrow, winding road from the marketplace and into territory quite unfamiliar to any of the riders. There was little conversation en route for the horses were trekking single-file and the precious lack of sleep in the last few days was beginning to take its toll. Even the Scholar’s usual banter was negated in favor of head-bobbing, bleary-eyed silence. It was then that Kirin first considered the notion that, of all the factors weighing against them on this impossible journey, exhaustion might well be the most dangerous of all.
So after several hours, the river of horses rode deep into a red sandstone valley, veering sharply away from the majestic views of the Mountains and into the coolness of her shadows. The shade was welcome relief from the sun however and as they descended, the spring runoff that had been trickling across the paths remained frozen, long slick entrails of dripping white. The walls of the valley echoed with the sound of rushing waters but the Shi’pal was still nowhere to be seen. It seemed as though Kerris were leading them straight into the very heart of the earth.
Above them, Path the falcon pivoted on a high wind and disappeared around the crest of a ridge that rose before them, apparently blocking their trail.
Kirin shook his head when suddenly, as alMassay slid the last of the way into the ravine, the ridge opened up before them into a great gaping mouth of a cavern hidden by the angle of descent. It was wide, dark and low, a frowning mouth with jagged teeth, and quite naturally, Kerris and Quiz were riding straight into it. Both were swallowed in seconds.
The guard directly behind them swiveled in his saddle, throwing his Captain a glance before he too urged his horse onward and was immediately covered in a cloak of darkness. From the Scholar to the Major, the party disappeared before his eyes and Kirin found himself holding his breath as alMassay stepped slowly into the breach.
Every inch of his body tingled as the blackness consumed him and every other sense scrambled to adjust. His pupils opened wide, seeing fragments of light bouncing from buckles and straps and swords. It was damp, smelled of old moss and bat droppings. He could hear those bats too, clicking at the unexpected visitors, imagined them snatching at the crest of his hair from their upside-down perches. Unclean creatures, he thought grimly, almost as bad as rats. He was glad he couldn’t see them.
The cavern was colder than the trail into it and the further they went, the damper and colder it became. The rushing of waters was growing louder too, almost drowning out the clopping of hoofs. Through the darkness, Kirin could see slices
of sunlight, stabbing down through the rock and he knew that something remarkable awaited them at the end of this black journey. There had to be. Kerris was fond of his surprises.
The exit was as sudden as its entrance and the Captain could tell by the exclamations that the end was upon them. In fact, the sudden sunlight almost blinded him and he found himself pulling his stallion short as his eyes took moments to adjust. Several horse lengths below them, the Shi’pal roared through steep red cliffs, her cold spray pricking his pelt and chilling him to the bones. On both sides, the ravine’s edges sheered straight up to the sun
“Wow, oh wow! Oh-oh-oh wow!”
The Scholar gasped in open-mouthed wonder, but in truth, the Captain felt the same. The Mountains never failed to inspire him. There were constantly new sights, new marvels within her ample bosom. She was a Good Mother.
Kerris was waving at him. al Massay jogged up alongside.
“This road will take us a good way,” he said, now forced to shout to be heard over the rushing waters. “The river is full of fish and the cliffs full of pigeons. We might even take a cliff buck or two. We won’t have to touch our stores for days!”
Kirin nodded. It was a good plan.
“No swimming, though,” the grey lion said with a grin. “The current will crush you against the rocks like a clove of ginger. Right? So, Kirin, we keep going?”
“No.”
“What? What’s that?”
“No.”
“No?”
“It is just past noon,” Kirin shook his head. “We’ll stop for a rest and a light meal. Our people are tired.”
Kerris sat back on his pony. “Well. Yes, they are. I didn’t think you’d noticed.”
“I noticed.”
“Some hope for you yet, brother,” he said. “Right, we’ll stop here then. It’s as good a place as any.”
The Way of Things: Upper Kingdom Boxed Set: Books 1, 2 and 3 in the Tails of the Upper Kingdom Page 22
