The Sword of Sighs (The Age of the Flame: Book One)

by Greg James

  The wretched thing stumbled towards her. In her mind’s eye, she saw the Flame within her—a flickering, fluttering shadow that gave off no heat and danced on in silence. She imagined drawing it up into herself, like taking one breath after another, letting it flow out and fill her being from head to fingers to toes, flowing out from a space just below her heart. She could feel the Flame this time, its movement within, those breaths she took were becoming more regular. Shorter, sharper, harder, quicker. She felt it turning from a flow into a flood, surging through her limbs and generating a heat and fury that made her toes curl and her fingers clench. And then, she let it go—not as a raging torrent this time, but a great golden river of light running out of her and into the dead man, the old woman, and on into the other Daughters of Yagga. On and on and on it went, until she was spent. The light of the Flame evaporated, leaving her gasping and wanting to fall. And the old woman and the daughters were all ash and stains on the ground ...

  ~ ~ ~

  ... Sarah came to on the boat deck, blinking and staring as Ossen steered the boat downriver past the temple without stopping, leaving the ancient, empty structure behind.

  “Aren’t we stopping here, Ossen?”

  “Why would we do that?” he asked, turning. “There’s nothing in there but old ghosts and ashes.”

  A slight smile tugged at his lips and was followed by a wink before he turned back to steering. Sarah looked back at the temple before it was lost amid hanging vines and tangled trees. In the doorway, she saw a figure watching them go by. Stooped old hag? Young woman? Virgin child? It was hard to tell in the gloom, in the ever-shifting shadows. Soon, the temple was lost to her.

  She knew, somehow, that she would never find it again.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The boat sailed on in a subdued but pleasant manner for the next few days, although the swamps of Grah’na remained a forbidding sight with their canopies of warped, twisted trees robed in sour, watery mist. Sarah could feel the sodden swamp air like a lukewarm sweat on her skin. She sometimes felt as if the sweltering shades were observing her, but Ossen swore no Fallen-born would enter the swamps and that the Molloi were not nearly so subtle as to be able to creep about unseen in the shadows. Still, his promises made Sarah feel no easier in her gut as the boat drifted on and the dark green depths around them seemed to close in with each passing day.

  ~ ~ ~

  A sound in the night woke her.

  Ossen and Jedda were asleep below. Sarah was on watch and had dozed off. When she opened her eyes, she saw a light like campfire flames not so far away. The swamp was quiet but for the humming of insects. The boat was stilled for the night against an outcrop of loamy turf. Sarah’s gaze followed the outcrop, noting that the gangly tree roots and accrued silt made a natural bridge to where the fire flickered in the dark. That sound again—yes, hushed voices. She was sure of it.

  Kay’lo? Molloi? Some servants of the Fallen-born discussing what they meant to do to them whilst they slept?

  She closed her eyes and saw the Flame still there in her breast, dancing its shadows. Taking deep breaths, she thought, I can bring it out of me again. She crossed the bridge of roots and mulch, ducking between the serpentine tree trunks. The fire was closer, she could see that, and the forms squatting around it were more defined. They did not look familiar, and their voices were peculiar. They were not the first strange voices she had heard in this World, but they were still strange compared to all of the others, even the sibilant speech of the Fallen-born.

  Closer and closer she came, until she was peering through the undergrowth at the creatures huddled around the fire. They were draped in clothes that were little more than tattered rags, but she could see that their bodies were not only made of flesh. She could see arms and legs of crude iron, jointed and riveted. Their skin was bleached, dirty, and grey. Their faces were wan, with limpid eyes staring fixedly into the flames. But as the small gathering moved around the fire, she saw that they were not huddling in for warmth, they were cooking something.

  Sarah saw what was turning, dripping, on their roasting spit.

  Her hand went to her mouth, either to gasp or to be sick, she wasn’t sure, but what came out was a croak. At the sound, the creatures turned towards her. They peered into the dark, trying to see what was there. Sarah sank low into the undergrowth and held her breath, not moving a muscle as she saw the creatures stir and prowl about the clearing. She heard the harsh clicking and grinding of their iron joints as well as the softer sounds made by bones and flesh. She heard some come so close she could smell them. She wanted to breathe out so bad. They were filthy, the odour of them worse than the swamp.

  She waited for years—that’s what it felt like—before they stopped their hunt around the clearing and returned to the fire. Crouching down in the brush, Sarah began to crawl backwards, an inch at a time, not daring to go faster lest she rouse them again. Once, they might believe it was fauna rustling by, but twice, and in the same place, they would know someone was there. She had seen that some of them had pincers, hooks, and claws for hands. They shone in the firelight. The thought of them coming after her with those made her shiver.

  Sarah bumped into something.

  Slowly and carefully, she turned her head to see what she had backed into—one of the trees that made up the bridge of roots, most likely.

  It was no tree.

  A face hung in the darkness before her: a mask of beaten iron with very human, staring eyes. It made a guttural chuckling sound as it came towards her, one palm outstretched, another ending in one of those snipping, snapping pincers.

  Sarah fainted.

  ~ ~ ~

  Their eyes examined her in a way that made her skin crawl when she came to. They smiled at her with all the love of a butcher for a pig. Slippery hands were upon her, fastened over her mouth before she had the chance to scream.

  “Ossen! Jedda!”

  Her cries were muffled by damp hands, which she tried to bite in vain. They dragged her, kicking and twisting, towards the fire and the foul stench emanating from whatever was on the roasting spit. They thrust her face towards it, letting her see the charred, raw yet burned, barely recognisable thing that was once a human being. The voice she heard was guttural. She guessed it was the masked one speaking.

  “Be calm. There’s enough of her for everyone.”

  “I want her arm!”

  “Eyes, preetty-preetty eyes, those are mine.”

  “Feet, I want her feet. The toes look tasty.”

  “You’ll get what I give you.” He turned to Sarah. “Or maybe she doesn’t want to give us her body parts. Do you?”

  Sarah shook her head, still gagged by their hands.

  The masked one brought her face close to his. “Well, girl, that’s just too bad for you, because we’re going to take them anyway. We’ll be moving on from this swamp soon, and it will be good to have some jerky and victuals for the journey.”

  A flaccid white tongue licked out of the mask’s mouth, and the other creatures laughed heartily at her.

  ~ ~ ~

  Sarah tried to move and could not.

  She remembered that a summer or so ago, Woran had taken her to the pig farm in the Norn Valley. Not one owned by the Saltwines or Taproots, but the Trotters. She had watched them hogtie their pigs before taking the animals away to be prepared for market. That was what the creatures had done to her. Her wrists and ankles were tied behind her back and fastened by the rope. Trussed up like an animal ready for the cooking pot, she thought, eyeing the fire that was still flickering away. The creatures were not paying her any attention for now. She watched them. Some seemed to sleep; others were in a huddle, rolling dice. She caught snatches of their conversation.

  “Double pips for her eyes.”

  “Ten for the toes.”

  “Five for a hand of fingers.”

  “One pip for that sweet little tongue. I’ll bet it tastes goood.”

  Sarah’s stomach churned and sweat
broke out on her skin. She kicked against the rope, hurting her shoulders and arms as it jerked back.

  Help me!

  They had gagged her with a filthy rag so she could not scream. She was watching the dice when a thought passed through her head. She focused on it. Concentrating hard. As the dice fell, they bounced off the ground and struck one of the creatures in the eyes. It screamed, holding its face with its fleshy hand.

  The others laughed at its pain. “Double pips for your eyes, Cag’kh. Bwa-ha-ha-ha!”

  Cag’kh, rubbing his eyes, shouted and lashed out with his iron arm. The arm ended in three vicious hooks, which tore open the breast of one of the laughing creatures. The laughter died away.

  “Not funny,” said the wounded one. “You shouldn't have done that, Cag’kh.”

  Cag’kh and the wounded one got to their feet. The wounded one had two arms of iron, one ending in a hard sphere and the other in a blade. It raised its blade, and Cag’kh raised his hooks. The masked one strode in between them. Raising his pincer hand and flesh-hand, he was about to speak when Sarah found herself staring right into his eyes—those horrible human eyes—and she told him what to say.

  “Cag’kh. Hac’kt. Sit back down or I’ll cut you both open.”

  Cag’kh and Hac’kt looked at each other then at the masked one, and Sarah, her brow furrowed, her bound fists clenched, told them what to think and do next. Cag’kh’s hooks disappeared into the chest of the masked one. The eyes in the mask bulged, and Sarah shivered as she saw it look at her and understand what had just happened, as it died. Cag’kh stumbled away from the body. Every one of the creatures was doing the same.

  Then, they all screamed and attacked each other.

  Sarah watched when she could, reaching into their minds, telling them what to do, but she had to close her eyes sometimes too. She did not want to see what they were doing to each other with those blades, hooks, and pincers. The screams and shouts worsened towards the end.

  Then there was silence.

  Sarah opened her eyes.

  One of the creatures was still standing.

  It was Cag’kh. He looked at the bodies on the ground and then at her. His pale face twisted as he spoke. “You. You doing this. This was you magic. Speak to us without a mouth. Make us do without hands. Now I do to you.”

  He was coming towards her, his dripping hooks slashing through the air and his black teeth showing in a grin. He was close to the fire. Sarah looked into the flames, at the remains on the roasting spike. Hands made of flame and a face that was all fire and fury rose up. Cag’kh screamed as the hands closed on him, pulling him into the huge fiery mouth of the conjured face. The fire ate him. It took its time with Cag’kh. Sarah watched him kicking, screaming and dying.

  There was silence again.

  The fire faded under the steaming weight of Cag’kh’s body. Sarah drew out a thin flickering tongue of flame, narrow and fine as string, and brought it to the rope that bound her. The rope smouldered and snapped, and she let the fire go out. She got to her feet and ran from the clearing—straight into something.

  It was Ossen, striding through the swamp foliage, a beacon of white light above his head. Jedda was not far behind him, holding aloft a similar glowing sphere. Seeing the bodies, the dead fire, and Sarah standing alone, unharmed, Ossen’s face went from a frown to a sober smile. “You did this, Sarah?”

  “With the Flame,” she said. “Yes.”

  “Deaths better than they deserved,” said Ossen.

  More bad guys, Sarah thought, looking at him.

  Bang-dead!

  “What were they, Ossen?” she asked.

  “Phages, Sarah. Flesh-eating horrors left over from a war long ago. Built to be the perfect warriors, utterly merciless and bloodthirsty. But their flesh was made from dead things and dead things only rot and hunger for the living.”

  “Well, they’re dead now.”

  “These ones are.”

  “You mean—”

  “I doubt these are the only Phages in Grah’na. When the others discover this, they will be out for blood. You did well to keep your nerve. Others have gone mad, even taken their own lives given half the chance. Strength is not merely proved by how much blood one has spilt, how many foes defeated, or how many battles won. Sometimes, living day-to-day, hour-to-hour, and minute-to-minute is a truer sign of one’s mettle. The ticking of the clock and the passage of time wear away courage more surely than any mortal blade might do—”

  “You’re saying we must go, then?”

  “Yes, yes. Lead the way, Sarah. Onward to the mountains. Onward.”

  “You mean back to the boat.”

  “Ahem, yes. Back to the boat, and then onward.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The foothills gradually became barer and dryer as the river left Grah’na behind. Soil seemed to seep away and grass grew thin, wispy, and pale before it was lost to sight altogether. They moored the boat and set foot on land once more. Sarah stared at what lay ahead, unable to take her eyes off it, as they walked. The way became rough and uneven as the path crept ever upward into the towering darkness of the Mountains of Mourning.

  The First Wayfarer, before he fell into his great slumber in the Lost Tower, had hewn the sheer heights of these mountains into citadels of smooth, flowing, and unbroken stone; not an inch of them was shaped by mortal hands. Mystical energies flowed through the oddly shaped stone, just as blood flows through veins. This was why the people feared these mountains. Sarah felt cold fear inside her breast and knew it was very real. The rock beneath her feet had once drunk deeply of the blood lost by men and women who held the passes. The crags and cliffs she saw rising up like rotten teeth once echoed with the screams of thousands dying, and of more who stood against the march of the Iron Gods and were crushed before them. Sarah looked along to the far horizon, where the most distant of the mountains stood, and found she could see them as nothing other than a series of colossal and cavernous tombs.

  “Here they died. Alone they died. That the world might live and no more die,” said Ossen.

  “Old words for long-dead hopes,” said Jedda. “We need to find shelter before nightfall, Ossen. The elements are unforgiving and bitter in this part of the World.”

  With those words, a low whispering wind gusted by, chilling them all to the bone, despite the lightness of its touch.

  They followed Ossen around the mountain paths, passing caves that were deep and old but riven with fissures. Finally, they came to a smooth, arched opening with embossed runes upon it, as if drawn by the fingers of a fine artist. The intricate, coiling script was nothing man or woman could ever hope to decipher. Sarah’s insides felt cold, fluid, and empty as she realised how alien the runes were—how far away she was from home. A stream of atmosphere came from beyond the archway’s threshold: a dried, musty foetor that made them all hack and cough.

  “Welcome to E’phah—the city of the dead,” said Ossen.

  “Do we have to go inside?”

  “We do. This city under the mountains is a resting place. There should only be ghosts here, nothing more. But, there is no telling what might have made these empty halls home, so be careful and disturb nothing.”

  Sarah looked upon the arch with fear, as did Jedda, but they followed Ossen into its darkness all the same.

  ~ ~ ~

  The smooth passages of the necropolis seemed to show no sign of dust, nor of age. The only ghosts were the answering echoes of their footsteps. They passed unlit openings that led into far-off chambers where they could make out only the shadowed shapes of vaulted doors. Steps led down into a deeper darkness that slept beneath the roots of the great mountain range. The odour of rot and decay was pervasive. There was no sign of ordinary masonry. The stone of the mountain had been shaped and polished until it was like the most exquisite marble. Light filtered down through stained-glass prisms, illuminating veins and arteries of phosphorescent light. No ornaments or relics were to be seen. In a way, it was wh
at Sarah imagined it would feel like to walk through the insides of a living thing.

  For two days, they followed Ossen through the corridors and tomb-chambers of E’phah. Then, towards the end of the third day, they came to what appeared to be a cathedral—a vast chamber marked by fluted ionic columns that rose up to a ceiling they could not see. In the centre of the chamber danced a scintillating cascade of silver and sapphire light. As they approached it, Sarah was sure she could hear a sound coming from the light. It was delicate and melancholy, stirring her heart and making her throat catch with its lilting choral beauty.

  “The Veil of Remembrance,” said Ossen. “It lives, after a fashion. In the light are spun the life threads of all those who died in the war against the Iron Gods. Their bodies are entombed, but they live on here as thoughts, memories, and dreams.”

  “It’s beautiful,” said Jedda.

  “And sad. The sound it makes—so sad,” said Sarah.

  “Yes. It remembers life and knows it is but a memory and light,” said Ossen. “Come, we are almost through. We should be at the way into the Western Wastes after one more night’s sleep.”

  They walked on, but Sarah looked back at the Veil, feeling its song still in her heart.

  ~ ~ ~

  Later, as they sat by a small fire that Ossen conjured from the ether, Sarah asked, “What were the Iron Gods?”

  "The story is a sad one, Sarah. The Iron Gods were just machines—cogs and wheels and gears within iron shells. They were built as guardians for the mountain cities by a race of great architects and engineers. Once the First Wayfarer succumbed to the Long Sleep, there was nothing to stop outsiders from ransacking these wondrous halls, so the Iron Gods were built to guard them. Yes, these halls were wondrous once. The Iron Gods came under some influence. It is rumoured it was the work of the Fallen One, although I am not so sure of that. The Iron Gods drove out their former masters and made the cities their own. They ruled over the mountains and the surrounding lands from their great thrones of stone. They created avalanches and landslides. Soon enough, their power grew to the point where they could generate earthquakes that shook Seythe down to its roots in the Wood Beneath the Worlds. Something had to be done. There was war. Thousands died. The Iron Gods survived. We thought it was to be the end of this World ... until the First Wayfarer awoke, only for a short time, but it was long enough for him to blast the Iron Gods with lightning until they fell and were buried beneath the mountains in the Deep Forges.”