Rise of the Fallen

by Robert Stanek

  Martin looked back one more time before mounting the stairs, certain he was about to lose the only friend he had known in accursed Cyvair. He clutched the book in his hands before returning it to the inside pocket. Tears were gone from his eyes and would not come again, for he would not let them. He resolved to be strong, though he suddenly felt utterly alone.

  Yarr had kept him alive, brought him back from the brink many times, never asking for payment. He had saved Yarr once, true, but only once. A counter to the hands full of times Yarr had saved him.

  Yarr needed a different kind of saving now. The Elf needed to know something other than hatred and death, even if only at the very last.

  The sounding of the fourth toll of morning put haste into his step. The masters would wake soon and all must be in place. As Day Master of Hearth, his work carried him to the kitchens, to the great halls, to the bedchambers of masters and guests, to the stockyards, and on occasion to the fields and cells.

  Hearth slaves were mostly Gnogs, though some few were men and elves. Gnogs were indigenous to Cyvair. They were to be used in the yards and fields but never to be seen within the stone walls. He knew not why. Decisions and choices were the dominion of the masters. It was not his place to question. His place was to ensure things were done, and done properly. Obtaining order from chaos was something he was good at. The reason he was what he was. The reason he was not in a cell beside Yarr.

  Martin navigated a league of corridors, keeping mostly to the slave runs. He found the Gnog Prime in the yards as expected. He grunted and smacked his head against the prime’s upturned fist as was Gnogish custom on greeting, coming away with his forehead covered in burnished scales. He surveyed the mountains of tree trunks, watched as the Gnogs turned trunks into man-sized fire logs, listened as the prime grunted orders.

  There was no animosity between Gnogs and men but there was no true friendship, either. Martin knew his place, worked to build rapport as he could. The Gnog Prime, Kgnrsh, seemed to respect this, and so far had caused Martin no troubles.

  “Cvnd zdhs,” the Gnog Prime finally told him, and Martin nodded agreement. He was later than usual. It was almost five tolls.

  Martin touched five fingers to his right palm, said, “Crknk.” He drew a circle, touched three fingers to his right palm, said, “Zdrwn.” He touched four fingers to his right palm twice, said, “Frrxth.” These were orders for logs to the halls, bedchambers, and kitchens respectively. The great halls needed warming logs. The bedchambers needed day logs. The kitchens needed logs aplenty for the morning cook fires.

  The skin of his arms began to burn, and he looked up with disdain at the bright red trisuns of Cyvair. He hurried back into shadows within the stone walls, working his way to the kitchen complex, which was housed on a level of its own and served much of the city. This meant he went east of the slave towers, past the colosseum, and then down below the lower passageways. He had long since stopped marveling over the feats of engineering that created such places—the entire city was an engineering marvel—but especially the kitchens, for they were connected below ground, seemingly to every habitable structure in the city.

  In the Varthen kitchen, Tandy, a thick-hipped, yellow-skinned and bug-eyed Begreth, waited for him as ever. “I’ve ordered the morning logs. Any feasts or banquets that I don’t know of?”

  Tandy eyed him, ladled a large helping of something from a cook pot. “Quiet, eat,” she told him. Martin looked to the fires in the kitchen hearths. Tandy set a bowl and a satchel before him. “The work will wait.”

  Martin slipped the book to Tandy as he sat. She scooped it up and hid it away. He drank in the aroma wafting from the steaming bowl, picked up the spoon and started to shovel. The hearty morning stew was good. Thick with a stringy meat that tasted to him of rabbit, and accented with a variety of savory leaves and lemony grasses. It was cook food, not food for slaves.

  He ate every bit of it, relishing the hints of what he thought of as rosemary and marjoram along with strong dashes of sage. The scent of bliss, he thought, and this scent carried his thoughts from Cyvair to Voethe.

  When he finished eating, Tandy was not in sight, but he could hear her strong voice carrying from a far corner of the massive kitchen as she chided one of the cooks. For an instant, he saw his mother in her stead, commanding the staff in his father’s kitchen, in his father’s house.

  A long time ago, yet the pain was still there. Tandy seemed old enough to be his mother, but her interest in him was not motherly. She had made that much plain at every opportunity.

  He resisted her advances, though not because he found her unattractive. Quite the contrary, she was very attractive if one could look past the protruding eyes that were entirely pupil and iris—and that was easily done. Her yellow skin and the long, lustrous hair-like fur on her thorax reminded him of the exotic, dark-haired beauties of Yug. The smell of her was that of a goddess-created flower. The shape of her was nearly that of a woman in full bloom.

  He closed his eyes, sucked in a breath, released. When he opened his eyes, Tandy was standing before him, asking “Good, yah?”

  Martin smiled, replied in broken Cikathian. “Yah, good. The best.”

  Tandy smiled, said something he did not understand. Martin shrugged, began to turn away. Tandy touched her hand to his. “Varthen quarter has many guests today. Full,” she said. “They’ve been arriving since the small hours.”

  Martin jumped up from the table. “And you feed me when there’s—”

  “Full bellies make for good work, good thinking,” she said, and then she kissed his cheek.

  Martin’s anger fell away. His smile returned. He could not be angry with Tandy. She was sweet on him, and he could not in all honesty say that he was not sweet on her. He touched a hand to her cheek, started to turn away.

  Tandy passed him a satchel of baked and dried goods. He took up the satchel with a quick smile.

  —

  Sixth toll found Martin in Wuntrus quarter. He had just found another book for Tandy’s collection, and it was in the breast pocket of his jacket. He stared at the spear blocking his path with a mixture of fear and annoyance.

  The fear was quite rational. The sharp end of the weapon was poised less than a hand from his throat and the Trykathian holding the shaft was large, armored, and fierce-looking. His leaf-green eyes reminded Martin of the boundless depths of a great forest. It seemed to him that if this Trykathian killed him, he would step over Martin’s body, regain his post, and forget that Martin ever lived.

  That he should be annoyed was also entirely rational, he supposed. He was running late and in a hurry to catch up with the day’s tasks. He did not need his way to be impeded and yet it was, and there seemed nothing he could do about it. His mind raced in a hundred different directions, looking for solutions, but none of them were satisfactory.

  This was unusual. Normally Martin was on time and on task. He could talk or charm his way around any obstacle. The fact that this Trykathian continued to ignore him was exasperating, but in truth his exasperation had less to do with the Trykathian and more to do with Yarr. Turnings before, he had planned everything, put everything in place. He had been meticulous, but Yarr had made a mess of it all. His failure haunted him ever since, the worse because he had never foreseen it.

  This morning he had awoken with a glimmer of how to set everything right. His plans within plans could work, but now less than a toll into this day there already was another complication.

  He reached into his satchel, felt for the coarse meat stuffs Trykathians favored. “Little left, but saved for you,” he told the other in broken Trykath.

  The hard eyes narrowed. “Open it.”

  Martin glanced at the satchel. “For others,” he implored. “You won’t like any of it.”

  “Open it.”

  Martin took a step away from the spear and complied, opening the satchel to reveal its contents. The green fruits were a favorite of Gnogs. The orange fruits were for Kingdomers. The
black bread was for Erlanders. The silver fish were for Alvs. The spicewood was for the Dwelmish. The dark meat was for Trykathians—but what remained was for other Trykathians, not this Trykathian.

  The Trykathian put the spear back to Martin’s throat. Martin emptied the contents of the satchel onto the stone floor, made a show of revealing that his pockets were empty.

  The Trykathian watched with little expression. “You may go away now,” he said at last.

  “No,” Martin replied, “I cannot. I must enter.” He tried to stand taller, to make the most of his average height and build. He knew there was little intimidating about his dark hair, hazel eyes, and boyish face, but he could at least be dignified.

  The Trykathian grunted, said something too quickly for Martin to understand. Three other Trykathians appeared. They fumbled about, picking up the things Martin had spilled on the stone floor, their large hands and thick fingers making the task difficult.

  The first Trykathian regarded Martin. “What are you?”

  Martin raised an eyebrow, seeing for the first time the one blocking his path was not the one he usually encountered in the Wuntrus. He cursed himself silently for not seeing this sooner, but it was difficult to tell Trykaths apart. They were all built like tree trunks with little neck to separate their heads from their shoulders. They all had the same square face and flat nose. He switched to Cikathian, as the bounds of his Trykathian had been sorely tested. “I am Day Master of Hearth.”

  “And you bribe noble protectors?”

  “It was but a gift,” Martin said. His thoughts turned on the word noble. The phrasing could have been a mistake in his understanding, but somehow he didn’t think so. Somehow it was important.

  “What does Master of Hearth do?”

  “He cares after the fires. Cook fires. Gallery hearths. Foundry furnaces. Chamber fireplaces.”

  “I see. How does he do this with fruits and breads and meats?”

  “Well, he does not. He—”

  “Make fire for me,” the Trykathian interrupted.

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  Martin scowled, his exasperation growing. He looked around, hoping to find the one who held his satchel. He did, moved to take it back, but was stopped at spear point.

  “My bag, please,” Martin said firmly, angry for letting himself get into this predicament. Why hadn’t he seen that the Trykathian wasn’t the one he usually met? Why hadn’t he seen that the heretofore empty chamber was occupied?

  The likely answer to that lay in the problem he had been puzzling over. When he worked out things in his head, the rest of the world did not matter.

  He picked up the satchel as one of the Trykathian’s tossed it down. Its contents spilled, but not badly, and it only took a few heartbeats to gather up everything.

  “That’s not right,” he told himself. In remembrance, he saw the satchel goods spread out on the floor. The fruits separate from the breads and the fish. The spicewood layered within it all.

  “Can you or can’t you make fire?” the Trykathian challenged.

  “Don’t interrupt me,” Martin said absently, closing his eyes. Yes, there it was, though he had lost the meaning of it.

  He stared into it, saw the seeming randomness of it, but there was also order within it. The Gnogs. The Kingdomers. The Erlanders. The Alvs. The Dwelmish. The Trykathians. Like the satchel goods themselves, each had their place. Each had their purpose. They were as instruments, as things to be played. The masters played upon them. He played upon them.

  Still something did not fit. Something was not right. Something was missing.

  He stared blankly ahead. In his mind’s eye, he added other peoples he had heard of and seen but had little dealings with. The Wërg. The Dwëorg. Others.

  “Enough!” shouted the Trykathian. “Whatever it is you do, stop! I see no fire!”

  Spear or no. Monstrous size or no. Martin glared at the other. He was about to speak, about to be impaled, when he felt a presence like a soft feather tracing the back of his thoughts. The Trykathians took to the ready stance at the same time he prostrated himself.

  He did not dare look up. He caught snatches of the rumble-pitched ftokish, sure the speaker was no other than the great master himself. His visit was an honor, a grace, a blessing.

  Then he knew he had it. The missing pieces to make it all fit. The Drakón. The titans. The Jurin.

  He waited. The voices and the presence faded. He drew himself up. “I am Day Master of Hearth,” he said. He noticed distantly that his voice was no longer unsteady. “I will be delayed no longer. I must see to the master’s fires.”

  The Trykathian smiled. On the brutish face, the gesture seemed not only unusual but unnatural. “Not today, perhaps never again.”

  Martin blinked. “What do you mean?”

  The Trykathian pointed to a scrap of vellum near Martin’s feet. “Our master is generous.”

  “It is nothing. I must resume my duties. I must see to the fires.” Again, a smile. Martin wondered if a Trykathian smile was like Jurin laughter.

  “It is more than nothing. Hand it to me.”

  Wondering why the Trykathian should care, Martin nevertheless handed the vellum over. The Trykathian examined it briefly, traced the outline of the mark burnt into the vellum. A look bordering on awe crossed his face. He handed the vellum scrap back to Martin.

  Martin turned on his heel, turned back. “What is it?” he asked, gesturing at the mark.

  “It’s his mark.”

  “Yes, I can see that. For what purpose?”

  “Your deliverance.”

  “My deliverance?”

  “Auy, your deliverance.” The Trykathian extended his right hand in a fist, palm down, thumb extended inward. Martin glanced to the other Trykathians, saw the gesture for what it was, extended his own hand in a fist. “I am Gerhold of Stone Mountains. These are Kertoth, Fielk, and Marktid. They are also Stone Mountains.”

  Martin stood awkwardly for a moment, nodded. “I am Martin of Voethe.”

  Fielk said, “Does it fill you with joy?”

  “How so?” Martin asked.

  Fielk laughed and the others joined him. Gerhold said, “Fielk means to say, does it bring you happiness?”

  Martin decided to admit he had no idea what was going on. “I speak little Trykathian, passable Cikathian. I don’t understand any of this.”

  “What’s to understand?” Gerhold said. “You’ve the mark. Your life is changed.”

  “It could be this mark was at your feet,” Martin said, thrusting the vellum back into the other’s hands. “I’ve no need of a life changed.” Outwardly he was calm, but inside his thoughts were in turmoil. The plan, he told himself. The pattern within the pattern. He could see it now, and nothing else mattered.

  “We Stones are already marked. No doubt you wonder about your fire, yet you’ve no need. Me, Gerhold, I will help you.”

  “The fire,” Martin protested. “I must set the master’s fire.”

  “Not anymore,” Gerhold replied. “See…” The Trykathians stepped aside, opening the view. Inside the chamber, the fire in the great hearth was coming to life. “I will take you to the Sorter. She will help you understand, and perhaps she will even reward my efforts.”

  “It would be a kindness…” Martin began, and then the crush of the world was upon him. Fleetingly, he thought of Tandy and the new book he had for her. Tandy alone had shown him kindness where no others had. Then he thought of Yarr and knew his words were false.

  Gerhold chuckled softly. “Ah, so you know something of what comes. You are worried, but need not be. At the least, he honors your service. Perhaps you’ll be right in the thick of things when the war comes to the gates.”

  “War? War with whom?”

  Seventh toll sounded. Gerhold looked Martin over. “For now, the Jurins. Perhaps others soon. My offer of help stands. The time of my post has come and gone. Marktid?”

  Marktid came to atte
ntion, turned about. He took Gerhold’s spear, and then stood where Gerhold had been standing. Gerhold looked to Martin.

  Martin signaled his agreement, waited. Gerhold pointed out the way. Martin followed.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “Gods be damned,” Arger cried out as he fought to hold in his guts with both hands. “Aegot has forsaken me.”

  Yarr stood behind Arger, surveying the carnage. Side tunnels opened to admit hawkers and gravers. The hawkers cleared the great stage of the corpses; the gravers helped the dying to their end.

  Though there were no more foes on the field, Yarr remained wary. His face, chest, and arms were bloody, but it was the blood of others and not his own. The long, spiked chain he gripped and wrapped around his left hand and forearm held the eviscerated flesh of several beasts. He drove the bloody sword he carried in his right hand into the dirt at his feet. “You still draw breath,” he told Arger. “Be glad of that.”

  With the din of battle and cries of the dying gone, he heard the mob in the stands now. Purposefully, his view was to the south. The trisuns of Cyvair were to his back, high overhead. He took in careful breaths as he surveyed death and awaited the judgment. He turned his angry, sullen eyes to the stands, lifted his arms in sign of triumph, but no longer saw any of it. Instead he heard his father’s voice in his ears, telling him of the flat, open grasslands and the forests of his beloved Élvemere, and then he saw them, his mother and father, holding hands and standing side by side outside the pavilion of rich blue silks and yellow satins.

  “Join us,” his father said.

  “Yes, join us,” his mother said, “Many of your favorites for this repast.”

  Yarr put haste to his step. “Have you spoken with the ancient ones, mother?”

  “I have,” the queen said. “I’ll tell you all.” She took his hand and led him into the pavilion. His father followed a step behind.

  Yarr seated his mother at the long table of living oak that bent to his mother’s will, and then sat across from her. His father took the seat of honor at the head of the table. The table was overflowing with the fruit of the land and, just as his mother had said, many were his favorites.