Nameless: Bones of the Earth I-III

by J. C. Hendee

  Fiáh’our left the training hall, and with him went Karras’ last chance to escape.

  “I am sorry,” Gän’gehtin said. “I know that I promised you, but…”

  Karras looked the weapon over again. The only thing he could read on it was a central symbol among light engravings on the sides of each blade. It was the vubrí of his family, the Iamílchlagh, who were sea traders. They were not… he was not a warrior to be dragged off to face who knew what.

  9. Sleepwalking

  Karras sat on a bunk in a small cabin aboard a Numan cargo ship heading north along the coast. It was bad enough that it was not his family’s vessel that carried him wherever Fiáh’our wished to go. No, it was worse…

  “You will not go up on deck or train until you stand on solid earth again,” the old braggart had dictated. “You have enough sea-born nonsense soaked into your bones, watering down any rughìr sensibility… and you will not add to that!”

  So it had been since Fiáh’our had appeared at the clan réhanâkst on the fourth morning after Karras received his… whatever the thänæ and the shirvêsh had once called that weapon. When he had ventured out that fourth morning, after a restless night, the old man was waiting in the front room with two heavy packs loaded down with travel gear.

  There was also a padded leather hauberk covered in thick iron rings laced all over it. Last of course was the helmet Karras had worn since his first day of training. All of this Fiáh’our expected him to wear along with bearing one heavy pack and that weapon.

  “Get used to it,” the old man had said. “Until you do not notice the weight anymore.”

  But when Karras had stepped outside behind the old man, with notions of whacking the old boar in the back of his head with that weapon, there had been one more not so little complication.

  Gän’gehtin had been waiting outside in the street, and he did not look shirvêsh-like anymore.

  “What do you think you are doing?” Fiáh’our growled.

  “I am coming with you,” Gän’gehtin answered.

  He was dressed in a strange, loose fitting leather hauberk covered in a diamond pattern of small steel plates. These were separated by enough space so that the material flexed when he moved. In one hand, he held a true iron-ribbed great cudgel as tall as himself, while his other hand clenched the straps of a heavy pack slung over his shoulder.

  “Oh no,” Fiáh’our countered. “I have no need to watch over two instead of one… and you are not ready to face what I will.”

  “I need no watching,” Gän’gehtin replied. “And I will follow my own way, otherwise.”

  “What does Háttê’mádzh say about this? He certainly would not approve… considering.”

  “I did not ask him. It is my choice and no one else’s… including yours.”

  During their further bickering, Karras had been at a loss as to why the old man did not want his young friend along. In the end, even for the poundings that Gän’gehtin had given Karras, he was actually glad of the shirvêsh’s company as Fiáh’our had turned away with a glower and headed off down the street.

  There had also been a brief stop at Karras’ home after they took the tram through the mountain to Chemarré, where Fiáh’our claimed they would catch a ship at the port below to shorten their journey north.

  Uinseil, Karras’ father, had been outraged once he heard of Fiáh’our taking his eldest son from the seatt. Karras’ mother, Jêulkur, was quiet with venom in her eyes for the old man. Neither his younger brother or sister—or their annoying mates—had been present, for there were extra duties to attend since he was no longer with them. It all ended in a parting where for the first time his father had been at an utter loss for advice.

  Karras had never thought he would miss another lecture from his father, but he had… he did… as he sat in the cabin with nothing to do. He was not even to practice standing while aboard the vessel. And the weapon that Fiáh’our had had made for him now lay on the floor in the corner next to the packs.

  If he needed something to pass the time, he was supposed to read his weapon, to feel out its nature… and he did not. Even for the ornate etchings of twisted lines and knotwork patterns, it was an ugly thing by its purpose. All he could read about it was the vubrí of his family on each blade, mocking him with the life he had lost in that name. And of course, it was not even a supposed “eight-ways,” since it had only five blades. When he once sniped about this, Fiáh’our’s face had wrinkled up even more in spite.

  “Oh, you little… fine!” the old man fumed. “Call it a… a ku’ê’bunst, a ‘five-elements,’ like a human might… if that pleases you better.”

  And so Karras did, in like spite. But to add injury to insult, sharing a cabin with Fiáh’our and Gän’gehtin had been no ocean holiday for whatever bitterness lay between the two.

  At times the thänæ appeared more worried than angry over the shirvêsh’s presence. Indeed, Gän’gehtin had grown quiet, mostly silent in a cold way, and had often stared blankly at nothing, as if lost in some old, disturbing memory.

  And the day finally came when Karras felt the ship slow.

  He heard the splash of the anchor and was on his feet even before Fiáh’our cracked the door open. It was the only time he would ever remember wanting to get off a ship. Fiáh’our’s visible relief was no surprise; like most rughìr, he did not like being on water… deep water and far from shore. When the two of them hauled their gear on deck in silence, Gän’gehtin was waiting at the rail to board the skiff to shore.

  They landed late at a weathered little port called Cantos.

  The people there were mixed like any other main port Karras had visited in trading but in a slightly disturbing and somewhat dingy way. More than once he spotted those big hairy barbarians in their leather hide clothing and fur cloaks, like the ones he had faced in being forced to help Fiáh’our rescue a prince of Malourné… the Maksœ’ín Veallaksê, the “People of the Bear,” or Northlanders.

  But more curious were a few short people—for humans—all dressed in actual clothing made of fur, with dark skin, very dark straight hair, and narrow eyes under somewhat puffy lids. When he asked, Fiáh’our said they were what most humans called Wastelanders. They lived much farther north on the edge of the eternally icy region that Numans and Northlanders called the Wastes.

  That was all that Karras ever saw of Cantos, a place he had never seen up close, for his family rarely went this way in their trading. Fiáh’our walked them right out of town onto a coastal trade road with dusk not far off.

  “Why are we not stopping for the night?” Karras asked. “There has to be a decent inn in that town, instead of sleeping in the wild until we have to.”

  “We neither stop nor camp,” the old man said as he gestured for the shirvêsh to take the lead. “I have waited too long to get where I am needed… and you can sleep while we walk.”

  Karras stared until Fiáh’our pushed him ahead to follow Gän’gehtin.

  “Sleep? While I am walking?” he asked, looking back over his shoulder.

  “Yes,” Fiáh’our answered. “We may not walk as fast as humans—or certainly a horse—but we can walk far longer than both. Rughìr warriors learn to sleep when they can, and stand vigilant for days at a time. Learn it now, for I will not delay more than needed to get where we are going.”

  Karras was still stunned and confused.

  “Set your attention on Gän’gehtin,” Fiáh’our instructed. “Listen to his footfalls and set yours to match his rhythm. Once you have that without thinking about it, clear your mind to sleep and follow your ears.”

  “I will end up on my face!”

  “Likely, so better start figuring it out… while you still have a flat road under your boots.”

  Frustrated and fuming, Karras did not dare shut his eyes at first, as he tried to match the rhythm of Gän’gehtin’s strides.

  · · · · ·

  Fiáh’our trod along at the rear, setting his pace to the lul
l of Gän’gehtin’s footfalls. His thoughts wandered to more worrisome but less frustrating thoughts than the kitten.

  It had taken longer than he liked for Karras’ modified “eight-ways”—or ku’ê’bunst, “five-elements”—to be completed. Still, it had been made in an astonishingly short time. All that he had asked for had been included, and he had arranged something extra in the barter for what else he had thought necessary. Before he had left the temple in delivering that weapon, he had stopped to learn of any further word received by Háttê’mádzh.

  It was not good to hear.

  His old comrade, Lêt’vöulsat, had arrived on the northern frontier and sent back word. Indeed, a pack larger than ever before seen was in that region, and it had attacked a settlement.

  In all of Fiáh’our’s years, he had heard of this combination only three times. It was always for some specific reason, though he had yet to learn that for this occurrence.

  At worst, sluggïn’ân attacked wanderers and travelers if wildlife was not plentiful enough or such persons had equipment to be scavenged. In harsher times, when game was scarce, as it likely was in the Broken Lands to the east, they would go after livestock, such as cattle and sheep set out in the fields. At most, a shepherd might be killed if late in bringing back a herd, but assaulting a settlement was very rare, and more so one like Shentángize.

  Then there was the problem of Gän’gehtin.

  After thirty years, it seemed the young shirvêsh still had not let go of certain things. Háttê’mádzh had been right to limit Gän’gehtin’s “service” to the nearby Numan nations and his own people. As to the young shirvêsh’s forceful self-inclusion in this exploit…

  Fiáh’our was wrenched from contemplation at a sudden thud. He tripped on a booted-foot, and Gän’gehtin halted ahead, turning about in the near dark as Fiáh’our back-stepped.

  Amid a string of groggy cussing, the kitten struggled under his heavy pack to push himself up off the road.

  Fiáh’our sighed. “Get up,” he commanded… for about the thousandth time since taking on Karras. “If you cannot sleep on your feet, then do not sleep… or I will tromp over you the next time!”

  · · · · ·

  Karras grumbled and seethed as he stumbled onward in the dark.

  Sleeping while walking? How stupid! And he yawned, shaking himself in trying to stay awake. Sometime late in the night, he woke sharply in pain as he hit the road a second time.

  The old man snarled under his breath and called a halt to set camp.

  It might have been a relief, if Karras did not have to listen to Fiáh’our grumbling like a… like a boar blocked from its slop trough. And the old man stomped around as Karras tried to lay out his bed roll.

  The thänæ stared off into the dark for a while and then declared it was safe to light a small fire. By the time the flames came to life, Karras was almost half asleep, and then he heard Gän’gehtin rustling through a pack. The noise ceased, and he closed his eyes again.

  “What is that for?” Fiáh’our demanded.

  With a groan, Karras rolled over and opened his eyes.

  Gän’gehtin sat near the flames holding a steel spike about a hand’s length long, and Karras rose on an elbow. The spike had some strange cup-like ring for a base with thick leather thongs dangling from it. The shirvêsh lowered his eyes and took up his great cudgel lying nearby. He fit the cup-like ring over the cudgel’s butt end and began lashing the spike in place.

  “Since when does a ‘guardian’ carry an intentionally lethal weapon?” Fiáh’our asked.

  Gän’gehtin stalled for only an instant in his task. “When he is to fight mere beasts… monsters… not true opponents worthy of any mercy.”

  Karras looked to Fiáh’our, but the thänæ only watched in stern silence until the shirvêsh finished, laid the great cudgel aside, and prepared to recline.

  “What is this about?” Karras asked.

  Fiáh’our’s eyes shifted to him with the same stern appraisal, though he said not a word.

  “What did you think?” Gän’gehtin hissed, instantly drawing Karras’ full attention. “That we came all this way for a walk and a hearty hunt? Yes, we will hunt, but not any animal you would want to eat.”

  “Not until I know all that has happened,” Fiáh’our warned. “You mind that… or leave!”

  Karras watched as the shirvêsh lay down, rolled over, and turned his back to the old man. Fiáh’our was still eyeing Gän’gehtin, and Karras thought of the few of the old man’s boastings—tellings—that he could remember.

  He had never given those much attention, though he should have realized from the start what all of this was about.

  “Sluggïn’ân… goblins… little gobblers?” he asked. “Is that what you are after… and you brought me out here?”

  “They are not so little.”

  Karras stiffened at Gän’gehtin’s caustic whisper. He had never seen such a creature, and he could not remember much from Fiáh’our’s bellowing in the cheag’anâkst, though he had heard others talk of them. Descriptions were always second or third hand, and most did not even match up. Some were ridiculous, as if three, four, or five different animals had somehow mated one after the other to produce a wild, misbegotten descendant. He had never bothered trying to imagine such… until now.

  “Go to sleep,” Fiáh’our said. “We are still a long way off from our first destination.”

  Karras looked about in the dark. The nearest trees were a field’s length away, but he still peered there, looking for something.

  “Go to sleep,” Fiáh’our repeated, “while you can. There is more walking ahead.”

  Karras laid down his head as he watched Fiáh’our standing three strides off from the fire. The old man’s eyes never appeared to blink, and it seemed he only stared off into the dark. Even when Karras did close his eyes, sleep did not come soon… until he found himself in a night-dark world, alone and always walking, as he tried to listen for growls in trees or a thrash in the brush… over the sound of his own harsh, quick breaths.

  10. Barter of Vengeance

  Over three more nights, Fiáh’our rotated with Gän’gehtin in taking the lead and setting the rhythm. They stopped for brief rests late into each night and rose well before dawn to move on. Eating as well was done mostly on the move. And in those three nights, Karras stopped falling on his face.

  Not because he had learned to sleep in his walk, which meant Fiáh’our did not get much sleep either.

  The kitten was wide-awake the whole time, often peering about, especially once they veered off the road and inland, passing through stands of woods between open rolling plains. They paused each time just short of those trees while Fiáh’our scouted ahead for anything that might lie in wait; Gän’gehtin was the last one that Fiáh’our wanted finding such first. When they rose before dawn on that third night, the kitten was no longer wide-eyed. But even in exhaustion, he still looked all ways until dawn came.

  Fiáh’our might have quelled the kitten’s fear with a little reassurance, but he did not. Better to wait and watch for that to break on its own, to let him find a bit of true backbone amid his fear. A false sense of safety would not serve Karras, even though there was less chance of encountering a pack this far west than where they were going.

  Late past noon on the fourth day, Gän’gehtin halted on a rise and looked back with a bit of puzzlement on his broad face. “Is this… Shentángize?” he asked.

  Fiáh’our trotted past Karras and up the gentle slope. Something must be odd enough for the pause, considering the young shirvêsh had not been allowed out here before.

  Beyond the knoll and across the open fields, he spotted the large settlement where he had spent many a night in spring and or summer, when sluggïn’ân pushed long and hard out of the distant Broken Lands. What he saw was indeed puzzling at a distance.

  Parts of the wooden wall around the village, weathered and old as it was, appeared gone. Over the tops of sections
still standing, he easily made out the peaked, thatch roofs of structures within. But in other places, where there should have been more wall, there were poles of bright wood, freshly cut and perhaps as thick as full tree trunks. These were lined up in the beginnings of a much taller full stockade, tall enough to hide the nearly two-story tall commonhouse’s peaked roof rising at the village’s center.

  “Move,” Fiáh’our commanded, taking off at a trot. “I want to know what is going on here.”

  · · · · ·

  Karras ran behind the shirvêsh and thänæ, trying to keep up.

  Fiáh’our raced across the fields faster than anyone would have guessed the old man could move. Karras was winded by the time they neared the closest break in the walling around the settlement.

  Fiáh’our did not pause, even when he startled a cluster of villagers on the wall’s outside; they were packing stone and earth into a hole around the last in a line of tree-sized poles set deep into the ground. All stopped to stare, and one might have raised a hand, but Fiáh’our rushed on, and Karras quickly followed through the gap between the old wall and the new one.

  “Thänæ!” called an elderly woman in a burlap shift. She carried a large wicker basket overburdened with dried stores and leather water flasks, likely for those working on the wall.

  Fiáh’our finally paused, nodding in reply as he caught his breath. “Is there one here called Lêt’vöulsat?”

  “Yes,” she answered, shifting her load to point into the settlement along the new wall.

  As the old man headed off, Karras made to follow. The woman looked him and Gän’gehtin over once, and then called out once more to Fiáh’our.

  “We missed you… very much.”

  Karras slowed a bit, for the look on her face was not one filled with any happiness at seeing an old acquaintance. When he turned to head onward, he caught Fiáh’our’s backward glance.

  The old man did smile as he nodded again to the woman, but it was brief and quickly faded. He rushed on along the new wall.