Commandment

by Daryl Chestney

  Lakif followed the mammoth metalworker across the chamber. A broad vat was sunk into the floor. The base was blanketed with heaps of burning coal laced with lava. The coals were so hot as to appear almost translucent, like small ghostly muffins.

  Beyond the pit was an anvil. Lakif gasped at its size; it was so titanic that she could have lain down and sprawled out on it. It must have been here for centuries, she thought. The prospect of moving such a device staggered the imagination.

  The opposite wall contained racks of metal spears. The heat belching from the pit was so potent that the line of spears looked warped.

  Lakif paused several paces from the pit’s edge. Even if she had wanted, she couldn’t have approach any nearer. The air was searing, pounding at her cheeks. Any closer, the slightest breath would scorch her lungs and shrink her eyes.

  “I don’t think this will be hot enough.” Lakif had every belief that the pit would suffice, but she was testing Brontes’ convictions.

  “I don’t work with stone—only metal.” Brontes gestured to the pit with a giant finger. Lakif casually tossed the Rare Earth Stone in as one would flip a coin into a fountain. A sly smile twisted her dark face as the Stone settled into the bleached coals.

  As she waited, Lakif studied the armory of spears lining the back wall. Each was about three yards in length and as thick as her wrist. The ends were rimmed with barbs.

  “What are those for?” she had to ask.

  “Harpooning, of course,” the Cyclops tattooed.

  “For spearing sea monsters from the Dank Well?” Lakif chuckled, for truly they were formidable enough to snare whales.

  “A titan,” Brontes corrected.

  Lakif puzzled over the reply. Was Brontes referring to the Colossus? She was reminded of something one of the Laureates had admonished. This was the popular myth that at the end of the world, on Doomsday, the juggernaut would animate and ravage the city. Could the Cyclops be referring to that crazy myth?

  “That should settle it!” The forger boomed, snapping Lakif out of her reflections. She wasn’t sure how long she had been disconnected, a daily occurrence for the Acaanan.

  The blacksmith was armed with a long pole capped with pincers. The handle was sheathed in wood, thoroughly insulating it. Brontes fished out the Stone and dropped it on the anvil. Lakif noted that the Stone had adopted a smoky gray color. Any hint of the imbuing green had vanished under the intense heat.

  The blacksmith lobbed away, only to pick up a hammer. Lakif had noticed the object earlier but assumed it was some gigantic metal work that had been abandoned. With a wince the Cyclops heaved the enormous implement over his shoulder. It was so massive that even the giant buckled slightly under its weight.

  “I want to be closer.” Lakif edged forward. Although the giant was physically closer to the Stone, Lakif had little fear that the released Arcanum would be directed at the blacksmith. The stories held that the liberated power would always be channeled into a proper warlock.

  “Smite the Stone, Brontes. Let the exploding fragments be the final tears of a vile man.”

  The giant readied the mallet above his head. Lakif paid the smith little heed, as her eyes were glued to the Stone. It was tiny on the anvil—like an olive on a picnic table.

  With a volcanic boom the mallet slammed down, stunning the Acaanan with its thunderous resonance. She nearly jumped out of her boots. The hurricane wind from the collision was enough to fan her hair from a distance. Thor himself couldn’t have delivered a mightier clout! It was so powerful, in fact, that Lakif imagined the blow had not only disintegrated his treasure, but also cracked the mountainous anvil in twain.

  The Cyclops withdrew the hammer, and the Acaanan swallowed her breath in anticipation of a magical rush.

  Nothing happened.

  She blinked in amazement. The Rare Earth Stone teetered on the anvil like an apple freshly toppled from a cart. It was completely unscathed by the seemingly irresistible force.

  “Zounds! It’s harder than Shamir!” the Cyclops lamented. He studied the bent hammer face. “My condolences, Acaanan. I have dealt my strongest blow, yet the stone stands defiant! It truly is bound together by the darkest magic.”

  Lakif swooned. Her jaw nearly bounced off the floor, for it was unfathomable for the Stone to have survived the ear drumming blast. But there it sat—inviolate. Thankfully, the blow hadn’t sent the Stone through the earth to the opposite side of the globe, or the Acaanan would have another quest ahead of her just to rescue it. As she watched the icon, its smoky mantle evaporated and the verdant nimbus once again broke through.

  “Your disobedience took great courage. Let it not be said that such fortitude goes unrewarded,” Brontes consoled her. Lakif turned to find the Cyclops holding out a knobby hand. His mighty mitt uncurled to reveal a ring.

  “I can’t…” Lakif equivocated.

  “One would be surprised what objects find their way here. Take this. With its value, seek out another route. If you want to be free of it, I suggest burying the rock. Interment consumes all curses.”

  The ring, while it had looked tiny in the blacksmith’s granite palm, was much too large for the Acaanan to wear. It was more akin to a bracelet.

  Brontes lobbed off to another end of the cavern, leaving the Acaanan all alone with her untarnished treasure. After some time, Lakif worked up the nerve to approach it. She waved her hand over its surface, assessing its temperature. Satisfied that her hand wouldn’t be scorched to the bone, she placed the icon back into its pouch. With a mystified air, she returned to the elevator.

  After leaving the Vulcan, Lakif wandered off into the depths of Grimpkin. The skies remained hazy, always hinting that a freezing downpour was imminent. Her pace lagged under the gray clouds, for she was weighted down with bilious lassitude. Had she been kicking a tin can, she would have made better progress. Where she was headed was anyone’s guess, as she had no particular destination in mind.

  For the rest of the morning, she wandered randomly with the unavailing trip to the Vulcan weighing heavily on her thoughts.

  Sometime later, she found herself stewing on a bench. A barred window nearby framed a sheltered courtyard beyond. Within, a slave was mopping the cobblestones. Was Lakif doomed to live such a domestic life?

  The Rare Earth Stone jumped back and forth between her thin hands. For the hundredth time she grimaced with disillusionment at the profitless trip. Struck numb, she hardly believed the sour turn of events. She had never entertained the possibility that the Stone would be impervious to the blacksmith’s arm. Even though she had personally witnessed the deed, it still seemed absurd. If the Stone would not surrender to the blacksmith’s mallet, then what other possible avenues could she explore?

  But there was more than failure that vexed her. The very sight of the Stone gnawed at her bowels. That it would not willingly yield its power spoke of a peevish resistance to thwart all her efforts. In fact, a feeling of resentment seeped into her thoughts. As if the obstacles to secure it had not been enough, she felt that the Stone was further taunting her with its stubbornness.

  Could this be yet another test of her resolve? One orchestrated by the imprisoned power, just to probe the extent of her faithfulness? If so, it was on the verge of unhinging the Acaanan. Although Lakif was no stranger to failure, she was trapped in a sullen mood the likes of which she had never known.

  Sighing with dismay, she placed the Stone back into her pocket and turned her attention to the Cyclops’ gift. To the rankled Acaanan it represented a mere consolation prize. As a bracelet, it was of absolutely no use to her. But to the untrained eye, it seemed valuable.

  A shower of water splashed the Acaanan. She snapped out of her thoughts. Her first inclination was that the sky was opening up again. But the spate was instantaneous. A movement behind her clued her into the source of the deluge. The slave was standing in the window with a bucket poised in hand. She had dumped the dirty water on the Acaanan through the bars. Their eyes briefly loc
ked, and Lakif knew that it had been no accident. The slave rattled the bucket to ward the Acaanan off the front porch.

  Lakif scowled. She was coated with the bucket’s grimy contents, from dirty water to dead insects. Commotion from within announced that others were coming to investigate. She couldn’t face off with the house-staff, and sloughed away, cursing yet another humbling encounter.

  She tried flicking off mashed bugs, but many still stuck to her hair. She gave up and angled her mind to sell the bracelet. It alone promised a silver lining to the day.

  Initially she assumed that she would have to peddle the item in the street. But only minutes into her trek, she stumbled upon a pawnshop. The owner appraised the gift and, to the Acaanan’s surprise, quoted its value at four talents, a value far in excess of her expectations. Despite the appraisal, the pawnbroker offered to buy it for three. He cited that the article was most likely stolen. Stolen! Of course he would assume that an Acaanan would be pawning hot merchandise! Lakif was in no humor to argue, bargain, or storm off to seek a second offer. She agreed.

  Before leaving the pawnshop, she questioned the clerk about her pocket watch. The fellow seemed enthused until he learned that it was broken. He grumbled about having to hire a tinker to repair the device and offered five pims. Lakif laughed at the offer. She had lost much this day, but she still hadn’t lost her sense of humor. She bid the miserly clerk adieu with a sarcastic tone.

  She left the pawnshop in a mildly elevated mood. Due to Brontes’ sympathy, she was substantially in the black. Kismet, it seemed, was toying with the Acaanan.

  It was still early afternoon, and the rain clouds had by now largely dispersed. She randomly chose a direction and began hiking with leaden feet and kibbled spirits.

  XII

  The Hospice

  THE CRUSTY SHUTTER CRACKED OPEN, AND THE VISITOR WAS CONFRONTED BY an almond-shaped eye adumbrated in faint lighting.

  “Who comes calling at this hour?” a voice hacked through the slit. The portal itself was truly antediluvian, for it could have been a veritable plank from the hull of Moses’ famed boat.

  “I am called Torkoth,” the visitor announced. In response, the eye darted around, assessing if he was alone.

  “You traipse the lanes in this rain?”

  “I have need of your aid.” The traveler panted impatiently.

  “Return in the morrow.” The eye squinted. “The bells of Vesper will toll anon, and you’d best be safely in your secure home.”

  The visitor hoisted a blanket-swathed load that he cradled in his arms. “The need is desperate. If I must brave the streets after sunset, so be it. I’m prepared to stand here all night if need be, pounding until my fist is brayed to ash.”

  “Reveal your face,” the doorkeeper petitioned.

  The visitor drew back a corner of his cowl, allowing his left cheek to shimmer in the fading sunlight. The cloak receded enough to suggest the contours of his ear.

  “A fellow Istani! Why hamstring yourself under such a pall of suspicion? Welcome, brother; our doors swing wide for you.”

  The shutter slammed closed and the banded portal creaked open. The visitor was greeted by an Istani, evident by the telltale aquamarine tint to his skin. His age was betrayed as much by his thinning hair as by his stooped posture. Interestingly, his chin was colored by a burgundy stain. He was encumbered by several layers of robes.

  The vestibule itself was snug and enveloped with soft lighting from numerous deliquescing candles. Torkoth, supporting his load in both arms, cleared the threshold. A final flaw ruffled his cloak.

  “Saints preserve us!” The Istani quickly pushed the door closed as if the wind was an enemy vying to enter. “Boreas battles our gates!”

  “Boreas?” Torkoth asked. Although a sofa was at hand to rest his load, he maintained a firm grip on the bundle.

  “The north wind. He and I are bitter enemies. He clamors loudest in times of tragedy.” The Istani momentarily turned to bolt down the gate. While his back was turned, Torkoth completely lowered his cowl.

  “Brace yourself,” Torkoth warned. The Istani turned back to face the visitor and stiffened with fright. All color drained from his complexion before the Half-man’s wild appearance.

  “The Trojan horse!” the Istani moaned.

  “What?” Torkoth was taken back by the reference.

  “What a cruel guise! That I should invite in a lame dog that turns into Cerebrus! Be you an advance scout sent up from Erebus? Oh, what cruel machinations it breeds! I am Pythia. I tell you my name so it may haunt your dreams after my untimely end.”

  “Pythia, I’m no monster, only a Half-man. Please forgive the deception, but the situation is dire.”

  The Istani composed himself and breathed easier. He even patted his chest as if to reassure his heart or to kick-start it.

  Torkoth raised the bundle that he supported in one arm. A small face peeked from the folds.

  “Who have we here?” Pythia’s tone pitched with interest.

  “This is Sarah, a street urchin. I made her acquaintance a few days past. Today I found her in a delirious state, covered in excrement. At first I assumed that the feces were from a dog she befriended, but she has remained in a trance throughout the tolls. My concern has grown through the day.” He looked out a window into the ebbing daylight. “It now has enough muscle to pin the sun to the earth.”

  “Why did you come here?” Pythia seemed puzzled.

  “I understand that you are physicians.”

  “Physicians? What leads you to believe so?”

  “Magani mentioned that…”

  “Magani!” Pythia interrupted. “When did you two cross paths?”

  “A handful of nights past. He paid a visit to the Goblin Knight Inn the night of the star fall.”

  “So that’s where he flitted off to!” Pythia’s eyes clouded over like he was recalling a remote dream. He then snapped out of his reflections. “He left in such a hurry, and so tight-lipped to boot! He bolted off with that damn staff knocking open doors. To think that a man of such caliber could be seduced by that wayward inn! What were we speaking on?”

  “That you are physicians.” Torkoth shifted impatiently.

  “We at Chiron’s Cradle don’t wear such vestments.” Pythia then turned his attention to Sarah. “But let’s have a look-see.”

  The child’s face was shriveled, as if she were melting into the covers. Her dull eyes stared out from sunken orbs.

  “Oh, dear…” Pythia gasped.

  “So you can understand my concern,” Torkoth stated.

  “Come, we will attend to her.” Pythia turned and led the visitor through the vestibule. “We will have to place her in isolation at first, until we rule out some contagion. You did mention she was a street rat, no?”

  Torkoth nodded.

  “Then she’s a prime target.”

  They entered an inner court, an area devoted to gardens. An arcade hemmed in the court on all sides, offering access to other wings of the edifice. Rather than take this peripheral route, Pythia crossed into the court by means of a cobblestone path.

  The court’s centerpiece was the statue of a bearded man bearing an object cupped in one arm. It appeared to be a lyre. Creeping ivy clung steadfastly to his legs. There was so much of the vegetation that he appeared to be stepping out of a bush. The gentle gardens were arranged to encircle the central figure.

  “This edifice resembled a church from without,” Torkoth mentioned in tow.

  “It is.”

  “There are many churches in the Forum, but what class of order is Chiron’s Cradle?” Torkoth asked.

  “It’s a scion of the diocese, a bastard one at that.” Pythia sighed. “It doesn’t feel like a church.”

  “Amen to that!” Pythia petitioned.

  They drew close enough to the statue to reveal that it was not simply a normal Human. While he was by all respect a man from the front, the trunk and rear haunches of a horse grew out from his rear. This feat
ure was largely obfuscated by a bolus of ivy. Furthermore, he was not bearing a lyre, but a tablet.

  “If you be clergy, where are your vestments?” Torkoth pried. Pythia paused a spitting distance away from the hybrid man-horse. He wheeled to face the Half-man.

  “Display your tongue!” he ordered.

  “What?” Torkoth looked taken aback.

  “You have one good ear, no?” Pythia pointed to Torkoth’s normal left ear. “Then you heard me. Out with it!”

  Torkoth stuck his tongue out and the curator leaned in to vet it closely.

  “Fine!” Pythia conceded after a moment.

  “What was the meaning of that?” Torkoth asked.

  “You were asking so many questions that I surmised you were a spy sent from the diocese. It wouldn’t be beneath their dignity to want to gloat over our misfortune.”

  “But why the inspection? Are they missing tongues?”

  “No, it’s that they have too many! I suppose it’s from forever kissing the sword of intolerance—their tongues are cleaved. With those tongues they praise our Lord, and with those same tongues they curse mankind, who was made in his image. How could this be without a forked tongue? What were we speaking of?”

  “The fate of your vestments.” Torkoth informed him.

  “Ah! We were defrocked by the Presbytery. The garments were burned, up in smoke they went—with our faith.”

  “Why the excommunication?”

  “As you might infer from my rant, there was a philosophical divide. We dared to believe that you couldn’t love the dead but abhor the living. That’s heresy, you know. So we founded Chiron’s Cradle.”

  “Who is Chiron?”

  “The gentle and wise centaur.” Pythia lanced a finger toward the statue.

  “That’s a centaur? That race is generally depicted slightly differently.” Torkoth blinked in surprise.