by Marin Landis
It was almost an hour before she was close enough to see any real detail on the volcano. The landscape was still featureless. A mountain behind her, a volcano before and nothing else. The black rocks that littered the landscape were odd, but she surmised that they were something left over from when the volcano erupted. She knew little of them, but the long plume of smoke that streamed from the hole in the top meant that there was some activity. Hopefully it would be still while she was here.
How long that would be she couldn't guess. The Herjen didn't warn her ahead of time what was happening, but she had learned to trust it.
She could see now that there were half a dozen holes at the base of the volcano. This surprised her and at the same time she knew what they were. Her people themselves, not too long ago, had lived in caves and the base of mountains were the obvious place to look for shelter. It wasn't within her lifetime but the Herjen had shown her. That and more. Foerlund had explained how the Herjen might try to guide her by showing her visions and that they would make sense at some time. Possibly this was such a time. The holes were all of a size, she noted as she got closer. About ten feet tall and four wide, the rough uniformity suggested some sort of external influence.
The volcano itself was an oddity, almost like it was placed on this barren plan by some giant hand. It didn't look natural and there were no other mountains around it, although it was integrated with the land on which it stood. If it was somehow unnaturally created or brought to this place, it would have been a long time ago. It must have been thousands of feet around and she decided that she would enter one of the openings before scouting the entire mountain.
One of them stood out by dint of having piles of the black rocks stacked at the entrance. Surely some sort of intelligence had done that, but what? Who could live here? Unless there was a source of water and food on the other side of the mountain, the trek to find sustenance would be extreme.
She peered into the cave entrance without getting too close. An extraordinarily gifted warrior she was, but in the dark, against Garm knows what; that would be suicide. Yet her compulsion was driving her to do it. The sulfurous smell was stronger from the cave and though she could see nothing in there, she could hear something. It was like a rhythmic scraping, like a dagger across a stone floor
She took a deep breath and stepped forward. The darkness was complete. It wasn't merely a lack of light but all light stopped when she crossed the threshold. She panicked briefly, stopped and dithered, a primal fear threatened to overwhelm her and send her scurrying back the way she came She then remembered that she was a foot away from safety and the Herjen had yet to lead her anywhere even moderately dangerous. Throwing caution to the wind she strode forward.
The sudden shock when you walk into something you don’t expect to be there combined with the pain of hitting your head against a wall stopped Ottkatla in her tracks. She fell to her haunches holding her forehead and felt a bump already rising. “Argh!” she shouted loudly, forgetting that she was quite possibly in the lair of a bear or other cave dwelling animal.
She stopped still, hearing a noise that almost defied imagination.
The old women in her tribe would often collect and suffocate a particular type of beetle, then dry them out in the sun, finally crushing them with a round smooth rock. The crunching sound that made was the closest thing to what she heard in that cave, but this was amplified in volume a hundred fold. The noise came from in front of her and she then heard an equally loud sound, like rocks being ground against each other. What in Garm’s name was happening? She stood and started to walk slowly backwards, risking a glimpse and seeing nothing, but feeling confident that the exit was not far.
“You are out of place, child.” Ottkatla stopped when she ‘heard’ the words. They were not actual words, but thoughts in her head. Was it the Herjen, was the spirit speaking to her or was it something else?
Another noise split the air and coincided with a flash of light, that quickly illuminated the cavern, the black rocks she had seen strewn about the place now confirmed in her mind as Volcanium. A pile of them giving off a light and a heat on the ground less than ten feet from where she stood. Next to the light source was a large rock sculpture, but of course it was no sculpture as it turned and stood from its squatting position. Her mind rebelled a touch as the realization of what she saw sank in. Roughly nine feet tall, that is to say half again as tall as her, it was enormous and made of rock. Not smooth polished rock, but pitted and scored rock one might find at the base of a mountain. Seemingly small and large boulders crushed together to make a humanoid figure, but with arms as thick, nay thicker, than her waist and a body of equally monstrous proportions. The creature’s head, for it had a head, again she was surprised that it had a shape and form corresponding to that of a normal person, was thick and dull featured, the eyes, burning embers in black pits of coal. All over the being’s body were patches of dark green, almost like moss. In fact, very much like moss.
“I am as alien to you as you are to me,” the voice in her head said, “but I fear less than you.”
Ottkatla felt a little ashamed. That which is different is not always evil, she told herself.
“This is Groetume. You are welcome. There is nothing here.”
“Groetume,” she said aloud, the name triggering something inside her, “that is the name of this place?”
“Yes. You came here.”
“I was led here.”
“What led you here?”
“It is difficult to explain. What is your name?” She knew she would need to be circumspect, there was no telling how this creature might react.
“Eweheulu,” the voice sounded, the word extremely guttural,.
"Is this where you live, Eweheulu?" Are there more of them here, she wondered. What sort of danger was she in? It didn't seem dangerous though. A memory was tickling the back of her mind, but she couldn't determine whether it was her memory or the ones that the Herjen planted within her.
"I am here, I will not be here for many seasons," the creature communicated.
It struck her that while she saw this being as some sort of primitive monster, it had the ability to speak directly into her mind which quite possibly indicated intelligence far in advance of her own.
"I am Ottkatla. I live beyond the mountains. I was brought here by an ancient spirit." She hoped that this made sense to the creature and would make her life easier. She, for the life of her, didn’t know where to go next. In fact it had started to sink in that she had no food, water, clothing or destination.
“That you have a name is a sign of hope,” the creature thought.
“I don’t understand, Eweheulu,” Ottkatla was still speaking aloud, not wanting to muddy the waters of communication.
“You, like rats, squirming all across the land. You have language given to you by the Wood Ones, but no names.” There was no hint of aggression but Ottkatla was getting the impression that this creature didn’t understand the wider world.
“How long have you been here, Eweheulu?”
“ I have been here enough to see my collective pass.”
“You are alone then, your people are no longer? I don’t know of your kind, who are your collective?” There was something right on the periphery of her thought.
“Garm’s creation we are,” came the entirely unexpected, but utterly logical response.
“Of course! You are Jotnar,” she blurted.
“Yes, Mennin and I are Jotnar.”
“Eweheulu, your people are a legend in my history, you once were a boon to my people!” She waved her arm in a direction she thought might well have been east. “We live in these mountains and struggle under the weight of oppression and I have been led here. Can you help us?” It was so obvious.
The Jotnar were created by Garm, alongside the Aelvar and the first family of humanity, aeons ago and had guided her people from their basic and primitive beginnings to the peak of civilization they now enjoyed. Many would say that
they were still primitive but they were free from disease, were happy, lived long lives and had no natural enemies.
“I can help you, maybe. I remember these things you speak of and think of. Your ancestors stayed with us in the caves and earth and learned arts form us. Where are those arts now, Lunan?”
Lunan! That was the name her people were called in the ancient times. Foerlund and other spirit-men and spirit-women sang songs of those times and the huge, benevolent giants and trolls. They were part of the Sagas, not Sagas she knew, but ones that others knew and sang.
“Lost I think, Eweheulu,” she didn’t know but rarely wanted to admit that.
“Or assumed by the collective of the Lunan. Many I fear though will have been lost if you are oppressed.” There was an extremely loud cracking and crunching sound and then silence for two minutes. The creature had not finished its sentiment but was doing something else. It was not moving but Ottkatla could tell something was happening. “It is Mennin.” Ottkatla didn’t quite understand but wanted to go back to talking about the troll helping her folk.
“Can you help us, Eweheulu?” She could hear the desperation in her own voice. Was the legend of the Jotnar also the source of the legend of the Herjen? There was a similarity that couldn’t be overlooked. Both were potential saviors of her people and here they both were.
“I cannot help,” Ottkatla felt like she’d been gut punched, “though we can assist one another.”
She wanted to remonstrate with the rock-being before her, but respect for her people’s legends combined with an impulse from the Herjen prevented her. Such impulses were now so ingrained within her that it may as well have been her own mind making the decision.
“How can we?” she managed to croak out, her mind reeling.
“Mennin, you can take him with you. He is the last of us and I will be no more.” With this method of communication there was no emotional drive behind the words, but the concept here was of profound sadness and regret.
“Will you explain please, much of what you say is a confusing and this means of communication is new to me.”
“I will. Open your mind the best you can and you will see a story.”
The Herjen inside her jumped, as though eager for this to happen. Ottkatla sat cross-legged on the floor and with practiced ease, fell into a fully conscious trance, the Kehan, wherein her mind would be free of earthly constraints, improving her mental capabilities. The Kehan also increased physical efficiencies. She would heal quicker, process less food and water and function as though in a sleep state. Her breathing regular, unimpeded by itches, swallowing, discomfort, she was able to keep her mind free and receptive.
At first the images were incredibly chaotic and she was able to understand none of them. Some of the scenes made her feel markedly uneasy, which she had thought was impossible in this trance, but so primal and old were these concepts that her mind rebelled. Eventually the scenes became easier to understand, the mountains, her people small and weak, the Sundering. During the time when many of the Aelvar threw off the yoke of servitude from their masters, the Var, Garm stopped visiting the Jotnar and these eternal people suffered badly from his absence. Some were driven to self destruction, others to physical conflict, something unheard of in Jotnar culture. They lost the ability to reproduce and Ottkatla was astonished to see that there was no mating, but only creation. The tribe would spend years creating a new shell for a Jotnar’s spirit and Garm would breathe life into it. The eventual demise of these wise and worthy beings was ennui. They had nothing to remain alive for. So they died. Slowly passing from the earth in the hope of a better Afterlife.
Eweheulu would not give up and over the millennia created by herself created a Jotnar and looked up from her (Ottkatla was surprised to think that this monolith before her was a female) creation to see that she was alone. All her folk had given up their spirits to Garm. Her sorrow was fleeting for she had done it, she had succeeded. She prayed to Garm and He did not answer, but there was an answer.
A man came, though he wasn’t a man, but a man-shape fully comprised of light and magic; a Var. He touched the creation and it became Mennin; it lived. The man did not stay but was gone before Mennin’s first breath had concluded. It felt like this was less than a few days ago, but Ottkatla could not be sure of that.
“Mennin is another Jotnar? He is here?” Becoming now more adept at interpreting the way the Jotnar communicated she was convinced that Mennin was a male.
“He is still learning the world around him and I fear I may harm him. Not on purpose, but my spirit is failing and I will go to Garm soon.” Her new found interpretive abilities opened a world of sorrow before her, one Ottkatla had to concentrate to avoid. Her initial feelings that this Jotnar may have been her inferior were now buried in the amazement she felt at the depth of this being’s intellect. Eweheulu had been alive for millennia, it was staggering to even contemplate.
“Can we go into the light, the darkness is uncomfortable for my kind?” Everything running through Ottkatla’s mind had terrified her and exhausted her and she wanted nothing more than to see the sun and feel the wind upon her face.
“Yes. I will also make more light here that you may see clearly.” There was a sound like glass shattering and suddenly lights burst out from all about. The light was dim and cool, not sharp and the shadows were still deep but she could see more clearly. The cave entrance was now clear, as was Mennin.
If Ottkatla had expected a smaller version of Eweheulu she was disappointed. Mennin was as large as his creator and almost the same in appearance, missing only the dark green patches. He didn’t move and the burning light of consciousness the other Jotnar had in her eye sockets, she couldn’t see. Behind him though, something caught her eye.
As long as a man was tall, a glassy spike, run through with purple, leaned against a wall.
“That,” the Jotnar female said into her mind, “is how you will help me. Mennin will free your people.”
CHAPTER NINE
Amalia
“There is a distinct difference between the spirit forms of male Ascendants and female Ascendants. The female ones have bigger tits.” - Mikael
Janesca couldn’t remember a time when she’d been happier. There was no stress here at the Convent, her days were filled with prayer and contemplation and sleep. The sleep was unusual. Nobody could figure out why she needed so much sleep but it hampered her little.
She wasn’t an overly bright pupil, but she was well behaved and did her chores and apart from being a few years older than the other postulants, fit in well. Besides which, she was an Akashic, a Deathspeaker.
Hestallr and also Povimus had put to Arantia Amalia, the high ranking sister, that no reference should be made to that. It occasionally came out. Like when Sister Ennia had died, she was able to reveal that Ennia had secreted away large sums of money in her youth and where it could be found. The manner in which she made the money, Janesca would not reveal.
Unknown to all, especially Janesca, nearly all of that was a sham. A perfectly executed charade.
Mikael Martelle died of a wasting disease over sixty years ago. His lungs filled with fluid, the poor little boy, son of an uncaring drunkard, lay down in the street and coughed his last. His tiny four year old body, cooling where it lay in an alleyway behind an inn, where he had, in life, scrabbled for scraps, suddenly twitched and moved. None were there to see it. Nor did any see the red and yellow stream of pus and blood that vomited forth from the dead child’s mouth. Time and time again he coughed and spluttered until all trace of the infected mucus was gone.
The child then made every correct decision for the next three score years until the disease reappeared. Mikael could feel his lungs failing once more but dared not fix them for fear of what might happen, of who it would alert. Those years ago in the alleyway it was do or die. Then, sitting in a chair with his son before him, it would have been do and die, his boy with him. The fact that he had fathered a child, the first of his entire
existence amazed him. He feared what might happen should his host die and he along with it, but with the satisfaction that one achieves from seeing one’s offspring hale he was ready to face it.
It was one of the truly funniest and most bittersweet occurrences of the Anaurim’s entire existence that he didn’t after all, die, but found himself again alive, in the body of a young woman. Where he resided yet.
His spirit was weak since his encounter with Ain-Ordra’s Vekoira and he could barely think, but he was able to induce unconsciousness in his host frequently, which allowed him to properly plot and plan without announcing his presence to her. He needed to maintain the illusion that she was special in some way, to lure the one man who could help him.
Hestallr.
Bhav had been and gone and there was no way he wanted her anywhere near him. For one thing he was sure that when she became the avatar of Sehar she had the perspicacity to see what he really was. Secondly, she left Melvekior and had opportunities to at least visit him, but did not. Something had happened that meant Sehar had no current need for her and she’d told Janesca that she was hoping to build a relationship with the boy. Melvekior was his son and while he knew he was a terrible father, he made sure the boy would become the absolute best a mortal could be. What must his opinion of his father be now? Lied to him his whole life, about his own mother being dead and much else besides.
Is that what drove him now? The Phagia seemed a distant memory, as were the rest of His insane plans, but he couldn’t risk exposing himself. What was a distant memory to even the likes of him would still be at the forefront of the mind of a God. The irony when Apset revolted and came out looking like the worst of them all. Had he lips and a throat he would have laughed.
