The Burden of Memory

by Welcome Cole

  A tiny shadow plummeted toward them. A small leather pouch landed on the marble in the middle of the half-ring of pale light, just short of the firepit. Jhom used his sword to rake it toward him. He pulled the pouch open and poured the contents into his hand. A golden ring gleamed in his huge palm.

  “It’s Wenzil’s all right,” Chance said, “That’s his Order ring. Bring them down.”

  Jhom squinted up into the circle of light. “How many of you are up there?”

  “There’s two of us.”

  “All right! But come down one at a time, you hear?”

  “I understand.”

  “You first!”

  “You’re damned right, me first!”

  “The other one stays topside until we summon him, understand?”

  “Yeah, yeah!”

  The silhouette of a massive figure swung over the rim and dropped into the descent, briefly occluding the half-circle of sky as he scaled his way down the spidery iron rungs.

  Chance felt Jhom’s tension. The man stood poised and ready. A dozen men couldn’t get past him when he assumed his soldier’s countenance.

  Moments later, a svelte, bald Baeldon stood before them. Clean-shaven and dressed in thin, black leathers, he was a bit taller than Jhom and weighed in at half as much.

  Jhom’s weapons didn’t waver. Wenzil grieved the discomfort of the moment admirably, showing neither irritation nor offense.

  “What are you doing here?” Jhom asked him.

  Wenzil blanched at that. “What am I doing here? What the hell do you think I’m doing here? I’m doing what you ordered me to do. I’m looking for him.” He jabbed a thumb at Chance.

  “You’re supposed to be scouting the plains south of the swamp.”

  “We were. We ran into trouble.” Wenzil turned to Chance. “What the hell is this? We’re throwing out the trust of old friends, now?”

  Jhom nodded toward the runner’s skull, asking, “What happened?”

  A cloud passed over Wenzil’s face. He stroked a fingerless gloved hand back over his smooth head and muttered something softly.

  “Hector?” Chance asked carefully.

  “Yea, Hector,” Wenzil said on a whisper, “Almost forgot.”

  Chance placed a hand on Jhom’s sword arm and persuaded it down to his side. “It’s all right. Let him in.”

  Jhom sheathed the sword and threw a hand on the runner’s shoulder. “Wenzil, apologies. Everything’s amiss out here. It’s hard to trust what your eyes are showing you these days.”

  “What happened to Hector?” Chance cut in.

  Again, Wenzil swiped his hand back across his skull. “Dead. Mob of prodes fell on us. Sons of bitches came out of nowhere. They gave it to him bad.”

  “I’m sorry. He was a good man, and true to his friends.”

  “He was true enough. Died saving my worthless ass.”

  “If Hec’s dead,” Jhom said, looking up at the circle of light, “Who the hell is that?”

  Wenzil squinted up into the hatch. “That’s Mawby. He’s a friend.”

  “Mawby?” Jhom demanded, “Who the devil is Mawby?”

  “I told you. A friend.”

  “Maybe you could be a little more specific.” Jhom began to draw his sword again.

  Chance stopped Jhom’s great hand and ushered the blade back into its scabbard. “It’s all right, Jhom. He can come down.”

  “Like hell he can. Not until I know—”

  “I said he’s welcome! He’s a friend of Wenzil’s, for Calina’s sake. Stand down.”

  “I don’t think that’s a—”

  “I said stand down!”

  Jhom said nothing, but he did comply. Still, he looked nothing like happy for the order.

  “Bring him down,” Chance told Wenzil.

  “But tell him to leave his weapons topside,” Jhom said, squinting up into the light.

  “He doesn’t have any.” Wenzil slipped a sword from his belt. “I took this as an offering of faith. He gave it to me freely.” The sword seemed barely more than a long knife in his huge hand.

  Chance stepped into the hatch light. A shadowy image leaned over the edge above them. It might be a young Baeldon, though he didn’t look quite big enough. Then the man leaned his head to the rim of the hatch as if sniffing the stone. Chance immediately understood.

  “Jhom,” Chance said, “Give him your grace.”

  Jhom glanced once more at the half-circle of light above them. “Fine. Bring him down. But if he so much as scratches his head without permission, I swear I’ll skin him before he has time to dread it.”

  ∞

  Mawby watched the sky slowly darkening over his shoulder.

  Wenzil had only just begun the descent down to the tunnel and it already felt like he’d been gone an hour. Not that it mattered; the mountain could take as long as he wanted to for all he cared. It just meant that much longer before he’d have to make the dreaded trip down. The odor of cooking meat was pouring from the hatch, intense enough to nearly turn his stomach.

  Still, he had to admit the elixir worked better than he’d ever hoped. He felt no physical anticipatory fear of entering the tunnel, yet was still gripped by a strange apprehension that was likely just habit. In the end it didn’t matter either way. It was still a tunnel and a perfectly unnatural place for mortals. Mortals honored the world by walking on top of it, not crawling around through its guts. It ran straight against the natural order of things.

  He looked back at the prodes. They continued drifting this way, though they appeared to be in no hurry. He wondered just how intelligent these creatures were that they knew to camouflage themselves against the sky by grouping into the shape of a buzzard. He wondered further how many prodes one of those buzzard images held.

  “Mawby!”

  Mawby’s guts ran cold at the call.

  “Mawby, it’s all clear!”

  It was Wenzil.

  Mawby leaned cautiously over the stone rim. It was dark down there, much too dark. Lowering his oteuryns nearer the stone, he listened for a moment. He made out the taer-cael of three images fairly clearly: two Baeldons and a Parhronii. Still, it didn’t mean there weren’t others there as well. He knew the Baeldons well enough from his studies. They could control their metabolisms to the point of producing near coma states, even changing the rate of their heartbeats. They could easily be waiting in the shadows, silent as stones and lethal as vipers.

  “Mawby, come on down!” Wenzil called up, “It’s safe.”

  The words didn’t inspire much faith. Anytime someone had to point out the fact that a situation was safe meant there was a good probability it wasn’t. Then again, he didn’t see any other obvious avenues of retreat, and he’d be lying to himself to say he didn’t trust Wenzil. So he took a deep breath, ordered himself a round of courage, then forced his way over the edge. He hoped he could manage a firm grip on the rungs with his palms sweating so. It was a hell of a drop.

  The climb down took longer than he’d expected, made worse by his injuries and the long spaces between rungs built for the span of Baeldonian legs. He couldn’t raise his arm very high without feeling a sickening pull, like his wound was going rip open again. He was forced to work his way down using mostly one hand. It wasn’t smooth and it surely wasn’t pretty. He was about eight feet from the ground when he felt the hand grab his shirt.

  His stomach lurched as he was yanked from the rungs and thrown across the darkness. The back of his head smacked the curved stone wall of the hatchway. A massive hand pinned him back by the neck a good ways above the floor. An unfriendly sword tip drifted bare inches from his eye, and the meanest looking Baeldon he’d ever seen snarled at him from the other end of it. The man was easily a hundred-fifty stones heavier than Wenzil, with wider eyes and short-cropped black hair and beard. He had several thin scars lining the creases under his right eye. The scars had the unfavorable effect of magnifying the anger simmering in his gaze.

  He offered the Baeldon
absolutely no resistance.

  “A Vaemyn?” the mountain growled as he glared menacingly down that sword line at Mawby, “You brought a Vaemyn down here? After what they did to Chance?”

  “It ain’t what you think,” Wenzil’s voice said from behind the mountain, “Don’t be a fool. Let him go.”

  The grip on Mawby’s neck tightened. He grabbed the Baeldon’s wrist with both hands. It was like grabbing a tree branch.

  “Did you forget just who the hell Chance has been running from?” the Baeldon yelled.

  “Jhom, you don’t understand. He’s—”

  “I understand plenty!” the ugly Baeldon barked, his eyes firmly locked with Mawby’s, “I understand you’ve brought jeopardy down on us! I never thought you a fool before this, Wenzil.”

  They knew each other. That could be good news.

  “No, Jhom. You don’t understand a damned thing, as usual! You need to listen to me!”

  The sword tip eased closer to Mawby’s eye, close enough that he could no longer keep it in focus. The grip on his neck remained as steady as a shackle. He could still breathe, but he wouldn’t be able to if the anger swelled any hotter in the man.

  “Jhom, stop it! Let him go! Chance, do something!”

  “You think we’re down here for our goddamned health?” Jhom yelled back, “They’re the very reason Chance is down here, so don’t talk to me about not understanding.”

  Chance. Mawby tried to see the man, but the mountain was too big to see around. Chance. It was him, the mage they’d chased into the swamp. The same one who’d boiled Maeryc’s face so badly. The same one partnered with the Parhronii that murdered Koo. Gods, could it get any worse?

  “Jhom, he’s Lamys te’Faht,” a familiar voice said from behind the mountain.

  The mountain seemed taken off guard by that. “What? How could you know that?”

  “Look at him, Jhom,” the voice said, “Does he look like a threat? He descended voluntarily. He’s unarmed. Let him go.”

  The ugly Baeldon glared at Mawby a moment longer. His eyes looked as angry as a lynching. Still, an instant later, Mawby felt himself sliding down to ground level. His feet had no sooner found substance than the hand retreated. Mawby rubbed at his neck, but the mountain hadn’t done any damage. He’d been very careful.

  Still, the ugly Baeldon didn’t back away and he didn’t sheath his sword. Instead, he swelled to full height and glared down at Mawby from somewhere up near that fading pink daylight.

  Wenzil materialized beside the ugly one. “It’s true, Jhom. Mawby’s a friend. He’s an Eye, I swear it.”

  “Listen to him, Jhom,” the familiar voice said. It sounded closer to a command than a request.

  Mawby steadied himself against the round wall and watched the ugly Baeldon watching him back. He had a feeling that in another minute he’d either be hugged or dead.

  Then the Baeldon named Jhom startled him by laughing. “By gods, I reckon it’s just as well,” he said, “He’s the biggest damn Vaemyn I’ve ever seen. I don’t think I want to piss him off unnecessarily.”

  As the mountain backed away, Mawby got his first full look at him. He was massive even by Baeldonian standards, easily over nine feet tall. He wore a simple jointed breastplate of the Baeldonian style that covered his torso from the shoulders to the groin, and a fine chainmail hauberk beneath it that dangled to mid-thigh. Beneath that, he was covered in worn brown leather and well-oiled boots that rose to his knees. Mawby figured the total armor must weigh at least two hundred stone.

  A Parhronii pushed past the Baeldon, who yielded unquestioningly to his authority. “Sheathe your sword, Jhom,” the man said, “He means us no harm.”

  It was the mage. He stood before him leaning into a tall staff that ended in a carved hand gripping a glowing blue stone. The man’s long brown hair was tied loosely back revealing a thin face with a long nose and penetrating eyes. He appeared tired but focused. He also seemed strangely familiar, familiar beyond their encounter in the swamp.

  “I know you’ll do us no harm,” the mage said directly to him, “In part because you’ll have no opportunity. You’ll boil first, if you get my meaning.”

  “I do,” Mawby said directly back. The drying blisters on his face singed as if on cue.

  “I’m Chance Gnoman.”

  “I know. My name’s Maubius Yendt. Call me Mawby.”

  Chance moved closer and pried Mawby’s right eye open as casually as if he were examining the teeth of a horse. “You’re doing remarkably well for being so far underground,” he said as he moved to the left eye, “I imagine Wenzil had something to do with that.”

  “Gave him a slug of your tonic,” Wenzil said.

  “Mm, I thought as much.” The mage reached up and carefully traced the burn on Mawby’s face with his fingertip. “Did I do this?” he asked as he studied the damaged flesh.

  Mawby felt a strange wave of discomfort for the question, like he was afraid to embarrass the mage by answering. “Reckon I got in the way of the caeyl’s kick back at the hatch.”

  “It’s not as bad as it looks,” the mage said as he examined him, “We can thank Calina your oteuryn wasn’t damaged.”

  Mawby grumbled his agreement, though the word ‘we’ caught him off guard. We can thank Calina, he’d said, as if they’d been friends for years. And despite the man’s alliance with the bastard who’d killed Koonta, the truth was that’s exactly how the words made him feel.

  “I’ll make up some balm for it as soon as Jhom gets the fat out of those rabbits.” The mage withdrew his hand and looked back at the ugly mountain. “And sooner would suit me better than later, if it’s not too much trouble.”

  The Baeldon named Jhom bowed his head dramatically. “By your leave, Eminence. Perhaps you’d care to hasten your gratification by re-igniting the fire for me? If it’s not too great an inconvenience, that is.”

  The caeyl released a startling pulse of blue light. “No inconvenience at all,” the mage said as a fire kicked up in a ring of stones immediately behind him.

  The mountain’s grin broadened further. As he turned away he said, “Well, that’s just fine, because nothing grieves me more than inconveniencing Your Worship.”

  “That just shows how sensible you are,” Chance said back, “And close that hatch door before you start.”

  The Baeldon tossed back a veiled insult, but it was mostly lost beneath the weight of a deep, rumbling laugh.

  The exchange confused Mawby. How could the mood of this singularly bizarre experience change so dramatically in the matter of seconds? A dozen heartbeats ago he wasn’t sure if the mountain was going to choke him or run the sword through his eye first and then choke him. Now everyone was all laughs and giggles, like a bunch of old women at a wine bottling jag. It made no sense.

  “Take no offense by anything that fool says,” the mage said to him, “He’ll do you no harm unless you solicit his anger.”

  “It pleases me to see you still breathe,” Mawby said. The words surprised him. He wasn’t sure where they came from.

  ”It pleases me to be breathing.”

  It was an awkward moment that Mawby wasn’t sure how to escape. “I just meant—”

  “I know what you meant.”

  “It was just bad luck,” Mawby said anyway, “We were chasing the Blood Caeyl. We had no way of knowing the thief would end up in your—”

  “Show me your pendant.”

  Wenzil appeared behind and above the mage. He nodded encouragingly at Mawby.

  Mawby steadied himself. Then he carefully reeled the pendant out from his shirt. The whole affair felt as awkward as doffing his breeches in public. He’d never shown it to anyone outside of family, and now two people inside a week had seen it.

  Chance took the pendant and studied it for a full minute. Then he handed it back. “You’ve seen it open?” Though looking directly at him, Mawby knew the question was meant for Wenzil.

  “Yea,” Wenzil said.

 
“And you discovered it by search or by sight?” The mage continued staring into Mawby’s eyes as if probing for the back door.

  “A bit of both, I reckon.”

  Chance’s countenance suddenly melted. He seized Mawby’s arm with an affirming squeeze. “This is good,” he said, smiling, “This is very good. I’ve been praying to Pentyrfal to find one of you. You can’t know how hard I’ve meditated on this.”

  Mawby understood that by ‘one of you’ he meant a Vaemysh Eye, and he felt strangely relieved with the admission. Maybe because it finally gave him a sense of hope.

  The mage threw a hand on his shoulder and guided him out of the hatchway. “There’s something I have to show you,” he said, “I think it may do more to heal you than anything I could possibly offer. After that, I’ll tend your face.”

  He led Mawby out of the cobwebs of dying sunlight and down the corridor proper. A few dozen paces down the corridor, a makeshift tent glowed like it was on fire. The light illuminated the pearly swirls in the marble so that the floor seemed to whirl beneath him like silt in a gently agitated pool.

  The corridor itself was as grand as a royal hall, with a rich, arched ceiling and marble floors polished so smooth he could see his own image dropping away into them. Life-sized carvings of Baeldons adorned the walls for as far as he could see in both directions. They were so life-like, he felt the heat of their eyes cutting right through to his soul. These were the tombs of men long since dead, and they were glorious.

  The mage stopped him at the edge of the queer tent with the blades of light slicing out from cracks in the blankets. He gave Mawby a curious, almost sorrowful look, a look that both frightened and inspired him. Then the mage took the edge of the blanket defining the nearest tent wall, but stopped short of opening it.

  “The light’s bright in there,” he said, his hand still gripping the blanket’s edge, “Brighter than anything you’ve ever seen.”

  Mawby nodded.

  “But it’s perfectly safe. It’s a healing light.”

  “I understand,” Mawby whispered.