Exiles of Forlorn (16 page)

“I changed my mind,” I said at length, not able to look at her.

“About?” she asked.

Then I looked at her. “The wall.”

Her eyes widened. So blue, just like the sea . . . 
stop that!

“They need a double layer wall,” I explained, pointing at it from a distance. It needs to be wide enough for guards to walk across. These little guard stands they have aren’t going to do them any good. They are flimsy and create too many blind spots in the wall for these Scumdogs to get through. They need to be able to do rounds on the wall, along the top.”

“Can you do that?” she asked.

I grinned and pretended I didn’t hear the question. “With the hatchets we got tonight, we should be able to cut down enough trees to generate the lumber required. Antioc can pick a group of his burliest, fittest soldiers to do the chopping and carrying and hammering. I’ll need a drafting table, some pencils and paper. Lots of paper.” I looked at Blackfoot. “Can you get me lots of paper?”

He gave me a haphazard salute, imitating the kind Antioc used to do when he was active in the service, and then scampered off faster than it looked like his little blackened feet could carry him. Reiwyn giggled. My heart almost skipped a beat when she did that.

I scanned the wall with my hands cupped to my face. Uller’s night sight spell had worn off long ago, and the morning light was dim and pinkish this early. “I’ve got a formula for creating mortar out of rocks and sand. I doubt we’ll have all the ingredients here, but I’m sure Uller could help concoct a substitution.”

“What can I do?”

I looked at her and saw something I hadn’t in a long time: her smile. Not just any smile, but a smile for me. It almost got one out of me, but I withheld. Couldn’t have her seeing just how much her happiness affected me.

“I need you to teach these savages how to fire a bow properly. I can’t have people patrolling my wall who can’t defend it. I’ll put covered arrow shields at regular intervals along the wall. In the unlikely event of a siege, they can hide behind them and fire down on any attackers.” I looked at her. “Can you do that?”

She nodded.

“Fair.” I turned and walked away. “I’m going to sleep.”

At least I thought I was. Instead, sleep eluded me, all day and even into the night. All I could do was stare at the sword. My nameless, battered little sword. Antioc described it as a Floorish blade. It was much like the fencing foil I’d trained with, only shorter by about six inches. I asked if the Floorish were short people to have such small blades. Antioc laughed and explained that their blades were just as long as ours, only thinner like this one. They used two swords at once and used the shorter one in their off hand. Why that Scumdog had that one without the other was anyone’s guess. He didn’t look Floorish. Maybe he had bought—or stolen—a set, but one had been broken or lost. Maybe he was only able to steal one from a Floorishman. Perhaps he had found it somewhere and thought it was just a long dagger. Whatever the case, he didn’t have much use for it and wasn’t even able to get it from his belt before Antioc had crushed his head. Before I’d taken it from his corpse, and made it red . . . 

This was ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous. I’d killed before. Not personally, of course. But I’d built things that had killed. Big things. Trebuchets and catapults, scorpions and ballistae; all manner of killing devices had been constructed and operated under my watch and command. I’d even pulled the lever on a few of them. It was a source of pride for an engineer to be the first to fire his siege engine in combat. I’d probably killed more people than Antioc. I was sure that I had.

This was the first time I’d done it face-to-face, though. The first time I’d looked at someone as they died. Taking a life is no small thing. Antioc had talked about that more times than I was comfortable remembering. To look into a man’s eyes and see that you’ve taken everything from him . . . that’s something else entirely. To be able to do that, to know that you’re capable of that, changes you. Or maybe it doesn’t. Maybe it just shows you what you were all along.

I wasn’t ashamed of what I’d done. Not one bit. I wasn’t proud, either. It hadn’t taken any particular measure of skill on my part. Over half the victory belonged to Uller and his spell. Without that, I’d have likely been no match for a Scumdog fighting for his life. Did that make it his fault? No, of course not. Even if it was, it didn’t matter. The Scumdog could have yielded, for all the good
that
would have done him. At least I wouldn’t have been the one to kill him. Better yet, he could have stayed home and not come to ours and taken two of our women and a child as slaves. This wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t my choice. I didn’t want to kill him. He
made
me do it.

And there it was. I had no control over the situation, and that was the most frustrating, distressing part of the whole thing. People were like the gears of a well-tuned machine. They did what they did, often oblivious of the effect they had on most other parts of the mechanism, much less the whole machine. Only the engineer knew, and a good engineer could program the whole contraption to do exactly what he wanted. I could get people to do what I wanted, too. Sometimes they didn’t, and I found that most irritating. Even then, I could usually predict and compensate for their errant behavior. But this was something else. This was a man choosing to put himself in a situation where either he would die or I would, and I had no way of stopping him. I had no other choice, no alternative play, no gears to turn or mechanism to tune that would have sent him on another path. His death was like a star falling to the earth, blindly unaware that its trajectory would be its doom. Too fast to stop, impossible to slow, until the very end when . . . bam. It was all over. Dead. Gone. In a flash of light and a cloud of dust and fire. Bright red fire . . . 

“Red,” I said when Antioc entered our yurt. His wounds had been stitched and bandaged and the blood cleaned from his flesh. He gave me a curious look.

“The sword,” I explained, holding it up. “Its name is Red.”

13.

I
t was three days after we saved his life that Roren Fullstag told us about the ruins of Xanas Muir.

“Thousands of years ago, some even say in the ages before men came to Eios, there lived a race of beings we would call giants. They stood a stride above a man’s head, at the least. They were blue skinned and fair haired, and it is said that they were the wisest of all beings to ever live. The ruins of their civilization dot our lands, and the lands to the East and North.

“Stories are told of a group of these beings departing their fellows when they became annoyed with attempts to separate them from their great wealth. You see, the giants did not consider themselves one race, but many. Though the same on the outside, the giants believed there were differences in the very structure of their minds and bodies that could not be seen. These races were what we would call castes, where some individuals were expected to behave in a certain manner and fulfill specific roles. A caste known as the Muir was trained to rule over the other, lesser castes, and as such lived in luxury. They enforced their rule through the military caste, the Wu, and were legitimized by the intellectual or scholar caste, the Goytei, who taught all the other castes that they must, no matter how much they wished otherwise, follow the natural order, lest they offend their gods─”

“What are gods?” asked Blackfoot.

“They’re like the Daevas,” answered Uller.

Roren continued, “The other castes grew tired of this arrangement, but there was little they could do about it so long as the Muir controlled the Wu and were legitimized by the Goytei. In time, members of the Goytei began to question this social arrangement as well. At first, they were few in number and easily discounted. Those who began to gain a following were eliminated by the Muir. Eventually, the idea caught on that they were all the same, not different at all, and that each had a right to choose his own destiny, not have it chosen for him based on family or caste.”

“The Muir weren’t happy about that, I’ll wager,” I added. Uller hushed me.

“A civil war erupted between those who believed in equality, the Unificationists, and those who followed the caste system, or the Purists. The Wu were initially on the side of the Purists, but slowly they came around to joining the Unificationists. When all their support among the Wu had been depleted, the Purists sued for peace. The Unificationists offered them a place in their new, integrated society. A few accepted; most refused. They said they would found their own city, which scholars have taken to calling Xanas Muir, or the home of the Muir. And they left, vanishing without a trace, taking much of their wealth with them. Gold, gems, and wisdom from an ancient age; all because a small group of these beings refused to live as equals with those they considered inferior.”

“You think they went to Forlorn?” asked Reiwyn.

“It is believed by most that these giants never ventured across the seas to the lands in the West. Because of this, no one has gone looking for the lost city of Xanas Muir there. That was precisely what led me to search the ancient texts for evidence of a settlement there. And I found it. In ancient tomes, penned in long dead tongues, I found a few mentions of a city, far west, in the shadow of a great volcano, inhabited by giants.”

“The Muir?”

“I believe so . . .” He interrupted himself with a fit of coughing. He’d never quite recovered from the attack in his cabin. He held a soft cloth to his mouth. When he pulled it back, it was red.

“You should see the ship’s doctor,” Uller offered, resting his hand on the graybeard’s shoulder.

He laughed. “This ship doesn’t have a doctor. It wouldn’t matter if they did.” His expression turned somber. “I’m dying, my young friends.”

“No you’re not!” protested Blackfoot.

Roren smiled at him, then at the rest. “I am. If I see the shores of Forlorn, it will be only because the Daevas have allowed it. But I wouldn’t dare task them with keeping me alive long enough to reach my goal. That is why I’ve gathered you here tonight, and told you about my work.

“If I die and Xanas Muir goes undiscovered, all my work and life will have been in vain. This is my legacy.”

“What about the treasure?” I asked.

“The treasure, yes. The treasure motivated me when I was a younger man, but as time wore on, my obsession grew to be academic. Even if I found the treasure, I’m too old to enjoy it. No, my friends, I seek the ruins of Xanas Muir for less noble reasons.”

“What could be less noble than pillaging an ancient city for its treasures and living out your days like a king?” I asked.

Roren chuckled then shook his head and turned grim. “I had a wife, once. And a child. My obsession with Xanas Muir stole all my time away from them. Pouring over lost tomes, travelling to meet scholars and peruse their notes. It always feels like there is so much time when we are young, but soon it’s gone, and we realize we’ve left everyone who cared about us behind. My wife left, took our son.” He cast his eyes down. “I’ve not seen them in forty years.”

He coughed again, filling the cloth with another burst of bloody spittle. Reiwyn handed him a canteen. He drank from it feebly, barely able to lift the bottom. Reiwyn lifted the end for him so he could drink. “Among other scholars, my work was derided. They said the ancients believed their continent was an island in a vast, unending sea and never would have deigned to travel it. I of course argued that the ancients were as smart as us, smarter even, and some of them might have seen through those ancient taboos and taken a leap of faith to cross the sea. I was laughed at. My life’s work considered a jest.”

“Surely someone believed you,” said Uller. The rest of us nodded.

“A few, yes. Treasure hunters and adventurers, mostly. They’d come to me and offer a pittance of gold in exchange for bits of lore about the ancient city. I gave them what I could, sometimes even accompanying them, hoping one of the groups would be fortunate enough to find Xanas Muir and vindicate my life’s work. We never found it, but in my travels I learned much. I learned to fight from a Wesdentish swordsman.” He looked at Antioc. “Learned a few magic tricks from a Spire trained wizard.” He looked at Uller. “And found the occasional clue as to the location of the fabled city. Including this.”

He reached into a small leather pouch and pulled out a jade disk, about the size of the bottom of a wine bottle. He held it up for us, and we all leaned forward to examine it. The dim, flickering light of the lantern danced across is shiny green surface, accentuating deep carvings that spiraled out from the center.

“What is it?” asked Uller, his eyes wide. I was a little surprised at how long he’d gone without gurging. I supposed hearing the story had taken his mind off the heaving and hoeing of the ship enough to let him keep down a meal.

“It’s a key.”

“A key? Like to a door or chest?” asked Blackfoot, excited.

Roren shook his head and chuckled before bursting into another round of coughing. He put the jade disc back in the bag. “Not quite.”

“Why are you telling us all this?” I asked, pointedly. I had a feeling I knew, but I wanted him to make it official.

“Because I trust you. I trust all of you. And I can think of no better group of adventurers to secure my legacy.”

“We’re not adventurers; we’re exiles,” said Antioc.

Roren waved his hand. “What’s the difference? You’re here because you’ve nothing to lose. You’re brave enough to cross the sea and seek a home in a new and strange land. You’ve already proven you have the courage needed. The strength, the will, and the wisdom.” He looked at me and smiled. “I will give you what you need to find Xanas Muir. You will claim its treasures, take the glory of its discovery, and fulfill my legacy.”

We left him to rest after that. His condition was deteriorating rapidly, and there was no one on the ship who could aid him. He would be fortunate if he survived the night, much less the last two weeks of our journey. We adjourned to the aft deck. In the evening it was deserted, save for a ship’s mate swabbing about with a sudsy mop. Uller quickly took leave of us to gurge over the side. Once he’d returned, we began discussing what we’d learned.