The Weaver's Lament (42 page)

“‘And how many years has it been since you've used it? The wind off the sea says that your land is more or less always at peace. Perhaps age has had its way with you, like a rapist or a harlot. If you don't keep up with the Hunt, you lose your skills, your reflexes—your edge.

“‘And you didn't make that weapon with our kind in mind, did you, Bolg king? You claimed to have made those disks for Anwyn, but we, who look within, we know your inner secrets. You made them to destroy Ashe. To what end? You jealous, grasping worm, Ysk—all you ever had was your loss.'”

Achmed's eyes widened in shock, then narrowed coolly. “How do you know these names?”

Jarmon chuckled dryly. “I've been around the F'dor long enough to have learned their skills of lying—and one of them is to listen to hear the names that
you
have heard most recently, spoken in love, or hate, or contempt. Those names, those vibrations, cling to you—and the F'dor are nothing but vibration. It's a skill unparalleled. I know what
none
of that means—those names mean nothing to me—but they lie, and manipulate, and twist your reality until it is no longer yours, but theirs.”

“I see. Pray continue. It's fascinating.”

Jarmon closed his thin-lidded eyes and listened again, his mouth ajar, like a door left open for the wind. Then he opened his eyes and looked at Achmed again.

“All right, one last attempt. ‘Had she chosen you, what would that have made of you? Why be a king if not to gain her? If you had her, you would never have left the Root. Perhaps she would have grown tired of it—what then? Brigands, mercenaries, then curiosities—eventually when the end came, you would be nothing but a source of resentment to her.

“‘No unrequited love, no lost girl, dooms you to no kingdom, no Earthchild, no future. Savor your pain, Ysk—it made you who you are.'”

The dry man exhaled, exhausted.

“I have utterly no idea what any of that means,” he said. “But I imagine enough of it is fresh to you, possibly painful enough to make you think twice, especially when you hear it from the mouth of an expert liar, whose race exists for nothing more than chaos and pain. Now, avail me of another drink.”

Achmed watched him in silence for a long moment.

“That you can make use of their skills is a sign that when they have embodied you, they have left whatever vibration constitutes their spunk behind in you.”

“No doubt,” agreed Jarmon. “Welcome to what your world will be, if you are unable to get out of here. Now where's my drink?”

*   *   *

Once Jarmon had finished his libation, Achmed rose and opened his pack.

“Come,” he said. “I am ready now.”

The withered soldier looked at him in amusement. “Ready for what, pray?”

“I tire of this place,” Achmed said, checking his supplies one more time. He pulled out a branch of Vigil Root and put it into his mouth at the corner. “No offense to the company.”

“Oh, none taken, truly, Majesty.”

“Take me to him, to them,” the Bolg king said. “The longer I am here, the more they will know of me. Each moment we tarry from here out weakens me. Let's be on our way to the depths of this place.”

Jarmon grinned and stood stiffly as well.

“Very well,” he said. Then he struck a comic pose, like a street poet. “Let us descend into the blind world now,” he intoned. “I shall go first and you will follow me. Let us go on, the way that waits is long.”

Achmed's forehead wrinkled. “What's that about?”

The soldier shrugged. “I've no idea. It has been floating around on the dead wind in here forever.”

The Bolg king rolled his eyes and followed Jarmon down into the belly of the Vault, his broken guide spouting random poetry all the way.

“Through me, the way into the Suffering City,” he chanted. “Through me, the way to Eternal Pain; through me, the way that runs among the Lost.”

“Perhaps you might consider ‘Silence Is Golden' next,” Achmed said, gritting his teeth.

“Before me, nothing but eternal things were made,” Jarmon extolled to the unseen ceiling of the Vault. “And I endure eternally.”

 

40

The descent into the deepest part of the Vault was accomplished, to Achmed's surprise, in total silence.

Having seen enough of the upper reaches, he had expected a nagging chorus of flames to accompany him, screeching and hissing, taunting and begging, strafing him from the corners and nooks and caves that freckled every wall of what had once been a very straight and plumb dungeon, and he had prepared for it. He was chewing on the Vigil Root as long as it lasted, both swords in hand as he traveled, his armor sealed fore and aft of him, but instead of the assault he had girded for, he was met instead with the devouring sound of hollow noiselessness, the occasional
plink
of something dripping in the dry prison—and nothing more.

The overwhelming emptiness was beginning to take a toll, he discovered, as he followed Jarmon farther and farther down into the blackness. While there had been noise and threat, it was easy to forget what he had left behind in the upworld, and what had left him behind in the same place. Even the comfort of the things that had once served as a happy touchstone to him had decayed and warped into painful memory and loneliness, accentuated by the thudding silence.

And, even more, he was haunted by the thought that below him lay nightmares he could not yet fathom.

The longer they descended, the more regular the architecture of the place became. It seemed to Achmed that they were traveling inward, away from the exterior that had been, in the Before-Time, encircled by the Progenitor Wyrm and down into the narrow, regular Vault that the dragons had built in that Age to contain the Firstborn creatures which had sought nothing but glorious destruction and chaos.

And then there was the frozen stone.

Jarmon had warned him that the bottom of the Vault was eternally cold, but that had not been sufficient to describe the sensation that numbed his skin-web as they traveled farther into the silent prison. All light was gone now, except for the glowing spores and lightning-bug fluid that he had brought, and even the radiance of those things, made by nature to illuminate the darkness, only served to make the trek even more unbearable. The walls of the Vault were covered in frost, something that he never seen in the hallways and tunnels of Ylorc.

But when they finally reached the lowest level of the place, it was impossible not to know it.

The dry air of the Vault had long since lost its edge, the ability to desiccate the throat and nasal passages in what was obviously the presence of some sort of source or sources of water. But now water was everywhere, leaking in great streams of what in the dark looked like clear blood, puddling on the flat surfaces and pathways, until the water sword itself quivered in his hand, shaking like a dog to clear itself of the clammy condensation.

Jarmon's frailty slowed them greatly as they went deeper, but Achmed was loath to hurry him. The soldier had kept up a more or less constant patter when traveling what had been inhabited areas of the upper Vault, but once they had gone past the point of any light or sound, he turned inward, walking so quietly that Achmed could barely hear him.

The thought had occurred to him that he might be able to track the man by his heartbeat; Jarmon had been born on the Island, and therefore should have been among those to whom he still had a connection. But after trying and failing to find the soldier's internal rhythm, he remembered, annoyed at himself, that he was accompanying an entity that had been dead more than two thousand years, whose heartbeat had ceased when the doors of the Vault had slammed shut behind him.

For a long time they had been walking and skidding over pools of ice on a flat surface. Most of the Vault was built of inclines, but now it seemed as if they were following a prescribed route, an enormous and endlessly high hallway leading to only one destination.

Ahead of them, a gigantic opening loomed, a high archway that, like every other elevated place in the bottom of the Vault, had dripped water for Time Uncounted. The frigid cold had frozen the streams from which the water had cascaded, lending the appearance of fanglike teeth jutting from the top of the archway, a devouring mouth open to the only terminus, which seemed to be the throat and stomach of some beast of gargantuan proportions.

There is nothing to be lost here,
Achmed reminded himself as he followed the shaking Jarmon, the cold light of the soldier's glowing spore flashing nervously about the tunnel walls from his shaking.
Any soul I ever had is beyond the reach of this place now.

Graal's sweet face, reflecting his own eyes, appeared in his mind, reproaching him for the error of his thoughts.

Now the sound of water returned to the airless tunnel, the rush and whoosh accentuating the rising noise of cackling-crackling again.

The closer they came to the arched entranceway, the louder the voices became, all of the cacophony that Achmed had endured in the upper reaches of the Vault, magnified and elongated by their impact on whatever ceiling lay beyond the doorway.

Chanting could be heard, a deep and resonant sound that had the feel of charnel houses to it, words that he could not understand but knew to be obscene, profane, against the pounding of deep drums, the percussion of hate and rage echoing through the frozen walls. Above that deep sound, high, sliding notes of panic and pain, wild and insane laughter, weeping and bellowing, shouting of execution commands and the catcalls of blood-sport arenas all greeted them as they approached.

Achmed slowed to a stop. “Wait,” he whispered to Jarmon.

The soldier shrugged nervously as he continued his shaking dance. “I'm in no hurry, King Ysk,” he said. “Take your time, by all means.”

The Bolg king's eyes scanned the immense threshold over which he was about to step, in sight, sound, and tactile sensation truly the most vile place he had ever beheld in a long lifetime of vile, onerous places traveled.
My life was a succession of dark paths,
he thought,
leading to this place of ultimate despair. If this is to be the end, I deserve the benefit of one last remembrance of those few things that I did right, the memories of those that I loved, to be my penultimate thoughts, not this poisonous darkness.

He closed his eyes and, searching for the freshest memory he could find, summoned the image of the face that had taught him the meaning of friendship, the great grinning tusked smile beneath amber eyes that were always filled with humor and respect. In this particular recollection, Grunthor was sitting at a table, a handful of cards spread in front of him, comically whimpering or laughing aloud in the course of a game of Crusher.

Achmed's throat constricted as next he recalled the image of the person across the table from the Sergeant-Major, her face set in a comically serious expression of concentration, as if the outcome of the Firbolg card game were critical to the survival of the world itself.

Then, as she had done not so very long ago, the image of Rhapsody put down her cards and looked at him, rising and coming to him. Her smile had brought warmth and light to the longhouse, as well as to his heart, a heart that for most of its existence was almost as dark as the threshold he was about to cross. Achmed's strength of memory was such that he could almost feel her embrace, could banish the hideous odors of the Vault from his nostrils long enough to inhale and recall the scent of soap and spice, vanilla, and meadow flowers.

I love you, you petulant thing.

He gritted his teeth as the sight of her face in his memory turned to another night, as she listened to his words, tears in her beautiful eyes. His own voice filled his ears.

Whether you believe it or not, I do love you. In that way. And have for as long as I can remember. In fact, even though I know there was one, I can't recall a time when I didn't.

I'm glad I finally got the chance to tell her, at least once,
he thought, keeping the image of her behind tightly closed eyes.
Grunthor nagged me for a thousand years to do it—he would be glad as well.

When the image of Rhapsody looked up and her eyes met his, it was a recollection from the last time that they had, smiling over a glowing child that they had made together.

A last moment of joy, just before the world had fallen down around them.

Achmed exhaled slowly as the image began to fade, thankful that he could still summon a memory of times that had been happy in the black underbelly of the world.

This place has less power than I feared,
he thought.
Even if this is the end, I take what I choose to remember with me.

He swallowed, then cleared his throat.

“All right, Jarmon—here we go.”

*   *   *

Finally, they passed through the opening.

There they saw that they were on the elevated dam walls of a monstrous lake or, more correctly, a pool, filled with turgid black water, the crests of its churning waves capped in ice. The water was far below them, and in that water floated countless souls, beings of every race, their faces uniformly gray, struggling helplessly in the filthy drift. Achmed's throat tightened again at the sight of misery beyond anything he had ever seen, tiny children tossed and pulled under, to emerge, gasping, moments later, men and women in armor, struggling to get to the surface before they were dragged down again, old people battered by the current, bobbing helplessly.

None of whom seemed to have the blessed option of death.

All around, perched and floating high above the tribulation, winking flames of hatred leered, laughing, squealing, and chortling in malicious glee. Thousands of them, far more than Achmed had ever imagined could still be alive, given the numbers in the lore and the expeditious work of the Gaol, the Dhracian hunters over the millennia, tracking and destroying their kind.