The Weaver's Lament (44 page)

The water around him began to race toward the hole. Achmed swam to the surface and signaled to Jarmon.

“Try to be calm,” he shouted over the flailing of the panicking shadows. “It will all be over soon, one way or another.”

*   *   *

After an indeterminate amount of time, the frigid water of the dark lake had drained, and the Bolg king sat at the edge of the hole in the floor of the Vault of the Underworld.

He was listening to the silence.

Jarmon had managed to help him round up the Lost, as they had been called, empty, lifeless souls without memories of who they had been or where they had even come from, men, women, and children who nonetheless complied with the dead soldier's commands and had formed an enormous line, waiting to enter the corridor through which the waters of the icy lake had drained.

“Take them into the corridor beyond the door, and wait for me there,” the Bolg king had instructed.

Jarmon nodded.

Once the Lost had left the cavern, Achmed stood alone in the center of what had been the lake, listening to the silence.

He thought of the Dhracians he had known, Father Halphasion, the Grandmother, and Rath, and those he had met in the course of the Hunt, when he had deigned to join it. Stalwart protectors, with no thought of any life beyond the endless vigilance demanded of their race; he wished they could have been there, just for a moment, to see the Vault, now empty.

He thought of the night when he and Rath had sat out atop one of the peaks of Canrif, the ancient Dhracian telling him of his heritage, of his mother, of the race that sought him endlessly, wanting to bring him into the Common Mind so that he could be one of them.

Rath had looked at him with his strange, scleraless eyes, imparting all of the seriousness of his belief.

You could walk the Vault alone, and when you were done the silence would ring with nothing but the whisper of your name.

He closed his eyes, feeling the echo of the silence.

Ysk,
the Bolg had called him. A grievous insult, the word for spittle or vomit. And yet from that race, that name, he had gained the lore to walk this place, to have standing here.

To vanquish it.

“Ysk,” he whispered.

The circular vault caught the sounds and spun them around, ascending and descending what had once been the thoracic cavity of the first dragon in the world.

Ysk—Ysk—Ysk—Ysk—Ysk—Ysk—

Even as it layered onto itself, there was a fricative percussion to it, almost like the hand drums that the monks had played in the monastery where he had sought sanctuary as a youth, where he had been brought, close to death, by the first person who had ever shown him mercy and kindness.

In his mind he could hear the voice of Father Halphasion, the gentle Dhracian monk, as the priest bound up the wounds he had sustained in his escape from the Bolg. He could almost smell the candle wax of the monastery.

Child of Blood—brother to all men, akin to none.

He whispered those words next, listening with his eyes closed to them rise and fall in the dusty air, repeated endlessly, as if dancing with the fricative name the Bolg had called him.

Brother—the Brother—the Brother—the—

And then, a sweet voice, recently having achieved Namer status, even though she hadn't known it yet, spoke in the now-comforting darkness of his thoughts.

This is my Brother—Achmed—the Snake.

His voice trembled as he whispered the name she had given him, hearing the Vault ring with it.

Achmed—the—Snake—Achmed—the—Snake—Achmed—the—Achmed—Achmed—Ach—

Achmed clenched his jaw in memory, then spoke the names by which the Firbolg had called him.

Firbolg king, the Night Man, the Earth Swallower, the Glowering Eye.

The song of his name was beginning to become cacophonous, ugly almost, as all the appellations by which he had been called over the course of his lengthy life were clashing with each other, thick in the air.

He waited until each of them had winked out, like a disembodied F'dor spirit in the air of the upworld.

And then thought hard, trying as much as possible to recall the exact tone of voice, difficult given that it was the only one of all the names he had ever been given that had only ever been spoken once.

Welcome, little one. Meet your father.

The name rang like a small silver bell in the dark torture chamber.

Then it swelled to a symphonic sound, bright and warm, harmonic.

Until it descended again, into a quiet echo.

Father.

Achmed smiled at the overwhelming irony.

This would have been an even better name to have chosen if I wanted to hide it,
he thought.
No one ever would have guessed it.

He contemplated the only time he had used that word to address someone, Father Halphasion, his mentor and rescuer. The humble monk, brutally killed for a few coins given to a group of poor men, who had truly been the only parental figure he had ever known, not a father of blood, just as he was not to Graal, but of love, and sacrifice.

He stood in the silence of the Vault echoing with the word, only a whisper now.

Father—father—father—father—father—fa—fa—fa—

The Bolg king listened to the repetitive song until the word finally dissipated, leaving no sound whatsoever.

Well, listen to that, Rath,
he thought in wry amusement.
Turns out you were right after all.

He thought again for a moment about the ancient Dhracian, serving as guardian to the Sleeping Child, and hoped that his oldest child knew that she no longer had anything to fear from the Earth but the other Sleeping Child that slumbered within it.

With any luck, not for much longer,
he thought.

He turned and went into the corridor, looking at the line of gray-faced souls, numb and terrified, with Jarmon at the lead, a glowing tube of firefly liquid in his remaining hand.

“I assume I don't have to remind you all of the need for silence,” he said tonelessly.

The shades nodded or just stared in the requested state.

“Very well,” Achmed said. “Follow me—let's go find paradise.”

 

42

OUTSIDE THE VAULT WITHIN THE DEEP EARTH

Beyond the door that had not been opened but once in all of history, the Earth was wet, dripping moisture from the radix, the hair-like roots that had filled its vast caverns and shallow tunnels all through the journey that the Three had once made through it. The scent filled Achmed's nostrils immediately, making him shiver with memory.

The rough tunnel branched off in numerous directions, some into even larger openings, some that withered down to dead ends.

The Lost, however, lost no longer, seemed to know exactly where to go.

Before Achmed could lead them anywhere, the gray-faced souls turned rapidly in multiple directions and quickly made their way, as if summoned, to different passages in the tunnel. It almost seemed as if they were in no need of following the openings, but rather rose slightly off the ground as they passed into the Earth, like dandelion seeds on a warm summer wind, disappearing into the black, cold darkness.

Achmed turned to see the desiccated corpse that had once been the soldier named Jarmon waiting beside him, still holding the glowing vial aloft, even as its light was beginning to dim.

There was an expression that he recognized on the dead soldier's face, one that he had seen many times on that of his best friend. Occasionally over the years he had known Grunthor he had caught a glimpse of longing, for what Achmed had never been certain, but clearly something other than what they were undertaking. It would disappear as fast as it came, as the stoic expression that came from military training returned.

Just as it was doing now on a face that was largely not even there.

Jarmon looked steadily forward, but it seemed to Achmed that his head was inclined slightly, as if listening to something on the underground wind.

“You hear a call?” he asked the skeletal man quietly.

Jarmon nodded slightly. “Aye.”

“Go, then,” Achmed said.

The soldier shook his head.

“Go,” Achmed said, a little more strongly. “Your service is over, to Hector, and to me. You said you would lead me through the Vault, and you have. That Vault is now empty, and we are beyond the door. If you hear a call, follow it. Thank you for your aid.”

Jarmon turned slowly and looked at the Bolg king.

“You are trapped here, you know,” he said sadly. “You passed through the Vault, but not over the threshold of death. I can't leave you alone here; it wouldn't be right.”

“Nonetheless, your service is ended,” Achmed said, smiling slightly. “Go. I hope you find peace.”

Jarmon's sunken, broken eyes fixed on him sadly. Then he lowered his head, resigned.

“Dismissed, soldier,” Achmed said. He gave him an uncomfortable salute.

The animated corpse that was Jarmon chuckled in spite of himself. He put the vial of glowing fluid between his broken teeth, returned the salute with his remaining arm, then turned and walked away into the darkness, where he disappeared, dissolving almost before the Bolg king's eyes.

Leaving him alone in the emptiness of the bowels of the Earth.

*   *   *

For a very long time, Achmed stood in the tunnel, lost in memory.

He was ruminating about the time he, Grunthor, and Rhapsody had spent, somewhere in the depths of the world, crawling along the Root of Sagia, known in Serendair as the Oak of Deep Roots, which had grown to gargantuan lengths, wound around the Axis Mundi, the line of power that was the centerline within the Earth.

One night, or rather, the sleeping time they observed in a place of endless night, he had awakened Rhapsody, after assuring himself that Grunthor was deep in slumber, with the same words Meridion had greeted him with the last time they had been in each other's company.

I have a story for you,
he had said to the Lirin Singer, who was struggling to awaken from her nightmarish repose.
Its ending isn't written yet. Do you wish to hear it?

He had taken her hand and led her to a place where the ceiling of the tunnel was toweringly high, and pointed into the darkness.

Over there is a tunnel unlike the others we have followed. There have been many like it, but I doubt you've noticed them. The tunnels were not carved by the Tree's roots, but have been here long before its acorn was ever planted.

His eyes stung, remembering the look on her face in the shadows. He knew from her heartbeat that she was terrified and confused, but she had adopted a solemn, thoughtful expression, and merely nodded, listening.

Deep within that tunnel is a beating heart. You have asked repeatedly how I know where I am going. The answer is that I can sense almost any pulse in my skin. I know that what I am saying frightens you, because even though your outward expression has not changed, your heartbeat has quickened. If you become lost within this place, if you fall down a root shaft or are buried alive by a cave-in, I can find you, because I know the sound of your heart.

Her eyes had glistened in the glowing light of the Root, the only illumination below the ground, but he could see she understood what he was saying.

Achmed winced and closed his own eyes, remembering the panic and desolation of her death, of how in the end he had been able to do nothing to save her, his promises notwithstanding.

Listen to me,
he had continued.
I've been following a pulse. First it was that of the Tree itself, but once we found the Axis Mundi it changed; now I have been following that other heartbeat to this place. Something terrible rests in there, something more powerful and more horrifying than you can imagine, something I dare not even name. What sleeps within that tunnel, deep in the belly of the Earth, must not awake. Not ever. Do you understand me? You once said that you could prolong slumber—

Sometimes,
she had cautioned.

Yes,
he had continued softly.
I understand. This must be one of those times.

He had quietly continued to tell her the tale of the first of the race of dragons, the Progenitor Wyrm whose neck and head he had so recently seen in the Vault, of the theft of one of its original eggs, a wyrm-child that the demons had stolen away and kept, deep in the frozen wastes of the Earth's interior, growing until its coils had wound around the very heart of the world. It was now, he had explained, an innate part of the Earth itself, its body a large part of its mass.

It sleeps now,
he had told her,
but soon that demon wishes to summon it, and will visit it upon the land. Rhapsody, I can't explain its size to you, except to say that Sagia's trunkroot was a mere piece of twine in comparison to the taproot, yes?

Yes,
he could still hear her whisper.

And the taproot was a thread compared to the Axis Mundi. The Axis Mundi is like one of your hairs in comparison to this creature. It has the power to consume the Earth; that was the intent of the thieves who put it here. It awaits the demon's call, which I know for certain is intended to come soon. I know this, because he planned to use me to help bring this about.

He had to admit a grudging admiration when she had nodded rather than panicking.

You named me Achmed the Snake because it sounded frightening to you, didn't you?
he had asked her.

Yes,
she acknowledged.
I told you that a long time ago. And I've been embarrassed about it ever since.

Perhaps you shouldn't be. It may have been the only thing that allowed me to find the tunnel. When I was the Brother, I was tied only to the blood of men and women. It may have been the serpent name you gave me that helped me hear this beating heart.