And once again, she fell into dreaming.
Rhapsody ran trembling fingers over Meridion’s downy hair. Too weak to sing, she started to hum the musical note that was his own, ela, the same as her own, the sixth note of the scale, the New Beginning, hoping it would give him some strength, or at least some ease.
She thought back to the times that singing her note had brought her comfort, had served to remind her of the star beneath which she had been born, and her tie to it that remained, even when she was entombed in the Earth, crawling along the Axis Mundi. As the air of the cave became thinner she felt warm and light-headed; in her mind it was easy to believe she was crawling along the Root again, fighting the vermin that fed off it, struggling to survive, teaching Grunthor to read as he taught her to fight, following Achmed as he guided them all through the endless tunnels of darkness, confident in his unerring path lore.
I gave that to him, she mused as Meridion gasped for air, tears she did not feel falling from her eyes onto his fragile skin. What was the name I called him by, that allowed him to pass through the fire at the Earth’s core, unharmed? The darkness seemed to grow thicker. Oh, yes. Unerring tracker. The Pathfinder. Firbolg, Dhracian, Assassin, Firstborn.
My friend.
She felt too dizzy to turn her head, but she sensed his eyes might be on her in the dark, able to see in the dimness as cave dwellers could. She thought of Grunthor, and how easily he could travel through tunnels and caverns, and of the name she had given him, too, the lore that had allowed for his safe passage through the fire as well.
Child of sand and open sky, son of the caves and lands of darkness. Bengard, Firbolg. The Sergeant-Major. My trainer, my protector. The Lord of Deadly Weapons. The Ultimate Authority, to Be Obeyed at All Costs. Faithful friend, strong and reliable as the Earth itself. It had been the nomenclature that had tied Grunthor to the Earth, had allowed its heartbeat to echo in his own.
In the deepening fuzziness something occurred to her.
No, he was already tied to it, she thought hazily. Elynsynos once said that the race of Firbolg came from a pairing of Children of Earth, the race of the Sleeping Child, and Kith, the Firstborn race born of elemental wind. The name itself, Fir-bolga, meant wind of the earth. So he had that tie from birth, she mused.
With great effort she brought her son’s head to her lips.
Wind of the Earth. The words were louder, as if she was hearing them from somewhere—or someone else.
Suddenly the darkness cleared.
The perimeter of Ylorc secured, Grunthor made his way in the dark down the long earthen tunnel to the Loritorium, trembling with fear at what he might find in the wake of the dragon’s attack.
As he crested the mound of rubble, the last barrier between the upworld and the Child of Earth, his face was brushed by the cool rush of air in the underground chamber, a wind of the earth that carried with it a sense of ease he had not felt in a long time.
He made his way down the moraine as quietly as he was able and approached the sepulcher, relief spreading over his broad face.
The Child slept on, undisturbed, her smooth face of polished stone cold and dry, her eyelids motionless. The sunken circles around the bones of her face had vanished, the withering of her body had ceased. The tides of her breath were gentle, rhythmic, in tune with the beating heart of the Earth he could feel in his soul. Grunthor would not have been able to form words to explain what he was witnessing, but the return of well-being to the subterranean chamber which had seen so much destruction was palpable.
He leaned over carefully and pressed his bulbous lips against her forehead, finding it cool, its tension gone.
“Sweet dreams, darlin’,” he whispered.
Rhapsody struggled to sit up. She carefully lowered Meridion onto Achmed’s lap and, seeing his hands clasp around the child in surprise, turned to the wall that had once been the body of her father-in-law, a kindly, scholarly man whose desire to right the wrongs of his youth and his family had severed him from the family he so dearly wanted to see prosper.
Now was nothing more than a vessel of fired elemental earth.
Her hands trembled as she clutched at the wall.
From her throat came a sound that Achmed had never heard before, a harsh, guttural noise that vibrated against his sensitive eardrums, issued forth from deep within her. At first he didn’t recognize the words, discordant and coarse as the noise was. A moment later he realized what she was chanting . . . in Bolgish.
“By the Star,” Rhapsody chanted from deep within her throat, “I will wait, I will watch, I will call and will be heard.”
She’s calling for a Kinsman, he noted absently, looking down at the tiny baby in his arms. It’s a waste of time, and air. But stopping her could waste even more. Let her cling to worthless hope; it’s not going to matter.
“Grunthor,” she intoned in the same scratchy vibration, almost a moan now, “strong and—reliable as—the Earth—itself.”
Nothing happened.
Achmed’s head throbbed from the sound.
“Stop it, Rhapsody,” he muttered.
She shook her head, still clutching the wall, and continued to intone the call, over and over, from deep within her throat. She continued to sing for what seemed like forever, until stars began to swim in Achmed’s eyes.
Darkness came for him.
47
Anborn could hear the screaming even above the cacophonous noise of the tannery.
Night was falling, and the city of Jierna’sid was beginning to shut down its legitimate operations for the night. It was during such time that the Lord Marshal took the opportunity to sleep, as the later hours were some of his prime time for watchfulness, when many of the more nefarious aspects of the city’s operations were revealed. Thus he was in the throes of a fitful slumber in his cubby beneath the leathermaker’s shop when Faron returned to the city.
The titan had emerged at the far end of the main thoroughfare that bisected Jierna’sid, leading at its terminus to Jierna Tal itself.
The sounds of strife at first were unnoticeable to the townspeople of Jierna’sid, who continued with their nightly preparations; the merchants closed their booths, the soldiers maintained their patrols, the workmen struggled to get a little more of their tasks finished in the fading moments of light. But Anborn’s ears were more sensitive, whether from his centuries of military leadership or the latent dragon blood in his veins, he was aware almost immediately of the sound of panic.
By the time he had dragged himself to the opening of the alcove, the town itself had begun to recognize that something terrible was wrong, and it was coming toward them.
From the western gate of the city a shadow was lumbering, a titanic shadow the color of the desert earth in the fading light of the sun. Anborn could feel its approach in the tremors that resounded through the cobbled streets.
God’s underpants, he thought to himself. In this place of routine horror, what could possibly be so terrifying?
The answer followed a moment later in the twang of bowstrings and the shouted orders of a full cohort of soldiers running forth from the barracks at Jierna Tal toward the western gate.
Screams rent the air as the soldiers who had been stationed at the western gate charged the gigantic man, a soldier of primitive race by his garb and flat facial features, with eyes of a milky sheen that seemed intently fixed on the palace of Jierna Tal. In a great fountain of blood the charge was rebuffed; bodies were hurled left and right, smashed into oxcarts and torn asunder, their limbs tossed aside as easily as chaff in front of the thresher.