Sorore, as punishment for her transgression, was forbidden to leave anywhere without an escort. Specifically, that escort would consist of Lillian and no one else. The fact that she had quite genuinely apologised for her carelessness did not matter, which she supposed was fair. She was led back to the altar, where Niche sat, with head bent and eyes closed. Lillian’s face went a little whiter at seeing that, but before she could say anything, Frare arose from one of the steps.
“You’re back,” he said, “how was it?”
“What?” Lillian said, confused by the sudden query.
“He’s asking me. You noticed I went,” she said, not remotely surprised.
“Of course. You weren’t subtle about it, Tyri,” he said, grinning.
“And apparently, despite that, Niche didn’t,” Lillian said bitterly, before her eyes grew wide, “and where is Aya?”
“Oh, she went off with Damafelce,” said Frare, “she promised to keep an eye on her.”
Lillian’s eyes returned to their natural state, but her face remained its paler shade.
“Am I the only one who does my duty properly?” she said to the ceiling, almost under her breath.
“Don’t deny that you could use some sleep too,” Frare said, “In fact, why don’t you sit down and take a measure. We only have so long.”
“I have work to do, lord Frare,” she said, “which, apparently, starts with finding lady Aya.”
The annoyance in her voice made it very clear that she wouldn’t even consider resting until Aya was secure.
“No need,” he said, pointing to where a small group had emerged from the side door as if he’d planned it.
Aya came over to them, looking a little paler than usual, but otherwise none the worse for her expedition
“Captain,” Lillian said stiffly, “thank you for looking after our charge.”
“Make no mention of it,” said Damafelce, lost in thought, “lighter than air, this one.”
The flush that crept up Aya’s neck was indicative of a story, and Lillian’s narrowed eyes suggested it contained an insult to her lady’s dignity.
“Now, I do need to get back to my preparations. We’ll see how the outer defences are being constructed. My lord and ladies,” she said, nodding to each, “paladin.”
“Wait, captain,” said Lillian, “what happened up there?”
“I don’t have quite the time to recount it, paladin,” she said with a wry smile, “Aya might be willing to share it, if she chooses.”
Lillian’s eyes narrowed further, boring into the captain, who seemed unperturbed.
“If you are going to say that, because you technically hold the same rank, you are entitled to more respect, don’t,” Damafelce said lightly, “I hold the command here for now. Let’s not get into what exactly each is entitled to right now.”
With that, she left Lillian and the children, the former growing paler as her anger rose. It subsided somewhat when Aya put a hand on her arm and gave her a smile.
“It’s fine,” she said, “I just got a little dizzy from the height, that’s it. Nothing wrong with a little joke.”
Lillian nodded, sighed, and went to kick Niche to wake him up, only to find Frare in her way.
“Lillian,” he said, with that confident tone, “sit down, and sleep. It wasn’t too long ago that you injured your arm. We need you.”
Lillian made to argue, then hung her head, and shrunk down to sit beside Niche. For the first time, lines and bags seemed to appear under her eyes. Sorore marvelled at just how quick the change from her strong, confident posture into something utterly drained occurred. Frare sat down beside them, crossing his arms and leaned back unto the stone wall.
“Don’t worry about them,” he said, waving to the girls, “I’ll make sure they stay right by you.”
“If I wake up, and find that any of you have gone without risk to life or limb, I will tie you up and keep you in a sack,” she said, with a venom that suggested that this was no idle threat.
“Ha! Agreed,” said Frare as he shut his own eyes.
Slowly, and not without struggling open twice or thrice, Lillian slowly sank onto the stone and began to breathe evenly. She and Niche looked younger when they slept, Sorore thought, far less severe and learned, barely into adulthood. She and Aya sat together on the foot of the altar, staring at the work that was taking place. People were setting up racks of weapons in the back wings, piling up furniture and wood scraps to make a barricade. Some of the older children sat, fleeching and carving makeshift arrows to fill quivers. Others, the younger, ran around or sat listless, talking frantically among themselves.
Most of the village, perhaps a couple hundred, had answered the call of the church, and had filed in during the afternoon, with more coming every so often. The men and woman had set to work fortifying at the soldier’s commands, leaving the children largely untended. Sorore had a moment of empathy as she watched a mother slap a child’s head, reprimanding him for some unruly offence. Maybe that was how Lillian felt when she’d seen her down below the church in those ghastly tombs.
The tombs. What a horrible, dark, cold place, and yet, she had felt life in the stones, the door in the deep. The mage had taught her how, and with a dark thrill, she realised that she must’ve been using magic. Then she immediately reprimanded herself - magic was wrong, something not to be used, something not even to be learned about, except perhaps to defend yourself from.
And yet, she had felt it, used it, and heard the words of the stone. ‘Impressions’ he had said, but she thought it was deeper than that. The stones indeed remembered what had been done to them, even thought about it, constantly. Had that been laid there intentionally, like a craftsman hiding their method in a weapon’s steel, or was it just a mere aftereffect of the creation process?
Despite her best attempts to quell it, to remind herself that she was delving into territory that was forbidden for good reason, something ignited in her. She wondered about the stone, where it had been quarried, or else, how it had been made, if such a thing was possible. How was it carved and shaped, what kind of tool could do such things?
She closed her eyes, trying to imagine the chisel or trowel that could do such things. It was made of crystal, she thought, embroidered with gold, heavy, yet slim, with a thick wooden handle for both hands. They would churn the stone, the craftsman that worked with this magic chisel, like butter or an oar in a canal, shaping it with deft, powerful strokes. It would flow like liquid, taking the place they were destined for, by the eye of the craftsman. She could almost feel the leather wrapping in hands, the chime-like sound as it sunk into the black rock.
“Are you alright?” Aya said, breaking out of her reverie, “your hands are shaking.”
Sorore opened her eyes and looked down at her hands. She quickly hid them, feeling her ears burn.
“Yes, I’m alright, thank you,” she said hurriedly, loath to admit they were shaking out of excitement.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
“It’s alright,” she said, bringing up her own hands, which were of a kind.
Sorore looked at the hands, and then at the girl’s face, where a slightly less, but still shaky smile, stood. Her own was stronger, and warm as she took the girl’s hands in her own. A fundamentally kind person, she thought as she squeezed them. More than ever, she wanted to make friends with her, and regretted that Aya’s journey was turning out like this.
“You know, I was going to make something for you, to commemorate your discovery,” she said.
“Really?”
“Yes!” said Sorore as she fished around in her sewn-on pocket, finding at last the little stone from the edge of Aya’s village, “here. It’s from… uh…”
Another wave of embarrassment washed over her as she realised that she didn’t even know the name of the village.
“Visaya,” said Aya, as she took the pebble gingerly, “thank you.”
“In Erratz, my home, we have a tradition. Necklaces and bracelets, to remember things,” she said, raising her wrist. The three for her Bequeathal, her first year in Angorrah society, and the final one, the one of home, all were explained to Aya.
Aya, for her part, wanted to know more about this port city that Sorore spoke so fondly of. Sorore was only too happy to indulge her, with stories about swimming in the great cistern, which channelled the water from the sea to drive great waterwheels.
“Half the city is built into a canyon, so they built an aqueduct out and a big container over the mines and quarries. It’s stopped with a great brass plate, held up by a chain they raise at the start of the work day,” she said, remembering fondly the guards that kept a close eye on the swimming children at sunrise and sunset.
The two dozen cattle, specially kept and bred for the purpose, dragged the great turn wheel that hauled up the chain. The thundering of the water as it flooded funnels and pipes, driving great belts that lifted up stone and ore from the mountain's side. The terraces of multicoloured tailing ponds, the great plumes of steam from the forges, the elevators used to go between all of them, all powered by the sea. Of course, the great bulk of the work was done in the morning, when the water pressure was the greatest, when the store was depleted, usually during the early afternoon, the workers would slow down and stop as dark swept over the valley.
Aya listened to all of this in rapt attention, occasionally offering questions as to the nature of mechanisms and what daily life was like. Sometimes she would offer exclamations of disbelief, or happy surprise. For a time, it seemed like any pain or worry were forgotten as shadows lengthened and the light outside began to fade. When Sorore had finally finished telling her about their house in the upper quarter on the plain across the canyon from the sea, they fell silent.
“I wish,” she said, “I wish I had much to tell. But I’ve nothing really. Nothing close to as interesting.”
“Try us,” said Frare, not even opening his eyes, but obviously following the conversation.
Aya gave a little laugh, and then, slowly and with many halts, began to tell of her life, of the small Visaya, tucked away in the mountains, and of her mother, and her grandmother in far off Karkos.
A dull red glow was emanating through the tall windows at the back of the altar when Aya was finished. Sorore looked around, and not finding anything of particular interest, stood up. She was hungry, and, judging how Frare was fidgeting, he was too. She helped Aya up, and looked at the sleeping forms of the paladins.
Before she could get them up, or do anything really, a sharp ringing pierced the still air. A gong, or maybe a bell of some kind, being rung repeatedly. Sorore hoped it was a single for a supper, but suspected it was more likely something to do with the attack. People were gathering into the cathedral, and the Damafelce had come over.
“Get them up,” the knight said, nodding to the paladins. Any sense of warmth or familiarity was gone - she stood tall and straight, iron in her face.
It took a few minutes to rouse them, but the paladins came to full wakefulness quickly, their eyes hardening as they saw the assembled force. Damafelce spoke with them in hushed tones, to which there was nodding and straight faces. If there was any animosity between them, it was put aside completely. The captain was in command, and the paladins were soldiers, and this was a battle. It was reassuring how easily they slipped into that role from teachers and guardians, Sorore thought.
Niche stood up on the altar, all traces of exhaustion nearly magically vanishing. In his heavy plate and with his sharp expression, he looked almost inspiring. Damafelce was also in full dress, her helm under one arm, surveying the crowd.
“Citizens!” she said, her voice resounding in the wide hall.
“We are the knights of Angorrah, and you are our charges. We shall fight to protect you and this place and we shall fall together!” she shouted.
“The enemy is coming, slowly, but surely. They will reach this place in perhaps an hour, perhaps two. Certainly as night falls. Now,,” she said, stepping down from the dais and approaching the villagers, who began to part before them.
“These are not brigands, or common criminals. They are not here to rob, rape and pillage. They are monsters, here to kill, without distinction. Old or young, poor or rich, man or woman, it matters nothing to them. Fight, or be hunted down! Paladin Niche, tell of the threat.”
Niche took a moment to compose himself, reaching for that fold of his armour where surely the book sat. He seemed to think better of it, and turned the gesture into a cough, before raising his voice.
“The wretched things take human-like shape, but twisted, corrupted. They bring a fell fog that inspires terror. Some are big, slow and strong, strong enough to smash a man’s head in or break his back. Some are smaller, faster, armed with fangs and claws!”
The ending superlative cracked upwards, indicating that he wasn’t used to giving this type of speech. Damafelce’s clipped efficiency was passable, but she wasn’t inspiring. Sorore’s eyes met Aya, and she was certain they’d had the same thought. What would Naia have done? What tact would he have taken?
Either way, the dye was cast, the villagers shuffled around, but held the leader’s gaze.
“Now, to arms!” Damafelce called, “defend your land, obey your orders, give no mercy, and expect none!”
They began to break apart and move into the assigned groups, Damafelce walking behind them, speaking with captains and aides. Niche returned to them looking decidedly unpleased. Lillian smiled thinly at him as she pulled a leather strap taught on her gauntlet.
“We need to work on your ability to speak freely, Niche,” she said.
He chuckled grimly.
“Save my oratory for after the battle, Lillian,” he said, “now, you three, along with all the children, will be going up to the roof. They don’t have a history of throwing things, at least not that high. It’ll be the last line.”
Before any of them could speak, he held up his hand.
“We’ll be with you, with some of the women and men, and…” he sighed, “the mage.”
That swelled some hope in Sorore’s breast, even as she tried to crush it. It was improper to feel joy at a mage’s presence.
Niche took them by the shoulders, and gave a look that Sorore didn’t even know he could make. It wasn’t withering exactly, but she felt some part of herself falter in response to it. Maybe some stored away portion that imagined glorious deeds, or some nonsense like that. His voice was softer, forcing them to listen, but his eyes were keener than she’d ever seen them.
“Listen. Now. There’s something important you need to understand,” he said, “you are Bequeathed. You are more important than us, you are more important than the captain, the soldiers, the villagers, and you are far, far more important than the mage.”
He squeezed the shoulders of Frare and Sorore gently, but firmly.
“Do not do anything reckless or foolish tonight. Tonight, and tomorrow are nights to be safe, to be conservative, and to think of your own survival above all else. If that means abandoning me, or Lillian, or the soldiers, or even the children, do it, without question or hesitation. We are not as important as you are.”
If any of the three wanted to say anything, the look from Niche would’ve stopped them dead.
“I want you to repeat after me, now: ‘my survival comes first, before anyone else’.”
The three dutifully repeated after him.
‘If I have to abandon others, no matter who, I will do it.’
Sorore’s heart tightened as she imagined Niche vanishing into the clutches of some shadowy monster, or about the faces of the little children in the church.
“If I am issued an order from you, I will follow, without hesitation or question.”
Frare didn’t even show any such compunction about following the edict. That, perhaps more than anything else, is what planted the kernel of fear within Sorore.
“If I should be separated, or should my need dictate, I will flee to the Alonshaze, with all the speed I can manage.”
Niche took the time to indicate the direction of it to Aya, and explained the mountain pass they’d been on so long ago. Aya nodded with solemnity, her eyes locked on the face of the paladin.
“My responsibility lies to Angorrah, and my destiny leads there, above all else.”
With that final oath sworn, he stood back up, and the grim expression melted into a soft smile. Sorore, in that instance, realised that she was quite fond of the man. She wanted to hear another lecture from him, despite him not being the best speaker. She wanted to watch her brother fight Lillian again in the near future, and inevitably end up on his ass. She wanted to speak with the mage about the music in the stone.
They were taken up the winding step, Niche at their front, Lillian at their back. They emerged out into the evening, as the last of the reds faded into purples and the deep black-blue of night claimed the sky. It was still murky, but the moon was out in full, the bright lights of the stars occasionally shone through the wisp of clouds.
They were led out before the group of huddled children, surrounded by men armed with crude spears and bows. Women with quivers and brands whispered comfort to the children, who asked why they were out in the cold, whether there really were monsters coming, promising to be good, complaining that they were hungry.
The kernel had blossomed with their words into a full flower of fear. Defenders were posted at the lower walls blocking fall. At the other end of the roof, flanked by the cat creature, her charcoal fur glowing with reds and yellow, and the tall, bald Claralelle, stood the mage.
All three were looking out toward either end of the valley, speaking in hushed tones as the night drew on. Sorore more than anything wanted to go and speak to him, to look out with him. But that would be foolish with the paladins looking on. So, instead, she sat with Aya and Frare, as the night grew colder, and the last vestiges of sunlight vanished over the eastern horizon.
Still, the minutes bared on, with only a light wind offering any sound to break the unnatural silence. As time passed, Sorore began to stand up and pace on her narrow stretch of walkway. Aya merely huddled her knees close to her chest as she looked out into the dark. Frare, however, was still, stiller than she’d ever seen, eyes closed and legs crossed.
Fires began to rise, little flickers of red and orange, including their own defenders on the church battlements. If the cat, who seemed to possess a fiery attribute as close as Sorore could tell, was helping, it did not show.
Yet more time passed, the flower of fear and the smothering, dragging cold being now complemented by another, horribly familiar feeling. It closed in around her, an icy hand around her heart, its grip growing stronger with every passing moment. It was the cold of the unnatural fog, the cold of the twisted things, and as Sorore turned her eyes around she could see the fear growing in all the men stationed.
Only the paladins didn’t seem to fear, though their faces grew even more severe as they glared out into the darkness. The mage and his cadre also appeared unmoved, no doubt having some sort of protection against it.
Sorore then looked out across the battlements, across the garden and graveyard, and the great black wall, and fell upon the town. The houses were vanishing, slowly but unmistakably, under a blanket of fog that shone silver in the moonlight. It was moving up the hill, swallowing the tree and cobbles and buildings as it rose up in a wave of terror.
From the distance, muffled as if behind walls or underneath snow, came shrieks, and howls, and guttural moans. They grew in frequency and volume, joined by chittering and high keening sounds as the fog swept up the slope and jerking shadows advanced from its depths. It took perhaps a quarter hour for the hill to be swallowed, the horrible sounds growing with each minute.
As it came up the road to the church wall, the mage waved a hand, and silvery light flickered to life above the battlefield, casting everything in a soft grey. The men looked up, exclaiming in awe at the sudden illumination. Maybe it even brought some hope to them. But up on the roof of the church, the light brought more terror than comfort.
For, in the road, past the wall, jerking and shambling, skittering on many malformed feet, or trudging on malformed trunks, came the horrors from the fog.