The Weaver's Lament (2 page)

But since one of those two people was not cooperating, and the other would be arriving from the south shortly, he had decided to undertake a journey to check on his Wings, the network of carefully bred and selected horseflesh that he kept in secret stables across the continent for his personal use, which allowed him to traverse substantial distances in minimal time.

It was as good an excuse to leave the mountains without a guard regiment as any.

Achmed pushed his cloak back over his shoulders and crossed his arms, then turned around, taking in the sight of the forest to the west, the Krevensfield Plain behind him, and, in the distance, the jagged mountains to the south known as the Teeth, the cousins to the mountains of his own kingdom.

His eyes narrowed as the memory he sought returned.

The last time he had been here had been in the throes of the War of the Known World, the last intercontinental conflict the Cymrian Alliance, to which his kingdom was a signatory member, had suffered. A millennium had passed since those days, a largely peaceful time in which great advances in architecture, mechanics, medicine, and machinery had been made in Roland, the central nation in the breadbasket of the continent; political strife and diplomacy had been undertaken in the former empire of Sorbold, where now seventeen city-states, most of them members of the Alliance as well, had sorted themselves out of the destruction of that broken empire into independence; and his own kingdom had continued to rebuild and grow its military might. A substantial amount of progress had been made on all of those fronts—the center, southern, and eastern lands of the Middle Continent.

But here at the outskirts of Tyrian, the western coastal region covered mostly in thick, primeval forest, the view could easily have passed for that time long ago when last he had stood in this place.

It also could have reasonably been mistaken for a moment even longer ago when he had first stood there, upon coming to this continent.

Achmed knew that the primitive appearance of the forest was in many ways an illusion. Tyrian had undergone great progress in the last thousand years as well; healing centers and repositories of lore had been erected within the arms of the great wood, along with improved defenses and cooperatives for agriculture from which the Lirin fed much of the northern lands that could not grow their own food. But all of that millennial progress had been undertaken with an eye toward preserving the innocence of the forest, the natural antiquity of the land, and so it was not surprising that he was seeing now what his eyes had seen a thousand years before.

In the near distance to the south, he caught a trace of a familiar heartbeat approaching.

The Bolg king smiled slightly.

When counted in real time, his familiarity with that heartbeat had a history of almost three thousand years. He had walked, hidden, fought, and slept beside it on two sides of Time, and of the world as well—as well as in the world's belly.

It thudded mightily on the wind, but less so than it had in the Past.

He walked back to the horse and stood beside it, waiting.

A few moments later, a mount of almost twice his horse's size appeared over the edge of a swale in the forest road coming from the south. Atop it was his oldest friend in the world, the massive Sergeant-Major whose actual title was Supreme Commander of the forces of the mountainous realm of Ylorc, far to the other side of the continent, at its eastern edge, but who chose to be called Sergeant by his troops.

Grunthor by his friends.

From a distance, the giant grinned in greeting, but maintained his steady canter.

Jutting from the bandolier he wore, the hilts and handles of an impressive collection of bladed weapons still stood at the ready, as they had on both sides of Time, making him appear to have a sinister sun rising behind him, or as if he were the center of a monstrous daisy. His seat on the specially bred horse was as natural as it had ever been, his seven-and-a-half-foot frame sitting erect, without a nod to age or the damage he had sustained over his lifetime, more through sheer force of will than anything else.

Achmed, arms still crossed, assessed his friend's health and stamina as the giant rode closer, displeased with what he witnessed. While he had noticed no signs of aging or decline in his own status for the last millennium or so, nor had he seen a wrinkle or graying of hair on Rhapsody the last time he had been in her presence, the third member of the Three was not faring as well. His shaggy hair and beard, once an impressive shade of burnt orange and the thick consistency of a horse's mane, were sparser and gray; his skin, the color of old bruises, seemed more sallow than the last time Achmed had beheld him, which had not been that long ago.

But the grin was still bright, the eyes twinkling in the aging face.

Given the two races from which he was descended, Achmed thought, it was impressive that Grunthor was still moving autonomously at all. His father had been Firbolg, the race of demi-human hybrids that careful medical attention and a thousand years of peace had managed to bring to an average life span of forty years. Grunthor's mother was Bengard, one of the long-dead race of enormous desert dwellers who were impossible to gauge years for, owing to their love of bloodsport and arena fighting. The Bengard had put a premium on living bravely and dying young gloriously.

The fact that both of the only friends he'd ever had were still living was a miracle.

Achmed exhaled, lost in memory.

The new world had not been new for a long time, he mused; the places that he and the other two of the Three had discovered upon coming through the Root of the great world tree Sagia from their island homeland of Serendair were no longer fresh or alien, but dull in their familiarity. He and Grunthor had together completely restored, reoutfitted, and reenvisioned the massive, mountainous city-state of Ylorc, carved into the eastern Teeth almost three millennia before by Gwylliam the Visionary and left in ruins by the Cymrian War a thousand years later. The secrets in those endless, broken tunnels had all been found, the mysteries had all been solved; now the Bolg army, half a million strong, was the best-outfitted and best-trained fighting force on the continent, perhaps in the Known World, but it had seen nothing but military exercises and war games, with no live battle, for many centuries.

All that peace was aging Grunthor, a child of the arena and the battlefield, Achmed knew, even more than some of the cost of war he was paying from ten centuries before.

“Well met,” he said to the Sergeant as he drew his enormous horse to a halt.

The giant pulled off his helm, ran a hand through his sweaty hair, and nodded.

“Well, 'allo, sir,” he said cheerfully. “Glad ta see you, too. Where's the Duchess?”

“Late. Are you surprised?”

“Not a bit. All well in Ylorc?”

Achmed watched as Grunthor dismounted slowly, shaking the ground as he alighted. “Indeed. The vineyards are beginning the first round of harvest. Looks to be a fine one this year—if the weather holds as the Invoker predicts, we should even get a late third, an ice wine that they'll love in Marincaer, the simpletons. How were your travels?”

The Sergeant-Major's smile dissolved into a solemn expression. “Buried Trom.”

The Bolg king exhaled. “I'm sorry.” Grunthor's success as the sire of a multitude of Bolgish children with superior genes for war, originally propagated as a side effect of one of his favorite appetites, had so far produced thirty-seven generations, the first round of which had been gone for nine centuries—except for Trom.

While all of the mothers of his other children in the first generation, Bolg women of various levels of stature, were long deceased, Trom's mother had been Lelik, a Finder, spawned of the rape of a First Generation Cymrian, probably a woman, and one of the first ranks of Firbolg who overran Canrif, as Ylorc was known at the time, in the days following Gwylliam's death and the evacuation of the mountains by Anborn, Gwylliam's son and general, a millennium and a half before the Three had come to the continent.

Her Cymrian ancestry meant that she was exceptionally long-lived.

Lelik had become one of Achmed's second round of Archons, the select caste of Bolg who had been determined to be of leadership ability, and the mother of one of Grunthor's first children. The extraordinary longevity Trom inherited from his Cymrian/Firbolg mother, in concert with the apparent immortality of his father, had allowed Grunthor the pleasure of keeping a child over the centuries, when all of his other progeny had come and gone in what seemed the wink of an eye. It had also allowed for at least some duration of an individual woman's company, the only example of it Achmed knew of in Grunthor's life on either side of Time.

Trom's demise was the end of an era, even if that era only had one successful example of procreation and female companionship.

Grunthor made a gesture brushing off the sympathy.

“Well, thank ya, sir, but it was time. Long past, rather—'e'd lost the use of 'is legs and other functions long ago; no soldier wants to live like that.”

“I suppose not. How many did you get out of that line, do you suppose?”

“Dunno,” said the giant cheerfully. “Twen'y or more generations. Think Oi still see new litters of Trom's ‘Greats' every now an' then. Lookin' forward to gettin' back to Ylorc an' knockin' out a few more brand-new ones o' my own.”

Achmed smirked. “No luck in the pleasure palaces of the former Sorbold, eh?”

Grunthor shook his head. “Lost my taste fer women other'an Bolg a long time ago, sir. Well, at least
that
kind o' taste. Always willin' to snack on a few Lirin, but seems that's frowned upon nowadays.”

“Truly we have lived too long. Well, best of luck with the new crop. If you keep at it, you may even catch up with Rhapsody. How many brats has she pushed out so far?”

“Still only six,” came a voice in their ears, as if from the air around them. “And you would both know if anything had occurred otherwise, given that one of you is godfather to each of them, and the other is guardian to them all.”

Both men looked around them in surprise.

“Where are you?” Achmed demanded of the air.

“On my way. You're standing in the vibrational buffer zone surrounding Tyrian, Achmed, you idiot. You didn't think I, and every communications specialist in the Lirin army, could hear you? And yes, snacking on Lirin is still considered frowned upon, Grunthor. Now back up about three hundred paces and, for the love of God, the One, the All, stop talking until I get there.”

The two men looked at each other, then dissolved into quiet snickering.

Achmed sought her heartbeat on the wind and caught it a moment later, a strong, steady rhythm, though light in tone compared to the thundering of Grunthor's. They were two of the only heartbeats he could still feel in his skin, a gift he had inherited long ago from a Dhracian named Father Halphasion, who had been his mentor in youth, and had named him the Brother.

He thought back, for the first time in as long as he could remember, to the gentle monk who had rescued and cared for him after his escape from the Bolg of Serendair who had raised and abused him from birth. The name had been bestowed upon him, the priest had said, because he was “brother to all, akin to none.” The resulting connection to the populace of the Island of Serendair, the drumming, tittering, pounding, and thrum of every heartbeat on that island, had all but driven him mad.

Now there was most often silence in his skin unless he sought those heartbeats.

But one that he frequently monitored was approaching from the west.

Grunthor was the first to catch sight of her, and broke into a wide grin upon doing so.

“Well, there she is. The 'orse looks new.”

Achmed nodded as the forest roan, and the woman atop it, came into his view.

He breathed a little easier upon beholding her.

Occasionally over the centuries when seeing her after a long absence he found her appearance startling. While neither Time nor battle had made a mark on her physically, there was often something in her eyes and expression that was different, or something off-putting to him about the clothing in which she was attired at events where they met up.

While he and Grunthor, in his estimation, had changed very little from the days when the Three had first met, Rhapsody had evolved a great deal. Her inability to contain both excitement and wrath from her younger days had resolved into a queenly calm, a steadiness he recognized as necessary to her role as Lady Cymrian and Lirin sovereign, but he considered boring nonetheless. Her emerald eyes used to sparkle at anything she found interesting, and it had been a secret challenge of his in the old days to make that happen. Now they tended to gleam when she was pleased or angered, which brought the same light into those eyes, but it was hardly as interesting.

And the court clothing in which she was often garbed at events of state was nothing like the two or so dozen dresses he had reluctantly purchased for her when they first had come to the mountains of Ylorc together. In those days, Rhapsody's excitement upon receiving what was by and large high-quality peasant garb had made his skin-web, the sensitive network of veins and nerve endings that scored the surface of his body, tingle and hum pleasantly for days afterward. Now she was routinely gowned in heavy fabric of countless cost, sewn and embroidered by the patient hands of expert seamstresses from around the world. It was always a spectacular blending of beauty and artistry to behold, but it made her seem an entirely different person.

But the woman atop the roan was the one he remembered.

Rhapsody was smiling broadly, her face alight, her golden hair pulled back in a simple fall and tied in a black ribbon, as he remembered it from the old days. She was garbed in a white muslin shirt like any other Lirin citizen and wore moleskin pants tucked into sensible boots, much like the ones she had clothed herself in during their time together as the Three.