The Eternal City, Part 8

“The tall ones are called Seraphs,” Nessa explained as they neared the farmstead. The ones like you and me are Humans, and the short ones are Dwarrows. These are the three most common peoples you will find around here.”

As she spoke she pointed out different forms working in the fields surrounding them. They followed the same path the workers took to reach the fields, and they were headed for the walled compound where their homes were located.

“There are many other kinds of people in the world, and you will see a great number of them when we reach Pass-by, and probably before,” Nessa continued. “In fact, it should be close to time for the Steadmeet, at Gate Island. They come from all over for that.”

As Nessa spoke, Kira looked all around her. She had only ventured as far as the edges of farmsteads. She was further from the forest than she had ever been. Looking back over her shoulder, she could see the trees getting smaller. She was leading Nessa’s horse, and could barely see over its backside, leaving only the tops of the trees in her view.

She stopped and stepped away from the horse. She regarded her home from a distance for the first time. Leaving the forest had never entered her mind before yesterday. In fact, she had rarely given any thought to the future, simply living day to day in the easy company of Hero. She had never felt she needed anything else.

“Kira?”

She turned to find Nessa regarding her curiously. “Thinking of going back?”

“Saying goodbye,” Kira replied.

“It is not so easy,” Nessa said. “Leaving your home for the first time can be… difficult. When I was chosen for the Sword Goddess, I didn’t want to go. But, I soon found another home at the Fortress.”

“There is no other home for me,” Kira said, more to herself than to Nessa.

The gate of the compound was open, and they were greeted by a Seraph who was the farm’s blacksmith. His smoke-stained face had a wicked scar running from his forehead to his upper lip, across his right eye socket. He wore a patch over that eye. His name was Belin.

Belin had the authority to bargain with travelers and traders in the name of the stead, which he called Bellows Howe. He very proudly showed off the huge bellows that breathed life into the fire at the center of the vast array of anvils and metalworking equipment. All around the blacksmith’s works, his apprentices labored. Clearly, Belin’s enterprise was the center of the stead, and his personality was the center of life here.

As the sun was beginning to dive below the horizon, Nessa agreed to take a watch on the wall that night in exchange for shoes for her horse, and Kira would wash dishes for her berth.

Belin led the horse away to the shop, leaving Nessa and Kira alone.

“Perhaps this would be a good time for your first lesson in combat,” Nessa said.

“I am ready,” Kira replied. Indeed, she felt an eagerness to learn to kill. The image of the beast that had wounded Hero so badly as to take him from her floated up into her mind, giving her focus, and she learned well.

Nessa handed Kira the shorter of her swords, and they practiced a few elementary moves. To strengthen her arm, Nessa had Kira simply stand for a long time, holding the sword out before her. Some of the smaller children laughed at her until their mothers came to nervously shoo them away.

“They must not like armed strangers among their children,” Nessa said. “Come, let us wash for supper.”

Kira held the sword out to Nessa.

“No,” Nessa said. “That will be yours now. Keep it sharp and near.”

The next morning, Belin led Nessa’s horse back to her, as they prepared to leave.

“You are a warrior and her apprentice,” the Seraph stated. “If it is not intruding, might I ask your destination?”

“It’s no intrusion at all, Belin. We are your guests,” Nessa said. “We are bound for Pass-by, to the chapel of the Sword Goddess.”

“Ah, it is my joy, then, to know a Sword Maiden?”

“I am a Maiden, yes,” Nessa said, not without some pride.

“Would it be out of place then, to offer and to request?” the Seraph said, in the peculiar vernacular of the dealmaker.

“I would listen,” Nessa replied, switching to the bargaining form.

“Beyond the gate, our caravan for Steadmeet awaits,” the Belin said. “It would be my honor if you would condescend to volunteer your services to guard and protect my people and their goods on their way.”

“I would be most happy to accept the wealth of your farmstead for the privilege of guarding your people and their goods,” Nessa replied.

Having stated their agreement to bargain, several minutes of offer and counteroffer ensued, until Belin and Nessa reached agreement. Nessa and Kira would guard the wagons of the farmstead, and they would, in return, have the hospitality of the wagons, and would be given goods to barter on their own at Steadmeet, as well as a horse for Kira to ride.

On that last point, Nessa assured Kira that she would teach her to ride before she could embarrass herself. In the meantime, the new horse would carry Nessa’s armor and other belongings, and they would ride the other horse together.

About an hour later, the little caravan was under way. There were three loaded wagons, each pulled by two horses. Each had a driver and a passenger seated next to him or her with a crossbow. There were three other riders guarding the wagons, all from the stead. Nessa and Kira were the only outsiders.

One rider rode out before the wagons, leading the way, another rode a couple hundred feet to the left of the wagons, and another brought up the rear, while Nessa and Kira guarded the right flank. Occasionally, Nessa would ride a bit further out on their side of the wagons, checking over little rises and such for ambushes. In those moments, they would take a little time to teach Kira to ride, and then catch up.

By the end of the day, when the leader of the wagons, a Dwarrow named Stanold, called a halt for the night, Kira had the fundamentals of horsemanship down. Nessa remarked at what a fast learner she was, but Kira wasn’t sure if that was kindness and encouragement, or truth.

Also, the forest had disappeared behind them. Kira had a moment of panic when she realized this. But, it soon passed, and she calmed herself with the thought that she was learning to kill the beasts that had hurt Hero, and that she would return to the forest one day.

The Eternal City, Part 7

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"Death's Finger"! HA!

A long, low mound overlooked the village of Clover Hill, remnant of some ancient structure. Unfinished, pillar-like stones stood in an oval encircling the top of the mound, their greenish hue contrasting sharply with the predominantly brownish surroundings.

The people of the village avoided the mound, using such epithets for it as “Doom’s Hill”, or “Death’s Finger”. None had been to the top of the mound in generations, heeding weird stories told by the elders of the elders.

This near-institutional trepidation was not entirely manufactured from the collective imagination of the villagers. There was a small grain of history behind the name of “Death’s Finger”, though none living in the village remembered. And just as well, as surely they would abandon their ancestral home, had they known what hid among them.

Within the ring of stones, hidden by weird qualities of his own, and those of the stones, stood an ancient, stooped form. He wore a squat, wide-brimmed hat, and held a black cloak tight about his emaciated form. His irises were golden, his wispy hair, gray and black. A weak beard showed itself patchily across his cheeks.

To his right, contrasting sharply with the brightness of near-noon sun floated a patch of swirling darkness. Within that darkness floated two tiny golden circles, the irises of a kindred being.

“Well?” a hissing voice from within that darkness asked. “Have you felt its death?”

“I have not,” the man answered, his own voice gravelly and weak. “I think you have failed.” His last word was laced with mockery.

The dark form allowed the provocation to pass. “Perhaps my children simply have not found it yet.”

“Ah, yes,” the old man answered. “Your children. I suppose I should mention that I did feel one of them die.”

A small growl seemed to emanate from the patch of darkness. “I suppose you would simply unleash your hordes upon it, risking our exposure!”

“I have subtler ways, also,” the old man answered. “Death comes in many forms.”

“But, few of those forms go unnoticed by the Keeper of the Record. We cannot yet afford an open conflict. You must remain hidden, for now.”

The old man said nothing.

The darkness pressed its advantage: “No, it shall be my children who do this deed, not yours.”

“Then perhaps you should go, and bid them do it right!”

The darkness laughed thinly. “As you say, O mighty King of the Dead. One last thing, though. What of the Sword Goddess. What is her game?”

“Who can know her mind?” the other replied.

“Who, indeed?” the shadow said, and faded away into the wind, leaving the King of the Dead with his thoughts.

He wondered who this little shadow godling was. It was not the Night Spirit, as it claimed to be. He suspected it was simply the collective cunning of the troll races, congealed into a nightmare, and ruling over its unwitting creators. Whatever the case, it was right: there was little the King of the Dead could do, openly. Not without alerting his enemies; and it was not time for that. Not yet.

So, the little troll god would be Death’s tool, for now. Later, it would pay for all the little insults. It would pay, and pay some more.

Below, in the village of Clover Hill, the people felt a momentary chill fall across their spines. Later that night, an infant would die in her crib, and the elders would recall that chill, and look to Death’s Finger.

The Eternal City, Part 6

I am fairly certain that the word "Dwarrow" is going to change. It has been used by someone else, somewhere, and I wish to have my own word. Also, historically, it is an alternate form of the word "dwarf". I will one day think of my own word...

Gerold was a Dwarrow, and as such had little time for the scattered, meandering babble of Seraph merchants. A Dwarrow liked short, to-the-point conversations; just enough to get business done. The Dwarrow attitude matched his stature: in a word, short. They were slight of build, but possessed of a wiry musculature attached to a sturdy frame. The combination made their appearance somewhat skeletal, but not frail. Add to this their characteristic bright red skin, and their nickname, ‘fiend’, might seem to fit. They had no hair, and their eyes were uniformly black. Fond of tattoos, it was rare to find a Dwarrow with clear, untouched skin.

Even for a Dwarrow, Gerold was impatient. He disliked most non-dwarrow folk, not because of any sort of feeling of superiority; rather he felt them too gregarious, too talkative, entirely too noisy. Add to that the impression that other folk seemed to get little more done than the nice, quiet Dwarrow, and Gerold really preferred to stay home in the hills of his ancestors, where strange people were rarely seen.

Needless to say, when Gerold was informed that the tribal council needed him to travel downriver to the town of Gate Island, right in the middle of the Freesteads, he could not have been more dismayed. No amount of protestation was enough to convince the council of nine old women to send someone else. He even suggested a few names, to no avail. So, it was with great trepidation and annoyance that Gerold Deepdigger, chief tunnel engineer of the Southtend tribe in the Hills of the Well, found himself floating in a canoe with two other similarly disgruntled Dwarrows, approaching Gate Island from the west.

Gate Island, as were most of the towns of the Freesteads, was founded upon the ruins of an ancient city, the name of which had become a casualty of time. It received its current name by common usage. The island upon which the town was built was criss-crossed with a network of canals. The locals used these instead of streets. Only one road passed through Gate Island, the North-South Road which met its end in the vicinity of Clover Hill, many miles to the north, and continued on for a much further stretch to the south. In the center of the island lay a huge, ruined gate, once part of a vast collection of such structures, apparently arranged at random all over the island and the surrounding countryside.

Gate Island, despite being quite a sizable island, was not a large settlement. Gerold guessed no more than a hundred households were built along the canals, and only a few shops. The Steadmeet lay on the south shore of the Northflow River, and was bounded by a low semi-circular dike which stopped at the water on each end.

The houses were of wood, built upon thick poles about four feet above the ground. They were long structures, and the end facing the canal operated as the front of the building. A ladder led up into the darkness of the house, the entire front being open to the air. The people stored their little boats under their houses when not using them.

Most of the inhabitants of Gate Island were Seraphs. Gerold had been told this before he departed, but he had hoped the intelligence had been wrong. All of the things Gerold disliked about outsiders were traits which epitomized the average Seraph.

Seraphs were tall, pale and white-haired. Their eyes, much like those of a Dwarrow, were entirely black. Their limbs were long, and their faces seemed stretched (at least, in the eyes of Gerold, they did).

One such was at the westernmost point of the island, and greeted the little canoe as it glided near.

“Greetings travelers,” the Seraph said, its incongruously deep voice echoing out over the water. “Welcome to Gate Island.”

One of the other Dwarrows, Menold, called back, “Good day!” and the little boat traveled on.

Shortly, they neared the center of the island. Here there were a smattering of docks, and the Dwarrows steered their canoe to the shore. They tied the boat to a post of a low ramp of wood, and hauled themselves and their packs out.

They were on the north side of the island, and the opposite shore was devoid of settlement. Several cranes and other waterfowl populated the reeds, and Gerold noted a huge turtle of some sort sunning itself in the mud.

There is a fine fellow, Gerold thought. Nothing to babble on about. He goes about his business and doesn’t bother anybody else. No sooner had the words formed in his mind, than the turtle plopped into the water with a great splash, sending cranes and fish careering away from the commotion. Gerold cleared his throat uncomfortably and turned his attention upward, to the plains beyond.

There, the fawn-colored land rolled away, not quite flat, but near-enough. Gerold thought, if the light were better, he might be able to see Clover Hill. He realized immediately that he was wrong, and chided himself for thinking like a silly poet. The North-South Road, off to his right, could be seen shooting nearly straight northwest. Still a long way off, he caught sight of several small figures approaching from that direction.

Turning his attention back to the island, he found that his companions were already being accosted by the natives. Menold was discussing lodging with an ancient-looking Seraph in a dark, dingy tunic. The other Dwarrow, Mishi, the only woman among them, was approaching another, younger Seraph. This man seemed more formally dressed, and appeared to be here in an official capacity.

“When does the Steadmeet begin?” Mishi asked, not even bothering with introductions. Such was the Dwarrow efficiency of speech, that such things were deemed unnecessary unless permanent arrangements such as marriage or some other form of partnership were being discussed.

“Nine days, my Good Lady,” the Seraph replied. “I am Maselin, the Mayor of Gate Island. I attempted to greet you properly at the head of the island, but you seemed to have missed me.” He smiled in what was probably a good-natured way.

Indeed, Gerold realized, this did look like the same Seraph they had seen before. It was difficult to tell them apart, as they had little in the way of discernible features. Gerold realized he would have to start looking more closely. Surely there were some sort of fine, distinguishing marks he could use to tell them apart. Otherwise, business was going to be difficult.

“Pardon us,” Mishi was saying. “We didn’t realize.” She seemed genuinely concerned. She was good that. She was along because she was good with outsiders. She managed to get on well with them, though she seemed a perfectly normal Dwarrow in all other respects. “I am Mishi, and I am proud to speak for my partners, Gerold and Menold.” She gestured to each of them in turn.

“You seem not to have brought much in the way of goods,” Maselin said, curiously. He looked about, even into the boat.

“Our wares are small,” Mishi said. “But, they are of value.”

“Ah,” the Seraph replied. “Might we locals have a go at them first, hm?”

Mishi just barely paused. “Our instructions are that we are to await Steadmeet.” She bowed politely.

If the Seraph was offended, he hid it well. He spoke a few more pleasantries Gerold didn’t listen to, and then he went away.

Menold found out that they were among the first to arrive for Steadmeet. A few others, travelling from the south were also here and were already setting themselves up in the bazaar. Gerold suggested they do the same. A short discussion ensued as to what to do with the canoe, and the consensus was to abandon it, as they would very likely purchase wagons and livestock to carry them back upriver.

So, leaving their vessel behind, they crossed the island over the North-South Road. They crossed a wide, old timber bridge built partly on the ruins of an ancient stone span, and entered the bazaar at about the center point. They were fortunate to arrive early, and set up their tiny tent-shop on the North-South, itself, near the central location chosen by other early arrivals.

Most of the others had large wagons, full of heavy items. They saw armor, weapons, textiles, tools, a few vendors of wines and other spirits. They Dwarrows set up their small tent, but kept their product to themselves.

A Few Short Items

Incomplete thoughts, perhaps. Based partly on a dream I had, and partly Burroughs-style cut-up writing.

Well imagined gossip,
like campfire chatter,
skipping the nearby,
shouting of the distance,
wailing in the evening drear
without audience or reason

looking up in the moment,
novices turn in fright,
soon they speak of the vivid virus
low-hanging, lewd and dangerous
ignorant, Living Ignorance
King in the violet nothing,
robed in black, empty distance

night converses with night
ignoring the luminous light, just beneath the hill
somewhere, someone will be the hero
travelling, concealed in that brightness
vaporous, despised, unknown and blank

Fire within fire,
bright, safe, warm
nurturing and soft,
lulling the unwary to sleep
the Eternal City of dreams
hunter and trap, ever watchful
nameless and sightless,
but sharp-eyed and carved in mind

---

the ruler of that which is made,
king in the western sky
high atop the pyramid of thrones,
far beyond the aeons
the known unknown,
that which is beyond Eleusis
Jerusalem, Rome
That which is beyond the compass of mind

temple-born empire
indwelling light
governance of will
temple of light
indwelling empire
governed by will
willed by light
temple governed
in the empire of light

---

Late revenge, kissed by defeat
left to the ancient dynasty
of little-known gods, driven
through the flat places of
blank dream canvas, falling off
of the page, dripping with the
blood of the slain past, and
empty as a bottle or a pocket

---

defeat, dealt in the ancient streets
obliterated tongues old when the Sea Peoples came,
the people, wailing in their houses, singing the dirge,
failing the slain, and dying among the rats
left and the city welcomed the sand
and went to sleep

in time, men came again, and wondered
who could they have been, who reared such a place?
they looked upon the carved walls, the broken floors
and guessed, imagined and calculated,
and did not know.

---

Who walks the length of time knows that the beginning is the end.
it turns and turns and turns,
and only ends in that final, distant light,
Oneness with the Eternal Dream.

The Eternal City, Part 5

Nessa woke to the smell of cooking meat. For a moment, she imagined herself back at the fortress outside of Windhold Haven, where she had taken her training, waiting for the evening meal, gossiping with the other novices.

Soon, however, she recovered herself, and remembered. Another vision. This one more vivid than the last, in plainer language. She sat up and looked around.

A small campfire burned nearby, and the girl sat on the other side of it. Her back was to the fire, gazing southwest. Over the fire, a rabbit hung on a spit.

Nessa yawned. “Will you share your rabbit with me?” Nessa asked.

“My name is Kira,” girl said. “If we are to travel together, you might as well know my name.”

“I am glad to know it,” Nessa said, slightly embarrassed that she had skipped introductions. “I am Nessa. Thank you.”

“The rabbit is for you,” Kira said. “I’ve had mine.”

“Might we not speak face to face?” Nessa asked.

“The Firbolg sit with their backs to the fire,” Kira said. “They depend upon their night vision.”

“The Firbolg also have no need of sleep,” Nessa replied. “Not so, with us. Have you slept?”

Kira did not reply.

Nessa sat quietly for a moment, and then began to eat the rabbit. Between bites, she asked, “Would you like to tell me about Hero? The farmers at the edge of the forest tell me he is fearsome.”

“He is gentle and quiet!” Kira snapped. “They know nothing.”

“Where is he now?” Nessa asked.

“Gone,” Kira said.

“There was more blood in that battle down there than a Troll has in its body,” Nessa said. “Was Hero injured?”

Kira shifted slightly, but didn’t answer.

“It is said that the Firbolg have special places where they meet,” Nessa said. “They go there when they are wounded, also. I will help you find him when we are done.”

Finished with the rabbit, Nessa settled back down, and went to sleep. When she awoke, the sun was just poking its head over the distant mountains. Kira was asleep on the other side of the smoldering campfire.