Chapter 6: Thunderheart

The rust colored sky looked iron hard. Motes of cinder danced in the evenday light, disturbed now and then by wind trying to be born. The winds were becoming more desperate each day, struggling to take full form, choked by the unyielding light of Arun's crown. The Sun was fading, but not so much that the primeval heart of the world could beat as it wished. Mak snorted, blowing flecks of cinder in a wild swirl. Princess Phosphora was now being carried in her litter up the wide avenue. He pounded his spear into the ground and snarled. As one, his people pounded their spears on the stone steps of their patroness's palace. Mak chanced a look at his squad, his eyes burning red as the sky at noon. As he'd drilled them to do, his men growled louder than all the others, and pounded their spears so hard they chipped the stonework. Their patroness took note, nodding stoically at Mak as her stone pygmy guards carried her litter up the stairs. Then she was gone, the gates of the palace shut behind her, and the Iron Dogs howled with delight.

They met at the Font shortly later, along with all the other squads. His mate came with their pups, and the evenday was alive with the joyful yapping of the beastfolk. There was a feast of fresh caught game so great they rolled out banquet cloths on the ground, as there was no table large enough. Fires roared high in the air, howls were loud, and the minstrels played spirited reels. During the dance, the Den Mother came close to Mak. He danced with her close enough not to insult her, far enough not to insult his mate. Unakna was his mate's name. She came to him after the Den Mother's slight, and let him know with kisses that she trusted her husband. Hours later, he gathered all his family about their own small fire and they took turns telling stories of the Mighty to their children.

As their pups slept, the captain of the Iron Dogs sat against a birch tree with his wife in his arms. The birch tree was on the edge of a great cliff, overlooking the ongoing span of the Steppes of Char, land of their nearest neighbor.

"Will there be war?" asked Unakna.

Mak sighed, then pressed his nose against his mate's cheek.

"I don't doubt your prowess," she said, "nor do I fear your death. I fear the time that comes after. No one wins a war, not even the victors."

"Were we to go to war with other Mortals, I'd agree with you. But Ralgrimr is overrun by Fiends. They'll continue to prey on us until they are purged."

"I hope Phosphora helps us."

"She will," Mak did his best to sound certain.

Unakna turned her head and looked into his eyes. "You're sure?"

"Yes," he lied. She never failed to miss when his words were not complete, so he amended them, hoping not to wound her heart. "What remains uncertain, is how she will help. She may only offer us counsel, but even a few words from the Princess of Sight would be a great boon."

He felt Unakna shudder. "The dustfolk there were strong, hard packed and skilled in both smithcraft and war. To think they were so quickly vanquished... What hope have we, without our matron's help?"

"So you do fear for me." He laughed, though he felt a tightness in his belly.

"You are a skilled warrior," she said dutifully.

"One of many."

"Yes," she said. "We are a strong people, as were the Ralgrim."

He held her tight. A breeze whirled about them, seeking for a place to go. The Sun glowed suddenly bright, hurling the Canyon of the Blazing Stars into the dingy orange glow of mornday. Tales of past days told of an amber sky, and the hidden texts of the archives said the sky was meant to be the color of sapphires. Mak wondered idly if the presence of the Fiends was causing the malaise afflicting the heavens.

"When the Fiends are gone, the world will heal."

She looked upward, casting her eyes above the wide savannah beneath them. "And what of the sky?"

You are a wise woman, my love. "We'll soon see."

They went to their den and slept a few hours. Their oldest pups had prepared a meal for the family, and saw to the needs of the youngest. Mak made sure to commend his older children, and they spent some time in play before he went to the barracks. His superiors were gone, so he helped his other mid tier officers drill the new soldiers. He was home later than he planned, and quickly apologized to Unakna.

"You don't need to be sorry," she said.

He looked at her, a pup in her arms, a platter of cold meat in the other. She set the platter on the trestle table in the courtyard of their small house, handed him the slobber faced pup (he had to take a second look to see which of their newest litter it was), then began gathering up the old rushes on the courtyard floor. Unakna was not the prettiest woman in the city, nor of the beastfolk in general. She was thick around the waist, small of snout, and one of her smallish ears was smaller than the other. Her eyes were somewhat sloped, and her teeth were unremarkable. Her heart, however, was one of the world's greatest treasures, and her mind was sharp as the dreadknight's sword.

"You work so hard," he told her, striding quickly to the wicker vase where the fresh rushes had been stored. His shoulders were sore from hours of training three score pups too young for war. He stifled a grunt as he lifted the rushes up out of the vase. One of the pups caught him in the leg with a stave. His thigh muscles quivered as he leaned down to spread the new rushes. Unakna pulled him upward and took the rushes from him.

"You work harder," she said.

He opened his mouth to protest, but she clamped it shut with hers. They both laughed.

"For once, my love, you're right."

She cocked her head and raised a brow. "For once, I am right?"

He swatted the rushes out of her hands and pulled her close. "For once, I'm working harder than you." He went in for a kiss, but turned his nose downward and snorted hard into the side of her neck, where she was especially ticklish. She laughed so loud, and struggled to fight herself free. When their tickle war was done, they turned to see their oldest daughter showing their youngest son how to spread rushes. Mak smiled. He had a good family, one worth fighting for, worth dying for, but he wanted to live for them.

When the children had gone inside, his wife gave him a serious look. "Will there be war?"

"You know there will. Why do you keep asking?"

She shrugged. "I keep hoping you'll say no."

"The Fiends must die. They don't kill for water or food or warm caves, or vantage points where clean Sunlight can be seen. They kill for pleasure, for hunger, for obscene reasons I don't want to understand. They won't stay put, Unakna. They're coming for us next. Our only hope is to strike first."

"Will you be training our boys?"

"I'll be training all of you."

She looked down. "I hate fighting. I'm no good at it. My father tried to teach me, but it's simply not a thing I'm meant for. I'm too slow and clumsy, and as soon as I get hurt, I want to stop."

Mak grinned, and his yellow eyes narrowed. "My mother was no fighter either, until a fireshade found its way into our den. She poured cold water on it, turning it to steam, then went after it with our bellows."

Unakna laughed. "Allright, if our children are in danger, I'll figure something out."

They went in for the day, and told their children stories of their parents and grandparents, and when they themselves were pups, then put them in their bed and went to theirs. Three of their youngest came in to sleep with them, and one of them could not lie still. Mak put that one beside him so that Unakna could sleep. He was slower for it, the next day at the barracks, and he suffered a few more bruises as a result. That mornday was paler than normal, and the golden light of the Sun in the far mountains was unusually faint. He donned a cloak before leaving the barracks for the palace. He'd drawn the watch for that night, and sent his second to let Unakna know before joining him on the steps. The evenday was bitter cold, as if power had been drawn from the Sun.

You are reading story Song Of The Voiceless at novel35.com

He spent half the next day at the barracks, as his fatigue was preventing him from being able to drill effectively. He slept as much as he could, but he couldn't stand to lie down while there was so much work at home to do. He kept the younger pups occupied with some mock drills that were not much more than play, allowing Unakna to get much of her cleaning done with less trouble than she typically had. Then he made her sit and rest while he helped his oldest children prepare their evening meal. This time their oldest daughter asked for a specific story.

"Can you tell us of the dark bringer?"

The house was silent. "I can," he said at length, "but will you tell me why you want to hear of such a one?"

The girl was nervous, but defiant. "I've heard the dark is not evil, and that Othomo is a servant of Elohal, the Radiant Soul."

Mak looked to Unakna, who shook her head. He looked back to his daughter. "Did other children tell you this?"

Nikinara shook her head. "No, papa. One of the elderwives said so. I was bringing gifts to the Denmother, that mother and I made this morning, and I overheard them speaking. I don't think they wanted me to hear, but I did."

"Daughter, listen to me very carefully. Arun is our king, and his crown gives us life. If the dark bringer is not evil, then why is his return heralded by cold winds and the anger of Fiends?"

"Maybe the Fiends are running from the dreadknight," said Oska, his oldest son. "It's the Fiends who are evil."

"Yes," he said, "but we don't know that Othomo has not sent them to prepare the way for him. Unless a new truth is shown to us, undeniably, we remain loyal to Mighty Arun. Splendor to our king."

They repeated him as one: Splendor to our King.

The turns wore on, from evenday to mornday, a cycle of training half grown pups to fight like men, and guarding the middle of the palace stairs. Sages from Nessus came in the deepest hour of one evenday. They were taken to Phosphora immediately, but other than that the week was like any other. Mak had the chance to speak with one of the Sages.

"May I quiz you, Scholar of the Osmium Halls?"

The Sage bowed, gripping tightly his cane. The long, trailing garment that covered his hump fluttered in a directionless breeze. They stood on a terrace that looked over the lush green forest that lined the lower walls of the cosmic canyon. Mak's red mane was damp, wetted by the mist that came up from the trees that clung to the walls of the bottomless gash through the eastward end of the Steppes of Char. He looked cautiously at the Sage. The wandering worms were a mercurial lot, covered by cloths and rags, hunched over their walking sticks covered in dangling and clattering shells. Now and then Mak could see a bony, clawed metal finger poke through the rags bound about the Sage's hands, and in the shadows of its hood glowed two soft blue lights. Its soft, glistening tail flicked from under its wrap to swat away a roach.

"Have you yourself spoken with our lady?"

The Sage hummed a gentle dirge, then raised himself upward enough to lift his cane off the ground. The motion seemed to pain him, but he endured it long enough to wave his stick in a pair of twin circles, etched in the sky by a beam of pale Sunlight. Mak did not know the symbol, but in his mind he knew the answer.

"Will she help us purge Ralgrimr of the Fiends who have sullied it?"

The Sage pointed a long finger downward. Three circles above a triangle etched onto the ground. Mak showed his confusion to the mystic. He'd never spoken to a follower of Sepef before, and was beginning to feel beneath the task. The Sage laid a hand on his shoulder and looked directly at him. Bent over double, leaning heavily on his staff, the worm was still taller than Mak, and his long fingered hand could have wrapped around his entire torso. But he felt no fear. The soft blue eyes conveyed a gentleness that he found hypnotic. He peered into the dark space in the middle of the Sage's shroud, and it seemed his eyes were glowing from a great distance, cyan stars in the dim of eve. Mak had seen stars before, but not for many years. The Sage patted his shoulder and gestured back towards the palace. Mak turned and saw a pair of the Bronze Mastiffs approaching. Between them was one of Phosphora's stone pygmy guards.

"My Lady summons Makshasha Triske," said the stone pygmy. His voice was a gruff as his long bearded face and powerful hands. He stood no higher than Mak's sternum, but looked strong enough to toss him into the canyon one handed.

It took a moment for the stone pygmy's words to work their way into Mak's brain. He was taken in by he intricacy of the dwarf's thick armor, richly engraved with symbols that Mak desired to understand. When he realized Phosphora wanted to see him, his heart thundered in his chest.

He looked to the wandering worm. The sage patted his shoulder again and turned to look back over the forest on the canyon walls.

Mak had seen the inside of the palace many times, but had never been invited in when their lady was present. The palace was mostly comprised of dark, narrow tunnels that winded upward and downward in dizzying spirals, now and then emptying into a small, windowless room or cold storehouse. The audience chamber was a vast, dome room of dull brown stone, with a large divan of rotten grey wood.

When he entered behind the stone pygmy and the two Bronze Mastiffs, soldiers of a vastly higher rank than him, his heart thundered even harder, and his mind could not believe the story his eyes were telling.

The whole space was the color of blue lightning, save for an orb of bright gold that hovered directly above Phosphora. The surface of the dome was covered in strange runes of white and purple light that formed and vanished in front of Mak's awestruck eyes. Soft rugs the color of mint and sage covered much of the floor, and the divan was now carved out of solid white pearl. Phosphora lay in a lilac gown that was as translucent as glass. He averted his eyes out of respect, both for his Lady and his wife. it was one thing to go swimming in the rivers that poured through the many caves in the canyon, and see the women of the pack splashing naked in the water. To look upon a woman's body while she lay on her divan was a thing he knew would hurt his Unakna, especially a woman so lovely as Phosphora. And, she was Mighty, a daughter of Arun, king of the golden sky.

He heard her voice, soft and kind, but terrible in power, a distant thunder rumbling beyond unseen peaks. His ribs shook, and he thought he heard a quaking that run from the center of the domed ceiling to the roots of the Canyon of the Blazing Stars. The glow above his head went from the gold of the Sun to the grey of a light rain. He did not understand the music coming from his Lady's lips, but he felt that it was acceptable for him to look up, so he did. Her gown was no longer of shimmering glass, but a soft and opaque silk. Her skin was deep pink, emitting a white halo. Her eyes, for which the beastfolk's canyon was named, blazed every color and pierced through Mak's bones to the marrow.

She sang again, and he felt a great fear take him, then urge him to bow, so that he may not offend her, for she wished to hear the longing of his heart. His thoughts, he knew she saw, so when he rose again to speak, he took great care to be honest.

He spoke of his wife, and his two meager broods of children, and how much value he placed on the simple home his small family shared. He spoke of his own humble beginnings, and how his father's unexpected prowess in war earned them a home higher up the canyon. He spoke of how he admired both his parents, and how sad he was when age took them and their bodies bent into the form of wild dogs, and wished he could live long enough to see their spirits returned in a future brood. He spoke of Ralgrimr, and the coming of the Fiends, and his fear for his own land. He spoke most openly, and most reverently, of his desire for her help against the Fiends. And, last of all, only because he did not wish to risk the lives of all his kin by angering their fearsome matron, he told her of the talk in his house a weak before, when his children questioned the nature of the dark bringer.

Phosphora glowed bright at the mention of Othomo, but Mak sensed no fury. Rather, she radiated a sense of urgent fear. As the emotions passed, he felt an inkling of approval from her. Then she stood, nearly twice his height, and her white halo turned to crystal flame. She came close and took his chin in her hand. Her sage colored hair was floating as if she were under water.

"Makshasha Triske," said the pygmy who'd brought his Lady's summons, "will you be our Lady's champion?"

His eyes widened in shock. Phosphora smiled, but he sensed a deep concern coming from her. She spoke again, her voice a cautioning refrain. Mak wished he could be of the Mighty for just a few moments, so that he could understand their lofty words and infinite thoughts.

She lowered her hand and went back to her divan, sitting on its edge and looking at him pleadingly.

"Speak, beastman," said the stone pygmy.

"I..." Mak gulped. "What will be my task?"

The pygmy was impatient. "Whatever the Lady Phosphora decides!"

Mak lowered his head in apology, then looked up to the Mighty one before him. Her eyes were ever more pleading. Mak saw in his mind a tall mountain that reached beyond the clouds. The stars were there in full form, casting the splendor of many Suns upon the vaults of Tartary. The Sun and Moon were fading and weak, their gold and silver blood spilling out and turning the clouds to a miasma of flies and poisonous rain. A shadow came across everything, and Mak thought he was seeing the end of all things, when a curtain of blue spread over the world beneath the mountain. The Sun was there again, healthy and strong, bound by a chain of skeletal hands that snapped, and it chased after the Moon with joy. Trees of life and wisdom sprouted like grass from the soil beneath, and water fountained from the depths.

"How can I affect this?" he asked.

Phosphora laughed, a sweet sound that shook the palace, then sent him a vision of a black greatsword that bled azure flame when swung. Its quillons were curved as a scarab's jaws, sprung from a ricassa bound with molten earth. The pommel was a skull, and its guard was the spreading of a bull's horns. Beneath the sword was a soldier the size of an ant, covered in skin of iron, carrying on his arm a large shield. Far away was a bright flame, trailing a searing streak of gold. The small soldier raised his shield, and an unseen warrior the size of a mountain lifted the sword, though Mak knew the great battle master was weary from an age of trial.

He did not understand all he saw, but it was plain where he was placed in the vision. He asked with his heart if he could have some time to consider, and the stone pygmy told him they were to depart next evenday. Mak went home, and instead of telling stories to his children, he asked them to tell stories to him and Unakna. He held his wife in his arms as they reclined on the floor of their small house, and delayed sleep as long as he could so he could hear his children's voices. Nikinara told a tale she heard from the Den Mother, then asked if it was true that she and he were once almost wed. Mak let Unakna tell how the Den Mother had an eye for Mak, but he thought only of the plain looking girl who fished in the canyon caves far below the palace. Nikinara then showed them the present the Den Mother gave her that day. It was a tunic with an ancient sign painted on it; the Sun, Moon and a distant star above Avon Lasair, three circles above a triangle. When he woke, he bid his family goodbye and swore he would return, then left to sound of his wife trying not to cry.

You can find story with these keywords: Song Of The Voiceless, Read Song Of The Voiceless, Song Of The Voiceless novel, Song Of The Voiceless book, Song Of The Voiceless story, Song Of The Voiceless full, Song Of The Voiceless Latest Chapter