Tombs of Mnemia
Would you mind telling me what all this is about?” Eryn’s words stabbed at the night air. “Who is this—this . . .”
“Dwarf, ma’am,” Cephas said with an extravagant bow. “Cephas be common a dwarf as er is.”
They all stood next to the blazing fire Cephas had prepared, its bright flames obliterating all but the brightest stars above them.
“He’s an old friend of the family,” Caelith said, shaking his head, “although how old is anyone’s guess.”
“You know this thing?” Eryn glowered.
“This lass excited as er is,” Cephas chortled. “Be she chasing you all this way?”
The female mystic’s face flushed noticeably even in the warm light of the fire. She took a threatening step forward, her fists raised. “Why, you filthy little . . .”
“Easy, Eryn,” Caelith said, stepping smoothly between Eryn and the dwarf. “This is Cephas Hadras. I’m surprised you haven’t met him before now; he and father have been practically inseparable since before the clans were even formed.”
Eryn eyed the dwarf with sudden recognition. “You’re Galen’s dwarf—the one who fought at his side on the Election Fields?”
“Aye, that er Cephas be.” Cephas smiled, exposing his widely spaced teeth. “Twer I what taught Galen his metalcraft back when he were but a sprout. Cephas and Galen were a friendship forged, yer might say!” The dwarf threw back his head and laughed heartily at his own joke.
“Fine!” Eryn huffed, turning to Caelith, “but what is he doing here?”
Caelith folded his arms across his chest, considering. “Looking for us, I suppose.”
“Looking for us?” Eryn repeated. “A blind dwarf’s been looking for us?”
“Nay,” Cephas rumbled, shaking his wide, dark head, driving the ends of his frizzed hair to bounce back and forth. “Cephas not looking er Caelith; Cephas waiting till found er be.”
“Now what is he talking about?” Eryn was exasperated.
Caelith turned toward the dwarf, whose eyes were always tightly bound under that ubiquitous thick red cloth. “I suppose what he means is that it would have been dangerous to approach us. I’d posted both sentries from the company and a rather serious set of mystical traps around our encampment each night. He’s been gone so long that most of the members of my raiders wouldn’t know him on sight; most that did are either dead or replaced. Coming to us might have provoked a nasty response—but by getting ahead of us and building this absurdly large fire . . .”
Cephas flashed his wide grin once more.
Caelith shook his head and smiled knowingly. “It was safer for him if we found him rather than the other way around.”
“Caelith sharp as onyx.” It was an old dwarven saying of approval. “Come, this old dwarf has to join yer quest er quick as Cephas heard. Long and far er I searched for yon Calsandria; belike me now to feel her stones under my hands, if real they be. How came Caelith by this path when old Cephas walked the wild south er these ten months with no result?”
“We have a guide,” Eryn said flatly.
“Things have changed a great deal since you’ve been away,” Caelith interrupted. “Calsandria may be the only hope for the survival of the clans.”
“Surface-folk be talk of changes always.” Cephas shrugged casually. “Dwarves know the mountain stone; rain, wind, or snow, the mountain remains er is. Surface-folk always worry for change. Dwarves know better; nothing new. Who be this guide er is?”
“A Pir Inquisitas,” Caelith said with studied ease, watching for the dwarf’s reaction.
“Caelith’s guide be of Vasska’s priests?” The dwarf’s brow furrowed with thought.
“Yes.” Caelith nodded. “He and the rest of our company should arrive tomorrow. My guess is sometime early in the afternoon if they keep their pace. Then the next morning we’ll pass between these ancient towers and look in earnest for Calsandria. And there is one other thing—this Pir Inquisitas that is our guide . . .”
“Aye,” the dwarf coaxed.
“He’s apparently also my older brother by Berkita,” Caelith said quietly.
The old dwarf sat down so suddenly that clouds of dust exploded from his clothing. “Break my bones!”
“So now do you think nothing new er is?” Caelith asked.
“Sit!” the dwarf commanded. “Tell the old dwarf your story from first to last!”
It was late in the day by the time the Inquisitas arrived at the Gates of Aramun with the rest of the expedition in tow. It had taken them that long to coax the torusk down out of the mountains and follow the wide plain southward to the towers. The sun was just touching the tops of the western mountains, their long shadows reaching across the valley floor toward the ancient ruins.
“An armed camp er is,” Cephas said. “Arrive here er long, eh?”
Eryn nodded, though the gesture was lost on the dwarf. “And just when you predicted, Caelith.”
All three awaited the approaching company from the north, but Caelith did so with a special satisfaction. Kenth must have done his duty at the beginning of the day, telling Jorgan where the missing Caelith and Eryn had gone, why and where they expected to meet up with them. Now, the dust from their feet shining in the afternoon light, his company and the lumbering torusk behind them were approaching. Everything had worked out better than he had planned it; he had discovered that their mysterious and potentially dangerous follower was a friend and ally; and had done so without losing any time on the journey.
Jorgan was in front of the company, as usual. That Caelith managed to get to the towers ahead of their guide also filled him with a smug satisfaction that he had to admit was worth reveling in. He called out to the company as they approached. “Welcome to the Gates of Aramun—what kept you?”
Jorgan looked up as he approached, his eyes locking momentarily with Caelith’s. The look, however, was inscrutable, his face devoid of any reaction or emotion. The Inquisitas brushed past Caelith as though taking no further notice of him, the rhythmic swinging of his staff continuing without hesitation.
Caelith turned in anger, his smoldering gaze following his brother. He had expected—well, he was not sure what he expected—but some reaction.
“Who be that?” Cephas asked.
“Jorgan,” Eryn said before Caelith could answer. “Notice any resemblance?”
Caelith’s head snapped back to glare at Eryn, who returned his gaze.
“Sire!” called the familiar voice from the company.
Caelith turned, standing a little straighter. “Ah, Master Kenth! I see that you have managed to get my company back to me in one piece.”
“Aye, sire, that I have.” Kenth smiled wearily.
“Eryn,” Caelith asked quickly. “Please take Cephas over to Lucian. It’s been a few years but I’m sure Lucian will remember him.”
“Fine,” Eryn said without enthusiasm. “Just how do I do that?”
“Take my hand er lass,” the old dwarf said. “Then this blind old dwarf won’t get lost.”
Eryn wrinkled her nose and reached down for the dwarf’s outstretched palm. It was wide, dirty, and calloused, but she held it nonetheless.
“Thank ye, lass,” Cephas said with a blissful smile.
Kenth watched the two of them walk through the milling warriors in the direction of the torusk. “I thought dwarves were never lost.”
“They aren’t,” Caelith answered lightly. “But Eryn doesn’t know that.”
“Well, it seems you’ve at least made a dwarf happy today,” Kenth said.
Caelith turned, grasping the shoulder of his lieutenant firmly with his right hand. “More than I can say for you, I’m sure; I hope the priest wasn’t too hard on you.”
Well, sire,” Kenth began, sighing. “I’ve served long enough to know that bad news bodes ill for the messenger. That’s a soldier’s lot, isn’t it, sire: to deal out punishment to his enemies and to endure it from his masters?”
Caelith chuckled darkly. “That it is. I’m sorry, Kenth; it couldn’t have been pleasant.”
“That’s just it, sire,” Kenth returned with a puzzled look on his face as he nodded toward where the Inquisitas was walking toward a platform of stones at the base of the near tower. “I told him, but all he did was raise his eyebrow and say, ‘The poor fool doesn’t even know how little he knows.’ Then, calm as you please, he tells me we need to reunite the company with—begging your pardon, sire—with their ‘blunderingly heroic captain.’”
“What?”
“I’m just repeating his words, sire.” Kenth, old warrior that he was, still flinched. “I mean, I’ve seen men yell, hit, draw a weapon or cook off some deep magic in a rage at such news—but I’ve never seen anyone just smile. I mean; it ain’t natural-like, sire.”
Caelith looked back at Jorgan. The man was settling with his back against the stones at the tower’s base, gazing out over the clearing where the smoke from the previous night’s fire still curled skyward.
“Thank you, Master Kenth,” Caelith said absently. “Have the company set up camp here for the night. We’ll try to make an early start in the morning.”
“Aye, sire,” Kenth acknowledged, then turned, his voice booming. “All right! Break out your gear, we’re making camp for the night.”
All the while, Jorgan sat with his back against the wall, his legs crossed in front of him. Caelith watched him for a while before seeing to the evening meal.
Jorgan never spoke, nor did he move.
The sun was climbing higher into the sky, its rays streaming between the clouds that were gathering. The sun has risen over the towers since before time was counted yet never before on so curious a scene as this particular morning as it lengthened toward midday with agonizing slowness.
The company of warriors stood in their ranks, shifting occasionally from foot to foot. The torusk beast stood pawing occasionally at the ground, held in its place by a thin, silent female barely more than a child. The representatives of the clans of mystics shuffled back and forth in concern but did not speak. Even the bard was silent. Caelith stood with his arms crossed, fuming.
Across the clearing, Jorgan sat as he had since the previous afternoon, his staff laid over his crossed legs, his eyes closed as his head rested against the stone wall at his back.
Lucian stepped up to his old acquaintance, fully aware of the signs Caelith was giving of exploding at the slightest provocation. “Isn’t he supposed to say ‘this way’? I mean, every morning since we started he says ‘this way’ and then we all ‘this way’ with him; isn’t that how it is supposed to work?”
“He was supposed to say it over an hour ago,” Caelith responded through clenched teeth.
“We’ve got to do something,” Eryn said.
“I could hold a sword to his throat,” Caelith seethed. “That might get his attention.”
“Why don’t you just talk to him first,” Eryn snapped.
“She has a point, old boy,” Lucian interjected. “I mean, it would be hard to converse with him after you slit his throat.”
“Fine!” Caelith huffed. “We’ll talk to him!”
“We?” Eryn sniffed. “What do you mean, ‘we’ll’ talk to him?”
“This was your idea,” Caelith growled. “Kenth! Set the men at ease but keep them in order. I’ll be right back. Now, as to the rest of you, let’s go.”
Caelith crossed the clearing with quick purposeful strides, the rest of his companions quickly trying to keep up. He leaped up onto the platform of ancient, fitted stones and stood towering over the Inquisitas, who sat with his eyes still serenely closed.
“It’s time, Jorgan,” Caelith said flatly. “Let’s go.”
The Inquisitas opened his eyes and fixed them momentarily on his brother—then closed them again.
Caelith could feel his companions looking at each other uncomfortably, unsure as to whether to involve themselves or not.
“Sit down,” Jorgan said calmly.
“There’s no time for . . .”
Eryn caught his eye. She was shaking her head in warning.
Caelith held his breath for a moment, then slowly sat down on the stone platform.
“You are worried about the discipline of your troops,” Jorgan said, his eyes still closed. “They are seeing their commander—whose word must always be obeyed—defied by a Pir priest who does nothing more than sit still. You are wondering what would happen to your ordered world if they all just sat still. This from a man who cannot sit still himself; who is so obsessively controlling in other’s lives because he is so uncontrolled in his own life. Ironic, is it not, brother?”
Hair stood up on the back of Caelith’s neck. This was not what he wanted; not what he needed now. “I realize now that I should have consulted—”
“You deserted the rest of us to pursue your own selfish whim, but I don’t know why I would have expected any more from you.” Jorgan shook his head. “You’re the bastard son of a man who walked out on his wife to pursue a debased and corrupt life. Come to think of it, considering the family history of abandonment, I don’t know why I would have expected anything less.”
“I did what was best for the safety of everyone in this company,” Caelith rejoined.
“The brave hero makes us all safer by sneaking off into the night?” Jorgan sneered, opening his eyes for the first time, fixing their penetrating gaze on Caelith. “We’re about to enter lands that no human has walked upon in four hundred years and lived to tell the tale. Where will you be then when lives are on the line? Not just yours—I could care less if you throw your own life away—but are you going to toss everyone else’s life away, too?”
“There was a threat,” Caelith snapped back, trying to wedge some response in among Jorgan’s barrage of questions.
“A threat?” Jorgan tilted his head in disbelief. “A single blind old dwarf is a threat to the great mystics of Clan Arvad? This is what justified you and the girl vanishing into the night?”
Caelith drew in a deep breath, trying to keep his own anger under control. “I didn’t think . . .”
“No, you most certainly didn’t think.” Jorgan smiled at his younger brother, pity in his eyes. “You just did what you wanted without any thought for the rest of us. Let’s be honest with each other, shall we? You hate me; that fact is in everything you’ve said or done regarding me. The truth is, however, that you don’t know me well enough to truly hate me. You don’t understand my faith and my conviction because faith is not part of your life. But I’m trying to stop a war here—a war that has been killing good people, innocent people—even your own faithless, misguided clans—for as long as both of us have drawn breath. I’m tired of the smell of their blood on the wind. I don’t need your approval or, thank Vasska, your friendship. But I do need you to do your duty to your own troops, if not to me. Just follow me to this fabled land, verify that we’ve found it to your precious council, and help me stop the senseless killing. Then you and all your faithless followers can vanish into the mountains for all I care.”
Caelith held his breath and his tongue. He was finding it difficult to breathe.
Jorgan stood, smiling down on his brother. “I know what I believe and who I am. You believe in nothing and know less about yourself than anyone around you. So let’s be clear: play soldier all you want with the lives of those men who blindly follow you, but know that between the two of us, I’m the only one who knows where we’re going—so you must follow me.”
Jorgan stepped confidently past his brother and stepped off the platform. He then turned away, stalking off toward the south as he called back to them, “This way.”
“So we are leaving after all?” Margrave said in bewilderment.
Jorgan spun around. “Thanks to the dwarf and his enthusiastic signal fire there isn’t a pair of eyes in three dozen miles that won’t know we’re here. We’re going now. Besides, Caelith seems to make better time running away from things than toward them.”
Caelith, losing his temper at last, leaped to his feet and lunged for his brother, but Lucian stepped in front of his friend, holding the mystic back. Jorgan simply turned and continued to the south.
Caelith’s breath was ragged with the rage beating through his veins. As he calmed he could see Kenth, the lieutenant’s eyes questioning what to do next. He suddenly realized how foolish he had been to be baited by the priest in front of his men. He steadied himself as best he could, speaking as evenly as he could. “Master Kenth, assemble the company and—follow after the priest.”
“Aye, sire,” Kenth responded at once. “Let’s go, lads! You heard the captain!”
Caelith drew in a long, shuddering breath.
“Touchy these brothers as er is,” Cephas observed.
“You’ve no idea,” Margrave said with a sigh. “Well, come along, Anji, and stop dawdling! I know you would have liked to stay here and study these towers for another night but our master has called us on. By the gods, how I hate road engagements.”
“Do either of you think that there is a pair of eyes within three dozen miles of here?” Lucian asked.
Eryn looked at the ground for a few moments before she faced her companions and spoke. “I’ve been thinking—maybe Jorgan was right.”
“What?” Caelith snapped. “How can you possibly—”
“Stop, Caelith—think about it for a moment,” she continued. “If someone in your raiding party did to you what we did to him last night, how would you have reacted?”
“How can you say that?” Caelith fumed. “This is entirely different!”
“How?” she asked quietly. “How is it different?”
“The man is a menace, you can see that!”
Eryn shook her head. “What I see is a man surrounded by people he thinks are his enemies—one of whom is a brother he did not know he had before he was thrust into working with him. I see a man who is carrying a lot of pain around with him.”
“Pain?” Caelith said with disbelief. “He’s carrying around pain?”
“Look, you both are, all right,” Eryn said with exasperation, “but he’s the one who can get us where we need to go. We’ve got to find some way to work with him or we’ll never survive this.” She turned and with quick, purposeful steps hurried after the Inquisitas.
“What are you doing?” Caelith called.
“Someone has to talk to him,” she called back.
The Sedunath and Kargunath Mountains were further divided beyond the gates to rim the Aramun Plain. They followed upstream the circuitous course of the Naraganth River as it curved first eastward toward the Sedunath Mountains and then southwest in a nearly straight line for the towering, snowcapped peak of Mount Aerthra in the hazy distance.
The company had settled into a routine that, while not comfortable, was nonetheless predictable. Jorgan snapped orders from the front of the line while Eryn struggled to engage him in conversation. Caelith and Lucian would amuse themselves with the dwarf Cephas, who began describing his own attempts to penetrate the Forsaken Mountains. Occasionally, Caelith would deliberately lag behind to gain more space between himself and the priest until he realized this only put the dwarf in dangerous proximity to Margrave, an event that always precipitated an argument over local lore.
“Daft as er is!” Cephas bellowed. “The Tombs of Mnemia be restful er is! Dwarven built and strong stone nay like human work! See er self!”
Mount Aerthra loomed large, though it was still some thirty miles distant. Even at this range, however, the colossus of carved stone that marked the entrance to the ancient tomb was visible, its visage shimmering slightly with distance.
“The texts all say it is haunted,” Margrave insisted casually as he walked next to the torusk. Normally the bard preferred to ride, but the torusk had developed a sore claw and the less pressure on it the better. “Haunted, they say, by the souls of the warriors who failed to hold secure the Gates of Aramun from the hordes of the Dragonkings advancing against them from the north. There, in the failing light, they retreated to the North Gate of Mnemia, hoping that the Dwarven Road would lead them to safety. Yet, when they arrived, they found the great doors of the North Gate sealed from within by the very lords who had commanded them into battle. When at last the pursuing armies of the Dragonkings hunted down the armies that had fled south before them, they found them dead before the Tombs of Mnemia, their hands reaching for the closed gates. Since that date, the North Gate doors remain sealed from within, held closed still by the spirits of the coward dead who fear lest they should ever be opened by mortal man and their sins revealed.”
“Nonsense drivel,” Cephas huffed, his human language always getting worse when he was upset. “Mnemia granite sides of the mountain er is. Dwarves of the Khagun their work be of those doors made! If closed from within the doors of the Dwarven Road, then closed they stay until time ends—haunted or not!”
“I say, Cephas,” Lucian asked casually, “you keep going on about this Dwarven Road. I didn’t know dwarves build roads.”
“The dwarves of the Khagun built the greatest road ever known to any race—dwarven, human, or dragonkind,” Margrave began, his face waxing rapturous. “The miraculous, magical gift of the Dwarf King Garl Thimlos to Emperor Rhamas-”
“Shut your trap!” Cephas yelped. “What can yon whelp know of dwarven lore? The history of the Undercities, the dwarves to tell best er is!”
“You’ll probably get it wrong,” Margrave sniffed.
“Cut my beard if I do! See er is, Master Caelith—and ye, too, Master Lucian.” Cephas spoke carefully, reminding Caelith strongly of the days when the dwarf would try to teach him on his stumpy knee. “Yon peacock right in some ways er is; King Garl Thimlos the Dwarven Road built er the Emperor of Rhamas yon many year ago—nigh more three hundred year afore the Dragonkings. ’Twere said amongst the dwarven Thimlos thought er keep the problems of the overworld out er the Undercities. See er is?”
“Yes, I think I see,” Caelith replied with a chuckle, not at all sure. Often with Cephas it was better to let him continue and hope to catch up later on down the path, so to speak. “So this was a magical road?”
“Magic? Bah!” Cephas threw back his head and laughed. “Magic in the dwarves no er is—nay then; nay now! ’Twere build by the dwarves’ craft. Eight hundred miles and more under the mountains of the Khagun the road ran but er a skill unknown in Cephas’s day now. A man starting that road er the South Gate be walking out the North Gate one ten-day later fresh as er is, mark old Cephas’s words!”
“Eight hundred miles—in ten days—and without magic?” Lucian shook his head. “It isn’t possible.”
“Possible er not.” Cephas smiled. “Dwarven skill er is what done it!”
“Well, at least he got the distances and times right,” Margrave groused. “Still, I think his version lacks color, drama, or any flair for the tale.”
Caelith shrugged, adjusting the weight of his pack on his shoulders. “So, Cephas, did you use this amazing Dwarven Road on your own travels?”
“Nay, Master Caelith,” Cephas replied with a heavy sigh. “The Dwarven Road closed er is and its gates er lost and hidden. For Calsandria I looked nigh on the ten-month. Down the eastern Urlund Wall tried I the Forsaken Mountains to enter. Wandered the maze of valleys to the south but no pass found I. Even skirted the Desolation er is. Nay passage er is.”
Caelith pointed ahead of them. “Our friend Jorgan up there thinks there is.”
“Right may be,” the dwarf allowed grudgingly. “Cephas’s path to the west er is; Jorgan’s through the east and south. Which right er is, we see soon.”
The river slowly turned in its course toward the southeast once more. Jorgan and Eryn had both stopped ahead of them, and they stood on the banks of a wide riverbed which once fed into the Naraganth. The dry wash continued to the southwest, winding its way toward the base of Mount Aerthra.
“This way,” Jorgan said as they approached, pointing across the riverbed to the south.
Caelith took a moment to look toward the southwest, to catch a glimpse once more of the intricately carved mountainside in the distance.
“Farewell, Tombs of Mnemia,” Caelith whispered, “I would have liked to have seen you.”
For a moment, however, he thought he could see one of Margrave’s phantom spirits—a giant, walking down the river toward the peak of Aerthra and the magnificent tombs at its base. It was a towering man encased in metal that shimmered against the sky and then vanished as quickly as a dream.
He then turned with his companions and, carefully picking his way over the dead bones of the lost river, began crossing the brown grasslands to the south.