This is part three of this story, adapted from an on-going play-by-forum session of Numenera. If you haven't already, you'll want to read part one and part two before you read this installment. If it's been a while since you read part two, no worries—there's a brief recap thingy at the start of this one. Enjoy!
For important disclaimers and whatnot please see the Tears of the Gods table of contents page.
***
Previously in "Tears of the Gods"
The sound of metal hammering metal came again. "Wake up, my pretties—you’re on soon."
"I am not an animal," Ooro said, staring up at the guard. "I will not perform, and I will not be caged!"
"You seek freedom?" rasped the voice from the next cage. "There is only one way to get free from here—the pit. The pit in the arena leads to freedom."
Krystogh read aloud: "The Gods came to seek help against the Great Hunter and his dogs. When the help was not there the Gods wept their Tears, so that those who would come later would prevail."
"... My secrets are my own," whispered Ooro.
"Well, you wanted to know what a bellowheart is," Gormin grumbled sardonically as the hemispherical room rotated to safety. "I hope you are happy."
A voice from the air spoke. "Iadace. Welcome to the Arechive, the library of things that are. Relax, for in the Truth, you are safe here."
Aliser looked down at Gormin from the platform. "There are those—members of the Convergence or the Jagged Dream—who would seek to steal our secrets. The message is in the form of a sealed cylinder..."
Lady Isla opened her left hand, revealing an orange-and-black scarab. It spread its wings, rose into the air, and whirred down toward Yimoul-Za.
"Do you have a name?" Tempus asked. A faint flicker of a smile played about her lips. "Yes." The grey-cloaked woman stepped back into the shadows and was gone.
***
Date: 7th Fre in the 401st Year of the Founding
Yimoul-Za
Yimoul-Za paced the Arechive's central room restlessly, eager to be on his way. It had been quite an interesting past few days; he wondered what else he'd encounter on his journey.
But after the attack on Syrus and the disappearance of Ooro, the group had not been permitted to leave the Arechive until it could be determined whether the mission was already compromised. Yimoul-Za chafed at the enforced inaction. It was not healthy for a golthiar to be held back from his life's driving purpose.
He scratched the area on his wooden body where the Flame of the Klang was still growing. It was a little itchy and abrasive, but nonetheless he knew it was important that he preserve this rare specimen for the benefit of his friends.
Suddenly curious about what information the Arechive contained about his kind, he wandered over to the great brain-powered Library and looked up golthiar while he waited. He decided to try using the coloured light projected from his eye to communicate with the device and was surprised that that actually worked. However, the Library communicated back in a very, very old dialect of the golthiar light-language.
So our light-language must have been learned or taught here... or within this great root is the seed-knowledge. Now I wonder what they say about us. It would also be a good opportunity to correct any misconceptions of our species...
After looking at some of the information available, Yimoul-Za closed the program and addressed the arm-less servitor that was the Library's attendant. "We certainly do not hunt astral squirrels; if we feed on them from time to time it is because they miss their jumps and smash into trees and of course they then have to be digested. How do I correct this information?"
The servitor's Truth symbol lit up and a holographic projection of a human face appeared a few fingerwidths in front of its nearly featureless physical face. "I speak in the Truth of the Truth. As you are not an Aeon Priest, any amendments to the Library must be ratified by the Circulus, the ruling body of the Arechive. In Truth, all truth must be verified as Truth."
"It will be reviewed? Do they not trust my word? Do they expect me to lie about such things? Pah... what other misinformation is there? And why does it depict a golthiar with... I am sure there are no females of our kind." He turned away in disgust from the servitor before it could answer.
"Seed Brother, it seems as though this place dedicated to the truth it is certainly failing in that regard!" he huffed to his staff as he returned to the central room.
Gormin, Tempus, and Kiraz were there, dining on peculiar human food. Yimoul-Za wondered how humans could stand the taste of meat that had been salted and/or heated to keep it from decomposing.
Syrus entered from the bedroom hall, unsteady on his feet.
"But I t- told her, I told her.. about the mission, I told her that I... I told her that I..." Syrus was mumbling to no one in particular. The others exchanged alarmed glances. Yimoul-Za was no expert in human physiology, but decided it must be an encouraging sign that he was awake at last and no longer leaking pink fluid from his left nostril.
"Told who about the mission?" Gormin demanded crossly, mouth full of not-decomposing animal flesh. "Did she happen to be wearing a grey cloak? Calaval's stones on a stick, we haven't even left yet and this milk run is already a fiasco."
Syrus winced and turned toward Gormin. "Cloak was g-grey, but... I forgot, I told her... About sludge, but shocking pain. She gave pain because I forgot. I forgot the rest. I told her... b-but pain," he stuttered.
Gormin swallowed his food and sighed. "Ah well, at least the food is good. We'll have nice full stomachs when the Convergence ambushes us on the road once we leave. Eat up, lads! We are probably doomed." He belched loudly as if to emphasize the point and then laughed darkly.
Syrus turned away and wandered about the room as if looking for something.
An awkward silence descended. "Is there an alternate route to Fallside besides the main road on the map?" Kiraz asked after a while. "Does anyone know, or do we need to check the Library? If Madam Yes's goons are waiting for us on the main road, it might be advisable to go the long way round..."
Yimoul-Za tuned out their discussion as he resumed pacing restlessly.
Later, about the time wane was giving way to ebb, Frater Bellias arrived via the elevator and summoned everyone to the north room's lounge area. He stood in front of the broad windows looking down upon the City of Bridges in the dying light. "I have unfortunate news. Three skeane have been pulled out of the water near to the industrial docks. They are dead, riddled with sting punctures. The Rakoth think they may have disturbed the mercurial wasps living under the city. Your friend Ooro was not found among the dead, but these three were last seen alive in his presence. We have to assume the worst."
"No!" The news greatly distressed Yimoul-Za. He rummaged through his bag and fished out a fist-sized ball of tightly-knotted roots with a protruding sharp point. It was a one-way psychic communicator, believed to have been used by spies and scouts in ancient times to relay information back to their handlers. Like most cyphers, the know-how to make them had been lost countless eons ago, but they were still not terribly uncommon to find.
Yimoul-Za braced himself and drove the root-ball's sharp point into his brain. He gasped at the strange sensation as the device connected. He pictured Ooro and sent the message.
"Ooro? Where are you? You're missing out on many a delectable meal! Yes, there is more fermented squirrel here!" He could feel the connection fading already and reluctantly removed the ball.
Gormin snorted. "Well, that was a waste. I'm sure Flipperman is fine. How much trouble can you get into shopping for sleeping bags? Then again, it is Ooro..."
Yimoul-Za looked down at the ball of tangled roots in his hand, now stained with golthiar brain-sap. The psychic communicator was one-way, one-use; there would be no reply from Ooro. He watched forlornly as the ball began to shrivel and wither.
"You can delay no longer," Frater Bellias was saying. "In Truth, I am sorry that your companion has not returned, but this message must reach Frater Neymich by the quarter moon. You will have to leave before sunrise tomorrow."
The communicator was swiftly turning into black crud that flaked and crumbled away between his fingers. For a brief instant the item had touched Ooro’s mind—Yimoul-Za had felt it. Ooro was alive.
***
Date: 8th Fre in the 401st Year of the Founding
Kiraz
Kiraz and Gormin stepped forward to meet the strange-looking man leading the small caravan.
"Iadace. I am Liem, a trader in rare fungi." Liem offered the hand of greeting. Up close, Kiraz could see Liem was covered with peculiar fungal growths all over his visible skin and scalp. He wasn't as ugly as Gormin, but it was a near thing.
Behind Liem were two pack aneens heavily laden with bags and baskets of trade goods; four female caravan guards with spears and beastskin armor milled about, looking uncomfortable in the day's heat.
Gormin returned the hand of greeting and tossed back the hood of his robe. "Well met, Liem. We are... hm. Mercenaries, I suppose one could say. Some free advice: if you are headed to the City, don't accept any offers of free drinks from anyone, lest you awaken the next morning to find yourselves hung over and fighting for your lives in the gladiator arena for the amusement of the bloodthirsty citizenry. Ask us how we know this. Haha!"
Liem the caravaneer smiled good-naturedly. I wonder if he thinks that was a joke, Kiraz mused. She looked up at the sky as Liem and Gormin made small talk. A hot sun, scattered clouds, a light breeze coming in from the sea: a typical Fre day.
As it was nearly midday, it was agreed that both parties stop and eat lunch together before continuing on their respective ways.
Yimoul-Za turned his eye toward Liem as they ate. "What a fine specimen you are! Humans and beasts have always been carriers for fungi and spores, but none wear it so proudly. And do tell us about what lies ahead. I hope the journey will be quick! "
Gormin gestured at the road toward Fallside. "Aye, what news of the road east? Bandits? Monsters? Toll booths?"
"The road east? I have travelled overland from Auspar via Kordech. The first part of the journey was uneventful, but when I reached Jaston I started hearing whispers that Baronet Toorkmeyn and his foul band of outlaws had been seen in the area. I took on some extra guards to help escort my goods." He nodded toward his crew of guards. Kiraz thought they might be sisters. "There is a travellers' shelter east of here; I stopped there last night."
Yimoul-Za's eye moved very close to the trader, minutely examining his fungal growths. Liem flinched slightly under the scrutiny, then chuckled.
"You think I am a living display of my wares! You are a golthiar, are you not; I have dealt with your kin in the Ba-Adenu. Iadace!"
Liem glanced up at the sun. "I want to be in the City of Bridges by nightfall; it is the dark of the moon, and not safe out. As to my face—since I can see you are curious—you are familiar with the orgulous? Once I was as handsome as your silent companion there." He nodded toward Syrus. "I was exploring a dark place, questing for new and unusual fungi when I was attacked by a clump of them—I should have died. Long story short, I survived, but was left looking like this."
"You have spoken to other golthiars?" asked Yimoul-Za. "Where is this Ba-Adenu? I am curious."
"The Ba-Adenu is a huge forest in the Beyond, on the other side of the Black Riage. I was there about two years ago, harvesting grooved nest fungi. There was a grove, a planting of your people, inside the great wall of Padun; I took shelter with them when a jiraskar was rampaging nearby."
Yimoul-Za was silent a long moment, contemplating the sky. "I was given the power of the sun," he mused aloud. "Now I seek to return to it, with a sky-ship filled with wares that will once again restore it to its former glory."
Yimoul-Za then ripped out some of the Flame of the Klang from his body. "Oh! I came upon this in my wanderings! It is rare indeed; it is slightly taxing to keep it, as it is parasitical, but it has healing properties," he explained, offering the mold to Liem.
Liem examined the fungus closely and then dropped it into a glassine jar.
"My thanks to you, I have never seen its like before. I look forward to studying it more and fixing a price on it." He looked up at the sky and stood. "I want to be in the City of Bridges by nightfall; it is the dark of the moon. It was good to meet all of you."
The two groups continued on their respective paths then—the merchant and his guards west toward the City of Bridges, the "mercenaries" east along the coastal cliffs.
The day grew hotter, the sun blazing down from a cloudless sky.
***
Syrus
The group came upon a fork in the road.
The left fork continued along the coast, close to the cliff edge. The right fork veered away southeast, towards a line of low hills in the distance.
"We want to follow the coast road to Fallside," said Gormin. "No time to explore alternate routes. If we get ambushed by Madam Yes or this Toorkmeyn fellow, so be it. We shall make necklaces from their ears and display them as a warning to others." Gormin grinned.
"At least it will be cooler if a sea wind blows towards us," Yimoul-Za agreed. "And how does one prepare for an ambush? If we were ready, we would not be ambushed!"
Syrus nodded silently in agreement as well. The group turned down the left-hand fork.
Kiraz wiped sweat from her brow. "Do we want to make any plans in case Madam Yes or Baronet Toorkmeyn decide to ambush us? Sometimes planning in advance helps out in an emergency."
Gormin thought for a while as they walked. "I suppose the best plan is to stay alert. As Yimoul-Za says, if you're ready it isn't much of an ambush. If you see someone skulking around, trying to surreptitiously get a good look at us as we travel, kill them. They are probably scouts working for the bandits, trying to determine if we are worth robbing. Legitimate travelers will not try to hide themselves in the undergrowth. And for sure, if you see anyone from Liem's caravan following us or trying to sneak around to get in front of us, kill them without a second thought. It is not unheard of for bandits to pose as traveling merchants."
Apparently having thus reminded himself, Gormin looked behind him to see if anyone was following. Syrus looked back also: nothing.
"If there's a roadblock or deadfall blocking the road ahead, then it's probably an ambush—this road is supposedly well-traveled and should be clear. If we see the road is blocked, we should try to backtrack immediately before anyone can get behind us and close the trap."
Gormin glanced at the aneen he was leading. "Often a large caravan will have ambush-spotters scouting ahead to keep the rest of the caravan out of trouble, but I think our numbers are too few for that. We should stick together, if we can."
"I will say also, there are limits to how willing we should be to risk our lives for Frater Bellias' little note. If we are attacked with overwhelming force, outnumbered three-to-one, say, we should just surrender, or at least try to negotiate. I like a good fight as much as the next glaive, but I'm not going to throw my life away for someone who pressed me into service against my will."
Syrus nodded but said nothing. He resolved to stay alert to any sign of danger.
The road followed the coast. A light sea-breeze did little to mitigate the heat of the sun as they trudged forward. Syrus was becoming fatigued; it was with some relief that at the onset of wane he called the group's attention to a marker set by the road: a weather-beaten stone tablet with an octagon inscribed on it. Within the octagon was inscribed the number 3. The promised travellers' rest was not much further.
And indeed three miles later, he spotted the octagonal tower, set back south of the road. The group turned down a beaten track that broke off from the main road toward the tower.
Syrus looked up at the presumed travellers' shelter. It was a tower two stories high and octagonal in shape, with edges rounded and chipped by time and weather. It was made of some dark stone, possibly poured like flowstone—it did not appear to be composed of individual blocks or bricks. The ground floor was windowless and had a single visible entrance. As far as he could see from his vantage point, the upper floor had one octagonal window in each wall; the window over the entrance was larger than the others. The entrance was wide open—in fact, there did not appear to be a door in its large octagonal frame. There was no light from within.
"A curious thing this is," said Yimoul-Za. He performed a Scan esotery on the tower. "The tower is very old—hundreds of years old. It is not numenera, but does contain a numenera source of light energy within it," he reported.
"Wait," said Kiraz quietly. Syrus glanced back; she pointed at the ground just ahead.
After a moment, Syrus was able to make out what she was pointing at: a recently severed human finger. There were two sets of bootprints there also, one larger than the other.
"At least two people came from the trail and stood here, then left," said Kiraz. She knelt down to examine the area around the finger. "Normally the drit on a path like is packed too hard to leave prints, but the recent rains have softened the ground."
"The finger was cut with a sharp instrument, probably a knife," she continued. "Done within the last 28 hours or so, I think. No traces of blood, other than the finger itself, of course."
Gormin grumbled. "I don't like it," he said. "I expect if there are bandits in residence here, they may already be watching us from the windows." He looked up at the tower's windows and waved hello. Gormin tied the aneen's lead to his belt, then drew his sword and unlimbered his shield.
"I'll take back," said Syrus. At Gormin's nod, he moved behind the others and readied his whip. Syrus swept his eyes back and forth, alert for any potential enemies.
The group advanced cautiously.
As they drew closer, it became apparent there was something else unusual in the way. About 30 feet from the tower there was a regular groove in the ground. So far as Syrus could see, it curved round the tower in a perfect circle; it was an unvarying handspan wide and about a hand and a half deep. The drit at the edges appeared fused.
Syrus remembered Gormin's warning about their path being blocked. He looked back again, but saw no one sneaking up behind them.
Gormin put away his sword and stepped forward, aneen in tow. "This groove may be part of an old defensive measure, hopefully long inactive. The shelter is said to be used by travellers after all, so it's probably not dangerous. Still, better safe than sorry..."
Gormin stood at the very edge of the groove pulled the aneen's lead forward to make it step across the groove first. Nothing happened, so after a moment, Gormin drew his sword and stepped across also. The rest of the group followed as well.
Closer to the tower, Syrus could see over the entrance an inscription chiseled directly into the flowstone, reading "Welcome, Travellers" in the Truth.
For important disclaimers and whatnot please see the Tears of the Gods table of contents page.
***
Previously in "Tears of the Gods"
The sound of metal hammering metal came again. "Wake up, my pretties—you’re on soon."
"I am not an animal," Ooro said, staring up at the guard. "I will not perform, and I will not be caged!"
"You seek freedom?" rasped the voice from the next cage. "There is only one way to get free from here—the pit. The pit in the arena leads to freedom."
Krystogh read aloud: "The Gods came to seek help against the Great Hunter and his dogs. When the help was not there the Gods wept their Tears, so that those who would come later would prevail."
"... My secrets are my own," whispered Ooro.
"Well, you wanted to know what a bellowheart is," Gormin grumbled sardonically as the hemispherical room rotated to safety. "I hope you are happy."
A voice from the air spoke. "Iadace. Welcome to the Arechive, the library of things that are. Relax, for in the Truth, you are safe here."
Aliser looked down at Gormin from the platform. "There are those—members of the Convergence or the Jagged Dream—who would seek to steal our secrets. The message is in the form of a sealed cylinder..."
Lady Isla opened her left hand, revealing an orange-and-black scarab. It spread its wings, rose into the air, and whirred down toward Yimoul-Za.
"Do you have a name?" Tempus asked. A faint flicker of a smile played about her lips. "Yes." The grey-cloaked woman stepped back into the shadows and was gone.
***
Date: 7th Fre in the 401st Year of the Founding
Yimoul-Za
Yimoul-Za paced the Arechive's central room restlessly, eager to be on his way. It had been quite an interesting past few days; he wondered what else he'd encounter on his journey.
But after the attack on Syrus and the disappearance of Ooro, the group had not been permitted to leave the Arechive until it could be determined whether the mission was already compromised. Yimoul-Za chafed at the enforced inaction. It was not healthy for a golthiar to be held back from his life's driving purpose.
He scratched the area on his wooden body where the Flame of the Klang was still growing. It was a little itchy and abrasive, but nonetheless he knew it was important that he preserve this rare specimen for the benefit of his friends.
Suddenly curious about what information the Arechive contained about his kind, he wandered over to the great brain-powered Library and looked up golthiar while he waited. He decided to try using the coloured light projected from his eye to communicate with the device and was surprised that that actually worked. However, the Library communicated back in a very, very old dialect of the golthiar light-language.
So our light-language must have been learned or taught here... or within this great root is the seed-knowledge. Now I wonder what they say about us. It would also be a good opportunity to correct any misconceptions of our species...
After looking at some of the information available, Yimoul-Za closed the program and addressed the arm-less servitor that was the Library's attendant. "We certainly do not hunt astral squirrels; if we feed on them from time to time it is because they miss their jumps and smash into trees and of course they then have to be digested. How do I correct this information?"
The servitor's Truth symbol lit up and a holographic projection of a human face appeared a few fingerwidths in front of its nearly featureless physical face. "I speak in the Truth of the Truth. As you are not an Aeon Priest, any amendments to the Library must be ratified by the Circulus, the ruling body of the Arechive. In Truth, all truth must be verified as Truth."
"It will be reviewed? Do they not trust my word? Do they expect me to lie about such things? Pah... what other misinformation is there? And why does it depict a golthiar with... I am sure there are no females of our kind." He turned away in disgust from the servitor before it could answer.
"Seed Brother, it seems as though this place dedicated to the truth it is certainly failing in that regard!" he huffed to his staff as he returned to the central room.
Gormin, Tempus, and Kiraz were there, dining on peculiar human food. Yimoul-Za wondered how humans could stand the taste of meat that had been salted and/or heated to keep it from decomposing.
Syrus entered from the bedroom hall, unsteady on his feet.
"But I t- told her, I told her.. about the mission, I told her that I... I told her that I..." Syrus was mumbling to no one in particular. The others exchanged alarmed glances. Yimoul-Za was no expert in human physiology, but decided it must be an encouraging sign that he was awake at last and no longer leaking pink fluid from his left nostril.
"Told who about the mission?" Gormin demanded crossly, mouth full of not-decomposing animal flesh. "Did she happen to be wearing a grey cloak? Calaval's stones on a stick, we haven't even left yet and this milk run is already a fiasco."
Syrus winced and turned toward Gormin. "Cloak was g-grey, but... I forgot, I told her... About sludge, but shocking pain. She gave pain because I forgot. I forgot the rest. I told her... b-but pain," he stuttered.
Gormin swallowed his food and sighed. "Ah well, at least the food is good. We'll have nice full stomachs when the Convergence ambushes us on the road once we leave. Eat up, lads! We are probably doomed." He belched loudly as if to emphasize the point and then laughed darkly.
Syrus turned away and wandered about the room as if looking for something.
An awkward silence descended. "Is there an alternate route to Fallside besides the main road on the map?" Kiraz asked after a while. "Does anyone know, or do we need to check the Library? If Madam Yes's goons are waiting for us on the main road, it might be advisable to go the long way round..."
Yimoul-Za tuned out their discussion as he resumed pacing restlessly.
Later, about the time wane was giving way to ebb, Frater Bellias arrived via the elevator and summoned everyone to the north room's lounge area. He stood in front of the broad windows looking down upon the City of Bridges in the dying light. "I have unfortunate news. Three skeane have been pulled out of the water near to the industrial docks. They are dead, riddled with sting punctures. The Rakoth think they may have disturbed the mercurial wasps living under the city. Your friend Ooro was not found among the dead, but these three were last seen alive in his presence. We have to assume the worst."
"No!" The news greatly distressed Yimoul-Za. He rummaged through his bag and fished out a fist-sized ball of tightly-knotted roots with a protruding sharp point. It was a one-way psychic communicator, believed to have been used by spies and scouts in ancient times to relay information back to their handlers. Like most cyphers, the know-how to make them had been lost countless eons ago, but they were still not terribly uncommon to find.
Yimoul-Za braced himself and drove the root-ball's sharp point into his brain. He gasped at the strange sensation as the device connected. He pictured Ooro and sent the message.
"Ooro? Where are you? You're missing out on many a delectable meal! Yes, there is more fermented squirrel here!" He could feel the connection fading already and reluctantly removed the ball.
Gormin snorted. "Well, that was a waste. I'm sure Flipperman is fine. How much trouble can you get into shopping for sleeping bags? Then again, it is Ooro..."
Yimoul-Za looked down at the ball of tangled roots in his hand, now stained with golthiar brain-sap. The psychic communicator was one-way, one-use; there would be no reply from Ooro. He watched forlornly as the ball began to shrivel and wither.
"You can delay no longer," Frater Bellias was saying. "In Truth, I am sorry that your companion has not returned, but this message must reach Frater Neymich by the quarter moon. You will have to leave before sunrise tomorrow."
The communicator was swiftly turning into black crud that flaked and crumbled away between his fingers. For a brief instant the item had touched Ooro’s mind—Yimoul-Za had felt it. Ooro was alive.
***
Date: 8th Fre in the 401st Year of the Founding
Kiraz
Kiraz and Gormin stepped forward to meet the strange-looking man leading the small caravan.
"Iadace. I am Liem, a trader in rare fungi." Liem offered the hand of greeting. Up close, Kiraz could see Liem was covered with peculiar fungal growths all over his visible skin and scalp. He wasn't as ugly as Gormin, but it was a near thing.
Behind Liem were two pack aneens heavily laden with bags and baskets of trade goods; four female caravan guards with spears and beastskin armor milled about, looking uncomfortable in the day's heat.
Gormin returned the hand of greeting and tossed back the hood of his robe. "Well met, Liem. We are... hm. Mercenaries, I suppose one could say. Some free advice: if you are headed to the City, don't accept any offers of free drinks from anyone, lest you awaken the next morning to find yourselves hung over and fighting for your lives in the gladiator arena for the amusement of the bloodthirsty citizenry. Ask us how we know this. Haha!"
Liem the caravaneer smiled good-naturedly. I wonder if he thinks that was a joke, Kiraz mused. She looked up at the sky as Liem and Gormin made small talk. A hot sun, scattered clouds, a light breeze coming in from the sea: a typical Fre day.
As it was nearly midday, it was agreed that both parties stop and eat lunch together before continuing on their respective ways.
Yimoul-Za turned his eye toward Liem as they ate. "What a fine specimen you are! Humans and beasts have always been carriers for fungi and spores, but none wear it so proudly. And do tell us about what lies ahead. I hope the journey will be quick! "
Gormin gestured at the road toward Fallside. "Aye, what news of the road east? Bandits? Monsters? Toll booths?"
"The road east? I have travelled overland from Auspar via Kordech. The first part of the journey was uneventful, but when I reached Jaston I started hearing whispers that Baronet Toorkmeyn and his foul band of outlaws had been seen in the area. I took on some extra guards to help escort my goods." He nodded toward his crew of guards. Kiraz thought they might be sisters. "There is a travellers' shelter east of here; I stopped there last night."
Yimoul-Za's eye moved very close to the trader, minutely examining his fungal growths. Liem flinched slightly under the scrutiny, then chuckled.
"You think I am a living display of my wares! You are a golthiar, are you not; I have dealt with your kin in the Ba-Adenu. Iadace!"
Liem glanced up at the sun. "I want to be in the City of Bridges by nightfall; it is the dark of the moon, and not safe out. As to my face—since I can see you are curious—you are familiar with the orgulous? Once I was as handsome as your silent companion there." He nodded toward Syrus. "I was exploring a dark place, questing for new and unusual fungi when I was attacked by a clump of them—I should have died. Long story short, I survived, but was left looking like this."
"You have spoken to other golthiars?" asked Yimoul-Za. "Where is this Ba-Adenu? I am curious."
"The Ba-Adenu is a huge forest in the Beyond, on the other side of the Black Riage. I was there about two years ago, harvesting grooved nest fungi. There was a grove, a planting of your people, inside the great wall of Padun; I took shelter with them when a jiraskar was rampaging nearby."
Yimoul-Za was silent a long moment, contemplating the sky. "I was given the power of the sun," he mused aloud. "Now I seek to return to it, with a sky-ship filled with wares that will once again restore it to its former glory."
Yimoul-Za then ripped out some of the Flame of the Klang from his body. "Oh! I came upon this in my wanderings! It is rare indeed; it is slightly taxing to keep it, as it is parasitical, but it has healing properties," he explained, offering the mold to Liem.
Liem examined the fungus closely and then dropped it into a glassine jar.
"My thanks to you, I have never seen its like before. I look forward to studying it more and fixing a price on it." He looked up at the sky and stood. "I want to be in the City of Bridges by nightfall; it is the dark of the moon. It was good to meet all of you."
The two groups continued on their respective paths then—the merchant and his guards west toward the City of Bridges, the "mercenaries" east along the coastal cliffs.
The day grew hotter, the sun blazing down from a cloudless sky.
***
Syrus
The group came upon a fork in the road.
The left fork continued along the coast, close to the cliff edge. The right fork veered away southeast, towards a line of low hills in the distance.
"We want to follow the coast road to Fallside," said Gormin. "No time to explore alternate routes. If we get ambushed by Madam Yes or this Toorkmeyn fellow, so be it. We shall make necklaces from their ears and display them as a warning to others." Gormin grinned.
"At least it will be cooler if a sea wind blows towards us," Yimoul-Za agreed. "And how does one prepare for an ambush? If we were ready, we would not be ambushed!"
Syrus nodded silently in agreement as well. The group turned down the left-hand fork.
Kiraz wiped sweat from her brow. "Do we want to make any plans in case Madam Yes or Baronet Toorkmeyn decide to ambush us? Sometimes planning in advance helps out in an emergency."
Gormin thought for a while as they walked. "I suppose the best plan is to stay alert. As Yimoul-Za says, if you're ready it isn't much of an ambush. If you see someone skulking around, trying to surreptitiously get a good look at us as we travel, kill them. They are probably scouts working for the bandits, trying to determine if we are worth robbing. Legitimate travelers will not try to hide themselves in the undergrowth. And for sure, if you see anyone from Liem's caravan following us or trying to sneak around to get in front of us, kill them without a second thought. It is not unheard of for bandits to pose as traveling merchants."
Apparently having thus reminded himself, Gormin looked behind him to see if anyone was following. Syrus looked back also: nothing.
"If there's a roadblock or deadfall blocking the road ahead, then it's probably an ambush—this road is supposedly well-traveled and should be clear. If we see the road is blocked, we should try to backtrack immediately before anyone can get behind us and close the trap."
Gormin glanced at the aneen he was leading. "Often a large caravan will have ambush-spotters scouting ahead to keep the rest of the caravan out of trouble, but I think our numbers are too few for that. We should stick together, if we can."
"I will say also, there are limits to how willing we should be to risk our lives for Frater Bellias' little note. If we are attacked with overwhelming force, outnumbered three-to-one, say, we should just surrender, or at least try to negotiate. I like a good fight as much as the next glaive, but I'm not going to throw my life away for someone who pressed me into service against my will."
Syrus nodded but said nothing. He resolved to stay alert to any sign of danger.
The road followed the coast. A light sea-breeze did little to mitigate the heat of the sun as they trudged forward. Syrus was becoming fatigued; it was with some relief that at the onset of wane he called the group's attention to a marker set by the road: a weather-beaten stone tablet with an octagon inscribed on it. Within the octagon was inscribed the number 3. The promised travellers' rest was not much further.
And indeed three miles later, he spotted the octagonal tower, set back south of the road. The group turned down a beaten track that broke off from the main road toward the tower.
Syrus looked up at the presumed travellers' shelter. It was a tower two stories high and octagonal in shape, with edges rounded and chipped by time and weather. It was made of some dark stone, possibly poured like flowstone—it did not appear to be composed of individual blocks or bricks. The ground floor was windowless and had a single visible entrance. As far as he could see from his vantage point, the upper floor had one octagonal window in each wall; the window over the entrance was larger than the others. The entrance was wide open—in fact, there did not appear to be a door in its large octagonal frame. There was no light from within.
"A curious thing this is," said Yimoul-Za. He performed a Scan esotery on the tower. "The tower is very old—hundreds of years old. It is not numenera, but does contain a numenera source of light energy within it," he reported.
"Wait," said Kiraz quietly. Syrus glanced back; she pointed at the ground just ahead.
After a moment, Syrus was able to make out what she was pointing at: a recently severed human finger. There were two sets of bootprints there also, one larger than the other.
"At least two people came from the trail and stood here, then left," said Kiraz. She knelt down to examine the area around the finger. "Normally the drit on a path like is packed too hard to leave prints, but the recent rains have softened the ground."
"The finger was cut with a sharp instrument, probably a knife," she continued. "Done within the last 28 hours or so, I think. No traces of blood, other than the finger itself, of course."
Gormin grumbled. "I don't like it," he said. "I expect if there are bandits in residence here, they may already be watching us from the windows." He looked up at the tower's windows and waved hello. Gormin tied the aneen's lead to his belt, then drew his sword and unlimbered his shield.
"I'll take back," said Syrus. At Gormin's nod, he moved behind the others and readied his whip. Syrus swept his eyes back and forth, alert for any potential enemies.
The group advanced cautiously.
As they drew closer, it became apparent there was something else unusual in the way. About 30 feet from the tower there was a regular groove in the ground. So far as Syrus could see, it curved round the tower in a perfect circle; it was an unvarying handspan wide and about a hand and a half deep. The drit at the edges appeared fused.
Syrus remembered Gormin's warning about their path being blocked. He looked back again, but saw no one sneaking up behind them.
Gormin put away his sword and stepped forward, aneen in tow. "This groove may be part of an old defensive measure, hopefully long inactive. The shelter is said to be used by travellers after all, so it's probably not dangerous. Still, better safe than sorry..."
Gormin stood at the very edge of the groove pulled the aneen's lead forward to make it step across the groove first. Nothing happened, so after a moment, Gormin drew his sword and stepped across also. The rest of the group followed as well.
Closer to the tower, Syrus could see over the entrance an inscription chiseled directly into the flowstone, reading "Welcome, Travellers" in the Truth.
Gormin narrowed his eyes at the sign and muttered quietly, "Perhaps our bootprint-leaving friends saw something about the tower that spooked them." Syrus wondered if Gormin was losing his nerve himself.
Yimoul-Za strode ahead towards the tower. "If we're going in, we should at least knock," he pointed out. He rapped his wooden knuckles on the stone next to the entrance. "Anyone in here?" he shouted.
Gormin winced. "Well, so much for getting the drop on the bandits," he grumbled.
There was no answer, so the group entered the tower. A quick scout of the ground floor showed it to be empty.
The ground floor was about 50 feet across from wall to wall, with a dirt floor and a high enough ceiling to accommodate an aneen comfortably. The interior was divided into seven rooms around a smaller octagonal court. Three of the rooms had doors made of old, heavily scratched synth the color of old ivory; the room opposite the entrance was a stairwell leading up the next floor. At the top of the stairs was a lockable trapdoor. The ivory-colored doors were secured by a simple bolt from the outside; droppings and traces on the floor showed that aneen had been stabled there recently.
Gormin stabled the aneen, and the group moved to the upper floor. Similar to the ground floor, there were several rooms around an octagonal central area. Four rooms turned out to be sleeping areas, capable of comfortably hosting six people each. The two other rooms were used for storage of food (simple hardbread) and water, and even a few well-used bowls and cups made from dried gourds. Carved into the doors of each of the storage rooms was a notice: "Traveller – Help Yourself".
The center area had a large octagonal wooden table and bench seats. Across from the stairs, instead of a seventh room was an alcove with the octagonal window overlooking the entrance. Suspended above the table was a large glowglobe bathing the room in soft light.
The group gathered around the octagonal table.
"A little suspicious, no?" said Yimoul-Za. "Bandits and bogoids I expected, but a tower with beds and food?"
Gormin nodded. "The map said there were rest shelters on the way, but this seems suspicious. I have a bad feeling about tonight, and especially about this free food. I suggest only one person at most eat from the free food in case it's poison. If they are still alive in the morning then we all can eat it. I would happily use the aneen for this purpose, but what's poison to a human isn't always poison to an aneen—different biology. Could have four people keep three-hour watches through the night, and the free food taste-tester be exempt from standing watch. How does that sound?"
Syrus spoke up. "P- Poison possible? Do we need food? Own rations." He gestured to his travel pack. "Not taste-testing."
Gormin grinned. "The food might not be deadly poison; it might merely be drugged, like how the Arechive's goons drug people with free drinks before making them fight in the arena. We're still only a day away from the City; this tower might be another of the arena's 'recruiting' stations. There is also a remote possibility that the food is perfectly fine, donated by some benevolent crofter out of the goodness of his, her, or its heart—or hearts—and that I'm being paranoid over nothing." Gormin scoffed at the obvious unlikelihood of that possibility.
"But if no one wants to risk the free food, we can all take turns keeping watch. I suggest also that everyone sleep in the same room, the better to hear any assassins that have slipped past the watch and are strangling the life out of your friends—the rooms are easily big enough to accommodate everyone."
No one volunteered to taste the free food. After a bit more discussion, the group divvied up watch duties and retired for the night. It had been a long day. Syrus went to sleep with his hand still clenched around his whip.
***
Kiraz
"We've got company!"
At Yimoul-Za's shout, Kiraz was awake immediately. She snatched up her verred and burst through the bedroom door, down the stairs, and out to where Yimoul-Za was standing watch. Syrus followed close on her heels.
Just outside the tower, a group of eight bear-like humanoids had gathered in a semi-circle around Yimoul-Za.
"Vepsis," said one of the creatures. "Thruth. Ispos Krai," it ventured haltingly as it pointed to himself and the others with him. "Ispos Beanstalk lost." It pointed up into the sky. "Crenis Beanstalk Krai? Vepsis?" It paused for a moment, thinking. "Crito?"
Kiraz could pick out words and part-words of the Truth as it continued, but could not make sense of the beings' attempt to communicate. At least they aren't attacking us, she thought.
She took a closer look at them. The ursoids were carrying no obvious weapons. Each had on an identical grey jumpsuit, well-made and fitted, with wide belts boasting many pouches. None of the creatures wore foot-gear, exposing their broad, three-clawed feet from the ankle down. Probably didn't leave the bootprints around the severed finger, then.
Gormin emerged from the tower, grumbling about his loss of beauty sleep.
"Beanstalk? Going into the air? Around here?" asked Yimoul-Za, fascinated. The lights in his eye twinkled and changed colour several times.
Gormin put away his weapon and sighed.
"The Beanstalk is a huge tower out east in the Beyond, past the mountains. Bit bigger than this tower. If they are from there they're a long way from home. If they are looking for the Beanstalk they've taken a serious wrong turn." He paused, smiling slightly as a new thought seemed to occur to him. "Perhaps our new friends are hungry? We have plenty of extra food here." He stepped aside and made a welcome-inside gesture towards the tower entrance.
The bear-creatures visibly reacted to the word food and all piled into the tower at Gormin's invitation. He showed them to the food storage upstairs. The speaker picked up some hardbread, sniffed it gingerly, then thrust it aside and tasted the water. He nodded, and the others took bowls and cups and drank the water. Kiraz noted that they meticulously wiped the cups and bowls clean after they had drunk from them. None of them ate the hardbread.
"Truth. Vepsis. Food melth Krai. Crito? Krai nei food. Nei… cultural. Crito?"
Kiraz had the impression they could not eat the hardbread for cultural reasons.
Tempus belatedly joined them, yawning. He and Yimoul-Za tried to work out what the bear-creatures were saying. The gist was that the Krai, as they called themselves, were travellers from another world. They were lost. They had been told to look for the Beanstalk. They were bound by many cultural restrictions and mores; they could drink Earth water, but the rations in the tower were "not cultural", whatever that meant.
They were not able to easily explain why they were on Earth or how they'd got here; the right words didn't seem to exist in Truth. But they knew or believed that the Beanstalk was the way home.
They chose not to spend the night in the tower—not "cultural" to abide with non-Krai. They filed out of the tower and set up a camp some distance away, beyond the circular groove.
After they'd gone, Gormin grumbled, "Well, that was interesting. If our friends are still there in the morning we can decide whether to sell them to the arena master in the City or bring them along to Fallside as jiraskar fodder. In the mean time, it's late. I can take this shift. The rest of you get some sleep."
***
9th Fre, 401st Year of the Founding
Gormin
The day dawned bright and cloudless; even inside shortly after sunrise the heat was intense. There were no unexplained deaths in the night, which Gormin decided to take as a good omen. Maybe we will get a couple of days before this trip turns into a complete disaster.
Gormin gathered his gear and descended to the tower's ground floor. He heard voices outside; the Krai were back. He stepped out into the oppressive heat. Tempus and Yimoul-Za were there, trying to make sense of the Krai leader's newest request. The gist was that the Krai were very hungry. They wanted to buy one of the group in order to eat them.
Yimoul-Za tilted his eye quizzically. "Buy one of us to eat? I'm afraid that is most unusual. The seed-knowledge has records of certain plantfolk that do this, but I do not think any of us will quietly agree to being eaten. You could have some of the rations upstairs, or would you like some fungus? Healthy and reinvigorating, it is."
"Oh, that's just hilarious," growled Gormin. "Too bad Ooro isn't here. Could have sold them Ooro and said, gotta catch him first, good luck! Ha." Despite the joke, however, Gormin was tense. He fingered the hilt of his sword.
After some back and forth, it was further explained that the Krai would pay a good price and the person would not suffer—they would be swiftly torn apart in a feeding frenzy. The rest would be allowed to watch, if desired. Being torn apart and eaten alive sounds like suffering to me, Gormin thought.
Gormin grunted. "Guess I gotta do it myself. Be right back," he says. He stepped back into the tower and retrieved a length of synthrope from his explorer's pack. He unbarred and opened the door to his aneen's stable.
"There's a good boy," he whispered soothingly to the aneen as he scratched it behind the ears. "Come meet your new friends." The aneen was about twice his height and obviously unintelligent, but Gormin hoped maybe that wouldn't be so obvious to extraterrestrials. At least it was bipedal. Instead of putting the bit in its mouth, he looped the synthrope over its neck and left the pack saddle and other gear the aneen normally carried behind.
He lead the aneen out to the Krai and pointed to it. "Food," he announced, and held out his hand, palm up. "Two hundred shins. You understand shins? Shinies?" He pointed at the aneen again. "Fregh doesn't talk much because he doesn't speak much of the Truth. Lots of meat on him though, very tasty. Two hundred shins, and we'll need the rope back after you are done."
The Krai leader looked at Gormin's outstretched hand and reached out to take it.
"Vepsis, vol food."
It then paused and look back and forth between him and the aneen.
"Beast food? Beast nei food, nei cultural. Vol food. Nei vol food?"
Tempus explained, "They think you are offering yourself and they can’t eat the aneen—it’s not cultural. They have also realised that none of us want to be eaten."
The Krai leader stepped back and made a downward gesture of dismissal, then turned and rejoined his group.
Yimoul-Za waved goodbye to the Krai. "What strange practices. Hopefully they will find some prey soon. At least they did not attack us immediately. I do not think there will be many groups that will agree to having one of their kind devoured, unless they're some kind of parasite," he mused.
Tempus watched through narrowed eyes as the Krai broke camp and departed toward the southwest. "I wonder what will happen if they begin to starve. Will they eat one of their own? Or would cannibalism be non-cultural? And would these norms be applicable to all of their race? Or just a faction? It would be interesting to understand more of their culture and norms."
"Perhaps the Krai have a docile slave race wherever they come from," Gormin suggested. "Who knows? Hopefully they find their way to the City. The arena crowds would love to see them ripping margr apart and eating them. Or vice-versa. In Truth, I would pay to see that myself."
Gormin, sweating profusely, loaded up the aneen with its pack saddle and usual tack. He shed his cloak and put it on the aneen. "Truth be told, would rather have the aneen than the shins. Carrying all this junk to Fallside would be a pain, especially in this heat. I don't envy your lot in life, Fregh."
The aneen lowed, uncomprehending.
To be continued...
