Seven Swords by Michael E. Shea (digital book reader .TXT) 📖

Ca’daan arrived at dawn three weeks after watching the slaughter of Fena Set. He caught sight of the Old One shortly before seeing the smoke of the village chimneys. The early shadow of the colossal statue covered the village completely. It would be nearly mid-day before the red sun crested over the huge statue’s sightless head. All his life Ca’daan had marveled at Fena Dim’s dark protector. His grandmother told tales to Ca’daan and his sisters of the titan who walked the planet leaving lakes of molten rock in his footsteps. The titan battled the eight other old gods in the days before even a tree took root in the earth. Soon the immortal titans tired of their wars and slept. The mountain statue, his grandmother would say, was the sleeping titan and should Ca’daan or his sisters make noise in the night, the titan would awaken and roar and kill half the world.

Though fantasy, Ca’daan loved to look upon the Old One and imagine the huge being crack free from millennia of rock and roar. Even knowing it was but a statue carved by man did little to reduce his wonder. How many did it take to carve a mountain into a god? Who would order such a thing and who would live to see it done? Ca’daan had traveled to the salt mines high in the mountain and had seen the growth and erosion around the carvings. It spoke of thousands of years, even before the times of the old empire. Other tales told of the jealous God-kings who wished the Old One torn down, lest the people gaze upon him and forget who they should worship. The attempt was futile. Seventy years of carving had barely scratched one massive trunk-like toe of the Old One. So the God-kings moved their empires east where the deserts had carved away the titans who might have dared to threaten their rule.

The Old One always comforted Ca’daan, except today. The shadow covering his town looked like the black clutch of hell. He could hear the familiar sounds of the village but in his mind the women and children from Fena Set continued to scream. He looked to the cyclopean statue and shivered. So vividly did he imagine the massive head turning his way and opening its huge maw that he had to blink to ensure it didn’t happen.

The town’s militia greeted him as he arrived. The four boys cried out and swung thin sticks wildly. Ca’daan smiled but the oldest of the boys saw something was wrong and narrowed his eyes.

“What’s wrong with Whitebelly?” he asked.

“She’s very tired.” was all the response Ca’daan could offer. He rode past the brill fields. The huge beasts thundered and belched as they grazed.

Jamus stepped from his cottage as Ca’daan passed. “You’re not supposed to be back until spring. The torrent’s started.”

“I know,” said Ca’daan.

“What’s happened?”

Ca’daan considered the question. So intent was he on arriving that he had no plan for addressing what he had seen. He was so tired.

“I have to go home,” said Ca’daan. “I will be back tomorrow.” Ca’daan kicked Whitebelly who lurched forward. From the corner of his eye he saw Jamus look over the broken mare.

No one else stopped him. The day had started. The miners were in the western hills in the salt mines. The farmers tended their crops. Ca’daan headed east across the brook to his home.

He took Whitebelly to her stable, wiped her down, watered, and fed her. The mare looked at him as she grazed. The impact of his treatment of the beast fell upon him and Ca’daan let out a single sob. He stepped on numb legs back to his home, opened the door, stepped in, closed it, and collapsed on his stone floor. He wept and cried out. He rolled to his side and hugged his knees to his chest. He was so happy to be alive, yet all of those dead haunted him. Within his grief moved an older sadness. He missed Anda. The grief fell upon him and he wept even more.

He awoke on the floor. It was dark outside. He stood, undressed, and slept in his bed until the following dawn.

In the morning Ca’daan dressed and headed to the carpenter’s shop. Dunkan was there.

“Tell your father that I need word with the elders this eve.”

“Yes, I wish you well in that,” said the young man twisting a hammered nail in his teeth as he put together a thick-legged chair. “Severn is bringing the mining lords tonight. They run dry in the west and want to reopen the eastern shafts at the Old One’s feet again.”

“Dunkan, it is important,” said Ca’daan. Dunkan gave him his attention.

“As you say,” said Dunkan.

The day moved slowly. Ca’daan ate but got sick. He settled for soup. He had no idea what he would say that night. There was no way he could describe what he had seen.

Dusk crept in, painting the Old One deep red. The titan stared east with an eyeless face. Ca’daan dressed and walked in the cool night air. His stomach surged and numbness touched him when he thought of what he must say.

The elders sat in the addressing room of Alvic’s home in the same seats they had sat in for three decades. Only one seat, that of Nonan, remained empty. The old man had died of a chill that had left him bedridden and coughing for three weeks. No new elder had yet been selected but everyone expected the blacksmith Grado to take the seat. He was well liked and keen.

Severn was addressing the four old men stringing out lines of formality and false respect that left the four men baffled and confused. For four years Severn had asked the elders to open the old mines deeper in the hills but so far the elders declined. More salt mining required more salt miners. Enlarging the village was not desirable and most knew that Severn only desired wealth and a seat on the council of elders. He had been blocked for ten years.

“Uncle, I must speak,” said Ca’daan. Severn scowled at him. Gauve looked at him and frowned.

“You may speak when it is your turn,” he said. Severn cleared his throat to begin.

“Fena Set has burned,” said Ca’daan. All eyes turned to him. Each face revealed either shock, anger, concern, or confusion. “Every man, woman, and child was put to the sword or burned. Red armored devils fell upon them and ripped them to pieces. Only luck saved me. One of the brill I had planned to sell had become impacted on the trip and slowed me down by a day. When I arrived, I witnessed murder and horror.”

The visions he saw poured out of him. He spoke for a long time and their eyes stayed on him. One of the men with Severn left during Ca’daan’s story and Ca’daan heard him vomiting outside. When he finished, no one spoke. Severn shifted and Ca’daan felt anger burn in him. Ca’daan knew Severn cared not at all for the horse traders of Fena Set. He cared only for his mines and the salt wealth it brought him.

“This is disturbing,” said Oden, the second senior elder. “They were fair and honest traders. We will miss our relations.”

“They are coming here!” shouted Ca’daan.

“Nonsense,” said Tyroid. “Why come here? The torrent has started already and many other southern villages surely draw the interest of bandits.”

“They will wait and they will come,” said Ca’daan. “All other villages are already burned. We are the only village north of Fena Set. I saw their eyes. They are not bandits or profiteers. They are murderers.”

“This is a grave concern,” said Emrold. The fat man’s belly hung from the bottom of his tunic like a white sack. “Perhaps we should prepare a militia.”

“The four Javis children?” asked Severn. Someone let out a chuckle.

“No, a real militia,” said Emrold.

“We have never needed one. The mountains shield us and our swords are the torrents. If they come, they will be cut to pieces,” said Oden.

“They will wait and they will come,” said Ca’daan. He was sure of it but he could not say why. Though surrounded by murder, he saw patience in the eyes of the one they called Stark. The way he played with the villager with the sword. “Uncle, believe me.”

Gauve kept his eyes on Ca’daan.

“We will discuss this matter and decide. Go and rest,” said his uncle.

No rest found Ca’daan. He lay awake staring at the beams of his wooden roof where a spider spun a thin web of silk. He walked through a thousand conversations that would or would not convince them. The next morning he went to his uncle’s circular home high up on the northern hill of the village. He knocked and entered.

“Are you all right, Ca’daan?” asked Gauve.

“No.” said Ca’daan. “I can’t sleep. I almost died. They ate them, uncle. They baked them on spits and ate them. They drank their blood from their own ale flagons.” He saw his uncle’s face turn ashen. “They will come here.”

“The council does not agree. They wish to keep watch and Severn agreed to arm the miners. If they come, we will defend ourselves.”

“They are going to come and we are going to die.”

“Ca’daan. I know you saw such horror that we cannot understand. I know your journey through the torrent’s edge was straining. You must trust us. We have weathered attack before. We can do it again.”

“Not against this,” said Ca’daan shaking his head. He was losing his uncle. “How can I convince you?”

“Of what? What would you have us do?”

“Flee. Pack the brill and go north.”

“And become nomads?” said Gauve. “Bandits may not kill us here but they surely will north. The tribes are as thick as flies out there. How many brill would it take and how long would we travel?”

His uncle was right, thought Ca’daan. It wouldn’t work. He had no idea what to do. A red sword swung for his home and he had no defense. He sighed and left.

Sleep came uneasy that night and though he worked himself hard the next day, tending to those brill that remained in his farm, his mind wandered. He watched the militia, the sons of Javis,