Fauldon's Dream and the Karier of the Task Page 5

  And so the fireballs trailed toward the guide—an abrupt end as a field of blue hexes formed a sphere. The bridge shook as the second golem began its charge and sir Knowington leapt upward in a manner and speed Mr Fauldon thought impossible. The man of great mystery flew above the first embermud, a gust of razor wind catching the creature until it compressed into a tiny marble-sized glow and darted back behind Mr Fauldon—who now knew sir Knowington’s intent.

  The man now poised upon the platform they’d just left, a golem before him and a golem behind him—both no longer upon the bridge (and he intended to keep it that way). But Mr Fauldon could not watch for his eyes were the driest they had ever been amidst the flames that shot and spiraled all about the guide’s hexes of blue. Mr Fauldon knew but to press forward to the next platform, trying all he could to fight his own battle against the bitter chills of his core in contrast to the burning heat of his hands, face, and feet.

  Truly the Korgath skin was beginning to take its toll on him. Mr Fauldon folded over, shuddering to the cold within, tormented with every urge to take off the coat if only just for a moment. He leaned heavily upon the ropes, pulling himself along them, but with each motion did he feel the singed hands.

  The planks beneath him quaked as a force shook the supports to which he clang, a ricochet of flame swirling toward him. He tucked in closely to his coat, clinging with all his might to one side of the bridge—the fireblast scorching everything to his right (the vine of coiled metals melting as it passed). Sure enough, the right side frame of the bridge snapped, and Mr Fauldon lost his footing.

  Still gripping for his life to the coil that remained.

  The next thing he knew, a torrent of wind had swept him up and onto the next platform. His body crashed against the rough terrain, with a jab to his back. Had it not been for his coat, surely his skin would have been pierced. How was is that a man such as sir Knowington still knew of Mr Fauldon’s predicament even while combatting embermud? Truly the man was far more than met the eye.

  Mr Fauldon ached to turn himself over that he might stand.

  “I warned you,” the voice spoke before him. It was the ravaged thief again, standing ready and with the largest of grins. “Your coat is mine!” he yelled, dashing in the blink of an eye toward Mr Fauldon.

  Mr Fauldon drew up his weight and arm just in time, his forearm catching the brunt of Ravage’s blow as his figure slid backwards and to the platform’s edge.

  Ravage regathered and stood not but ten feet from him now, crouching as if to strike again.

  Only this time, light lit the distance between them as Mr Fauldon’s back arched and palms stretched out. The radiance filtered from beneath his coat so brightly that Ravage was but a shadow in its midst.

  Mr Fauldon heard the man’s screams, but could do nothing in the moment, only catching a glimpse of the face so familiar in the light.

  It was the girl’s face again. The very card Serve Per Card had given him blank. It was the same card that had saved him in Hygh Pass (it beckoned to question Mr Fauldon if it were even, in fact, a card anymore).

  The light subsided, and Mr Fauldon collapsed his face to the ground. The ravaged thief lay upon the far side of the platform. “I can’t see!” he bellowed, squirming about the ground for direction, for his vision had been blinded.

  And there beside Mr Fauldon appeared sir Knowington as composed as he always had been, not a sweat upon his skin.

  But Mr Fauldon’s consciousness was wavering, and he began to doze.

  SCENE VI, Part I:

  He came to as they walked beneath the shadow cast by the great City of Ebony—Obliviouseh. His body was weak and in need of hydration, but at least he no longer fought the bitter cold and smoldering heat of Crookstath Crossing. Mr Fauldon also had most of his weight leaning upon the guide who took note of his coming to.

  “Awake I see,” spoke sir Knowington, easing off the support until Mr Fauldon came to stand on his own strength. “It seems that card cares more deeply for you than you do for her.”

  Mr Fauldon looked down upon the blank card that still resided in his hand. “Yes, I reckon it has become a consistent saving figure to me. Why is it, do you think?”

  Sir Knowington’s attention was back ahead. “That is beyond me. Let us turn our attention to this city. The Warden here is the one through whom we should seek the whereabouts of that stone. Let us continue.”

  “But I grow even more weary by the second,” Mr Fauldon informed, his steps shuddering. “I am in need of rest and food. It seems I have not the knowledge like you do to be self-sustained.”

  Sir Knowington gave hint to a chuckle, looking back over his shoulder to the Karier that struggled behind him—and to the figure appearing behind him. “Ah, Mercedies,” he said to the figure cloaked in layers of gray and brown silk, a face only barely showing beneath the rolls of cloth about the figuress’ head.

  “What brings you to this city, old friend of Beelstow?” said Mercedies.

  “Beelstow?” Mr Fauldon interrupted. “Please explain. There seems to be too many names for me to keep up with.”

  Mercedies spoke: “So you must be the new Karier—my question stands answered. It looks as though the crossing has been rather eventful for such fresh eyes. Come, we will treat you.”

  “But how are we to enter a city with no gates, no steps, nor any door? Did they raise up this place facing the wrong direction?” Mr Fauldon asked.

  Mercedies came to poise before them both and the massive cliffside that scaled above them. Reaching about the cloths, a small section of brown silk unraveled and fluttered to the soil. “Indeed, you are right about no entry, and there is neither any direction in which the city faces. But come, and I will show you what the City of Ebony holds within its walls.”

  Mr Fauldon was intrigued by the silk that spread about the ground. It had become hard to see as it blended in with the earth, but he came to stand upon it nonetheless. Despite the awkwardness, there was enough room for just the three of them to stand upon it. The arms of Mercedies rose abruptly and folded down—and just like that, they were engulfed into the ground.

  Stone structures rose all about them, steel beams connecting everything in the busy suburbs of Obliviouseh, the great City of Ebony. They had resurfaced in the first-swen district of the city, stepping off the cloth that seemed to Mr Fauldon to be one of the gates into the marvelous city of steel and stone. An industrial revolution that seemed on pause was what came to his mind, as though all the inventions were on the brink of discovery but left unresolved. And so Mercedies withdrew the brown silk and led them down the suburb toward the Warden’s Stead.

  “Beelstow,” said Mercedies, “is the warden of this city who keeps the embers beneath this city beneath this city. Obliviouseh is atop the largest volcano upon the ridge that separates us from the mainland. The lava of its eye is ever flowing and seeking means of eruption from below. Should it ever burst, this city wouldst burn and topple over into the abyss. Beelstow is the only one to wield our silks in such a manner as to contain the volcano’s lava we call Lerchah. So as you can imagine, he stays quite busy.”

  “How did you do that? What we just did to enter here—how?” Mr Fauldon eagerly inquired.

  Mercedies gave into the largest of grins. “It is the silks we harvest from the veins carved out for us by Lerchah.”

  “Such silks will not do the same for you,” sir Knowington added in (for he knew full well what Mr Fauldon was thinking—that he wanted the silk as well).

  “And why is that?” Mr Fauldon asked.

  “Mercedies is a Grounder—a living gate to this great city, a gifted citizen from the soils of Distontay. Only Grounders are able to wield the silk into its elements.”

  Mr Fauldon saw about him many people, though the way they carried themselves was entirely different from Chestleton. In comparison, it was as though boon-docks to a royal academy. Each and every one of them seemed as though able to mine a mountain on their own. Stout, broad should
ers, thick-soled boots, and forearms strong enough to move large boulders as though for breakfast.

  And then the stench came. A quiver and shudder swiveled up Mr Fauldon’s nostrils and down his spine. “What is that putrid smell?” he commented.

  Even Mercedies had a hand over nose. “That, sir Fauldon, is Nobaph.”

  Mr Fauldon saw to their right a man approach them—the smell grew hoarser as he drew nearer. “Well, well, well!” the man exclaimed. “If it ain’t the Karier himself… Boom!”

  “Boom?” Mr Fauldon echoed.

  “Ya, boom. What’s it to you? I run these parts, so if you’re to pass then pay up,” the man demanded (obviously in a joking manner, for no one ever paid him).

  “Sorry,” said Mr Fauldon, a hand still over his nose, “but I haven’t any soap.”

  “Ha! Good one! I’ll let cha pass this time—not that you’re the Karier or anything.”

  “Why do they call you Nobaph?” Mr Fauldon asked as they passed the man.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” sir Knowington answered for the man who had plopped himself at the alleyway’s edge and began fiddling with some object stashed into his loose garments. Unlike Mercedies, his clothes were not of silk, nor were they neatly kept at all. Truly the man looked as though no bath would contain him (nor would any shower have enough courage to clean him).

  “Don’t mind Nobaph,” said Mercedies as they passed their fourth forgery. “Nobaph is a shard smith from the Outreach. He came here to escape his obsession and fell into carelessness of life… or upkeeping of himself. At least the two years I’ve seen him, not once have I seen him rinsed.”

  “Shouldn’t there be a city ordinance to shower at least once a month?” Mr Fauldon remarked, though more so to himself as no one else seemed to have heard him, for they had come at last to the Warden’s Stead.

  The dark, dark ebony walls made the place stick out from the rest of the city. It seemed to be the only structure in the central district to resemble the grandeur of the outer walls. Mr Fauldon was still dumbfounded as to why the city was so significant and as to whom this ‘Beelstow’ was.

  Mercedies pulled from beneath the gray and brown silk a black material that had been tucked away from sight. Reaching out, Mercedies spread it across the wall and then struck it with knee and fist. The silk traveled in and down—a narrow passage spreading in its wake. “We proceed down,” Mercedies pronounced.

  Sir Knowington arched his back and cleared his throat. “Well, it seems you are in good hands for the time being,” he said, directing his words toward Mr Fauldon. “I will leave you in the protection of Mercedies for now, for yet again I must tend to other matters, though only momentarily. I will meet you outside the city after you have retrieved what we came for.”

  “Again you leave me?” Mr Fauldon remarked. “For a guide, you seem to like disappearing.”

  Sir Knowington but looked at him plainly before vanishing into purple dust.

  “He does a lot more than many would suspect,” Mercedies reassured. “Just the fact that he is able to accompany you as much as he does is a marvel in and of itself—not that you are of any inconvenience. Now, come with me and we shall meet up with Beelstow.”

  Somehow the light had followed them down enough for them to reach the end of the ebonic tunnel. Mercedies grabbed the black silk from the wall, and the passage quickly enclosed itself, leaving them to a faint but ominous red glow.

  “This way,” Mercedies said, leading on and through the cavern a little more. It was like being in a cave long since carved by waters of magnificent scale. Cisterns and columns of the darkest stone showered the terrain underneath the city. Mercedies led him through as though knowing every step. They passed over crevices of cracked stone and through jagged passageways carved from the bowls of Lerchah. The volcano seemed a wonder of its own, showing off its beauty and complexity.

  They came into yet another pocket of the underbelly, this time the red glare was vibrant and active. Mr Fauldon stopped behind Mercedies, who motioned his attention to their far left. Off in the distant flames arose a boulder unlike any Mr Fauldon had seen (though it was not called a boulder, for Mercedies addressed it otherwise).

  “This can’t be good,” Mercedies mumbled as the stone golem rose in smoldering shards from the flow of lava. “Stay behind me, Karier, and keep your coat up. If this lava touches you, especially if it is green, you will never be the same—and I mean it for the worse.”

  Sure enough, Mr Fauldon could see the liquid seeping through the cracks of the great golem turning a faint green tone. He stepped back and drew up his coat—and also the card of Inquiry, for he knew nothing of the golem that threatened their passage. “What creature is this before me?” he asked loudly (for the heat seemed to make a sound that filled the place).

  The card’s edges lit, and it bled the words: “Few tread safely by the great Orwick troll. Such smoldering flames does it produce, those green able to dismember the conscience. Though massive and powerful, the Orwick trolls are known to burn out if outside their streams too long, though often they reside in the path’s way, keeping its intruders either trapped from escape or prohibited from entry.”

  Looking up again, Mr Fauldon felt the swift breeze of Mercedies unfeathering two silks of gray—her hands weaving them about the air as through keeping them afloat (he’d yet again taken for granted that his new guide was a girl). Bravely she wielded the silk before her as the great Orwick slammed a crease which ruptured towards them. With a downward swipe did Mercedies bend the silk into a wall of steel between them. The collision shook the ground and echoed from every crevice. Mr Fauldon’s body trembled to the obnoxious sound as he buried his ears further into his coat.

  The Orwick flung itself like a meteor until it came to their right. Its massive limbs unfolded from the spheric composure until it slid to a halt and roared a bitter disgust at the Grounder warrior.

  “You will not blot our pass!” Mercedies yelled out, the steel wall returned to silk form as she charged the stone golem. The Orwick pounded its fists and flung its green smolder across the surface between—Mercedies but leapt upon one of the silks as though it were a surfboard and whipped the second silk across the back of the golem. In a quick turn, she then thrust the silver board from beneath her until the two silver silks stretched about the front and back of the stone golem. Landing upon solid ground, Mercedies then slammed her own fists down—the folds crackled as the Orwick now fought itself within a steel casing.

  With a smile, she stood and looked back at Mr Fauldon. “There now, he should simmer out any moment.”

  Mr Fauldon was speechless, but the trembling did cease, and as the steel walls fell back about Mercedies’ form, a petrified golem was revealed, lifeless and still.

  But then it broke—a burst of lava soon to envelop them both as the cistern began to collapse under Lerchah’s pressure. “To me!” Mercedies called out to Mr Fauldon, and he ran toward her as swiftly he could. But he was not fast enough, for the lava had already descended down upon them.

  It was not lava that Mr Fauldon felt hit against his head but rather a cool steel that wrapped about both he and the young Grounder, though it was not Mercedies who had cast it; rather, it was the silk of a man who stood to a bouldering seven feet. Mr Fauldon couldn’t tell what was more surprising: being saved by the hair of his neck or how well trained the man’s mustache was.

  “It is you, Beelstow!” Mercedies praised in relief. “My goodness, what impeccable timing!”

  The two laughed (as though, at least to Mr Fauldon, flaunting danger were a daily venture for the people of Distontay).

  “Yes, and it seems you two found the pocket I have been waiting to burst for two weeks now. The honor of thanking you is mine!”

  Beelstow (quite literally the Braum of Obliviouseh) gave a second look at Mr Fauldon, recognizing the coat which he wore. “Ah! So they finally sent you to me,” he laughed, his chest beating like drums despite the heat and scars upon it. A single tat
too stretched from his left shoulder to the right of his waist in which a scene of chariots unfolded. He drew close to Mr Fauldon and gave him the most near-to-death bear-hug welcome he had ever endured. Choking in the man’s strength, Mr Fauldon finally touched ground again as Beelstow shook his head. “A true honor!” he remarked again. “Surely, has sir Knowington shown you well?”

  Mercedies chuckled at Mr Fauldon’s steady recovery of balance. “Well, I do owe him for a few occasions,” Mr Fauldon answered the man, remembering his time on the bridge not too long ago. And also his exhaustion.

  Beelstow took note quickly. “Let us revive first then. My pit is not too far from here, and there you should find food and replenishment, and there we can discuss.”

  SCENE VI, Part II:

  A bizarre place Beelstow’s pit was. Almost perfectly symmetrical apart from the odds and ends littering. A large fire pit took up the center, leaving barely enough room for the Warden to position his massive self against the cavern’s wall. Supplies piled one side and cloths the other. A legless tabletop lie beside the silks, seemingly pressing the mined minerals into flat molds from which Beelstow would then fan the flames until a silk was produced.

  “You see, the ebony silks we mine come in thin, thin threads and are pressed next to each other until they bind again. It is then that we fan them until they become silk.” Beelstow spoke as though the process were his pride, jewel, and joy. He leaned heavily against the plutonic outline of his pit (being as it was but a pocket in the formation Lerchah had fought to enclose). “Have a seat here!” the Warden welcomed, tossing a sack to where Mr Fauldon seated himself.

  Despite the bread being hardened, dry, and slightly overdue, Mr Fauldon was relieved to finally have food in him. In the sack he also found a tightly wound skin from which dripped a steady moisture. “What is this?” he asked, for it neither tasted like water or wine.