The Events of the 13th of Granite, 1080
The drums continued on. Days and nights, the rhythm never changing - the only variance is their slow creep in volume. Due to the unique acoustics of the dunes and the obscene arts used to forge the kettles, they could seemingly be heard for tens - some said hundreds - of miles
***
"Get her down on the table, get her on the table! Oh, save us all, get out of the way!"
Dojanjo shoved his way past the soldiers crowding the mess hall table as Cokho dropped Sulari unceremoniously on the stone. She lay there, her eyes blanked, writhing and moaning in her delirium. The soldiers, her former brothers-in-arms, tried to peer in but the usually meek cook and doctor snarled at them as he rolled up the sleeves on his coat.
"I mean it you beasts, get back from her! Give me room to work."
"Her gauntlets melted" Merkil said, his voice void of emotion.
"Not melted," Crispin added, "fused, look how it's... all twisted in with the muscles."
The murmers started, the soldiers beginning to inch closer to the work table. But Dojango gave them no notice - he was at work. He placed a small wad of cotton soaked in opium under her lower lip; soon he was swabbing the swollen, burned flesh with a rag soaked in it.
"We treat the pain, then we deal with the fever she's developed. Someone go fetch me ginger root and rat weed. Hurry, now."
***
"I expect you in your quarters no later than tomorrow evening."
Stravitch's eyes lifted only slightly, glaring from under his heavy brows at the slight, mottled form of Aryn. The noble was only a silhouette, a dark frame outlined in the doorway to the poison temple by the harsh lights of the setting sun. Aryn was as stiff as stone, staying in the doorway, making no attempt to come inside where the old goat was sprawled out, shirtless and drunken, upon the cinnabar steps over his opulent tomb-room.
"We have had our differences, you and I. But when we bring things down to their core, you're more an asset than a burden. You will report to your quarters. You will take up your mace. And you will begin policing the halls. We are to be sealed and you are to be working at your job."
The moments ticked by in an eternity. Shifting in his impatience, Aryn leaned forward some, light making the sweat on his temples glisten.
"Well? Damn it, are you going to listen to me?"
***
Rice and Tun stalked through the halls, peering into rooms. The Administrator was ever at work with his ledger, making ticks beside of line items and hastily jotting in anything that Rice dictated to him.
"Store rooms have booze and plump helmets in stock, along with roasts and salt-beef..."
"And the gold?"
Rice peered inside the large storeroom, watching Lucy and Mookie stacking the gold into piles to be run through the smelters. He smiled, a genuine one, that deepened the wrinkles on his face. It showed the old Rice, and it showed his age, and also his weariness.
"We've got... maybe forty bars worth of ore. We could buy a little village if we use the platinum, too."
"Good, good..."
A swirl of a signature at the bottom of the page, and Tun tucked the charcoal pencil into his sleeve. "We have more stone blocks than I dreamed possible. As soon as we can, we wall up the entrance and wait this out. We have food enough for... oh, a month, I'd say. We can survive here. We will survive this."
Rice clasped the Administrator on the shoulder, and gave a squeeze. It was as much to show his support, as to try and hide his own feelings of dread.
***
"Maester? What are you doing?"
"Reminiscing."
Kuli's voice was feathery now, his smoking - the only vice he had allowed himself over the years - making his voice lighter, more ethereal, and to some, even more respected. He ran long fingers through his graying hair, the robes of his station pooled around his kneeling form. Jools, and Vash, flanked him from the doorway. The metalsmith was unable to keep the look of concern from his face.
"You rarely visit these tombs, Maester... I'm just concerned about your preoccupation..."
"It's strange, is all, "Jools tried to smooth over. "You never come down here."
"This tomb is one of two regrets, my friends. I built this as a way to house and respect the dead of Zefon, and what did we see? The deaths in this fortress so overwhelming, so quick to come, that we could barely take the remains to the great storage below, let alone separate pieces and parts to give proper resting to the dead. But in it's own queer way, it was for the best. We aren't a fortress divided, of Zefonists against Lenodites, of Dwarf against Dwarf. We are brothers, and sisters, and friends, and lovers, and yes, even enemies - but even they deserve our respect, and even they should not be cast aside, segregated from those they live with and work with and support."
Jools nodded, the polished and repaired armor creaking around him. But Vash's frown deepened.
"What is your other regret, Maester?"
They could hear the creaking in his joined as he stood, the years of toil and the visits from the hammerer slowly showing their effects. He exhaled, and turned, a short sword wrapped in oiled cloth held reverently in his hands.
"That the beast that marches on us now was not put in its place years ago. I don't hold guilt towards the evils it has wrought on the world, or on our friends and kin, I'm but a single spark in this great world. These beasts are abominations, but they are not stupid. They have the cold thoughts and self-preservation that only evil can bring. I only regret that I did not have the strength to strike the fear of Dwarf in its heart then. I will teach it that fear now."
***
The sun glinted off his mask as he watched the little ants scurrying about in the sands. Calloused hands raised, and lifted up the welders mask from his face, letting it settle atop his head, acting as a brim to shade his eyes from the harsh suns rays. Johnny let out a slow exhale, and rubbed at his eyes with his palms.
"Glory be, it's fin'ly come t'this, 'as it? They're gonna be locked in there... last bastions o' this cruel bastard world... an' they'll be locked all up nice an' pretty wi' me, an wi' a load of gold and gems, and wi' a foin trade to get started again."
He smiled, and lowered his mask, and dropped into a cross-legged sit on the sands.
"Ya've re'vented yerself a half dozen times al'ready, haven't ya, ya' slick bastard? What's one more on a city thinks yer either dead or'a ghost or'a myth?"
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Topic: Migrursut: What Comes After The World Ends? [Epilogue] (A Community Fort) (Read 379093 times)