XVI
Three Stars of Seven
are Stricken

Lament for Pelnu

I sing of Pelnu, precarious star

Kneeling at the edge of noisy cliffs

Where writhing rivers meet as rivals

Uncoiled, colliding, in cold cascades

Which bridges span like spider’s silk

One way in is the only way out

Swaying strands of sticks and string

Which only steady feet may stride

Spies! A sneaking syndicate of spiders

Guileful, gliding through a moonless gloom

Skittering, scampering over swinging spans

Crafty, creeping from cliff to cliff

Entering undetected under unlit skies

The bridges are cut! The bridges are cut!

Death is due these despicable deeds!

While soldiers search the circle’s edge

They sneak into the city center

Toward the tower! Toward the tower!—

Scaling the sides of that stoic spire

The grapplers grip the grimy blocks

Ropes and hooks, held by heathen hands

Buildering toward the berm and its bell of bronze

That ancient chime from elder ages

Five centuries of somber silence stood

Peal! Peal! The Bell of Pelnu is rung

The spies are spotted and stuck with spears

Too late! The Bell of Pelnu is singing lies

No attack occurred, but armies will arrive

Away, O Nepsilam! Do not answer this alarm!

Be deaf, O Nepsilam! Do not hear this demand!

Too late! The bell cannot be un-rung

Too late! The lie cannot be un-sung

Lament for Kusumnu

I sing of Kusumnu, eldest of the seven stars

Proud, she stands alone in the meadows

Fringed about by many-freckled fields

Of iris, of aster, of wild allium

Her unruly walls of fitted stones

And towers of sunburnt bricks

Rise high above the silent plains

Behold her heavy gates of oak and bronze

Whose bolts once barred are never breached

Look! The locusts arrive, littering the horizon

Encrusted in the leaves of an elder tree

Hear the clatter of their spears and sandals

The baying of the hounds, the beating of the drums

They encamp outside the archer’s aim

A flight of futile arrows falls at their feet

They stitch shields together like scales

Advancing ramps and bridges, rod and rung

They scurry over the earthworks

Like ants swarming over a stick

Behold! Twin horn-beasts, clad with silver

Lumbering on their log-like limbs,

Swinging their spear-shaped skulls

Stamping and pawing, snorting and mashing

Ancient beasts of dread and wonder

With hide of stone and bones of bronze

Whose breath is smoke and eyes are black with fury

They launch a satchel filled with blood

The gates are splashed with red

The beasts, enraged, rumble and quake

Their hooves like drums on the broken earth

Arrows glint off their stony hide

They charge through stone and spear

Like boulders rolling down a mountain

Nothing stands before them

Impact!

The gates of wood splinter

Their bronze hinges groan and crack

The points are driven deep

By elder beasts whose blood is flame and vigor

They rampage through the city

Trampling and gouging, snorting, shattering

By sheer strength of flesh and sinew

Now he enters the walls, the Black Wolf

Justice! Justice! He cries

Justice and punishment!

What was stolen is taken

What was lost is recovered

Raze it, raze it to the ground!

The elders melt like wax

The mighty men are snuffed out

Encircle them, round them up!

Arrange small stones into pavements

And large ones into altars

Bind them, neck and ankle!

Dash out their brains and feast, feast!

Slit them, drain them, drink your fill

Gnash them, tear them — glut yourself!

Swarm over them, all you locusts!

These are the flowers of Kusumnu

Fill your bellies with nectar!

The city lies smoldering

Women wail and children howl

None are spared

None comes to the aid of the fallen

Cheshak and Suppurak are betrayers

Shiriwak is overrun by outlaws

As the cities of the plains slumber

The Black Wolf gathers his swarms again

Forward, forward!

Hold no territory and take no hostage

Keep no loot but take the weapons

Load the carts with the succor of meat

To Nepsilam, to Nepsilam

Drive them to the sea!

Atnan listened to the sounds. First, the low metallic rumble of the gate-bell. Next, the sound of Shemulak dropping a scroll on the floor: fluttering for a moment, the little wooden handle tapping out a short rhythm on the floor as it settled. Last, the cacophony of dozens of voices talking at once on the other side of the door.

Shemulak whirled to face Atnan. “You! You knew about this? You knew about this! What if she’s a spy? And you brought her here? What were you thinking? What was I thinking? I don’t know, I don’t know. How would I know? Who knows such things?” Shemulak gathered scrolls, speaking to himself. “I am in no way prepared to deal with  … any of this, first those scrolls, and now a seer  … both with predictions of doom. Why?” He turned his attention to Atnan. “I am beginning to think your function in the world is to bring me bad news.”

A young woman poked her head into the carrel. “General assembly, in the courtyard facing Pelnu.” She scrunched her face at them to punctuate her announcement then left.

Shemulak said to Barlas and Selolo, “You two. Stay here. Don’t go anywhere. Don’t touch anything.”

Atnan repeated in jargon-sign.

“You,” Shemulak said to Atnan. “General assembly means everyone.”

Atnan hesitated and indicated that he would come.

“Don’t linger.” Shemulak disappeared out the door.

Atnan quickly scribbled a note and folded it, then wrote “Glesimel” on the outside. He hesitated before handing the square to Barlas. They hadn’t heard from him in so long. There was no guarantee that the couple would receive him, never mind two strangers. What other options were there? If they stayed, they would certainly be detained, or worse. He hoped the apology he had just penned would be enough. He gestured for Barlas and Selolo to join him near the door, signing that they must go to the market, find his friends, and wait for him there.

Barlas protested. “Didn’t he just say — ?”

Selolo looked at him as though she understood what he wanted but was unready to comply.

He embraced Barlas, knowing that the gesture would take him by surprise, which he hoped would indicate his seriousness. He let the big man go slowly and indicated to them to slip out quietly.

Barlas tied on his hat. “Yeah, alright. We’re on our way — stuffy little rabbit hole in here anyhow, eh?”

Selolo said to Atnan in jargon, “Black sun. River of blood. Is coming.”

Atnan signed back. Days. Three.

Atnan pointed them toward the exit. Once they were safely on their way, he joined the flow of blue and white robes toward the courtyard. There, all the scholars, scribes, acolytes, students, detainees, and slaves sat on the pavements of the courtyard in circles by rank. He found a place with some young students in the outermost ring.

At the center, the Sage Prime conferenced with several other officials Atnan didn’t recognize.

While he waited, a scholar gave him a stack of lapboards to distribute to the others in his circle. Once he took his place again, another low-ranking scribe came by to hand him a writing kit and a broad sheet of parchment. It was of a finer quality than any he had ever seen and affixed to two heavy wooden rods at either end, one of which had a cord for hanging.

“Pelnu is under attack,” Mekvat announced, raising his hands to quiet the ensuing murmurs. “A decree will arrive soon. Sage Major Pabirak will read and you will write, large and clear, in the standard hand so all may read. Serve your city well and bring honor to the name of Mek.”

Everyone turned and spoke to their neighbor in hushed tones. Atnan waited quietly, imagining the machinery of the heavens grinding slowly, inexorably, toward them.

Finally, a delegation arrived from the tower and handed Pabirak a slate. He scanned over it, said a few urgent things back to them, made an emendation, and finally called for everyone to ready their pens.

“Make lines at seven units,” he said. “Fill the page, but do not go over.” Then he read:

Pelnu calls, and Nepsilam will answer. All men fifteen to fifty who are whole of body and not otherwise engaged in city government are conscripted. Half will march to the aid of Pelnu. Half will defend Nepsilam. Posts will be determined by lot.

All persons residing in the city will remain in their houses. All persons residing outside the walls who come inside the walls will be assigned to a house. By sunrise tomorrow, none may enter or leave the city except by permission of the commander.

Any stores of food and water are now attached and will be collected in the tower to be distributed daily by the Academy of Mek as they determine. Any other goods deemed necessary for defense will be attached and utilized on the authority of the commander.

All occupations and commerce are suspended. All foreigners and sojourners are detained or must march to Pelnu. The courts are suspended and audiences are canceled. The city is under the jurisdiction of the commander of the army, who is the instrument of the Heptarch.

By order of Shenefret, Heptarch of Nepsilam, Ruler over Kindhirak, heir of Kindhir. Wisdom, Peace, and Order; but above all, Unity.

Atnan wrote as quickly as he could while still being careful to make the letters clear and properly joined. He had learned much about the imperial style from working with Mekvat and Shemulak on the scrolls, but he still felt unprepared for the task. As the assembled scribes were still writing, another bell rang, this time from directly in front of the courtyard where they were sitting.

This time along the roads, from Kusumnu.

As the bell tolled over the silent courtyard, Pabirak stood, hands folded, head down. After the last peal, voices rose beyond the walls of the academy and Pabirak raised his arms to get their attention. “Go back and change ‘Pelnu’ to ‘Pelnu and Kusumnu’ and change the halves of the army into a third to Pelnu, a third to Kusumnu, and one third remaining behind.”

Task completed, each scribe took their copy to post it throughout the city. Without hesitation, Atnan rolled the parchment into a tube and ran toward the market.

Dodging through the avenue, he arrived at the vegetable stall where Barlas and Selolo were helping Zakinder and Glesimel pack everything into a cart — an encouraging sign.

As he approached, Glesimel threw her arms around him. “We thought you were dead!”

Relieved, Atnan signed in the negative.

Zakinder rubbed his bald head. “Bah, traitor!” he said with a mischievous twirl of his mustache. “Lucky you we don’t need a scribe any more.”

“But we still need a friend,” Glesimel added.

After some hasty and awkward introductions — made all the more difficult because of the mutual unintelligibility of their languages — Glesimel said to Atnan, “We are glad for the extra hands. The soldiers shut us down for the day.”

“They weren’t polite about it, either,” Zakinder added. “We heard the bells, but no one will tell us what is happening.”

Atnan showed them the decree. Glesimel slowly spoke out the bits she could read and Atnan summarized as best he could in jargon-sign for Selolo and Barlas. The message was imperfectly communicated all around, but that would have to do.

Barlas said to Atnan in Fyrean, “She can’t fight — well, maybe she could, but she shouldn’t — and I could but I sure ain’t gonna. But we don’t want to be locked up, either, eh?”

Glesimel said to Atnan, “They told us to take all this to the tower. Then we’re supposed to go home and gather in as much produce as we can and bring it, too. Your friends can hide out at our farm and return home in the morning. They have no reason to stay.”

Atnan began to relay Glesimel’s plan but Selolo stopped him.

Barlas said, “She’s supposed to be here.” He held her hand. “And I haven’t come this far just to leave her alone, eh?”

Just then, a soldier waved at Atnan. “Hey you, scribe!”

Atnan waved back.

“Quit jawing and get those men attached.”

“We’re farmers,” Zakinder said.

“I don’t care if you’re Kindhir’s concubines! You’ll report to your commanders at first light like everyone else.” To Atnan he said, “Cast their lots and mark them — unless you’d rather come with me.” He showed his palm, which had a sign for Pelnu painted on it.

After a brief hesitation, Atnan pulled a brush from his kit and waved it at the soldier, who huffed and grumbled something about “lazy soft-handers” but hurried on his way.

He indicated to Zakinder and Barlas to show him their palms where he swabbed the sign for Nepsilam: a circle with six strokes distributed around like the head, tail, and legs of a tortoise.

None of the options is safe, but the people you love are here. If we must die, then at least we can do it together.

Glesimel asked, “Are you supposed to do this?”

“You heard the soldier, love.” Zakinder stood his mustache on end with a ferocious grin. “He’s only following orders.”

A scribe approached and Zakinder and Barlas held up their hands. “All in order, but I’m here to assign the ladies.” To Atnan, she said, “That needs to be posted, yes? Go on!”

At the center of the market, he hung the decree on a nail protruding from the side of a prominent building. A small crowd gathered around him and began to assault him with questions. Ignoring them, he fought his way through the circle and returned to the vegetable stall.

Glesimel and Selolo showed him signs on their hands. “We are officially bakers, me and my half-sister, ‘Sarimel’.” Glesimel kissed him on the cheek and whispered thanks in his ear.

Zakinder showed him the shields and spears he and Barlas had been given. “The big fellow and I will be sleeping on the walls, but the ladies will be close to you. They’re working at the bakery with the red door, on the avenue, just outside the ministerial district. Keep good watch over them, will you?”

Atnan bowed and indicated that he would try, not that he expected it would make much difference.

Lament for Nepsilam

I sing of Nepsilam, kith of Kindhir,

Center of the seven-city circle

Kusumnu’s bell the Black Wolf battered

“I am coming, I am coming”

Seventy survivors stripped and sent

Ahead to announce his arrival

“He is coming, He is coming”

Pelnu, Kusumnu, Nepsilam

Three stars of seven are stricken

Shiriwak, Cheshak, Suppurak

Three stars of seven are silent

Gwetlak, its steps as sure as snails

Found not forty fishermen to fight

His regiments run along the road

His soldiery stretches like a serpent

Mandibles made of mounted men

Its fangs of flail and falchion

Many-booted belly scales, battalions

Beasts of burden, ballistas, battering rams

The tail, his towering throne, trailing all

The city sends its soldiers out

To strike the serpent in the stream

Three thousand conscripts came

With shields of wood and wicker

Weapons wrought for farmer’s work

“Brave Nepsilam! Kindhir’s pride!”

The slithering serpent slurps them down

Not defeated, nor by their death a day delayed

More mighty men of Nepsilam are met

With scutes of tortoise shell for shield

Barbs of bronze and coats of brass

An able adversary against invasion

“Brave Nepsilam! Kindhir’s hope!”

The serpent’s legions clad in leaf

With starry spears to spit and spill

Are nimbler than the noblemen of Nepsilam

From dawn to dusk the daggers dance

Three thousand sons of Kindhir thrown

Three thousand serpent’s kin are killed

By this sum, the city’s silver spent

And the serpent struck but still not slain

“He is coming! He is coming!”

He is here.

Taláni spied the walls of Nepsilam at last. He rode with his ministers and guard toward the city, close enough to shout to them, but beyond the archers’ range.

He was the point of a long spear that would plunge into Kindhir’s heart, and likewise the end of a long chain of hatred, handed down, generation to generation, from the blood-witches to his mother to him.

Les-trelátha-las-taláni. An ancient hatred he protects.

Finally, it would be satisfied.

He addressed them, with heralds who repeated his words in the language of the city, shouted through long brass cones that amplified their voices and made them sound like dreadful spirits.

“We are here to claim what is already ours. Send a delegation to negotiate the terms of your surrender.”

They retreated to the foot of a shady round hillock a short distance outside the city walls and set up a platform for him to sit on. His army filled in behind him, unit by unit, encamping along the roads and gently rolling fields surrounding the city. Most had been hastily burned, but wherever crops remained, his men began to harvest. Wherever there were farmhouses, they gutted them out and converted them to barracks and storehouses.

By the morning of the third day, his army had completely arrived, and a small delegation came out to meet with him: a handful of nobles, what looked to be a military commander, and two men in long blue robes — one of them very old.

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