Saga Mac Brón: Chapter 7

10 minutes

Violence

The Ashen Way

On the eastern shore of Stjörnur Lach, the red mist dissolved into a clodded sky. All was gray, and air had a thick, muddy odor. The three hurried down the only highway that passed through the cliffs and badlands of the Devil’s Eyebrow. Sheer canyon walls loomed over, and beyond these, gray-fingered spires grasped upwards in despair. In all this cursed land, the road alone was flat. Yet one thing gave the warrior hope, or at least stayed off despair: he had not seen his shades, not even at a distance, for more than a fortnight.

For two hours they hiked, seeing no one. The black-robed Péistghrá had left no trace of their passage, as if these lovers of demons had disappeared down some door to Hell. But then, the muddy ground had given way to a covering of pockmarked, volcanic stones that shifted under foot and ankle, disguising any sign of passage. Finally, they reached a crossroads. A narrow and more jagged trail snaked down from the left, intersected the highway, then continued south until it bore into the canyon wall to their right. That opening seemed to gape at them, inviting unpleasant considerations about where it led. The warrior stopped, and held up his hand, listening. At first the others heard nothing. Then, ever so softly, the earth began to tremble. Mac Brón crouched to put his ear to the ground, then immediately stood.

“Get off the road,” he said. “Over there.”

He gestured to a pile of boulders at the base of the cliffs. The stones were only a hundred feet from that ominous tunnel into the canyon wall. The pile gave little cover, but there was no time to scale the canyon walls. They flattened themselves behind the stones as best they could. The boy began to ask what was coming, but the warrior silenced him. Tammet did not wait long to satisfy his curiosity.

The trembling became the unmistakable fall of many feet. After a time, Mac Brón peaked around his side of the boulder. He nodded at the others to do the same, but carefully.

A swarm of men spilled out like cockroaches from the descending trail. They were of every race and color, yet every face was drawn in the same grim mask of human agony. They walked bent, cringing under the weight of the bulging sacks that they carried in front of them. The black-robed Péistghrá were still nowhere to be seen, but huge, ash-colored men were positioned throughout the human swarm. These seemed almost too large to be real. They carried long black whips, and barked at the naked slaves in guttural voices.

“Trolls?” whispered the boy.

Mac Brón nodded. As they watched, the huge men used their whips to divide the swarm. Some they herded toward the main road that led through the canyon to the Black Lands beyond. Others they drove into that fell, lightless tunnel.

For half an hour, slave after slave cascaded down in a sort of parade of despair. The path the three had intended to take now filled with slow-moving captives going east. It would be impossible to make good time through the Devil’s Eyebrow. And, should another group come along, they’d risk being boxed in.

Finally the cascade of captives trickled to an end. Slow-movers strained to keep up, yet could hardly move any faster. One of these last men tottered under his burden, tried to right himself, and then pitched forward onto the hard ground. His sack opened, and its golden contents spilled out. An enormous troll minder, his face and bare arms decorated with hundreds of black metal bolts, rushed over, and began to curse the fallen slave. The naked creature tried to rise, but managed only to crawl a few inches before he again collapsed. The troll unfurled his long whip to the tip, raised it over his head, and brought it down with a sickening crack.

The man whimpered, and clutched at the earth, but even the sting of the whip couldn’t bring him to his feet. The troll struck again and again. Soon another guard added his whip to the effort. They made no pretense now of trying to make him to stand. The enormous creatures delighted themselves in this cruel punishment, and the man’s cries seemed only to fuel their hatred and their efforts. The other slaves clutched their sacks to their stomachs, and looked on, half in despair, half in envy at this creature so easily quit of its miserable life.

“We cannot help him,” said the empress. A tear ran down her cheek.

“Not now, anyway,” said the boy. “But when I’m emperor-”

Mac Brón scoffed. “You’ll what? Anyway, be silent.”

Tammet looked at him, chagrined, but bit his tongue. The beating continued until the fallen slave no longer twitched. Then the trolls turned upon those closest to him. Their speech was indiscernible, but their message was clear. These others bent, and began collecting the spilled ore, adding it to their own burdens.

“There are thousands of them,” whispered the boy. “Trolls or not, why don’t they revolt?”

Mac Brón rolled his eyes. Rusu touched her son’s shoulder. “They’re in despair, my son. Someone must give them hope.”

She seemed to consider saying more, but pressed her lips together instead.

“They could at least try,” muttered the boy.

In truth, guilt gnawed at him, for he could do nothing to help the man. Indeed, a part of Tammet that he did not like was almost grateful that the doomed slave had drawn all attention to himself.

But as he suppressed these thoughts, one of the slaves edged away from the swarm. With the troll guards’ attention on the efforts to collect the spilled ore, the man saw his chance. Steeling himself, he bolted away from them, running hunched, and making for the very pile of stones behind which the three hid. He was no more than halfway to the boulders, when a guard turned and saw him. Mac Brón swore. He drew the black blade, and put his back to the stone, waiting.

“What shall we do?” whispered Tammet.

Mac Brón smiled grimly, and seemed to shrug. The empress closed her eyes, and pressed her hands together. Presently, the slave reached their boulder pile, and saw them. His eyes glazed over, and he looked back at his pursuers. He raised no alarm, but hobbled on past them toward the cliffs, and began to climb.

Mac Brón waited with sword in hand, expecting the trolls to arrive at any moment. The climber’s progress was painfully slow. His body was weak, and the canyon walls were steep and sharp. Yet presently he reached some ledge, and began to creep along it. It led gradually upward, and soon doubled back, and again traced upwards. Little by little, the slave passed beyond easy reach.

Mac Brón gripped his pommel so hard that the veins pulsed on his arms and face. At any moment he expected the troll guards to pass the boulder pile, and see them. If they were spotted, they’d join the parade of human misery. If they were not killed outright, that was. Instead, from just beyond the boulders, they heard guttural laughter. The trolls did not pursue the skeletal man, but mocked him in their own language. Their jeers continued until the escaped slave at last reached the top, and disappeared from sight. Mac Brón moved noiselessly into a crouch, preparing to charge. Yet the trolls came no closer. Their heavy footfalls gradually receded, and their voices could soon be heard some distance away, barking at the other captives. Still, the trio waited half an hour before daring to emerge from cover.

The slaves were gone now, some down the path through the Devil’s Eyebrow, some into that black mouth. Mac Brón walked over and stared at the road, shaking his head. Then he fixed his gaze on the slave’s escape route. Rusu came up to him, and lightly touched his arm.

“You are thinking we could follow,” she said.

Mac Brón glanced at her, then nodded.

“But,” she continued, “there must be some reason that they didn’t pursue him.”

Mac Brón made no response. They were both thinking the same thing. Though troll-speech was no more comprehensible than the speech of wolves, their many taunts had made things clear enough.

“Maybe…maybe the guards couldn’t follow, because they were too large,” suggested the boy.

Mac Brón sighed. “Trolls can climb. Quite good at it, actually. Still, we’d be fools to place ourselves behind that swarm. The road is wide enough that others might travel the opposite way, or else come up behind us. We were lucky to have this cover, but I’ve seen hardly any till now. Up high, we might skirt the road altogether, and find some other passage to the Black Lands.”

The woman watched him for a time, her face resolute. “I do not fear the People of the Worm,” she finally said. “I would keep to the road. If another slave hoard approaches, we’ll have the warning of their racket.”

“But no guarantee of cover,” retorted Mac Brón, pointing at the cliff. “That way gives us a chance.”

“Perhaps,” she said. “But perhaps it leads to something worse than trolls, or devil men.”

“We should at least attempt it, mother,” interjected the boy. “If the trolls catch us, I do not think they will quail, as the Péistghrá did, before the Light of—”

“Silence,” she said.

The boy shut his mouth, and his eyes flitted nervously toward Mac Brón. The warrior smiled grimly.

“Secrets, secrets,” he said. “One thing is clear: you are empress indeed. And yet the boy speaks truth. Whatever waits up above, methinks it will honor the power of steel before sorcery, good or evil. Up we go.”

Without another word, Mac Brón made for the canyon wall. The boy followed, and finally his mother. At first the going was steep, but as he ascended, Mac Brón found that the wall was not totally sheer. Narrow ledges jutted out in many places, and a sort of path zig-zagged ever upwards. The droppings of beasts, and one tuft of black hair, recalled to Mac Brón the goats he’d spied looking down from the cliffs. And if there were goats, there was grass, and life of some kind. Surely life — any life — was better than the ashen way below.

At a particularly difficult stretch, he risked a look down to check the empress’ progress. Rusu moved with deliberate grace. Not for the first time, he was struck by her beauty, and unexpected strength. She was no warrior, and could hardly face down a troll. Yet there was some power there that lent luck to their venture. If any luck was to be had in these foul lands.

Mac Brón neared the top. The final stretch was difficult, and, after topping out, he waited with hand outstretched to help the others. Finally over, they rested for a time. Then the three stood and looked upon the highland way. For a moment, the air seemed clearer, and they were able to see to the horizon. In the distance, the black crags of the Devil’s Beard spanned north to south. Between here and there, the earth rolled and twisted, interrupted by a forest of gray earthworks, those same twisted fingers they’d spied earlier. These were ugly, uneven structures, the color of ash. Even the white spots were somehow spoiled.

Tufts of inky grass, and some shrubs, grew among the spires. A few goats could be seen scaling the buttes, eating the scattered herbage that improbably grew there.

There were other structures, harder to identify. Strange pits were scattered between the spires, and odd, bulbous masses like tree knots stuck to the sides of the earthworks, as if the stones had grown warts. A gust of wind parted the distant clouds, and, for a moment, they saw where the badlands faded toward the Devil’s Beard.

“Look!” said Tammet. “Over there, in the Southeast!”

Mac Brón strained his eyes. Far in the distance, between the badlands and the black mountains, stretched a bridge. Perhaps it was only a trick of the eyes, but they all saw it. It appeared to be made of ropes and cords, precariously strung across a huge gap. Another way out of the Canyons of Madness. They saw it only a moment more, before a mist rolled in, and obscured their view. Mac Brón wondered. A bridge out of here, even a dangerous one, seemed too good to be true. And probably it was.

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