by Rex Caleval
in Issue 104, September 2020
Now that I’m ready to find out if this works, it seems less like a good idea. I was certain it was brilliant when I conceived it, sitting in the tavern while my employers, may their bleached bones lie in the Sands Eternal, conversed with a digger about his last trip. I’d wanted nothing more than a sleeping mat after long days of travel, but I hadn’t been dismissed. An Etcher I might be, but I was still an apprentice. I had to wait on their word like any other servant. They never tired of telling me that, curse them.
They’d loosened the digger’s tongue with drink, and he’d told them of how his last expedition had found an untouched ruin. To find one undisturbed was rare now; the last bones of the Parched Kingdom had been nearly picked clean. Searchers still went into the deserts, but few discovered more than a handful of overlooked trinkets or, if they were fortunate, a new section of one of the known ruins, revealed by the ever-shifting sands. Still, enough treasures came back that there was always another expedition being planned, like this one where I now spend my remaining indenture.
My old master sold my remaining months of service to these pale barbarians from the north. He claimed that an Etcher’s final lessons must come from using his skills, so he sent me out into the world to complete my training. I thought it much more likely that once he’d had my years of service, he didn’t want me remaining in Dulampir to compete with him. Still, I had learned much of my craft from him first, and months ahead are not long compared to years behind. Grueling was the journey to Tekimpir, Gateway to the Parched Kingdom, but when it was finished, I had but six months more to endure.
My new employers had discussed how to be sure the digger spoke truth. Selat, who had been our guide for the journey south, knew something of the Etcher’s art, and told them of the sigil of truth. It could be inscribed on a tankard, and a man who drank from it could not then tell a falsehood. If he tried, he would speak the truth instead, unable to stop himself.
When the masters turned to me, I was forced to admit that I knew the symbol. Northerners believe that all the power is in the sigil itself, and so the magic of their runecarvers, as they call them, is less than that of an Etcher, since we can also impart our spirit into the signs. I did not mention this in conversation around my employers, since I saw no reason to let outlanders know our secrets. Selat had passed me a mug, and I’d used a small copper nail from my pouch to place the sign, needing no greater tool or powder for such a simple and short-lived working. Silver or gold will give greater effect, but copper draws no avaricious eyes, and the purity is more important than the material. Pure silver and gold are hard to come by, and harder still to keep.
The digger had joined in a toast with his new mug of sour beer, then repeated the same story. There really was an untouched ruin! The location he remembered well, and his description was detailed. A statue-lined path led to a large opening in a mound partly buried by sand, perhaps revealed by the last storm. Many expeditions liked to go out after a powerful storm, since the sands could shift greatly and areas once buried deep might thus be uncovered. It was not without risk, as the sands would also be very unstable, and the previously known paths might no longer be safe, or even still exist. Creatures that had sheltered against the storm would be out again, needing food and water after the long days of scouring sand. Still, many took the risk, and some of the greatest finds had been made in this manner.
This previous expedition had been overjoyed, as one might expect. A scout had been sent to check the path to the opening, but the first pair of statues sprang to the attack as he passed, and the opening was sealed by a wall of crackling energy. The scout managed to escape, for the statues pursued only so far before returning to their posts. As they reached their previous places, the entrance appeared again, the energy gone.
Thus forewarned, more scouts had been sent. Passing behind the statues instead of between them provoked the same response. Approach from the other side, over the mound to avoid the statues, proved worse, for as soon as anyone got near the entrance, all of the statues became active at once. The scout sent to make this foray was killed, as he could not scramble up the sandy slope of the mound fast enough to escape the largest figures, nearest the entryway. One of them simply reached up the slope and plucked him, then crushed him between its stone hands. Some men were sent to draw the statues away, while others tried to reach the entry. This, too, failed, as the powerful energy over the opening repulsed all attempts to breach it. Another man died, burned and blackened by the ward. Finally, a more aggressive attempt was made, activating the first two statues and destroying them with picks and hammers, at the cost of another three men. The energy ward remained active after the statues were broken, and since the carved figures got bigger with the second and third pairs closer in, attempting to progress further was deemed futile. It was thought that a larger force, perhaps with siege engines, might be needed.
What remained of the expedition had encamped, carefully noting the location and making drawings of the approach to the opening. When the next day came, the two broken statues were back in their positions, whole again. How powerful the magic of the Parched Kingdom must have been! One of the porters had noticed that the entry was open again; the energy ward was no longer active. One brief sortie to activate the first two statues again had shown that it was still there, however. All was as it had been.
According to our erstwhile digger, the leader of the expedition had then devised a theory that the entry was open as long as the statues were in their places. If even one of them was not, the energy ward was activated. Probably there was a command word to still them, or some token one would carry as he passed. Lacking that, the statues would have to be activated, then somehow held on their original positions, or destroyed such that they fell in the correct place. The problem was that when the largest statues fell, pieces would almost certainly break off and fly in all directions. Being able to put them all back, or even find them all, seemed problematic. As we had been hearing the story, the group’s leader had been off attempting to organize siege weapons to destroy the statues, while groups of men with netting on poles attempted to keep any broken pieces in the correct area. This plan had seemed unlikely to succeed and very risky, especially to the men with the netting. To prevent being among them, the digger and most of his companions had declined to join any new expedition and instead gone to the tavern to toast their fallen comrades.
Once I had finally been dismissed for the night, I’d given much thought to what we’d heard. I did not believe that the plan we’d been told of would necessarily work, even if it could be executed successfully. A pile of stone in the same spot might not be the same thing as a statue. The energy ward might not remain dormant. The digger had been right about the shattering problem, as well. The statues needed to remain statues, and remain in place. Then it occurred to me that if they would not remain statues, perhaps they could be made statues again.
There is a symbol we Etchers use on some instruments, so that bonesetters and chirurgeons can keep their patients still while they work. If I could make that symbol more powerful, it might serve to petrify the statues back to immobility. Using this symbol on the living is delicate, because one cannot put much energy into it without stilling the patient too much, such that their heart or breathing stops. But with statues, I could make the symbol as strong as I was able. Could I make an inscription strong enough, and do so without having to use too much of my own spirit? All Etchers know how to pour our own energy into a sigil, but to do so is literally putting our life force into it; that life drains from us. As long as we can rest properly after the working, some of what is lost can be regained, but not all. The Great Workings of legend often killed the Etchers who performed them. This is why we use the materials we do, and the powders in the inscriptions. They focus the energy and strengthen it, so we need to use less of ourselves. For basic workings, like the truth symbol on the mug, if we have our materials we need not use our own energy at all.
The statues would surely not be still and allow me to carve on them, and it would be better to have the symbol upon them than to simply touch them with it. I had reasoned that if I made the symbol as a signet stamp, then used that on wax that hardened on the statue, it should work. I’d make the stamp from stone, as the statues are stone. The affinity would help. The hardening of the wax would have affinity with the hardening to immobility, which should help even more. Many traditional Etchers frown on adaptations such as this, but as I’d tried to continue my education on my own, they’d often worked well for me. If I delivered the stamp myself, I could impart spirit into the working if it seemed to need more energy. On the move, this would be difficult, but it could be done. I would have to stamp one statue, then dodge the second of the pair long enough to draw it back to its starting point before stamping it as well.
I had convinced myself that it would work, and the next day I’d convinced the northerners as well. They were won over by the possibility of immediately gaining access to a pristine ruin, when they’d thought to mount a much longer expedition for the chance to find far less. They had agreed that if I succeeded my indenture would end, and I would get a half-share of any treasure. My last coins had paid the fee to have our agreement witnessed by the city’s Intendant, to remove any temptation for my employers to cheat me. The Intendant was intrigued, and had even sent a representative to observe.
And so, here I am, wax in one hand, stamp in the other, at the beginning of the path between the statues. My path now, good idea or not. My old master was right, after all. Out here in the wide world is my final lesson. My apprenticeship is over. When the sun sets on this day, I will be an Etcher, or I will be dust in the sands.
There can be no place for doubt now. I close my eyes, slow my breathing, and clear my mind of all but my purpose. I have survived squalor. I have survived deprivation. I have survived indenture. I will survive this. My plan is sound. My materials are pure. My symbols are powerful. My spirit is strong. I am an Etcher of the Shining Empire! I am Harim!
Smiling, I open my eyes and stride forward to claim my destiny.
©September 2020 Rex Caleval
Rex Caleval lives in Regina, Saskatchewan, Canada, where he spent twenty years as an air traffic controller. Always an avid reader with story ideas popping into his head, he decided to try writing a few, and has been pleased to find that some people like them. His stories have been published by Every Day Fiction, 365 Tomorrows, The Book Smuggler’s Den, and MYTHIC, among others. This is his first appearance in Swords & Sorcery.