by Eric Williams
in Issue 154, November 2024
It took Edeko all morning to crawl up the hill, each cautious movement weighed and considered and carefully planned before he inched forward in perfect silence. He’d spent an hour lifting a branch of elkweed out of the way, straining to keep the seeds from rattling in their desiccated pods. Sweat beaded on his forehead and rolled off his shoulders from the strain of his caution. This hill was a battle like none he’d ever fought before, requiring all his concentration and muscular coordination. Silently, invisibly, he plotted his ascent up the scrubby wooded hill with all the caution of a War Chief orchestrating a campaign.
He severed a thorny vine with his teeth, spat the bitter sap out, and continued forward. A breeze rustled the branches overhead, and he felt the thin autumnal sun breaking through the clouds to shine on his broad back. He sank his fingers into the soil and crawled a foot to the left, into the shadows of a holly patch.
His caution was born of two mothers. First, he was in the heart of the Pnimphalian frontier, fifty miles deep into the pioneer settlements and military forts that stabbed like a spear into the flank of his Tribe’s lands. The Pnimphalians ran heavy patrols in this country, and the settlers had learned to keep huge, savage dogs with delicate noses and twitching ears. Second, Edeko was completely and utterly alone. No comrades, no runners, no help to be called for in an emergency. His scouts were his eyes and ears, his warriors his two hands, and for wise council he had only his own brain.
And he didn’t have much confidence in that last one, he reflected, prodded a huge stinging ant out of his way with a twig. After all, he had only himself to blame for getting into this mess.
Days before, too much beer and bravado had led him into a heated boasting match with the proud, swaggering Halcha. Singing their exploits had been indecisive; both, though young, had seen many campaigns and could attest to numerous valiant deeds. Thus a contests in the four manly arts was called for: wrestling, spear throwing, jumping, and more beer drinking. But this had ended in a tie; Edeko had thrown a straighter spear and drained two gourds for every one of Halcha’s, but Halcha pinned Edeko twice and spanned a greater distance with his leaps. And so Edeko, veins afire with beer, had proposed one final desperate test: a race up Grandfather Mountain.
Even in warm, dry summer, Grandfather Mountain was a treacherous peak, but it was madness to try it in the fall, slick with late-season rain and dark with the sun’s early shrouding. Friends had tried to dissuade them, but there was nothing for it; drunk on pride, a race to the top of the deadly peak was the only way to settle which of them was the best. They each drained a final gourd and then dived into the night with a roar.
Edeko, muddled with beer and night, had only made it half-way up before he’d gotten lost. Off the trail and feeling chilled, he spent the night high in the last pine on Grandfather’s shoulder, the glittering eyes of wolves and worse peering up at him from below.
In the morning he made his way back to the village and there, laid out on a birch byre and surrounded by howling women and weeping men, was the broken body of Halcha. He’d made it all the way to Grandfather’s Teeth and had foolishly braved the cliff, only to fall to the rocks far below.
Tsarak, War Leader of the village and Halcha’s uncle, laid the blame squarely on Edeko’s shoulders – he had made Halcha drunk, had boasted and goaded all night, and then insisted on the mad race up the mountain of death. Edeko had robbed a mother of her son, an uncle of his nephew, and the tribe of a warrior. Two futures were laid before him: the sorrow of exile or the payment of a blood price. Exile was as good as death of course, so Edeko would pay for Halcha’s blood.
But Tsarak rated Halcha’s value high indeed. Everyone had gasped when he’d made his grim price: three Pnimphalian hens.
A chief’s ransom and a suicide mission. The Pnimphalians had already moved their flocks into the fortified towns for the season, far from the hills. There could be no lightning raid across the border – he’d have to pierce deep into enemy territory to find his prizes. But it was Edeko’s only chance, so he took it.
Pnimphalian birds! How quickly they’d changed life for the tribes – how they travelled, how they hunted, how they fought. Edeko’s grandmother remembered her girlhood in the time before the birds, told stories of the terror they’d inspired when the tribes first encountered the settlers and their grim, fierce cavalry. Edeko’s people called them terror birds, though the Pnimphalians word was “Titanis.”
They had fled before the monsters, but soon they’d learned that skill, not magic, let men ride the terror birds. So they’d attacked the ranches of the Pnimphalians, raiding for the sturdy reliable hens that could be trained, and the mad murderous cocks that were good only for breeding. Soon the Tribes had their own flocks high in the mountain meadows. They learned to ride on birdback, hunt on birdback, fight and kill and die on birdback. Life changed, but Edeko’s tribe grew strong and deadly, and they no longer feared the invaders.
The bleating of a nuthatch overhead froze him in place, and he sighed in relief when he recognized it as a squawk of territoriality rather than a warning call that could give him away. The Pnimphalians had learned much woodcraft in their long war with Edeko’s people. The crack of a branch, the tumble of a stone, the shrill call a bird, all of these the invaders had learned to fear. And now he was approaching one of the invaders’ main roads, a raw wound in the countryside where patrols rode and the settlers were watchful.
The fallen leaves were cool and damp against his bare arms, and the wind bit him through his deerhide leggings and vest. Winter would come early this year, he thought. He reached behind him and adjusted the spear lashed to his back; he’d killed a soldier last summer and claimed his heavy war lance as his own, cutting down the thick oak shaft to a more reasonable size. That and the heavy bronze axe strapped to his waist were his only weapons. He hadn’t brought much else, drinking stream water and eating off the land as he’d moved through settler territory, hoping to find a ranch that hadn’t sent their birds down country yet. He’d tried five farms already, two with the flocks long gone, the others with theirs already under heavy guard preparing for the migration. Behind this hill was the last farm in this stretch of country – if they didn’t have any birds, he’d have to go fifteen miles westward, bringing him perilously close to the Fort.
He paused behind the crest of the long hill, listening for the jingle of spurs or the harsh, barking gutturals of the Pnimphalian tongue, so alien compared to his tribe’s rich, song-like speech. He heard only the nuthatch, the wind, and a distant howling dog. He lifted his head and peered over a flinty outcrop.
The road beneath the hill stretched north to south, and on the other side of a flanking ditch was a tall hedge of viciously spiked hawthorn, the only fence that could keep the powerful terror birds from wandering. The yard was a big one, mostly bare earth churned by the scratching feet and writhing dust baths of the great birds. A barn and a watering trough, its windmill spinning lazily in the breeze, completed the bucolic scene, though closer inspection showed the heavy shutters and the sturdy iron-backed planks of the barn door; in an emergency, the barn could quickly and easily be fortified against the spears and arrows of a raging war party.
But Edeko had eyes only for the three terror birds preening in the yard, their throats pulsing as they enjoyed the sunlight and the open air. Two of the hens were common Keleken Reds, a hearty breed much in favor among the settlers, seven feet tall with gray plumage and bright scarlet crests. But the other bird was a breed he didn’t recognize. It was even larger, eight feet at least, and coal-black except for magnificent yellow eyerings that shone like a sunburst on its savage face. That was a bird fit for a chief, he thought, a marvelous animal that would not only pay his debt, but add to the honor to his name.
If he could steal it. The hawthorn meant he’d have to sneak around the side of the hill and enter through the barn. A crawl along the stony ridgeline and then wait for nightfall perhaps, or –
His strategizing ended abruptly. As one, the birds turned to face the barn, clacking their axe-like beaks together as three men strolled into the yard. One was clearly the farmer, a stocky bearded fellow in leather work pants and a woolen coat, but the pair following him were of a different sort altogether. Edeko narrowed his eyes; his palms itched for the grip of a spear.
The two men were adventurers, professional fighters who travelled and fought for coin and plunder. The Pnimphalian Army was stretched thin across their expanding eastern border, and to fill out their ranks they hired mercenaries. But no meager soldier’s pay would have satisfied reavers like them, so instead the Pnimphalians paid bounties on scalps, a practice the cruel mercenaries had happily embraced.
And the two in the yard had clearly been successful in that bloody trade. Steel hauberks glittered coldly beneath rich scarlet cloaks, and gold glowed on the scabbards of their long swords. No enlisted man could afford to equip themselves like that; few officers could. They were expert killers who had reaped riches from bloody harvests.
The two adventurers strolled in a wide circle around the huge, predatory birds. The taller man was nodding as the shorter mercenary pointed out the various features of the animals, their heavy powerful talons, their strong well-scaled legs, their rich shining feathers. They approached, stroking the terror birds’ necks, lifting their tiny useless wings to check for parasites. Satisfied, they turned to the farmer and nodded. The short mercenary reached under his cloak and removed a heavy leather pouch. He extracted six heavy coins, bright as sin, and dropped them into the farmer’s outstretched hand. Then, looping harnesses over the animals’ beaks, the farmer led them into the barn.
Edeko cursed. Just when finds three hens, beautiful ones at that, a pair of damned adventurers show up and buy them. He ground his teeth in frustration. Was he being punished by Halcha’s ghost?
He heard noises and looked back towards the road. The mercenaries appeared, mounted on the backs of the two Keleken Reds saddled in the usual Pnimphalian fashion. Led along behind them, a long rope connecting its beak to the saddle of the shorter man, was the tall black terror bird. This bird had been harnessed to a two-wheeled wooden cart heaped high with tarps, sacks, poles, and a jumble of mattocks, picks, and shovels. Stranger still, these men did not turn south towards the interior and winter barracks, but rather north into the wilderness, their cart rattling loudly as they went.
Hope kindled inside him. These mercenaries weren’t heading towards the Fort – they were striking out on their own, into country the Pnimphalians had abandoned after a brutal series of battles ten summers ago. The road they were on led nowhere except into a rapidly returning wilderness of scrub forest and wild grasslands.
His kind of country.
Edeko slipped away down the hill, trusting the sound of the cart to cover any noise his rapid descent might have made. The nuthatch scolded him for his carelessness, but he didn’t care. He needed speed now – their route meandered for ten more miles before hitting an old crossroad in a flat bit of prairie, the former site of a ranch that Edeko’s people had burned to the ground. Nothing was left but the stone well, but it was a spot where any Pnimphalian daring the northern wastes would camp. He needed to get there before them if he wanted to be in a good spot for an ambush. His way was shorter as the nuthatch flew, but he would be running over rougher ground, rocky hills and boggy lowlands where rain-swollen creeks lost their way for a while. Another race, he grinned to himself. He turned north and, breathing deep, ran hard beneath the shadows of trees.
The prairie was a tangle of weeds and grasses, with thin locust saplings growing in the disturbed ground where the old ranch had stood. A blackberry patch gone feral writhed near the back edge of the cleared land, its thorny tendrils spreading wildly over the open ground. The only structure left was the low ring of stones marking the well, and it was here that Edeko prepared his ambush. A shock of bluestem as tall as a man grew thick along the edge of a shallow ditch, ten yards off from the well. He would crouch, invisible behind the grass, and wait. They would make camp, securing their mounts to stakes in the ground, and then one or both would go to the well for water. He smiled grimly, thumbing the point of his spear. A sudden leap and throw, and one of them would be dead, a steel point in their throat. A bit of axe-play after that, and the terror birds would be his.
\
He watched the clouds ponderously sail across a gray sky while he waited, wondering what the adventurers were after in the north. He had seen the gear in their cart; what were they hoping to dig up? The crossroad offered two options, one northeast, towards the skeleton of an old settlement rotting like carrion where Edeko’s tribe had butchered it. They had looted it thoroughly but, it was true, only above ground. Maybe they thought there were treasures buried there? Pnimphalians, like all outlanders, were gold-mad, so it wouldn’t be out of the question for them to pick through ruins for a missed cache. The other road rambled southwest, leading back the long way to ranches and farms of the settled interior. Really, the fort was the only option for treasure hunters.
Not that it mattered much, he thought, dozing lightly, since they’d never get where they were going anyway.
The sun was a handspan above the horizon and sinking fast when he heard the creak of wooden wheels. He rolled onto his belly and peered through the grass. The adventurers were crossing the boundary between forested hills and the long lonely prairie that marched for hundreds of miles to the distant northern mountains. They paused in the middle of the crossroad, the shorter man standing tall in his saddle and peering into the sea of grass while the taller man consulted a roll of parchment. Edeko held his breath. The shorter man pointed towards the well. The taller man nodded. They kicked their heels into the flanks of the terror birds and left the road, riding towards him. Edeko gripped his spear.
But instead of stopping and setting up camp, they rode right to the edge of the well. The taller man clicked his tongue and his bird lower itself down onto the ground. He hopped off and stood on the stone lip of the well, staring down. Edeko heard the murmur of their voices, speaking Pnimphalian in thick accents.
“Tis the well indeed, as the map did promise,” he nodded.
“Fuckin’ aces,” drawled the shorter man. “Guess that rag was worth a coupla coins after all.” He spat and looked around. “Scrubby little shithole, innit?”
“Razed by savages, the crofters driven hence.” The tall man was rummaging under a tarp in the wagon.
“Hey, before you get the bucket, gimme that bolt-slinger, will ya?” The short man reached into a saddle bag and pulled out a tobacco pouch and rolling papers.
“What have you spied?” asked the tall man, tensing. His hand drifted to the heavy sword strapped at his side.
“Eh, nothin’,” said the short man, rolling a cigarette. He licked the paper and stuck it in his mouth. “Jus’ a feelin’, like we’re bein’ watched,” he said, mumbling the words around the cigarette. He struck a match and puffed. “Better safe than sorry, as me ol’ man used to say.” The tall man reached into the cart and withdrew a compact but very deadly looking crossbow. Edeko, in the grass, scowled. A crossbow complicated his plans somewhat.
“Aye, wisest to be prepared in this howling wilderness,” he handed the weapon up to the man in the saddle. He nodded and cranked the lever, drawing the string taut. He selected a cruel, barbed quarrel from a small quiver at his side, and loaded the weapon. Then, puffing placidly, he scanned the prairie, his eyes lingering on the thick grass where Edeko lay flattened against the ground.
The tall man tossed a leather bucket on a long rope down the well. Edeko heard it splash, and then the grunts of the man as he hauled it back up. He carefully shifted to the right to give himself a better view – the man with the crossbow was scanning the distance, the other man was watering the birds, their heads bobbing as they dipped their beaks in the bucket. Edeko was downwind of them, and he smelled the sharp stinging scent of bird bodies, stronger even than the tobacco smoke floating in the breeze. They were so close, cursed Edeko, but there was no sign that this was more than a watering stop. Did they plan to keep riding? Where would they set up camp? He weighed the option of trying for them then and there, but it seemed unwise – he could aim for the crossbowman, but he was on the other side of the cart, and the taller bird was standing in the way of a clear throw. He could kill the other man, no problem, but even if the crossbow somehow missed him, he’d still be fighting on foot against a mounted man. And the birds were unsecured; he couldn’t be sure that a bloody melee wouldn’t send them running in every direction.
“Shall I feed them?” asked the tall man, stroking the neck of his bird.
“Nah,” said the short man, flicking the stub of his cigarette down the well. “They ride better hungry. We’ll give ‘em some chow tonight. C’mon, let’s get underway, huh?”
Edeko grimaced. Then they weren’t stopping. He’d have to trail them. Maybe an ambush in the night? He tried to recall the northeastern route, towards the ruined settlement. There were some rocky outcrops around a bend in the road, a good spot if he could get there before them.
But the pair didn’t return to the road. Rather, with Edeko watching incredulously from his blind, the two men and their cart went straight across the prairie, heading neither east nor west, but directly north.
Where were they going? His tribe had destroyed the northern Pnimphalian settlements, burning ranch and fort alike. There was nothing to the north, except –
Edeko cursed through clenched teeth. The adventurers were heading to the mounds.
Older than the tribes were the mounds, great earthworks in the shapes of animals real and imagined, built by an ancient forgotten people. The elders told tales of finding them overgrown and long abandoned when the first of the tribes had come into the north country. But strange shadows dwelt there, and the spirits of Land and Air told them to stay away, that they were cursed and better left alone. His people had heeded the warnings, but not before the mounds and their mysterious builders had entered their legends as terrible nightmare places raised by alien hands, magical and dangerous.
Of course that’s where they were heading, he sighed. Every old firepit or cat hole in the prairie held hidden gold, or so the insane outlanders believed. They’d excavate any spot sticking a couple inches off the ground, convinced that the mythical Kings of the Hill People had been buried with all their treasures there, waiting to be dug up. Why should haunted mounds older than memory be any different?
It wasn’t the legends of ghost-haunted mounds that made Edeko scowl. They were heading into the prairie proper, wide open space stretching all the way to the horizon, a rolling land of timeless distance made for the steady high-stepping gait of the great terror birds. They’d outdistance him easily – no chance of an ambush on the trail. That meant tracker work, now. He watched them recede into tiny dots at the edge of his vision, then, strapping the spear to his back, he jogged after them with the dogged perseverance of a man with no other options.
For two nights and two days Edeko shadowed them across the grasslands, and on the morning of the third day, munching a succulent coyote melon for breakfast, he came across their camp from the night before.
He rubbed a crumb of soil between his fingers as he read the ground. Ants were already at work on a stale rind of bread they’d tossed aside. A strip of oil cloth hanging from a stalk of grass; lifting it to his nose he caught the hint of dried meat, food for the birds. A little farther on, in a patch of broken and bent stems, he found the cold stub of a cigarette. Tracking them was no great difficulty – between two men, three birds, and a cart, they were leaving spoor a child could read.
But he hadn’t expected to run across their camp so soon. It seemed he was gaining on them. The day before he had watched them stop several times, presumably consulting map and compass. They were close to the edge of the mound country, thought Edeko, and were looking for something specific. He’d have to be more cautious now. He wanted them digging and distracted when he struck.
He stood and stretched. Their trail knifed north as always, through the grass. He yawned, felt the sun warming his right side, and followed at a leisurely pace.
He had four summers of raids under his belt; he’d killed a plumed Pnimphalian knight when he was only fifteen. But even a seasoned warrior like Edeko couldn’t suppress a shiver when he came across the first mound, a silent sentinel raised by unknown hands in an unguessed age.
The ground had been changing all day, the gentle rolling countryside giving way to deep gullies that appeared suddenly as you crested a rise, scarps of raw clay exposed where water had carved through the landscape. A rough country, and he knew from the tales that he was approaching the mounds, but even so, it was a surprise to see one up close after a childhood full of hair-raising stories.
This one wasn’t very large – a dozen yards wide and barely a yard tall, but the plants knew the difference. The grass gave way to scrubby, thorny weeds, a species he didn’t recognize, brittle and brown. The difference gave the mound the appearance of an old scar on the skin of the prairie. He walked around it, recognizing the shape of a huge hawk, sharp edged wings wide against the earth, its pointed beak facing a little off due east.
The men had seen it too – they’d stopped and played at digging, though the shallow pit they’d begun showed just more dirt. Had they expected it to bleed gold? Edeko kicked the loose earth back into the hole, patting it down with his sandaled foot. This land was so old and the people so forgotten that he doubted any ghosts were left, but still, no reason to court disaster.
More mounds rose from the grass on his left and right, long wriggly shapes or squat round blobs, their heaped flanks stark against the flat country. They grew larger as he went, and he wondered at their shapes, but the trail of the men didn’t drift towards any of them. Maybe they were hunting for a specific mound?
Clouds rolled in and the sky grayed as a wind out of the north rippled the plains. For lunch he ate a pair of prairie plums he’d found, tart and juicy, perfectly in season. Thank the ancestors that it wasn’t high summer, he thought, when the prairie baked under a bright sun and offered nothing but thistles to eat.
In the far distance he thought he saw another bluff, though as he walked up a gentle swell in the land and drew closer he realized it was too regularly shaped to be the product of erosion. It had a broad square base, and halfway up was a shelf or platform with a smaller pyramid on top. It was a mound, the biggest he’d seen, a hundred feet tall, each side four hundred feet long at the base, a squat, two-tiered pyramid in the middle of the plain. He gawked at it, then dropped to the ground.
Camped at the base of the mound were the two men, their three birds scratching away at the ground.
They’d been busy – several holes had been made in the pyramid, test pits sunk into the sides of the mound. One of these had been a success; they’d excavated a porch-like area, digging wider and deeper into the earthen mantle of the mound to expose an archway. A stone slab lay shattered on the grass. They had pried it open and sent it tumbling to break on the ground, exposing the mound’s interior to daylight for the first time in ten thousand years.
Edeko, from the edge of the bluff, scowled down into the door. The shadows in the archway had an almost solid quality to them. They seemed to seep out and stain the surrounding grass.
The men were taking their supper, the shattered slab of the door a makeshift table for their picnic. They’d made camp directly to the left of the entrance. The birds were staked together and the cart had been overturned, its contents spilled out on the ground. The men ate and talked as dusk fell around them. Another hour, and the stars would be out.
They ate while Edeko chewed grass, looking over the country and planning his next move. Crossing the open plain, even in the night, wouldn’t be easy. Even without a watch, the birds were keen-eyed and alert. Did he dare go around the back of the pyramid and come at them from above?
Lamps were lit below, the two men in sharp relief against the gloom. He snorted in derision – had they no fear at all? Lights on the plains at night! Anyone in ten miles and with one good eye knew there were outlanders wandering the plains now.
But rather than settling in for the night, the two men stood and, lamps in one hand and tools in the other, walked into the darkness of the mound. Edeko watched the glow dim until it was the merest glimmer in the doorway, the light ebbing as they sank deeper into the structure. He grinned and felt like dancing. Their fever for gold was so great that these idiots were going to work through the night!
As eager as he was, he let darkness settle over the prairie before he sprang up and, keeping his body low, jogged down the back of the rise and to the west towards a steep wash that debouched into the plain below. After a quiet, careful climb down, he paused at the mouth of the gully and listened. Hearing nothing but the sawing of crickets, he poked his head out and scanned the open ground in front of the pyramid. At the foot of the bluff overlooking the mound there was a shallow dry creekbed, just deep enough that he could crawl unseen to a point straight across from the birds. Maybe his tribe had had it all wrong, he thought, creeping across the pebbly bed of the creek. Maybe these mounds brought good luck!
Approaching the birds had to be done correctly. He raised himself up out of the creek and started calmly towards them, hands out at his sides, clucking his tongue softly. The three animals were already awake, their heads snapping sharply around to look at him. They trilled curiously, tilting their heads and clacking their beaks in the hope that he was bringing food for them. He got closer and could almost feel the wind in his hair and hear the pounding of their talons as they tore up the prairie in a mad dash homeward. He was ten feet from them when his guts tied themselves into a cold knot.
He smelled tobacco smoke.
“Well, how do you like that? Bird rustler, all the way out here!” said the shorter adventurer as he stepped out from behind the cart. He was a darker shadow against the night, invisible save for the red glow of his cigarette and the glint of moonlight on the steel crossbow bolt pointing directly at Edeko’s heart. He tensed, his hand twitching towards the axe on his belt. “Move and die, barbarian,” said the man, gesturing with the crossbow, “savvy?” Edeko lifted his hands, slowly, showing the mercenary his empty palms. The glowing cigarette bobbed as he spoke. “You do savvy, huh? Speak Pnimphalian?”
“I speak your language,” spat Edeko.
“Ain’t mine,” said the man, looking around. “I’m from Ymarra, myself. Any more of you creepin’ around out here?”
“I’m alone,” answered Edeko, quietly. The man looked him up and down, weighing his words.
“Brave boy,” said the short man eventually, nodding. “Well, thief, how about you drop your weapons there, right on the ground, nice and slow like. Don’t try nothin’ neither, or I’ll pin your hide to the earth.” Edeko did as he was told, dropping his axe and spear on the ground. “How long you been trackin’ us?” he asked.
“Since the crossroad,” he answered.
“God’s Horns, I’m good!” laughed the man. “Knew I felt somethin’ back there! Barzi will be pissed that I was right. Okay kid, nice and slow, keep them paws in the air. Let’s take us a stroll into this here heap. Nothin’ tricky or you get stuck, got it?”
Despite his casual, sneering tone, the short man kept his distance. He had spent too long on the border not to have a healthy respect for the devilish quickness of a warrior from the hills. But Edeko knew that his speed was no match for a cocked and aimed crossbow; so long as the weapon was pointed at him, he could do nothing but wait for a chance that might never come.
The walls and ceiling of the tunnel were lined with stone slabs, pale pink granite from the distant mountains, though the floor was earthen. At the far end glowed a door, and as they drew nearer he heard the dry rattle of stone and the grunting of a man hard at work.
“Hey Barzi!” shouted the short man as he waved Edeko through the door. “Lookit here!”
“I asked you to smoke outside,” said the tall mercenary, turning. His eyes widened. “Goddess! Whence comes this heathen?”
“Been trackin’ us since the burned down ranch,” said the shorter man. “Told ya, didn’t I?”
“A raiding party?” said Barzi, drawing his sword.
“Nah, man, lookit ‘im. No paint. He’s solo on this one, told me himself.”
As Barzi looked their prisoner over, Edeko gazed around the room. Two oil lamps filled the tall dome-like chamber with flickering light that made the strange carven images on the stone walls dance weirdly. They were like nothing Edeko had seen before – deeply incised shapes, long-limbed, rangy men and women with the heads of antelopes or bison or hawks, arms wide and legs kicking in wild, furious ecstasy. Their great round eyes were all fixed on the central feature of the room, a huge stone cairn that rose ten feet into the air. The men had been removing, piece by piece, the rocks of this cairn, tossing them into the far shadowy corners of the room.
“Came here to steal our birds,” the short man was saying.
“Scoundrel and a thief, like all barbarians,” said Barzi, shaking his head. “Why did you bring him in here?”
“Well, figure me and you could use a break, and this fine fella looks to have a strong back. Plus, you know, might be traps an’ such.” He turned and gestured with the crossbow. “How about it, kid? Wanna help out two down-on-their-luck treasure hunters, or should I just kill you right here and now?” Edeko turned and looked at the hard-bitten and cruel mercenaries. He had no illusions about his fate, but he shrugged his compliance.
“What are you digging for?” he asked.
“Among the many sins of the Heathenish races,” said Barzi, intoning the words like a sermon, “is their stubborn and blasphemous belief that gold and the treasures of the Earth enrich the honored dead in the afterlife. In truth, gold, silver, gems, and monies of all kind must be freely circulated here, among the living, so that wealth and prosperity may flourish.”
“Now there’s a theology I can get behind,” laughed the shorter man.
“There’s no gold here,” said Edeko, shaking his head.
“Lies and perfidy! You would protect the graves of your dead kings, which is admirable, but the gold must be brought to light!”
“We don’t have kings,” said Edeko, “and we didn’t build these mounds. They were here long before my people. We stay away from them; they’re haunted.”
“Your kings, other peoples’ kings,” said the tall man, waving his hand dismissively. “It’s all the same. It falls to us, the civilized races, to correct your childish mistakes, sometimes with sword strokes, and sometimes with spade and pick and the sweat of our brow,” said Barzi.
“Well, your sweat now,” said the short man. “Hop to, kid, or else!”
The two men lounged by the doorway and watched him work. He started at the top of the cairn and slowly reduced its height, stone by stone, grunting and sweating as he tossed the heavy rocks aside. He felt the animal-headed figures along the walls watching him too, the deep wells of their eyes flashing an eldritch warning that the two outlanders were unable or unwilling to heed. As he worked, all the nameless terrors of the fireside stories came back to haunt him – the dead that walked, the screaming skull, the devils that replaced your shadow and whispered madness in your ears. He didn’t know what waited at the base of the cairn, but he knew it wouldn’t be gold.
His limbs ached and his eyes were red with stone dust when he finally reached the base of the cairn. He stepped back, nearly tripping over the last stones, and the two mercenaries hurried forward.
“What is it?” asked the short one, the crossbow still cocked and aimed at Edeko’s stomach.
“Some kind of carved slab,” said Barzi, running his hand over the pale rock. It was round and as big across as a man, sunk right into the earth. The thing carved into its surface was very different from the silent watching figures along the wall. Its long body was heavily armored, the overlapping plates of its carapace encasing it like an armored knight. But its head was that of a woman, eyes wide and staring and the mouth twisted into a hideous grin. The carving of the insect thing writhed across the stone, and in each of its claws it held various objects – a sheaf of wild rice, an egg, the moon disc, an oak branch loaded with acorns, each a symbol of fecundity familiar to Edeko. How many times had he watched the shamans scrawl the same symbols in their own blood on the stretched hide of a mountain goat as a marriage gift? To see them here gripped by a horrible leering monster made him shudder, and with that disgust a name rose in his memory like a dead thing floating to the surface of a black bog.
“Heathens often hide their treasures beneath some sign or sigil of fearsome countenance,” said the tall mercenary. “They believe, in their simple-minded naiveté, that such images are enough to frighten away all comers.”
“Tzlinichtla,” he stammered, the name sticking in his suddenly dry throat. The two mercenaries looked at him, uncomprehending. “Earth Mother,” he said, translating into Pnimphalian.
“There is only One Mother, savage,” spat Barzi with sudden vehemence. “And she dwells not on Earth, but in the Sky above.”
“Save it for the temple, boys,” said the short man, his eyes glittering in the lantern light. “Looks heavy. How do we open it?” He kicked hard against the stone, and it rang out hollowly.
“Prybar,” said the tall man, handing one of the long iron poles to Edeko. “Drive it into the edge, savage, and lift.” Edeko felt the weight of the heavy bar, surreptitiously gauging the distance between him and the crossbow.
“No funny business,” added the short man with a wave of the weapon.
Shaking his head at the greed of the outlanders, he drove the prybar’s chisel edge into the narrow gap between earth and stone. Again and again he pounded into the ground until, finally, it gouged deeply enough to find purchase against the rocky circle. He hauled, straining, but the stone would not budge.
“Put your back into it!” shouted Barzi, eyes wide with hungry greed.
“Or else,” added the shorter man, the steel tip of the crossbow red in the lamplight. Edeko wrenched the bar back and forth, trying to sink it deeper when, suddenly, the stone lid jumped and rattled. The sudden absence of resistance sent Edeko tumbling back.
“Stronger than he looks!” laughed the short man.
“Get up, damn you,” growled Barzi. “Back at it!”
But there was no need; again, the stone shook, struck from the other side, from beneath the earth. The two mercenaries stared at it while Edeko scrambled backwards. With a final shattering blow, the circle of rock split and was tossed aside and the thing, long denied its freedom, erupted out of the pit and into the chamber.
Edeko knew immediately what it was. An Earth Mother, one of the horrors of the ancient world that still haunted his tribe’s folklore. But even his grimmest nightmare couldn’t prepare him for its reality, and the crude carving on its seal did not do it justice.
Its body was dull brown in color, knobby and covered by spiked plates that ground against one another as it moved. Its six jointed limbs were huge and powerful, with foot-long digging claws that could rend rock as easily as soft loam. These it wriggled furiously until, finally finding purchase against the earth floor, it heaved its entire body up and out of the hole, exposing a long, fleshy, pulsating abdomen studded with tightly packed nodules running its entire length.
But worse still was the travesty of a head that goggled at them from beneath the broad armored back – it was vaguely woman-like, but more than a yard across, and beneath a mad tangle of black hair were a pair of enormous bulging insect eyes, a thousand lenses sparkling with hate. Horribly, the face had a mouth full of human teeth; a fat pink tongue lolled out to lick its lips, but emerging from the corners of the thing’s stretched maw were two huge clashing mandibles, the jaws of an enormous insect wedded to the mouth of a human being. And from its abominable throat there burbled a constant stream of soft titters and cooing gurgles, a playful murmur of meaningless sounds, like one would use when speaking to an infant.
The crossbow twanged pathetically and the bolt bounced harmlessly off the Earth Mother’s armor. Grinning madly, the thing reached out with its powerful front limbs and grabbed the short man, dragging him forward. His screams were muffled as the thing stuffed his head into its terrible mouth and bit down, crushing his skull like a grape. It released him, and his headless body slumped to the ground.
Barzi drew his sword, and the ring of steel made the monster swing its awful head in his direction. It wriggled towards the tall mercenary, his sword crashing uselessly against its invulnerable body. It lifted itself ponderously over the man, towering high into the shadows of the chamber overhead, and then dropped suddenly, crushing him beneath its enormous bulk. Still babbling happily, the thing backed up, exposing a red, pulverized smear where once there had been a man.
It turned towards Edeko.
He had not been idle. Seeing the uselessness of steel, he fell back on humanity’s oldest and surest weapon against the dark. Planting his feet wide, he hurled first one then the second oil lamp directly into the hideous grinning face of the monster. The clay shattered and splashed burning oil over its whole head.
The muttering and cooing rose in pitch as the Earth Mother thrashed in agony, its limbs flailing. It writhed in the flames, twisting and screaming, and its huge claws raked the walls, ripping stone out in enormous pieces. Edeko dove to the ground to avoid its death throes. The flames burned hot and bright and finally, with a shriek, the thing crashed to the ground, its head smoldering, dead.
Coughing, Edeko rose to his feet. He felt weak and dizzy, and the terrible smell of the thing’s burning flesh made his nauseous. He leaned against the doorway to catch his breath.
And then he learned why they are called “Earth Mothers,” and the knowledge of it made him scream in horror and disgust.
With its head still smoking, the thing’s soft, knobby abdomen began to twitch and shiver. At first he thought it was a death tremor, but then he saw one of the strange nodules detach itself and land heavily against the floor. It rocked in place for a moment before unfurling itself, revealing a foot-long miniaturized version of the now dead Earth Mother. Another dropped. And another. Soon the Earth Mother’s whole abdomen was writhing as dozens of small monsters dropped from their dead parent’s body.
They were her children.
His scream of revulsion made them turn to face him, and with terrible speed they surged towards him, a wriggling carpet of chirping monsters. He ran down the tunnel and burst out into the night air. His weapons shone in the moonlight, and he ran towards them. Armed, he turned in time to see the writhing horde spill out of the mound and into the night, their tiny eyes glittering with the same cruel mirth as their mother. He hurled the spear, transfixing one to the ground. They surged, chittering, and he swung left and right, bursting soft bodies with his bronze axe.
But there were too many of them. He stumbled backwards. They swarmed around, clashing their jaws together hungrily. One darted in below a poorly timed stroke of his axe, and he could only watch as it ran, slavering, towards his exposed calf.
And then, in a blinding flash of feathers, the grub-like monster was gone, sliding down the hungry gullet of a terror bird. The three birds cawed happily at him, straining at their leather restraints, eager to get at the treats he had brought them.
He dove towards the stake, his axe flashing as it cut the leather thongs. The birds charged forward, crushing baby Earth Mothers beneath their talons, spearing them with their beaks, swallowing them screaming and alive. Some of the wriggling things tried to escape into the grass, but the birds were too fast for them, and they squawked happily as they chased them. In short order the three huge terror birds had devoured every one of them.
Edeko lay on the ground, panting. The birds scratched in the dirt, checking to make sure they hadn’t missed any, and then, contented and full, they began preening, cleaning their beaks and chest feathers of the pale white ichor that had spurted from the things as they died.
They waited for him to stop laughing, watching him with bright, clear eyes as he finally picked himself up. The large black terror bird happily let him climb onto its back, and the other two eagerly followed as he rode east into the dawn. They hadn’t eaten that well since they’d hatched and would happily follow the giver of such treats to the ends of the world.
©November 2024, Eric Williams
Eric Williams is a writer of fantasy and science fiction from Austin, Texas. This is his first appearance in Swords & Sorcery Magazine.
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