Violya

Chapter 15 Gwrlain

15

GWRLAIN

The warrior Finya was suspicious. Gwrlain felt her stare gouging deep holes in his back. An elevated heat sizzled off her in rapid waves. But he didn’t turn around.

“I thought you’d been banished,” she snapped. “Why did they just let you in?”

What could he say? He was tired of lying. So Gwrlain said nothing.

He stuck out his tongue to taste the air and listened. The movement told him Fin was giving hand signals to the four warriors who trailed behind. He heard the scholar Robya mumble, but he didn’t pick up the words.

When the air had stilled, and Fin’s thumping heart had steadied, Gwrlain continued. He weaved down the dark tunnels effortlessly, knowing the maze like his own mind.

They had arrived at the trading point days ago. But rather than enter the cave, Gwrlain insisted they turn north. He led them to a cave opening in the mountain unknown to the Peqkians. It led directly to the Troglo capital Lauago. Outside the cave entrance they had left the donkeys and a clevercat messenger in the care of one warrior and three serving peons, shouldered their provisions, lit torches and tramped into the dark.

In the twilight zone, where the sunlight from the entrance only just penetrated, lounged five singing Trogrs. Their spears propped against the rock. They were guards but hadn’t stirred as the group came upon them. They would’ve heard the echoes of their steps and the movement of their breathing from the moment the group had stepped foot on the rocky platform outside the opening. They would’ve identified Gwrlain long ago from his scent.

When they had come upon them, the Trogr guards had stopped singing and hummed continuously, their way of seeing their surroundings, and simply nodded at Gwrlain to pass, making no sign they’d even noticed the five Peqkian warriors, one scholar and three serving peons that followed in his wake.

So, now the warrior Fin was alert and suspicious. And the scholar Robya’s mind was working hard to put the pieces together.

Before the small party had set off, they had both been briefed by the Head Scholar Chaz as to Gwrlain’s history, the story he had told Ramya. That Gwrlain had been banished from the eastern cave country of Troglo for killing his father who had tried to r**e his sister. That his mother was dead and the species was dying as no females had been born and only five remained. The reason Gwrlain survived was that his friend Bance had taken pity on him and left him near the Peqkian border in the hope the mountain women would show mercy and help him.

Lies.

Melokai Violya had told them to go to Troglo to negotiate and bring back the five kidnapped Peqkian women. For Gwrlain to lead the way. It was a dangerous mission and V put her trusted warrior captain, Finya, in charge. V also sent her friend, who she had ventured into Majute with, the scholar Robya. Her purpose was to record and converse, being exceptional at languages and fluent in the Trogr tongue.

Fin had protested, of course, insisting on violence. To take revenge for the dead warriors at the hands of Trogrs; to mount another attack to save the kidnapped women. But V, in her wisdom, had insisted on negotiating verbally, peacefully. A wise choice. They would’ve all died.

The warrior’s fury simmered near the surface for the entire journey from Riaow. But, in respect of her Melokai’s orders, Fin would not use force unless absolutely required. Before they left, in front of Gwrlain, V had told the captain to trust him. The Melokai’s innate power had told her Gwrlain was not the enemy. V had given him a loaded look. But what did she know? What could she know? Perhaps everything, perhaps nothing. No matter.

Gwrlain avoided Fin. He avoided all of them. Remained aloof. He mourned the loss of Ramya and his baby, Terya. Their deaths like a gash across his heart that would never heal.

But the fear he displayed, of returning to his country that had cast him off, that… that was a lie. In truth, he could not wait to return. To be swathed in the blackness, to drink up the water in the air through his skin, to be at one among his people. To sing a lament to his dead link and to their daughter. To sing, sing, sing.

Now, though, Fin wanted answers. A little way past the guards, she grabbed his shoulder and pulled him to a stop, spinning him to face her. With her torch in one hand, she brought her face close. Her breath was warm beneath his chin, the heat of the flame dancing against his cheek.

Fin was short and squat, a similar build to Ramya. He towered over the captain, but in a fist fight, if it came to it, she would be a difficult opponent. Perhaps even a match for him. But it wouldn’t come to it. His weapon would flatten her and her companions before her fingertips could even brush her sword.

“What the zhaq is going on, Gwrlain?” she growled.

Gwrlain’s face remained blank, impassive. His stance meek. I lied, he wanted to declare, I lied to Ramya and I’ll never be able to tell her the truth, to set things straight. And now the guilt eats at me, but life continues. Trogrs must go on.

Robya came forward, he heard her steps. In a softer voice, with a distinct undercurrent of concern, she said, “Gwrlain, please, we need to know what we are walking into. Did those guards not recognise you? Why would they allow Peqkians to enter without so much as a conversation?”

“Lauago is this way,” he said and dipped his shoulder down out of Fin’s grip and backed up before turning and continuing down the cave tunnels.

After a brief pause, the Peqkians followed.

They came across no other Trogr on the journey into the deepest, darkest caves, into the roots of the mountains. Down, down they trundled until they emerged on a ledge in a great cavern. It was in complete blackness, the Peqkian torches would only light a few paces around them and they could not see what lay in front.

But they could hear it, smell it, sense it in the vibrations that would tickle up from the soles of their feet. A city, as the Peqkians called these big settlements. His city. Lauago.

It was just the same as when he had left it and a rush of love swelled through his organs, bringing a heat to his skin that any Trogr would sense, but not these Peqkians, they were too reliant on their eyes.

Gwrlain took in a great breath, let it out with a deep throaty hum and listened to the echoes. He stuck his tongue out to taste the city, to assess what had changed, if anything, before they ventured down.

It was small in comparison to Riaow. There were no huts or dwellings, the few thousand Trogrs who lived there slept together, ate together. There were no set pathways or roads, the Trogrs lounged where they pleased. The only walls were those of the cavern. The air was deliciously hot and humid, the temperature always steady, none of these shifting seasons he had experienced outside the cave.

Gwrlain stripped off the Peqkian cloth they had insisted he be wrapped in. He threw it to one side of the tunnel. There it would remain until he ever had need to pick it up again. The dampness in the air clung to the clay that covered his translucent skin and he smeared it off. Ramya had insisted he be covered in thick clay if he was outside to stop the sun’s rays from scorching his skin. He had also worn huge hooded cloaks in the winter and held above his head a wooden contraption covered in a heavy cloth in the summer.

The clay slid down his skin and clumped around his feet. He drank in the moisture through his skin. Once he was naked and his thirst quenched, he felt whole again. He lifted his arms in delight. The restriction of clothes and contraptions gone.

“This is Lauago,” he said.

Fin glared at Gwrlain. She controlled her wonder and repressed all emotion, as warriors did. Instead she assessed for threats, holding out her torch in an attempt to see what lay ahead and around them.

The scholar Robya, however, gaped at the cavern. She could not see far, but she could hear the Trogrs singing, the endless trickle and drip of water. She could smell the sulphuric tang in the air. She could sense the scale below her.

“Issee, Fin, we are the first Peqkians to witness this. Just as we were the first in Majute,” Robya said in wonder.

The captain didn’t reply. Gwrlain sensed her shrugging, clearly not as impressed as the scholar.

“Follow me,” Gwrlain said and pointed to some stairs.

They descended slowly, the steps had been carved into the rock and were damp and slimy. No problem for Gwrlain’s large feet that sucked up the moisture beneath them, but slippery for the Peqkians.

As they reached the bottom, Robya gasped audibly as she saw the first of the Trogrs. They glowed a bright white in the Peqkian torchlight. Their veins and sinewy muscle showed through their skin and the fine fur that covered them glinted in the flickering light. They hummed and sniffed at the passersby, curious but not eager to get close or investigate.

“All men, as expected,” the scholar said, as if to herself. To note the detail to record in her journals later. “A few children. They all seem to be… resting. And singing. Exquisite. Not all in unison, not all the same song, but beautiful… utterly beautiful.”

They picked their way over and around reclining Trogrs, every step eliciting a crisp crunch.

“What is on the ground, Gwrlain?” Robya asked.

“Birds’ nests. Of the swifts,” he replied.

“But I thought you ate those?”

“We eat as many as we please, the rest are dropped to the floor, used as bedding.”

The scholar nodded. “Are there any other settlements like this in Troglo?”

“No, only Lauago.”

“And what do you all do here?”

“Lounge about and sing mostly. Singing is our religion. It’s how we tell our tales and pass them down to the next generation. We have a slow metabolism and we live for many years. There is no rush in our lives. We sing our histories and add to the songs. Some songs can take hundreds of years to sing and, once started, a Trogr will sing the same song for a lifetime. When not resting we grow and harvest swift nests in the near dark. And every now and then we hunt fish, salamanders, spiders and insects.”

Gwrlain paused as two children, both male, meandered past him laughing and squealing in between pulsing hums to see their surroundings. They edged in and out of the Peqkians with ease, missing them by a hair’s breadth, their assessment of the echoes working perfectly to detect the objects in their way.

The smell was intensifying as they stepped over Trogrs towards the centre of the cavern. Gwrlain had never noticed it before, but now he realised it stank of s**t and piss, rotting flesh and semen.

Robya had also noticed. She brought her hand to her nose and said, “Where do you, er, get rid of your own waste?”

“We leave it where it falls,” Gwrlain said, suddenly conscious that this would no doubt horrify the Peqkians who were obsessed with keeping their skin and their dwellings clean. “It attracts the animals and insects that we eat. To us it is not waste. It is precious. It is what feeds the animals which feed us.”

“Oh,” Robya said and crinkled her nose. She tripped and stumbled forward, Fin reaching out a hand to steady her. The scholar was clumsy. Tall and long-limbed, her feet would often get away from her.

“What was that?” Robya exclaimed. “It looked like bones… a ribcage...”

“A skeleton. We leave our dead where they fall too,” Gwrlain said.

He heard the bile rise from Robya’s stomach and into her mouth. She swallowed it down with an effort and a faint smell of sick reached his nostrils. The Peqkians burned their dead, allowed fire to scorch the bodies of loved ones. He’d watched Ramya and Terya burn. That custom was abhorrent to him.

“You will get used to the smell. Soon you’ll no longer notice it,” Gwrlain said.

“How soon?” Fin said.

“Perhaps in a few years,” Gwrlain said.

“We do not plan to be here a few years,” Fin said, her voice sharp and impatient.

Gwrlain shrugged. “So get used to it quicker, because it is how it is.”

As the party neared the centre of the cavern they started to walk uphill. There was a small hump of rock. The Trogrs didn’t lounge up the sides, preferring the flat rock around the outside.

At the top of this mound of rock reclined the only two female Trogrs left in the entire world as Gwrlain knew it. As well as a decrepit old male.

The females were at rest. The younger of the two had a male baby suckling from a breast.

“Living Goddesses, I return,” Gwrlain said.

The two females slowly turned their bodies to face him and hummed in pulses. He waited for the Peqkians to gather behind him. And then beckoned the captain and scholar forward.

“This is Finya and Robya,” he said to the eldest of the two women in his language.

She lounged on a pile of birds’ nests, naked. Her body betrayed her age. The skin hung from her bones and her breasts sagged low, the huge n*****s a sign she had suckled hundreds of babies. Her muscles had shrunk and deep wrinkles cragged her face.

“This is Gruack,” he said to Robya.

“Gruack?” Robya said, confusion tinged her voice, and then louder in the Troglo tongue. “Hello Gruack.”

Gruack ignored Robya, and said, “Gwrlain, my son, you return. Daneil, your son has returned from his mission.”

Daneil, the old male, didn’t move or make a sound. He didn’t hum either, a clear sign he was close to death and his body was shutting down.

He heard Robya choke and stifle a cough. She whispered a translation to Fin. Once again, the warrior’s anger bristled off her in waves. It struck against Gwrlain’s exposed skin and he was impressed by its force.

“Your parents are meant to be dead,” Fin snarled. Her hand went to her sword and she hissed.

Gwrlain ignored her. “Hello, Mother. Hello, Father.”