Fet

Travel.

Grow.

Stay.

DieDecay.

Î set down her quill. She held the scroll for Emet’s inspection.

“A sad word… of death… To slowly lose… your power… and memories.” Emet sighed, “Still… it is a… lesser vulnerability…. and… prevents the word…. Grow… overcoming… Place the scroll.”

Runes of speed and strength now covered the horse’s legs and back. An incomplete binding rune circled the hidden cache in its belly. Most importantly, Î had used silver to carve an image rune on its head. Î had felt guilty about defacing Gar’s horse, so she had also added a lead image rune on each hoof to hide the other runes.

She rolled the scroll and placed it into the horse. A short stroke with her steel inscription tool completed the binding rune.

“I name you Fet. A name of Freedom.”

A mournful moan whistled past Î’s ears, “Yes… Freedom… I remember….”

Î placed Fet on a table. It rolled its shoulders and tossed its head. It danced in a quick circle, a sharp ‘tap tap tap’ as wood met wood. Fet began at a canter, accelerated to a gallop, and then leapt off the table. He flew through the air and landed in the middle of the next table. From table to stack of papers and back again the horse jumped. He dove off the table, ran under another and leapt ten times his height to an iron cabinet wrapped in string.

“Say… words… Rebeka would speak…”

“Fet,” Î called to him, “you are free, but you are carved in copper and bronze. Seek what I must know, and show it to me.”

Fet cantered down through the cat’s cradle. He stepped quickly, as though careless, yet did not make a single misstep, nor snare himself in the web. His feet briefly graced the earth like a bee landing on a flower, then he leapt back into the air, clear over Î’s head. He landed on a row of stuffed geese. They watched in starry eyed fascination as he stepped from beak to beak without ruffling a feather.

Fet was a blur of motion, one moment dashing behind a stack of model ships, the next racing a slime mold across the row of hammers nailed to the wall. He never took the most efficient route, and often doubled back, but still made it to the door in half the time Î could have. At the door Fet paused to rear and toss his mane which flowed like a flag.

He was gone before Î realized she should have carved him a rune of voice. She wanted to hear the horse whinny.

Clippity-clop clippity-clop, Fet’s footsteps faded away. Î sat, exhausted. The horse had been so exuberant, Î felt sluggish by comparison. All the energy in the room had left with him.

Tap, tap, tap; footsteps on the stairs. Î wondered who would possibly be up this early in the morning.

“Î! I met your horse on the way down. Beautiful creature, well made. I must talk to you.”

Lord Glove stepped through the door and made his way down one of the lanes Tool maintained.

“I need you to make me golems. Lots of them. You can craft simple golems to make the bodies of the more complicated ones. Any kind of golem will do, though the bigger the better.”

Î nodded uneasily. She was not sure if she understood what Lord Glove was saying, but was too afraid to ask for clarification.

“What should I make them do?”

Lord Glove picked up a jar, examining it. It was full of dust. He placed it down, coughing and waving his hands, “I need them to obey me, to be strong, and to be able to fight. The kingdom will soon be under attack. I will avoid battle if I can, but we need to keep the people safe. Can you help me?”

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

Lord Glove’s eyes reminded Î of the forest. Not a young forest like the one at the edge of Glovedome, but the old forest surrounding the cabin Î had been born in. It had been dark. Aged. Depthless. In the dim light of the workshop Lord Glove’s eyes were as black as a mirror.

Î saw herself reflect there. Her brown skin had faded to beige. Her eyes were ringed with shadow. They quavered and shone as though on the edge of tears. There was fear in them.

Î didn’t know if she could help him. She didn’t know if she wanted to. She didn’t know what would happen if she refused. She nodded.

Lord Glove smiled and patted her on the head.

“You’ve grown Î. Only a month here and look how tall you are. At this rate you’ll be taller than me before the year’s over!”

He looked around the workshop, “What do you need to make the golems?”

Î looked to Emet for advice, but the golem was frozen, as if she had never moved, “Clay. Dirt. Carvings and statues are quicker.”

Lord Glove nodded, ‘I know the sort. It will all be brought round shortly. I can also spare a few craftsmen to help make the unruned bodies if you’d like.”

Î nodded again.

“Excellent. I’ll see to it at once,” Lord Glove spun on his heel and was off, walking back up the stairs. Only after his footsteps faded away did Emet breath back into life. The breeze lifted Î’s hair from her ankles, “Door… what… do you… see?”

A shriek like nerves being scratched at by an unsanitary fingernail filled the air around Î, raising goosebumps along her arms and the back of her neck. “Lord Glove is gone. I will guard the entrance.”

With that, for the first time in Î’s knowledge, the door closed.

Emet’s voice died to a wisp and a whisper, forcing Î to move closer to her gargantuan face, “Why does… Lord Glove… golems… What use… are they… him?”

“I don’t know. Emet?” In Î’s mind Lord Glove once again pushed Lanet into a fire. She flinched. Her words became a squeak, “What do I do?”

“Lord Glove…. cannot… complete Stalwart’s… Legacy. Needs to…. control… doms… must not… be… united. You will… construct… golems. They will… betray him.”

Î didn’t want to betray anyone. The rest of the kineser or Lord Glove. She wished Lanet was there. He always knew what to say. He even knew what not to say. Î grabbed one of Alisa’s arms and wrapped her own about it. Maybe she had answers. She needed Alisa to have answers. There was no one else left, “Help. I don’t know what to do.”

Emet let out a long sigh, but did not interrupt Alisa as she spoke.

“I am carved in bronze. I am noble. Nobility does not always come from actions which are kind, just, or honorable. Sometimes noble actions are their exact opposite. Doing what is right is far harder than doing what is liked. But I am not based in nobility.

“I am named for joy. Joy is not avoiding pain. Joy comes from peace. Build the golems if doing so will offer you the most peace.”

Î heard Alisa’s words, and did not understand them. For once, she did not nod. She did not need to. It was enough to hear Alisa speak. Alisa who laughed in defiance of hardship. Alisa who stood as firm as the earthenware from which she was made against despair. Alisa who was warm. Alisa who was her friend.

Î clung to her tighter. It was enough. Î felt her courage return. Her heart swelled.

“I-”

Lord Glove stood among flames. The flames had a face. One face, mirrored a thousand times. It was cruel and mocking. It surrounded Î, leered at her, glared at her. It turned to Lord Glove and its expressions changed. Now it fawned and capered about him and lapped at his feet. Behind the flames crouched a black mass, nearly out of sight. Death.

Separate scenes played simultaneously in Î’s mind. One showed her crying as she crouched by Lord Glove’s bleeding body. Around him people smiled and went about their lives. In the other, Lord Glove was kneeling, hugging Î in his strong embrace. Around them people burned. A flaming man with wild eyes ran into a crowd of equally terrified people, setting them alight. A woman with long dark hair, her arms wrapped behind her about a tree, screamed as she watched everything burn.

Î started. Her eyes flew open and the images faded. Her voice was a whisper, so faint she herself did not know what she had said. Alisa freed her arm from Î’s grasp and wrapped it around her shoulders.

Î tried a second time. Her lips moved and air whistled between them, but her throat clenched against her will.

“It’s okay.” Alisa’s warm hand moved up and down her back. Something gave in Î. She gasped and let out a high pitched whine.

“I can’t choose.”

“You… must… Seven time seven days… Alisa will fade… Choose… and… I will teach… how to restore… a golem.”

Î clung to Alisa, horrified. Did Emet mean she would not teach Î unless Î chose one of her options, or that she would only teach Î if she chose correctly? She looked at Emet, but the golem’s face was impassive.

“You must… choose.”