“The Maw,” Shamil murmured. Gazing upon something of such legendary status aroused a curious mix of emotions, from simple awe to a shameful sense of pride. With his own eyes he had beheld something few born to his homeland would ever see, but he had bought the experience at the cost of his honour. Throughout his trek north his mind had churned through various imaginings of what the Maw would actually look like, from a vast, bottomless pit to a jagged, flame-belching crack in the earth. Seeing the reality of it, he felt no sense of anticlimax, even though it amounted to just a very large hole spewing a good deal of foul smoke into the air. It was the reality of it that awed him, the inescapable fact that the entrance to the last refuge of the malign Voice actually existed. Furthermore, all other aspects of the legend were fully present.
The jagged teeth of the Smeldthorn Mountains lay beyond the smoke, their black slopes laced in veins of glowing red lava birthed by the many volcanoes in their midst. The veins came together to form a sluggish river of molten rock that flowed down the ridge before angling south, creating a steaming, pulsing barrier between the smoking rent of the Maw and the greener lands that formed the eastern frontier of the Treaty Realms. Despite the ugly spectacle of the scene, most of Shamil’s attention was not captured by the Maw or the molten river but by the vast statue that rose from its eastern bank.
He put its height at close to five hundred feet, the granite from which it had been fashioned rendered black by centuries of smoke from the Maw. Shamil supposed this was fitting since the woman it depicted was said to have worn dark armour throughout her many battles. Sharrow-Met, the Great Redeemed Wraith Queen, Founder and Saviour of the Treaty Realms, stood side-on to the Maw, both arms resting on the pommel of her mighty scimitar so that the giant edifice of woman and blade created a huge arch of sorts. Her features, stern with either resolve or perhaps disdain, had somehow escaped the blackening smoke and so shone pale in comparison to the rest of her massive body. Also, as Shamil’s gaze tracked over the fine cheekbones and aquiline nose, he noted they were disconcertingly familiar.
“Don’t,” Lyvia said as he turned towards her. Unlike the statue, her features were weary rather than stern, mouth twisted in an annoyed grimace. “I’ve been hearing it all my life. So, please don’t.”
The expression she cast at the statue was reflective rather than awed, proving a stark contrast to Rignar. The mage stared at Sharrow-Met’s stone effigy with unblinking eyes and face slack, a sign that the sight of her had been sufficient to banish all other thought from his head. Watching tears well in Rignar’s eyes, Shamil was reminded of something he had witnessed in boyhood, his aunt’s face the day his uncle returned from the last war against the raptorile. It had been a long war, and his uncle was no warrior, merely a potter called to serve his city at a time of direst need. Seeing her face that day when the kitchen door opened to reveal a smiling man in besmirched, dented armour, Shamil understood that she had never truly expected him to return. It was the face of a soul looking upon another that it loved absolutely.
Shamil found Tolveg’s reaction to the sight of the statue the most curious. He stood with his face turned away and arms crossed, silent for once but in a way that brought no sense of relief. For when Shamil caught sight of his features, he saw only the terror the northman had been striving to contain throughout their journey.
“They say her battle mages built it in just three days,” Lyvia said, drawing Shamil’s attention back to the statue. “In their grief they joined their powers to raise up the stone and from it crafted a monument greater than all others, just to mark the place of her passing.”
“Nonsense,” Rignar muttered, blinking as he wiped at his eyes. “Building the statue required mage power, it’s true, but it was still the work of years, not days. And she didn’t die at the cusp of the Maw.”
This differed from every tale Shamil had ever read or heard regarding Sharrow-Met’s demise, placing Rignar at odds with a considerable body of scholarship and lore. However, the surety of his voice left little doubt that, at least in his own mind, he spoke the truth.
“Then where did she die?” Lyvia asked, her voice coloured by a caustic skepticism.
“No one knows.” Rignar displayed no overt offence as, with obvious effort, he tore his gaze from the statue to resume the trek. “She suffered wounds in the last charge that drove the Voice’s vile horde into the Maw, wounds that would surely have killed a lesser soul. All we know for sure is that, when the last arrow had fallen and the dust and smoke settled, she was gone.”
“Set to wander the earth until our hour of direst need?” Lyvia asked, her tone taking on a taunting quality. “Are you a Revenantist, then? Is that why you’re here?”
Rignar paused in the act of hauling himself up to the next ledge, his own tone one of sadness rather than resentment. “Revenantists are fanatics lost in a welter of delusion. I am not so fortunate, my lady.” He inclined his head at the path awaiting them, a series of ever more narrow pathways that resembled a zigzag pattern of scars slashed into the mountain’s side. “Shall we?”
Tolveg said nothing for the rest of the day, something for which Shamil should have been grateful. Instead, the warrior’s silence soon began to stir an oppressive concern. He plodded at the rear of their party, his face set in a rigid mask, red-rimmed eyes distant, and offering only grunts to Shamil’s forced attempts at conversation. He took comfort from the fact that they had surely scaled two thirds of the mountain’s height by now and the Eyrie’s summit lay only one more day’s climb away. He knew enough not to expect complete safety upon reaching the Sentinels’ holdfast, but the challenges that awaited them there at least offered the prospect of restitution, something they had all travelled a great distance to claim. When they saw the first great wing, however, any hope Shamil harboured that the prospect of reaching their destination would restore Tolveg’s spirits dwindled and fluttered away on the mountain wind.
It swept out of a nearby cloud bank without warning, its shadow passing over them before their ears detected its passage through the air. Shamil was obliged to squint into the sun’s glare to catch his first glimpse of the bird, watching the wings give a single mighty beat that sent it soaring high. Seeing it silhouetted against the cool blue of the mountain sky, Shamil felt a lurch in his heart at the sheer majesty of the beast, wings at least thirty paces from tip to tip, sunlight glittering through the feathers of its fanned tail, body the size of a warhorse.
As the bird angled its wings to sweep back towards them, Shamil was able to discern the bright colouring of its feathers, a mix of red and gold that gave the impression of flame as they caught the sun. Shortening its wings, the bird came straight towards them at a shallow angle, allowing Shamil to make out the smaller bulk of the sentinel perched on its back. His initial glance made him wonder if it might be another bizarre creation of nature, its head seemingly deformed into something that resembled a teardrop with two black eyes peering down at them in blank indifference as the eagle streaked overhead. A helm, Shamil realised, noting the bronze sheen of the teardrop and the straps holding it in place before the eagle banked away and disappeared into the cloud below.
The four of them stood in silent regard of the clouds until Lyvia coughed and said in a small voice, “Bigger than I thought it would be.”
“Much,” Shamil agreed, his head filled with visions of what it might be like to ride such a creature and finding to his surprise that they stirred more anticipation than dread.