In the wreckage of its remnants?
He forbade us to leave the that terrible place,
And with that He sealed our Penance.
Excerpt from The Fall, AC 157
Chapter 6:
The Seventh School
Winter rolled over Alabach in the form of a snowstorm, but being so close to the Eternal Sea, the Clifflands only suffered hail and winds. Still, these carried a biting chill that came creeping across the ground, leaving ice in the cracks of the stone troll that still loomed outside Roseán.
The colonel’s orders cut through the silence of the onlooking villagers. His nine Geomancers split into two groups, positioning themselves either side of the troll. The villagers whispered all around Morrígan, but her gaze remained fixed on the stone beast. It stood on two muscular legs as thick as tree trunks, twenty feet tall. Its head sat on a stump of a neck, agony etched upon its petrified face. Stone lips protruded and curled out from its mouth, exposing cracked, crooked teeth. Nostrils flaring and eyes bulging, it still seemed to be alive under the stone.
Gods. Please let them move it.
But even as the Geomancers struggled, the troll did not budge.
They changed position, now spacing themselves evenly in a circle around the troll. They cursed and yelled and grunted with determination as they tried again, but to no avail.
“What are they hoping will happen?” whispered someone behind Morrígan.
“Fools,” murmured another. “All they need is a good pivot—”
Heat began to rise in Morrígan’s face, but she tried to ignore them. Across the field, Colonel Eodadh threw down his cloak and joined in the effort himself.
If only I could help.
It had been two months since Morrígan had asked Yarlaith to teach her magic, but the healer had been too busy with his own private experiments and scribblings to even show her the basics. She had assumed that he’d have more free time now, considering Fionn the Red had left the clinic, but this seemed to cause Yarlaith to work even more frantic and frequently than ever. He had said that the Academy of Dromán was looking to fund his research into the alchemical methods used to re-attach Fionn’s arm. Apart from that, Morrígan knew little else about his work.
One by one, the mages dropped their arms. Sweat soaked their faces and dripped onto their tunics. Still, the troll hadn’t moved an inch.
“I told you! I told you they couldn’t do it!” said Fearghal to nobody in particular. “What a bloody waste of an evening.”
The butcher turned back towards the village; the others meekly followed, but Morrígan remained behind. With her uncle busy with his work, she didn’t have much else to do for the evening.
The colonel called out to the Geomancers with some strange arcane word, and all nine immediately stopped and stood in attention; the troll leered on behind them.
“Dismissed,” he said.
The soldiers broke formation and wandered back to the village, mumbling to one another. Morrígan caught Berrían’s eye, and he threw his shoulders up in an apologetic shrug.
Dusk crept in overhead, but with the sky covered by a dead sheet of grey clouds, it was impossible to tell where the sun was setting.
Colonel Eodadh remained behind.
“There’s nothing more we can do,” he said. “I believe Berrían already explained that this may be a matter of flesh, not earth. It seems that the troll itself has been petrified, and now bears no similarities to stone.”
“Yes,” said Morrígan, bowing her head.
The colonel broke away and walked over to the troll, rubbing his hand across its shin. Its legs were bent in a crouching stance, arms covering its face from the direction morning had come. From here, Morrígan could see the exact spot her mother was killed.
Grief’s familiar claws scratched against the inside of her throat. Her lip quivered and her mouth went dry. Tears filled her eyes.
If only we didn’t have to work so damn early that morning.
“Is there nothing else that could be done?” she asked. “What if we tried with all twelve?”
“No,” said the colonel. His tone was harsh and reproachful. “It is not a matter of magnitude. Not even a thousand Geomancers would be able to move the troll.”
“Is there no other way?” Morrígan looked up at the troll’s hideous, deformed face. At that moment, she wanted nothing more than to never have to see it again.
“Not with magic.” The colonel pulled up his hood and turned to leave. “Why don’t you ask the Simians to lend you an engine?”
As he left, Morrígan considered his suggestion, even though it was meant in sarcasm.
Magic has so many rules and boundaries. Simian engineers must be far freer than our mages.
There were still no developments from Penance or Cruachan. Some of the more cynical and imaginative residents of Roseán had started to dub the conflict “The Invisible War.” They claimed that the king never was attacked, and the story nothing but a fabrication to give the Crown a mandate to raise taxes and declare war on Penance. It all sounded a lot like paranoia, though. Many of the villagers were uneasy since the Harvest Moon festival.
It wasn’t the beadhbhs that put them on edge. It’s the fact they’ve grown sober.
Peadair had given away the last of his alcohol that night, and there had been nowhere for the villagers to drink since.
