The strange men watched them with curious eyes—like those of rats, perhaps. Their features were obscured by hair, but they postured aggressively as the metal box screamed to a halt. Sister remained quiet inside the box, but he walked forward without pause into the opening in the side of the mountain. She knew not how to posture, how to threaten. These creatures were more beast than man; that much he could feel. One must give no concession to them, must rise to challenge them with a back as straight as stone. Only then, could one pass through unmolested.
Their guides spoke in that strange blabbering of theirs; it gave him a headache just from listening. There were tens, perhaps hundreds, of those strange men in this tunnel, and there were hundreds of tunnels bored into the mountainside until it looked reminiscent of a hive. Ants, he remarked, thousands and thousands of ants in these stone hills.
The tunnel itself was at least twice the size of his cave, sloping and cavernous, like the maw of some great beast. The ceiling rose far above him, perhaps even twenty body lengths, and it was wide enough to fit four grown krull placed end to end across. The walls were rough and angular, with small pockets and crevices from where ores had been taken out. Small, luminescent moss grew in patches along the ceiling, fed by small droplets of water that fell to the ground on occasion. Lanterns hung along the sides of the wall as well, glowing faintly with a mixture of wax and animal fat. Multiple rail tracks ran through the center of the tunnel-cave, the men hauling carts along them. Those that were exiting from the bowels of the cave were piled high with lumps of metals, pushed by often times two or three of the men up the sloping track. More tunnels branched off to the side, burrowed even deeper into the mountainside, or perhaps even connecting the tunnel-cave to other neighbors around it.
Many of the strange men were scattered along the walls of the cavern, suspended by strong fingers and thick rope around their waists that hung from the ceiling. With metal picks they worked the walls, chipping away at the stone in the hopes of finding more ores. They swung their tools will powerful blows, every strike causing more and more stone to slough off and fall to the floor, where it would be carried off by others and discarded. On occasion, they were lose their footing on the wall, falling a short distance only to be stopped short by that length of rope.
Yet as they walked past, one man lost his grip like many others before him. But there was a snapping sound of rope, the piece either frayed or loose, and he was not stopped. Instead, there was a crashing sound as his body struck the ground, throwing up a cloud of debris and powdered rock around him.
Interestingly, there was no commotion regarding the fate of the corpse. The others continued to carry on, as if nothing had ever happened. And he watched with shocked eyes as the cloud of dust dispersed, revealing that same man slowly rising to his feet looking hardly any worse for wear. Blood trickled from wounds on his back, but he merely patted himself off with a casual roughness before going off to get a new length of rope.
Me'jai workings, whispered the dead, sensing his confusion and amazement. Denser bone and redirecting mahji to cushion the organs. The voices of the dead were not as restless as he was used to; they seemed calmer, tamer, ever since he had first summoned fire that night.
That night.
Sister had been dying, swallowed by Skal'ai, and she had screamed for fire. His mind had nearly flown into a panic, watching that formless black shadow smother her thrashing figure. It was the dead that had spoken to him then, rousing him to action. It was them who had stirred him out of his shock.
A beat and a purpose, he remembered them saying. Feel the pulse of the earth.
She had spoken of chanting, but when he closed his eyes he could feel it all around. Animal feet striking the ground as they ran. Water trickling over rock and gravel. Snow melting from atop mountains. Wind stirring the grass. Even the earth itself, moving at the speed of eons. He felt it. It had been his womb, had been the cradle that had shaped him; to him the pulse of the earth was a mother's breath. It was nothing foreign, nothing that he had to find.
To him, it was home.
And as he closed his eyes, as he thought of that pulse, there had been a tugging in the base of his stomach. It had felt like an trickle at first, like a dammed river, but as more and more unraveled, it grew to a torrent. It poured out of his center, flowing through his chest down his limbs. Heat burned down the tips of his claws, and when he opened his eyes, he had seen the ribbons of purple dancing in front of him
Mahji, the dead had hissed, and they had reminded him of the next step. Purpose. Fire.
Fire burned. Fire ate. Fire breathed. Fire was alive.
Fire swallowed flesh, its teeth ripping apart skin and muscle. Fire took in air with hungry lungs, exhaling plumes of black smoke. Fire sought out its prey, spreading with snaking tendrils blown by the wind. Fire bred, leaving behind its eggs in its corpse of ashes, glowing embers that threatened to grow once more. Fire was alive.
And as he remembered all of this, as his mind understood the life behind a flame, he willed his mahji to burn. To ignite. To bring out that single spark of life. He felt that hunger, that will to live, and from it he summoned forth a flame.
It had been something small at first, a single tongue of flame at the tip of his claw, but he had fed it. He had willed it to grow further, and in the span of a single breath it had blazed its way down the ribbon of purple. Fire danced from his claws, scorching and beautiful and very much alive.
And as he had wrapped the flame around the Skal'ai, he felt the exultation inside him, swelling forth like a tide. He had done it. Flame plumed and pillared as if it had felt his raw joy. Fire gorged on the Skal'ai, pulsing and swelling as the shadow within twisted and writhed. And as the Skal'ai waned and became consumed, so too did the fire die away until in the end there was nothing more than ashes.
Well done, scion of Andahiel. Well done, Shai'mon.
The sounds of talking roused him from his thoughts. Some of the strange men were arguing with their guides, and Sister seemed impatient. They yammered on in that strange tongue, their bodies full of posturing. It was a waste of energy, but Sister tapped his shoulder with a slender hand.
"Do you…" she murmured, eyes downcast. "Do you have a name?" A name?
"Ya cand brin 'zem, Boga! Dey no ou'sa be—" screamed one of the strange men, his voice cut off abruptly by a punch to the jaw. A name?
"Dey's Junga sa fren! Junga brin 'zem!" howled a guide, beating his chest proudly, until he was shoved to the ground by another.
"Dey's Boga sa fren! Boga sa fren first!" screamed the first, and Sister strode forward with a look of incredulity on her face. A name?
The dead coiled in the back of his mind. You are nameless, scion? Without self or identity? Such is a name.
He was not without identity. He was the stalker of the lands, the strongest of his plains. He was born from the earth, his very flesh carved and shaped from the mud and dirt. His mother had been the stone, his father the spirit of Andahiel, if the dead were to be believed. He bore the spirits of a thousand restless dead within him, bore the blackstone jewel of a corpse's crown on his flesh. He was the only demon to wander these lands in a thousand years, and the last of the Shai'mon. His claws could tear through steel; his will could compel the very soul of men. He was the survivor of thirteen Fells, slayer of the formless Skal'ai. He was hunted by the shadow-mother, and marked by the unliving corpse. That was his identity; that was his self.
How could a single name encompass that? How could a single name carry that weight?
"Boga, stop this. Please! Sir, we just need to pass through the mountain to the other side, to get out of the Outlands." Sister spoke to the strange man, her face imploring. "We won't cause any trouble."
The man spat out a glob of blood and spittle as he sat up, his features obscured by hair. "Ya sa brin plenta'troub already. Why ya ou'sa go 'ere?"
A name is more than that scion. It is more than what you have been. The dead heard his thoughts, and again came their hissing voices. A name is what you will be, and that which you strive for. It is your traits, your hopes, your ideals.
Sister let out a sigh, pulling out a steel fang. She only had the one now; he had left the others behind when he had to flee from the Skal'ai across the plains. Twirling it brilliantly in the dim light, she strode forward in a quick motion. There was a blur, a flash where the light glimmered off the edge of the blade, and then she had struck the man with the blunt end. The handle had clubbed him in the forehead, and he had crumbled like an infant.
"Boga, can we go now?" he smiled, spinning the dagger back into its place on the side of her leg. The guide let out a happy little laugh before leading them further down the tunnel.
Her name is Lily, the dead whispered, and he remembered it from a campfire. A flower, invoking grace. A poison, invoking strength. Qualities she seeks, not just those she has. What do you seek, scion? What do you see for your future?
There was a scream.
It was a lone scream, out of place and piercing in the tunnel-cave. It echoed off the walls, resounding and rebounding until it seemed like it was multiplying. And yet, as this scream echoed, it did not get softer as echoes do. Instead, it grew in volume until it was a tide.
And then he realized, it was not a lone scream.
Behind them, the howls and screeches of agony sundered out of the side tunnel like a wailing beast. The shadows danced as lanterns flickered out, the dim illumination suddenly shrinking away into darkness. And that darkness grew, even after all the light had been snuffed out, until he realized that it was moving all on its own.
And as the Skal'ai poured out of the tunnel like a flood, men succumbed to its grasp in screams and silence. The Skal'ai gorged itself, swelling to tremendous size as it swallowed hundreds of miners. A chill ran down his back as he realized it would not be stopped by a simple flame this time. His head throbbed, ached with a memory, and he saw that corpse once more before him. Its skeletal hand touched his forehead, and he let loose an agonizing howl.
"RUN!" yelled the guide, grabbing his arm in a wide palm and dragging him forward. When he opened his eyes, he saw Sister and the others already ahead of them, bolting down the tunnel. He did not need to look back to see the shadows along the wall growing larger, more and more of the lanterns extinguished by the cold touch of the Skal'ai.
Fear took hold of him then, fear that was raw and primal and terrifying. He threw off the hand of the short guide, sinking down to his haunches and bolting forward on all fours as fast as he could. In the span of three breaths, he caught up to Sister, her face flushed and her expression stricken.
"Surely they will not chase us past the mountain?" she huffed, fear starting to make her breathing erratic.
He merely smiled, his heart thumping loud in his veins.
"Sister, I don't have a name."