Much Too Fast

Borlan’s favorite light slanted across the rocklan priests and made their runes glow. He loved them for that, even when the runes told him the charioteers were coming up the long path and would reach the temple gates in two days. Even when that meant Borlan had to prep his scimitar, oil the leather straps on his armor, and even if the rocklan priests could not wrap their arms around his torso and hold him tight in his deep grief, Borlan still loved them. And he loved the light. Enough to die, maybe. He’d barely left the temple, and he couldn’t say for sure.

The mountains had always been their best defense. When he was a boy, they rarely got deliveries. The rocklans lived on the lichen and mushrooms growing in the deep caverns, while Master Shay taught him how to grow potatoes and how to forage in the spring. Their trips into town were rare and took a long week of scrambling over rocky terrain and scaling twisted goatherd paths. The return trip was worse. Borlan had to do all that, plus carry a bunch of supplies on his back.

But they persisted. The rocklans sang their low, mournful prayers, and Borlan grew up tending to them. He washed their bodies in the midafternoons, cleaned their sanctuary of crystal dust and little creatures in the evenings, and spent the rest of his days training in weapons, cooking, gathering, washing, and the dozen other little tasks it took to keep the monastery going. When Master Shay died, Borlan took the mantle of Lead Guardian, but that only meant double the work.

He cried to himself on the day the charioteers made it across the thawing lower pass. They were ugly, chest-rattling tears. He didn’t know any other kind, though. After he wiped his face and snorted out phlegm, one of the rocklans stood before him in the quiet corner of his armory room. It was one of his favorites; they had no names, but he named them anyway. Twisting, because of the curves of its jagged body, its lumpish form barely more than a pile of geometric stones melted together.

Its runes formed slowly like ice melting: I believe you should leave, Borlan.

He had to read the script a half dozen times before he could reply. The rocklans didn’t mind. Where he was twitchy and too fast, they were patient. Their time was a deep time.

“I can’t abandon you. I can’t abandon this place. Who will bring the offerings and light the candles? Who will clean the prayer rugs?”

It was an hour before Twisting replied. Borlan sat the whole time, watching the runes shape themselves, and even when he understood the message, he still kept his mouth quiet until the rocklan had finished speaking.

When the landmen come, they will kill you. They will break our halls and smash the Stone Lord’s carvings. You cannot stop what’s going to happen.

“But this is my home. I’m your Guardian. If this is what the Stone Lord wills, then I’ll die by your side.”

We know you will, but it would be a waste. We love you too much for that. Please, Borlan. When the sun rises, you must go.

He didn’t know how to answer that. The sun was dipping in the sky, and their conversation had taken up most of the day. The charioteers would be scrambling up the rough steps some long-dead people had carved a thousand years earlier. They’d be sharpening their knives and hefting their hammers. They’d come, like it or not.

Twisting was right. Borlan would die, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Once the charioteers heard about their monastery, it was only a matter of time before they came. They were a plague across Munish, and Borlan hated them. He cursed their name as he washed and scrubbed the sanctuary under the silent stares of the rocklan priests. Twisting returned to his place among them. They rarely moved and spoke only when they had something important to say, and a visit from one of their number was an enormous honor. Borlan should be happy.

Instead, he was miserable. That night, in his little sleeping nook wrapped in a ratty blanket, he imagined a thousand ways he might stop the charioteers: a rockslide as they scaled the western paths; a final stand in some narrow crossing where he could battle one man at a time; a heroic burst of rocklan magic that might boil their blood and splatter their dumb little heads into pieces. None of that would happen. Borlan knew it, and he hated it.

In the morning, the priests watched as he went about his business. He lit the candles and said the prayers as their runes shivered and shook across their bodies. They were so beautiful when they spoke to the divine. The colors and shapes slid across their forms in a gorgeous dance Borlan still didn’t understand, even after all these years. He watched them, crying, as his favorite light splashed across the strange, inhuman creatures. He oiled his armor and sharpened his scimitar. And finally, once the morning prayers ended, he crept out of the monastery and stood on the edge of the cliff overlooking the tree-splattered valley below, and he tried to imagine a life with the always-moving.

His brief visits to the town below were chaotic. So much noise. People were hungry and loud. They laughed and shouted. Their bodies shook and bounced and jogged around. They jostled him and thought nothing of it. But Borlan had only been touched by one person in his entire life, and only during weapons training. Master Shay had been kind, but years spent with the rocklans had made him distant and slow, just like them.

“Borlan!” A voice caught his attention. He looked down as a man picked his way across the roots and stone litter. “By the gods, I’m glad I found you. Shit-eating pathways are still half frozen.” The man stood, breathing hard at the edge of the monastery. Borlan watched and didn’t know what to say.

It was the tavern keeper from down below, a kind man named Norm. He wore heavy skins and leaned on a staff, out of breath. The trip this far must’ve been difficult for someone his age. His silver hair was pocked with snowdrift. Borlan offered him bread and water but didn’t allow him entrance into the great temple. Nobody but the rocklans and their Guardians could go inside.

“I came to warn you about the soldiers. Bloody fucking pricks are coming up here. Shit, I’m out of shape.” Norm gasped and leaned back on his elbows. “It’s goddamned cold up here. How do you stand it?”

Borlan didn’t know which part to answer. “I’m allowed a fire,” he said.

“Small mercies, I guess.” Norm hugged himself, shivering. “Listen, Borlan, I know this place is important to you. The priests or whatever they are take care of you, yeah? And you watch over them? But there are three companies of bored, annoyed, violent men coming up here, and they are going to kill you. I promise you that. Come back with me.”

Borlan was touched. Norm barely knew him, and yet the man had come all this way. “I can’t. This is my home.”

He looked past Borlan and toward the looming monastery entrance. His face twisted into a strange frown. “They aren’t people. You’ve got to know that. Come back to the town. I’ll find a place for you—”

“They’re my people.” Borlan backed away. “This is where I belong. Thank you for coming, but I can’t just leave them.”

Norm held up his hands. “I understand. I’m going to camp down at the bottom of the path for tonight, and I’m leaving tomorrow mid-morning. If you come with me, there will be a place for you. That’s all I’ll say. There’s no shame in it.”

Borlan retreated back into the monastery. His mind was moving too quickly for him to keep pace. It had been a very long time since another human had come all this way, and he couldn’t remember someone going out of their way to be kind to him. It touched him and made his throat swell, and when he sobbed in the prayer chamber, the rocklans gathered around him. They came closer than they’d ever come before, almost touching him, and Borlan hiccuped and spit on the floor at their runes.

All of them spoke to him. It was a silent chorus and the most beautiful thing he’d ever witnessed. They packed in tight, and he could almost feel their touch, but didn’t dare reach out. Dozens of the priests glowed, their runes shifting almost at prayer speed. Their bodies changed in a dance around him. They gave off a hum and a warmth he’d never noticed before, and he loved them so much his chest ached. Go, Borlan, please. They begged him. They pleaded in their way, even those rocklans who had never spoken to him before. We love you. Save yourself. Leave here and do not return.

It felt like a betrayal. A beautiful, incredible display of devotion, and a betrayal. This place was all he’d ever known, and the priests he’d been tasked with caring for were trying to send him away. It gnawed at him and felt like his guts were twisted into knots. He hated the rocklans for their mercy.

That night, he washed the monastery. He couldn’t sleep. He scrubbed and cleaned every inch of the halls, the storerooms, the great cathedral with its wide-open windows and its quiet rows of rocklan priests. Each spoke to him as he shuffled past them. We love you, Borlan. Save yourself. Leave this place.

He found Norm waiting for him as the sun rose. His favorite light slanted through the trees. The old man nodded as Borlan entered his camp.

“I’ve got a son about your age,” Norm said, packing away his things and kicking dirt over the smoldering remains of a fire. “You’ll get along, I think. Maybe not, but that don’t matter. I’ll find a place for you either way.”

Borlan took a long time to answer. They were well on their way down the pass, moving faster than was comfortable for him. But the charioteers were coming, and nothing would stop them.

“They’ll be okay,” Borlan said, and Norm nodded in answer. His hands were warm on Borlan’s shoulder. His arms were strong as he hugged Borlan against him.

“They’ll be okay,” Norm echoed, much too fast.

Hello again! Hope you enjoyed this one. I recently finished a long project I’ve been working on which means I should have more bandwidth for shorts. Hopefully that translates to more regular, twice-monthly posts for a while. I’m also experimenting with some tighter lengths—ideally under 2,000 words. Let me know if you liked this story, or even if you just read this far, by hitting the ‘heart’ button. It means basically nothing but it lets me know there are actual people at the other end of these emails.