Nom's Garden [completed]

[wayfriend]

Hey shadowbinding shoe, all comments are welcome and enjoyed greatly. Yes, I absolutely plan to finish it but it is one of several creative endeavors that compete for the little time I have to work on such things. I would very much like to finish by AATE so that SRD won't ruin my story even more by contradicting it. But it doesn't look good.

So, before the Final Chronicles had come out, what did you imagine Nom got up to after he departed Revelstone?

[shadowbinding shoe]

Well I'll read it when it's ready, even if the entire LC is published already, (assuming I hear about it).

What I thought would happen with Nom? Well for one thing I remember the agreement he made with Covenant not to go into the Bharathair city and surrounding fields. So I assumed he would have no contact with those people and their city.

For another I thought he gained from the raver enough knowledge to dismantle the Doom on his own without needing to study Kemper's notes and artifacts. And magic in the Land's world tends (or at least tended before the last book) to be intrinsic and connected to the 'magician's' nature, not something you can just learn from notes. So Nom had his original Sandgorgon abilities and some of the abilities of the raver and most likely combinations of the two but wouldn't be able to wield the Kemper's magics, just counter with his own powers.

So I imagined he returned to his continent, worked on dismantling the Doom from its rim or even from within and when he finally destroyed it, functioned as uber-sandgorgon forcing the other sandgorgons to respect the agreement he made with Thomas Covenant and watching out for and destroying any new danger that could imprison or damage the sandgorgons including intercepting any human that tried to traipse into their desert for fame or fortune (of killing a sandgorgon!).

I didn't think he would consort, heh heh, with Haruchai so he could communicate with people. He struck as too independent and fey. He would relish being inscrutable and unknowable. He is a powerful being that wouldn't have need of being understood.

On the other hand he struck me as an artist. Both by his building of the giant's grave and the channel for quenching the Banefire, and by his talk of the beauties and wonders of his homeland. So I imagine him creating new works of art there using his unique augmented perceptions. They would be stark and brutal but the other sandgorgons wouldn't really understand them (because they lack his new perceptions) and so he will become a little more lonely and roam the world leaving behind him inexplicable monuments wherever the mood grips him and the peoples of the world will wonder at their meaning and the giants would tell many tales to try and explain them. B

But Thomas Covenant for his place outside space and time would see and feel them and with his piercing knife-edged insight pierce their mysteries and know and see.




I had an idea and wrote a bit of a story that takes place in Mordant's world after the story's end. I wasn't aware that Donaldson allowed fan-stories. Would there be an interest in writing it and posting it here?

[wayfriend]

What I thought would happen with Nom? Well for one thing I remember the agreement he made with Covenant not to go into the Bharathair city and surrounding fields.

Actually, Covenant demanded of Nom: I want it to leave the Bhrathair alone. Those people have the right to live, too. And God knows I've already done them enough damage. I don't want them to suffer any more because of me.

I have always understood this to mean "don't hurt them" rather than "have no contact with them". (Why would he demand the latter?)

For another I thought he gained from the raver enough knowledge to dismantle the Doom on his own without needing to study Kemper's notes and artifacts.

Indeed. Nom does indicate this: From the rending of the Raver, Nom has gained knowledge to unmake Sandgorgons Doom.

I did take some liberties there. "Gained the knowledge" may not mean he is able to do so immediately; it might also mean that there is a process involved before it can be done. It seemed unlikely to me that even a Raver would have such detailed knowledge of Kasreyn's theurgies that it could instantly dismantle them. But I believed that it would know that it could unravel them once it had examined them.

Of course, I added some drama. That the Sandgorgon would encounter an unexpected difficulty. That this would lead to interacting with the Brathair, and hence the need of a Haruchai, etc.

So I imagine him creating new works of art there using his unique augmented perceptions. They would be stark and brutal but the other sandgorgons wouldn't really understand them (because they lack his new perceptions) and so he will become a little more lonely and roam the world leaving behind him inexplicable monuments wherever the mood grips him and the peoples of the world will wonder at their meaning and the giants would tell many tales to try and explain them.

That's kind of interesting.

I had an idea and wrote a bit of a story that takes place in Mordant's world after the story's end. I wasn't aware that Donaldson allowed fan-stories. Would there be an interest in writing it and posting it here?

There would certainly be an interest. And Donaldson doesn't so much as "allow" fan-stories as admit that, as long as they are only shared among friends (and not published for money) it's permissible. Or so I take what he said in the GI about it.

[shadowbinding shoe]

Thanks for the reply. Thinking about your question helped me extend and clarify my thoughts about this subjects. You certainly seem to have been more in synch with Donaldson than me in a lot of things here. The difficulty of dismantling the Doom, the implied corruption the pieces of the raver caused (this is probably the part I liked best in your story)

Though it seems we were both wrong. From what we hear in FR it seems that Nom didn't want the raver pieces and as soon as he could handed them around to other sandgorgons and returned to his natural state.

[wayfriend]

meh, I'm being self-serving and trying to stir up discussion about my story is all. Thanks for helping me.

Yes, Nom shared around his raver bits. But we don't really know why, or how, now do we? Therein lies a tale ...

[peter]

Awesome story Wayfriend. Sorry it took me so long to get round to reading it. Had the little matter of AATE to attend to first. Now to go to search out part 2 if it exists anywhere outside your (clearly very fertile) brain as yet......

Thanks again!

[Frostheart Grueburn]

Enjoyed your story a lot so far, please do post the next part. Either I've been suffering from a mild case of dimwittedness, or the TC fics that exist are rather hard to unearth (Not sure why it never crossed my mind before to look here; guess I surmised that almost anything relating to a specific novel would sit in its representative forum.).

Anyhow, liked the Giantish point of view, the descriptions of the new palace (would certainly want to visit a place akin to that), the SRD-ish flare in the writing itself. Seriously been itching to read some fanfics, especially about the Giants, as there's so much ground and culture to explore. TLD's two-three years in the future, and FR/AATE left us with half a score of underdeveloped characters crying for backgrounds and whatnot.

For some reason, found this simile really neat:

...his every motion as he waved his hands mirrored below: a drowning man thrashing as plates and goblets sailed serenely by.

On a different note, not specifically targeted to the owner of this thread, but more in the lines of contributing to the general discussion...
Been contemplating whether I ought to type out one of the plot bunnies running around my head, but...I don't know...would a person with something else as their first language than English have any chances of posting anything here without just embarrassing themselves hugely? Judging by some of the messages I've read elsewhere, expectations would, by default, stand really high. :/ This is scarcely FF.net, and I wouldn't ever be able to emulate SRD in terms of depiction and vocabulary (personally I'd be happy to read stories writ with a different yet decent style, but don't truly know about others).

[wayfriend]

Why thanks, Zorm.

And, yes, Zorm, I would say to post anything you'd like to post. There're no criteria barring you from doing anything you want. And where would you find a more receptive audience than here?

Or post it in your native tongue and to hell with the English.

And we do have a writers forum where, I have found, there're folks who might be inclined to help with your early drafts.

[Frostheart Grueburn]

Or post it in your native tongue and to hell with the English.

And we do have a writers forum where, I have found, there're folks who might be inclined to help with your early drafts.

I think I'll stick to English, if and when I get the courage to post something. Aside from the fact that nobody'd understand a flying fig in a black hole about it, I'd have to translate character names with literal meanings, and that might turn into a humongous mess. See, no actual translations, save for a horribly sodomized one of LFB from the late 70s, exist in this language, and I'm disinclined to dig into anything for inspiration that has Dark Lord Artificial as the main villain.

Word-to-word translations from English wouldn't function well in this tongue, and in most cases one'd have to slightly alter the meaning and yet beware of slips like Briny the Pirate. I think the most dreadful literal conversion that popped into my mind was Harso or Häämä Hohtohahmo (Gossamer Glowlimn), which just makes me triple-cringe.

Others aren't that bad, but still would require some tweaking, like adding rhythm and cadence. Synk'käsi Kunnianhimo for Grimmand Honninscrave doesn't seem all that corny, but Turmanyrkki Arvokärkky would add a dash more character. Suolasydän Kuohunseuraaja for Foamfollower--no. Breaks the metre, would be better off as Kuohunkaiho, which then again means 'foam-longing' rather than the original. I think I'll cease here. XD

Just for the sake of curiosity, your character might translate into Tokka Touvitukka, which sounds rather cute. =3


Thanks for the writers forum tip, though, might peek in there at some point.

[wayfriend]

Just for the sake of curiosity, your character might translate into Tokka Touvitukka, which sounds rather cute. =3

Cute?!?! :splutter: :froth:

Yes, I understand that translation is not pretty. In a way, I'd hate to see you give up on something Finnish which could be very well done and certainly closer to your heart for the sake of a wider readership. Then again, I also understand the pain of working on something for a long time and then having little response to it from fellow fans. So the answer is clear: you need to teach us Finlanderish.

[Savor Dam]

...I also understand the pain of working on something for a long time and then having little response to it from fellow fans.

Since what Wayfriend said might easily be misinterpreted to be a reference to Nom's Garden, I am going to take the liberty of posting a link to what I believe is the thread he means.

While Nom's Garden is an outstanding piece of fan fiction -- and, along with iQuestor's It Cannot Now Be Set Aside, Nor Passed On, a story-in-progress that we've long waited to be completed -- Fatal Musings: Epic Vision is a scholarly article that WF wrote about 15 months ago.

While it drew over a page of well-deserved praise, I suspect that Way really wanted it to generate more substantive discussion and was disappointed that this did not happen. I would not go so far as to say that he ought not feel put out in that regard, but it is my contention that depth and breadth of his 7,000+ word essay made it challenging to come up with much to say in response that could stand in the company of what had already been written.

[wayfriend]

...I also understand the pain of working on something for a long time and then having little response to it from fellow fans.

... I am going to take the liberty of posting a link to what I believe is the thread he means.

(Honestly, I was not referring to any particular thread. I have had lots of duds. I have seen lots of other's duds, especially in the Hall. It's frustrating sometimes, but it can't be helped either.)

[peter]

any sighn of part two on the horizon

[Frostheart Grueburn]

Just for the sake of curiosity, your character might translate into Tokka Touvitukka, which sounds rather cute. =3

Cute?!?! :splutter: :froth:

Yes, I understand that translation is not pretty. In a way, I'd hate to see you give up on something Finnish which could be very well done and certainly closer to your heart for the sake of a wider readership. Then again, I also understand the pain of working on something for a long time and then having little response to it from fellow fans. So the answer is clear: you need to teach us Finlanderish.

Err...cute in a big, burly giantish kind of way, or something in the lines of John Bauer's trolls? Better?

Don't ask; up here we seem to have an odd affection for trolls and giants and other vættir, plus general monsters.

It would be so convenient to live in the world of twopenny fantasy novels where orphan farmboys, among others, learn to master foreign languages in the span of a couple of weeks and even proceed to write many-paged masterpieces of poetry with these newfound skills. Finlanderish, unfortunately, bears no true resemblance to English (no articles, no prepositions, no separate pronouns for 'he' and 'she', etc.), so unless someone is ready to bestow a few years for the learning of its basics, starting from 15 noun cases and the conjugation of verbs according to every damn person and tense, I believe English truly shall remain as my choice of language. XD

Well...in a bout of inspiration, I've gotten about 14000 words of something typed down, and might toss the lot into the Writers Circle for a grammar check after a round or two of proofing. Unless the general soppiness doesn't begin to induce cringing in the meanwhile. Ah well, it was a test of sorts.

Guess I'll need to read iQuestor's story and that essay sometime soon-ish now.

[Savor Dam]

Guess I'll need to read iQuestor's story and that essay sometime soon-ish now.

Do. Both are well worth the investment of time. Good stuff!

[Lefdmae Deemalr Effaeldm]

Thank you for this, wayfriend, may I ask, are you going to continue after all? Please)

[wayfriend]

Yes. It's just a matter of time.

[Lefdmae Deemalr Effaeldm]

Glad to hear that.

May I ask, if you're more or less stuck with this one, perhaps you could start on one more story to get unstuck?)

Perhaps a short one, not much time-consuming and possible to finish fast.

[wayfriend]

Here is the entire story, parts one and two together.

I was quite surprised when part two was shorter than part one - I thought that I had dug myself into quite a literary hole, and that only by filling it with words and words and words would I emerge.

I finally sat down and wrote the whole first draft, except for section 11, one day this summer. Section 11 was finally drafted the day before Final Dark. Now I am ready to be done - an act of will.

hope you will comment on anything about this that invites comment.

Nom’s Garden

(Part 1 of 2)

by Wayfriend

* 1 *

Dock Hawserbraid ceased his weary march into the ambit of Sandgorgon’s Doom, exhausted from his flight across the Great Desert. The Doom rose before him, an interminable wall of wailing wind and knifing sand; he could hear boulders crashing in the murk ahead.

The Giant considered: the Horse could not reach him now; he may even be beyond the reach of the Haruchai - but he would not swear on it.

He chose to cautiously rest. He turned his back to the gyre, shrugged the cable from his shoulder, and with his hands shielding his eyes looked back to the Sandwall.

The wind threatened to steal his old, worn cap.

He could see no one crossing the desert. He could barely make out Nom’s Garden.

There was the cabinet, lying askew in the sand at the end of the cable. Much of its elaboration had been scoured away. The sailor scrutinized the knot, judged it remained sound.

That which was contained within the cabinet tried again to seduce him.

Stone and Sea! Was there no rest for his thoughts?

He wrapped the cable around his forearm, yanked the cabinet free of the drifting sand, and then resumed his pestilential journey toward the storm wall. As he trudged, he told himself a story; his Giantish attention to stories warded him well from the peril he brought with him. The story he told himself was his own.

* 2 *

The wind thrummed the lines and snapped the sails as Tern’s Skip slotted the Spikes of Bhrathairain Harbor. Shadows swallowed the deck. Pitted and crusted bastions drew alongside, manned by pikemen who peered through crenellations at the Giantship heaving into the harbor.

These things did not draw the attention of Hawserbraid. He had eyes only for the sparkling waters of the harbor ahead, even as Shipsheartthew struggled in his grip.

A Giant sailor was hanging single-handed from the forestay as he leaned out over the bow, singing enthusiastically.

Stone and Sea are deep in life
Two unalterable symbols of the world!
But I need to rest in a bed without motion
So let’s tie up while power remains!

“When you are finished with your ditty, Brightworks, “ yelled the Master, “you might tell me where my windward will be!”

After flashing an expression of mock injury, Brightworks attended to his task. A moment past before the Storesmaster could read the waves in the harbor. “She blows from aport, and strongly” called back the Giant.

“Aport, aye!”

Hawserbraid adjusted his stance.

When Tern’s Skip emerged on the far side of the Spikes, Dawngreeter caught the crosswind running along the inside of the Sandwall, blowing near perpendicular to their course. The ship rolled hard. Hawserbraid muscled the rudder, sailors hauled ropes, and the booms swung around. The granite vessel turned with a shuddering groan.

In a few moments the difficult adjustment was completed, and the crew crowed. Hawserbraid waved his ragged cap at them, then pulled it back down over his head with the grace of habit.

The Master of Tern’s Skip was proud of his vessel. Smaller than a dellas or a dromond, the single-masted kyroon was a nimble ship, made for long journeys at speed. It had three booms, two aft and one forward, which could be ingeniously trimmed to make use of any breeze or to hold any tack.

As the Giantship angled into the harbor, Hawserbraid turned his attention to other kinds of weather. Bhrathairealm was a tempestuous place, and he hoped to judge the prevailing winds before approaching the wharf.

He needed observations from a better vantage than the wheel deck. But this hour Horizonscan was manned by Deel, and the Master hesitated to call for the young Haruchai. There was something cold in that one, something which his Giantish spirit could not warm to, even after several weeks of journeying together. His crew felt it, too; Haruchai reticence alone did not explain the silences that pervaded each watch that had Deel on deck. Hawserbraid’s puzzling and the gossip of the crew could not reveal why Nom would send for such a one to be his new Speaker.

In a few hours, their passenger would be given over to Nom. Hawserbraid was ashamed of how heartening the thought was.

But reluctance is only a fog on the waves: you get through it merely by making the attempt.

The Master summoned the Haruchai.

In a moment, Deel landed on the deck beside him, a youth with curly hair and brown skin and no hint of humor or compromise in his flat gaze. His report was concise. There was a healthy mix of Horse and hand on the wharf, and many merchant vessels hugged the piers. The number of warships patrolling the water raised no suspicions, and none had changed tack at the appearance of Tern’s Skip.

When Deel climbed back into the rigging Hawserbraid sighed with relief and ordered Brightworks to signal the dock master as they approached the piers.

There was much to do as the Giantship crossed the last waves. No one wished to stay on board for one moment more than necessary.

As the Tern’s Skip prepared for journey’s end, Hawserbraid could not help but remember other journeys, other destinations. His crew was his family, and the satisfaction he felt at reaching a far port was the happiness of a Giant for his family’s success.

He had not become a Master with swiftness and surety. He loved the Sea, the sailing of ships, and everything that the feel of Shipsheartthew in his hands meant to a Giant. But for years upon years he had submitted himself to the tests and judgments of Seaheartsward only to be denied his Mastership. He had lacked the granite confidence which so many other candidates acquired readily.

Forty days in the Soulbiter changed him. He emerged from that rare ordeal with a core of obduracy like a rock below deep water. When the council saw that he now had Stone within him as well as the Sea, they made him a Master.

When Brightworks reported that a berth had been made ready for them, the Master put aside his remembrances and prepared to greet the Bhrathair.

* 3 *

Harborside in Bhrathairain was a forest of masts, spars, and lines. Goods swung, rolled, slid, walked, and rode men’s backs out of ships’ holds; goods swung, rolled, slid, walked, and rode men’s backs into ships’ holds. Fishwives taunted everyone.

A flat-faced man wearing a short tunic stepped out from among the throng gathered at the wharf to see the Giantship. “Be welcome in Bhrathairealm, Giants”, he announced. “I am Kurin, and I Speak for Nom.”

“I am glad to see you again, Speaker Kurin of the Haruchai, my friend!” answered Hawserbraid, as he descended the gangplank. The rest of the crew crowded the rails at his back, waiting for his word. “Giants treasure names almost as much as tales, and it has not been so long that I have forgotten yours.

“You are not the stripling that I left here on the docks a score of years ago. Are you well?”

“I am well, Rockbrother.”

“Wonderful, wonderful.” Hawserbraid was familiar with Haruchai ways, and so he did pursue the matter of Kurin’s health or fortune. “And tell me, how fares the Realm?”

“The people of Bhrathairealm prosper under the auspice of their gaddhi, Haro Grist. None have dared war against our holdings for many years, and the reach of the Realm grows most satisfactorily.”

“Excellent! Wars are good for merchants, but peace is preferable, eh? And what of Nom?”

“Nom has been installed as Kemper, and all are rewarded by his efforts on behalf of the gaddhi,” replied the Haruchai flatly.

“Kemper?” asked Hawserbraid, speaking more concernedly. “Kasreyn also proclaimed himself Kemper, and not to the gaddhi’s delight, if I recall. Please tell me, how did this transpire?”

“That Nom is studying the thaumaturge’s craft, in order to free his people, you know well,” replied Kurin. “Among the ruins of the Sandhold Nom has found many of Kasreyn's former possessions, and these aid him in all he does. Kasreyn’s former title aids him as well. His stature in the Realm has grown as his skills have become more apt for governance.”

“I see,” rumbled Hawserbraid. “Well, as long as –”

Shod hooves clattered on cobblestone, thudded loudly on the pier’s planking. Hawserbraid and Kurin turned to find three of the gaddhi’s Horse approaching.

A brightly armored soldier dismounted almost before his destrier had been reigned. He marched directly to the Giant and spoke with martial directness. “Giant, be welcome in Bhrathairain. Your passenger is known to the gaddhi, and he requires that you do not permit him to debark.” The soldier paused to catch his breath.

“My passenger?” wondered Hawserbraid. He looked to Kurin, who only shrugged. Wringing his cap, he approached the soldier. “Please, do not be so brief with me. What is the gaddhi’s concern? I am Dock Hawserbraid, Master of Tern’s Skip, and I will see to what needs to be done.”

As Hawserbraid crossed the pier, the soldiers cast wary glances at his height. Kurin stood to one side, without apprehension. Stevedores, merchants, and sailors paused in their labors and turned to watch the confrontation with unabashed curiosity.

Hawserbraid was the Master of his vessel: he knew the clap of every sheet, the whisper of every line, the creak of every mast and spar. And so he was the only one who looked up in time to see Deel swing out above the pier on a halyard, release it, and drop.

The Haruchai surprised everyone else when he landed on the pier directly between the Giant and the Horse. Standing, he turned to face the gaddhi’s men.

“You may tell the gaddhi that he is too late to prevent my arrival. I am here.”

The soldier bared his weapon. His two companions dismounted as quickly as falling in order to stand by his side.

Then Kurin stepped towards them and demanded, “Hold! He has the aegis of the Kemper. You shall neither confront him nor hinder him.”

Balked and fuming, the soldier searched for a response; confronted with a Haruchai’s resolve, he could find none. Then he turned to the Giant. "You must return your passenger to your vessel, and compel him to remain aboard."

"That I would not do," responded Hawserbraid. "I am no warden. And my craft is no donjon."

The soldier bristled. “You refuse?! Then you will come with us to the palace, and explain to the gaddhi what has occurred here. There you may beg for his mercy.”

“No,” interceded Kurin flatly.

Hawserbraid and soldiers alike were taken aback.

“The Kemper has requested the pleasure of this Giant’s company this evening. The gaddhi can wait another day.”

Leaving the soldiers to exchange stymied glances, Kurin turned to inform the Giant. “It is the Kemper’s wish that you come to his Hold this evening, an hour before the sun sets.” The Haruchai bowed, and then turned toward Deel.

The two stared at each other briefly.

Then Deel, too, bowed to Hawserbraid, saying “Thank you for my passage, Master.”

With those words, the two Haruchai departed the pier, Deel following several paces behind Kurin.

While the soldier visibly struggled to construct a suitable course of action, Hawserbraid watched Kurin and Deel depart. It was clear to him that he had become embroiled in some political struggle between Nom and the gaddhi, and he was birthing plans for extricating himself and his crew from Brathairealm as soon as possible. In his mind he went over the Skip’s provisions, what they must acquire, what they could forego. The Giantship might be able to leave with the morning tide. He had a few trinkets of some value; perhaps they could be used to overcome some bureaucratic obstacles.

When Kurin reached the paved street at the end of the pier, Deel attacked him. With three rapid strides, he leaped into the air, aiming both his feet at the back of Kurin’s unprotected neck.

Somehow, Kurin sensed the attack, and managed to twist aside at the last instant, turn to meet his attacker. With one arm he deflected Deel’s legs, with the other he attempted to snap back Deel’s head. Deel deflected Kurin’s counter-attack with an arm block, while jabbing an elbow into Kurin’s shoulder.

Kurin rolled away as Deel landed on his side. As one, they stood and fell into battle.

Each having been absorbed with their own dilemma, the Giant and the soldier were both brought with a jolt back to present circumstances.

In a quiet circle of attention the Haruchai strove. Blow followed blow as they attacked each other with silent precision and cold determination.

Initially Kurin’s maturity gave him the advantage, and Deel was forced to defend himself, to turn aside rapid blows that would break bones. Kurin's punches and kicks penetrated Deel's defenses again and again, yet somehow the younger Haruchai contrived to deflect enough damage to maintain a defense.

But soon the duel changed form. Deel's soft defense drew out Kurin's attacks, so that they took a fraction of a second longer to complete. By accepting rather than stopping Kurin's blows, Deel was creating openings in which to counter-strike. Kurin responded by pulling back his strikes; he had lost the advantage of his strength.

This change in tactics favored the Haruchai youth. Soon he was demonstrating feints and attacks which clearly confounded his opponent. Before long, Kurin was reeling from unparried slashes and unwarded jabs.

Suddenly unbalanced, Kurin was flipped over Deel’s bent knee, landing on his stomach.

Deel bent, dealt a two-handed blow to the small of Kurin’s back before he could roll away. Kurin arched his back in agony, and Deel followed through with a chop to the base of Kurin’s neck.

Kurin flopped like a fish on the pier, and then he went still.

Deel rose to stand over the older Haruchai. He showed no emotion in his posture or his expression, but something like superiority shone in the way he looked down on his opponent.

A moment passed. Then Kurin slowly climbed to his feet, forfeit limning his every movement.

As if satisfied, Deel turned and walked into the city. Kurin limped after him, not quite able to straighten his damaged back.

The soldier swore, tore his eyes from the tableau and addressed Hawserbraid without courtesy. As if the end of the unexpected combat restored his train of thought, he pronounced, “You are to go to the gaddhi’s palace tomorrow, for the noon meal. Or your vessel will be scuttled.”

After mounting, the Horse departed, leaving Hawserbraid to stand amazed on the pier.

* 4 *

Hawserbraid walked along Harbor Avenue. Brightly colored awnings shaded both sides of the broad street, under which citizens strolled, merchants hawked, and beggars demonstrated their wretchedness. Too large, Hawserbraid kept to the center of the avenue, along with wagons, sedans, and the gaddhi’s mounted soldiers. From his height, he watched the rats and monkeys race atop the awnings, their own private highway, while he patiently followed the slow traffic. The late afternoon sun slanted out of alleys to cross his way.

As he neared the end of the avenue, Nom’s keep filled the view ahead. So much might articulated in Stone!

In title it was the Kemper’s Hold, but the Brathair commonly referred to the edifice built upon the ruins of the Sandhold as “Nom’s Garden”.

It was constructed of massive stones, stones larger than dromonds – stones as large as hilltops – collected in an area at the north end of the town. They lay scattered and askew, some partially submerged, as if they had been piled hastily by a titan. Many lay against or atop another, or bridged spans; others stood somewhat apart, menhirs at the edge of the Great Desert, for no wall came between the Hold and the open sand.

The might required to unearth and move such slabs of bedrock was inconceivable to the Giant.

The largest formation of arranged stones had been transformed by masons and artisans into a citadel. Walls were built to fill the interstices and create enclosed spaces. Windows and balconies adorned the faces; carvings and sconces added elements of elegance. The boulders which comprised the skeleton of the citadel were adorned with, rather than obscured by, these refined additions.

The area immediately surrounding the citadel was, the Giant knew, transformed with walls and embowerments into a maze of grottos, lush in the shadow of monoliths. Gardens and statuary adorned fountained pools and sculptures of sand.

As Hawserbraid approached the main gate, a guard stepped forward to greet him.

“You are expected, Giant. I have summoned an escort who will bring you to the Kemper’s parlor. Please excuse a moment’s delay.”

Hawserbraid bowed politely to the gatekeeper.

Then he ventured, “You’re livery is unfamiliar to me.”

The guard raised an eyebrow.

“I admit that I have been gone from Brathairealm for some time - a generation or so as you would count it.”

“I am a vigilant in the Kemper’s cohort,” stated the guard, without masking his disdain at being unrecognized.

“Ah, thank you.” On Hawserbraid’s previous visits, the gaddhi had commanded all of the military units in the town. That the Kemper now had his own men was significant.

He was saved further embarrassment by the arrival of an attendant, by his dress another of the Kemper’s cohort, who led the Giant into the citadel.

He was led through the strange halls and hallways that made up the Kemper’s Hold, where extravagant rooms might have as one wall or a ceiling the blank rock face of a boulder larger than the room itself, and where passages followed the broad curves of mountainsides.

He was ushered into a salon as large and as magnificent as a temple. Baroque frescoes adorned the walls, framed with gilded cornices. A chandelier, burning like a sun, depended from the high, groined ceiling. A triangular face of unadorned rock intruded into one corner.

The only furniture was an overlarge bench and a low table, occupying the center of the room like self-assured monarchs.

The attendant having returned to his duties, Hawserbraid was free to wander the salon and view the scenes artfully depicted on its walls. They were moments from the history of Brathair, frozen in grand drama; battles and ceremonies, the triumphant and the stalwart.

As on other occasions, one mural drew his attention away from the others. It was an image of a donjon of the Sandhold. Wracked figures, dark as shadows, hung from the walls, and a crumpled iron door lay on the floor.

In the center stood Thomas Covenant, Giantfriend and Redeemer, turned away, glowing in the darkness like an incandescent revenant. Spare shoulders carried weariness and devotion; intransigence and flame held a back straight; potent and pitiable, exhausted and inexorable. The artist had somehow captured a paradox, fixed it in pigment and plaster.

Another icon of contradiction, a portrayal of Nom the Sandgorgon knelt before the Giantfriend. Its pale skin blazed with reflected light every bit as brightly as the Giantfriend. A beast plainly bursting with might, it was poised on four limbs, as if it had just lifted its head from the floor. Without eyes, it awaited a recognition of its homage, thews clenched with repressed urges, awkward and yet regal in its posture. Might incarnate, held by unbreakable chains.

The Giant stood pondering the portrait. Contemplating its hidden messages always left him feeling as if he was peering into the depths of Creation. He loved the tale of Thomas Covenant the Redeemer, with Seadreamer and Pitchwife the Hale and the brave Haruchai who accompanied them. It was almost as long as the tale of Bahgoon the Unbearable and Thelma Twofist, almost as beloved by Giants. Time after time, his musings upon the paintings left him with no great knowledge, just the vague sense of a vaster reality which, as a Giant, suffused him with joy: the joy of a story not yet fully revealed.

He turned as a door at the far end of the parlor opened, and Nom entered, followed by Deel. The Sandgorgon wore a loose black robe which swept the floor, surmounted by a florid chasuble, red and black and trimmed in yellow. A yellow ribbon was about his neck, carrying a golden circle like an ocular. Nothing of his inhuman frame was visible except his face, shadowed within a hood.

Nom approached the Giant, but made no gesture except to hold his eyeless head as if he could gaze into Hawserbraid’s eyes. But it was Deel who spoke, from a pace behind. “I am pleased to greet you, Master. Be welcome in my abode. Please, won’t you sit?”

“I am gladdened to see you again, Kemper,” replied Hawserbraid, sitting down on the bench provided for him and removing his cap. “I am fond of this city, and visit it altogether too infrequently.” The Giant was familiar with Nom’s manner of speech – he had by now delivered four Speakers from Coercri to Brathairealm – and was comfortable, although somewhat out of practice, with hearing Nom through his Speaker’s voice.

“Was your journey remarkable?”

“It was a pleasant voyage altogether, Kemper. Nothing in the least remarkable,” said the Giant with a grin.

“Until you arrived in Brathairealm,” added Nom. “For my part in that untoward greeting, you have my apologies. It was not my intent to consternate you or your crew upon your arrival.”

“Thank you, Kemper.” Hawserbraid bowed his head. “I was happy to see that your new Speaker was delivered to you despite some choppy seas. That’s far more important than any accidental confusion - confusion which I frankly admit to bearing.”

“Let me set you at ease, Master Hawserbraid. The gaddhi and I are engaged in a disagreement. Were it not for the specific nature of your charter, it would never have interfered with our business, and I had hoped it would not even so. You and I bear a friendship that I would not lose. I trust we can put this unfortunate matter behind us.”

“Assuredly, Kemper, assuredly, and with my gratitude. However, I am concerned for my friend Kurin. Both he and I intend that he be aboard Tern’s Skip when we depart Brathair. I hope to find him hale when the time comes.”

“If he is injured, I will do what I can for him,” stated Nom. But his tenor carried less conviction than his promise.

“You have my gratitude again, Kemper. Although I suspect he would refuse your aid by choice. Haruchai are an inscrutable people. I confess they often amaze me,” claimed the Giant, underscoring this by gazing at Deel.

“You wish to understand why he was attacked.”

“If I may, I hope to understand why you need a Speaker such as Deel.”

Nom did not respond immediately. Hawserbraid twisted his cap in his hands. He was taking a risk, but he needed to take the measure of the waters in which he sailed.

Finally, the Sandgorgon ventured. “By merit and strength, I have become Kemper of Brathairealm. My needs as Kemper are not the same as they were when I was not. That is sufficient explanation.”

“You transgress upon the gaddhi’s authority, and dare his wrath. Unless I am mistaken, there will be an open confrontation. Why do you embark upon this path?”

Nom said simply, “It is a path to power.”

“Power? Do you yet crave power, you who have raised this Citadel with your unimaginable strength? What need have you for either the Kemper’s magicks or the gaddhi’s realm? Pardon me, but I see only folly here, and harm for many.”

There was no immediate response to this. If Nom contemplated the Giant's words, there was no visible sign. But after a moment, Nom’s gave a simple reply. “Please accompany me. Before Sandgorgon’s Doom, I would have you understand.”

They departed from the salon. Hawserbraid followed Nom and Deel down a hallway where stone leaned over their heads like a doom about to fall.

* 5 *

Hawserbraid descended a dank stone stair.

“Giant.”

He looked back and up, to see Deel standing in the brighter passage.

“That is not the way.”

The Giant paused. He contemplated objections, but did not know quite what to say.

“That way lies the croyel”, Deel continued. “It desires your potency, and will ill-use you. Come up the stair, and give it no further heed.”

Hawserbraid looked down into a crepuscular pit. He could not remember why he had come this way. He turned to join Deel, lifted his foot –

And a desire to immerse himself in the darkness, to join, caught flame in him, and burned. Time melted away.

“Master!” commanded the Speaker.

Master. Stone; sea. A fog on the waves. Hawserbraid pushed through the flames, felt them slough away. Something in his mind screamed, and then departed. He ascended to face the Haruchai. Deel measured him with a cold gaze.

“It will not sway me again,” said Hawserbraid. “I am forewarned.”

Deel then gestured toward Nom, who waited further down the passage.

Hawserbraid strode to the Sandgorgon. “It lives? The very one joined to Kasreyn?”

“Indeed,” replied Nom, with Deel’s voice. “The Elohim Findail severed the roots that bound it to Kasreyn, and so the thaumaturge was bereft of his overlong life. The croyel was reduced, but not destroyed, for Covenant required only that the Kemper be stopped, and the Elohim are chary of their interference.

“It survived the wreck of the Sandhold. I keep it now.”

“Keep it?” Agitated, Hawserbraid could not decide whether to address the Sandgorgon or the Haruchai, and so turned from one to the other. “For what need?”

“It is power.

“Come. The answer to this new question is the same as the last.”

At the end of the passage, another stair rose into the bright sun.

* 6 *

Nom led them to the top of a stone pinnacle, a veritable tower on the edge of the Garden. There, he gestured to the desert beyond the Keep, and Deel spoke Nom’s words.

“Behold the Great Desert!”

Hawserbraid looked out over the sands. He had seen the Great Desert many times before, but never from such a vantage. Its vacant endlessness was like the open sea, defying the eye; the wind-carved dunes and the distant storm completed the sailor’s simile. “It is an ocean,” he whispered.

“It will surprise you to learn that all that you can see, and much more, was once a tropical jungle,” said Nom, “home to beast, bird, and branch. My brothers and I laid waste to all of it.”

The Giant considered this a moment. “I would welcome the tale,” he responded. “We Giants say ‘joy is in the ears that hear.’” Not in the mouth that speaks, he could not help thinking. He turned to look at the face of the Sandgorgon standing next to him, and considered the aptness of the Giantish adage for the case at hand. Then he attended Nom's tale.

“There is that in the heart of the Earth which cries for ruin.

“The Sandgorgons are the incarnation of that cry.”

With his hood pushed back by the wind, the Sandgorgon stood in his robes like a prince. Nothing which indicated communication showed in his stance. Hawserbraid turned again to the desert, to listen without the distraction of Nom’s oddity.

“Since before memory, we roamed this part of the Earth, moving from one place to another as chance and whim allowed. To us, destruction was freedom, and creation was an offense which we eradicated wherever we found it. We trampled trees to splinters, and ground splinters into dust. Mountains we threw down to remove them from our way. Without the mountains to catch them, the winds no longer paused to drop their burden of rain. Then we delighted in the desiccation of the desert. The buildings of the Bhrathair – aye, and many others, nameless to us – we smashed down whenever our path led through them. Nothing survived in the desert once chance put it in our way.

“There was no thought in this. We were never beings like yourself, with thoughts and the need to examine them. There was only the expression of our being.

“That changed when Kasreyn came to Bhrathairain.

“We beheld his labor as he fashioned Sandgorgon’s Doom, but we could not conceive of any concern. It would fall in time, as all things did, to one or another of our kind.

“But then an allurement called to us.

“In the far corners of this land, we heard it call, and we desired to answer. It promised nothing, made no plea, aroused nothing but a strange curiousness. But we had nothing in our nature which could consider resisting our own desires. So we turned and we went.

“Sandgorgon’s Doom is mighty, but might alone did not capture the Sandgorgons. Although we came like eager children, there was naught that could withstand the joined ferocity of all Sandgorgons.

“But when we stood before the Doom, we were snared by a simple thing, and we fell. The Doom required our names. Nameless, we invented names for ourselves, thinking only of satisfying the need in order to discover what lay beyond. And we gave them away without understanding what we gave.

“The Doom snared us with our names - fetters as strong as we, for we created them. And Kasreyn held the chains. He locked us in the gaol of Sandgorgon’s Doom, tucked the key into his golden robe, and made us his creatures.

“Around and around that blast we strove, contending with that which rent the Earth itself, and whenever we fought our way to the edge, our names called us back.”

Here Nom paused, while the sun touched the horizon. The desert bloomed for a moment with satin flame. When Hawserbraid had seen it well, he continued.

“Hear you well, Giant: now I am free,” said Nom, “but the Doom of my kind remains. I am dedicated to its destruction.

“To this end, I have consumed samadhi, and have learned the arts of the thaumaturge. But even as I am now, yet Sandgorgon’s Doom surpasses me. Somehow, it rejects me. Unable to enter it, I cannot begin to unbind Kasreyn’s theurgy.”

Nom paused again. The storm stood like a distant bastion, awash in ruddy light that faded as the sun settled. Hawserbraid knew why stories faltered, and so he waited kindly. A moment was enough.

“While Kasreyn’s geas held me, I was called from time to time. If others were called, I do not know, but I think not. Rare is the task for which a single Sandgorgon is insufficient.

“Always, I was summoned to slay a man or a woman, and shed their blood at the feet of the Sandhold. They fell effortlessly. And yet, they must have been persons whom Kasreyn could not, or dared not - or chose not - to slay himself.

“I did not understand this then; I understand it now: my obedience made Kasreyn mightier. It gave him more choices, more paths. In this way does power beget power.

“My slavery would yet endure, would perhaps have endured without end, had not the Covenant come to Brathairealm.

“The Giantfriend!” exclaimed Hawserbraid. “It was Covenant Giantfriend who set you free, who –”

“No." The interjection cut short the Giant's exuberation.

“The Covenant released me from the Doom's hold. The geas which compelled me to slay my name's speaker had no contingency for a speaker I could not slay, and so it was held in abeyance. But I was yet a mindless Sandgorgon: I could not know gratitude; I had no experience of benevolence. My only learning was an obedience to power that the relentless winds of Sandgorgon’s Doom had carven into my flesh. I lacked the capacity to conceive of any responses but two. I could attempt my freedom by following my instinct for destruction. Or I could transfer my obedience from the Doom to the Covenant. And the Covenant was power incarnate: the only destruction that I would render would be my own.

“So mastered, I beheld my new master. I bowed to the Covenant, abject and trembling.

“When he had need of me, he called my name; I came, and I obeyed. I could achieve what the Covenant could not, and because he ruled me, my achievements were his. Power begets power: my obedience made the Covenant mightier.

“Soon after, I rent and consumed Sheol. And the Covenant discarded his power to transcend the strictures of flesh and time. Then, and only then, was freedom at last restored to me. I am indebted to the Covenant for breaking Kasreyn’s bonds, and for making all else possible. But I am not free through any act of his, for there was slight thought for me in those acts that freed me.

“But the Covenant, as Kasreyn before him, taught me a lesson of suzerainty: the mighty are made mightier still by ruling over others.”

The sun had fallen below the dunes, and stars shone as dusk died.

“I require might to dismantle Sandgorgon’s Doom,” finished Nom. “And now you are answered.”

Hawserbraid finally turned to face Nom again.

* 7 *

The gaddhi’s table was polished to perfection. It was made of some dark, gnarled wood. In its surface Hawserbraid could see, as if through dark moiled water, the silk drapes and tapestries which adorned the gaddhi’s dining room. Indeed, he could see Haro Grist himself, seated across from him, his every motion as he waved his hands mirrored below: a drowning man thrashing as plates and goblets sailed serenely by.

Suddenly, the gaddhi stabbed the table with a carving knife and exclaimed, “He means to kill me!”

Hawserbraid considered the knife standing in the gaddhi’s reflection as he struggled to find a suitable response.

But the gaddhi ranted on.

“This ... this Haruchai you have brought him! My men have observed him: he is a hassassin, a slayer of men!

“Deel,” replied the Giant cautiously.

“He grows too mighty! Kemper is not enough! He covets the rule of Bhrathairealm!”

The gaddhi leaned forward and pointed a fat, bejeweled finger directly at Hawserbraid. “You will fix this,” he announced, and then sat back to observe the effect of his masterful proclamation.

“Gaddhi?”

Hawserbraid fretted as the gaddhi paused to nibble on a date.

“Take the new Speaker and leave. Or talk to Nom, he is your friend. Or something else. You are a Giant, and you brought the hassassin to my realm. You will fix this.”

The Giant reeled.

The gaddhi then looked about to find his knife. He finally found it, where he had stuck it. He could not pull the blade free; Hawserbraid retrieved it before any embarrassment could occur, and handed it over carefully.

As if the subject had completely changed, the gaddhi asked mildly, “Is it not your habit, after delivering a new Speaker, to return the former Speaker to whatever realm produces such men?”

Hawserbraid faltered, and then replied, “Yes. We hoped to leave tomorrow, or perhaps the day after.”

Haro Grist returned to his meal. As he carved into a slice of spiced meat, he said, “You will consider delaying your departure. I have learned that your passenger did not survive the night. He rejected all medicament, but could not overcome his injuries.”

* X *

Here ends part one.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Nom’s Garden

(Part 2 of 2)

by Wayfriend

* 8 *

In the darkest watch of the night, Hawserbraid awoke, screaming.

He did not scream for long. In a moment, he had recovered himself. The familiar walls of his cabin, lit by moonlight, asserted themselves and steadied his breathing. They affirmed that he was not in a nightmare - not adrift in the Soulbiter - but was aboard Tern's Skip, in the Master's cabin, in his hammock, gently rocking in calm quayside water.

His terrors of the night were like old friends who came to call from time to time. And, like old friends, they were welcomed with comfortable routine. Instead of shifting in his hammock and searching for the sleep that had escaped him, Hawserbraid rose. Nearby was a flagon of water; he drank of it deeply, to quell an imagined thirst. Next, he rapped on the bulkhead, a signal which would awaken his Storesmaster, although small sounds coming through the wall suggested that Brightworks had already risen. Then Hawserbraid dressed.

They met in the ship's hold. Hawserbraid's eyes shone gratitude; Brightworks winked. And, under the light of lanterns, they set to work on those chores which fill the mundane days of sailors laboring belowdecks: patching sails, mending nets, carving belaying pins, rebraiding cordage. While they worked, they spoke sparingly, and then about the task at hand. It would be a few hours before they would return to sleep.

Hawserbraid was not trying to forget his nightmare. He was fostering the courage needed to speak of the events from which they arose. His nightmares were always the same, and he told the same story every time they found him, and Brightworks listened every time. By such routine, Hawserbraid was healed, bit by small bit. Giants never tired of stories, and they had nothing but welcoming patience for those who had stories that needed telling.

Joy is in the ears that hear. Brightworks attended to his chores and waited.

* 9 *

The Giantship Skywake was a stone-wrought dellas with two masts, a crew of twenty-two, and nowhere that they would not sail. Bold to go wherever dreaming goes. Feldspar Rimeborn was Master, and if he treated his crew like children, at least he treated them like his own cherished children. Dock Hawserbraid was a new Anchormaster. And Brightworks was an able seaman, new to the sea and eager to find his worth. Together, they roamed the seas from Home to the far reaches as only Giants can.

When Skywake ghosted quietly into the Soulbiter, the ship's Master was dead, and every other hand was dying.

A few weeks earlier, the Giantship had been joyously sprinting across the wavetops, cavorting with a steadfast wind that promised an early end to their journey. But the wind ceased, so abruptly that Giants in the ratlines were shaken about, and cargo in the hold shifted dangerously. They were instantly becalmed.

Doldrums are not an uncommon encounter for those who sail by the power of the wind, and they are not normally a matter of dire threat to Giants. All that is needed to escape such straits is patience, and Giants have plenty. However, a mistake had been made, discovered when the crew was setting the cargo aright in the hold: the cisterns had not been properly sealed for the sea journey. The crew of Skywake found themselves severely short of water.

Rimeborn held himself to blame for the mistake. During the days that followed, he berated himself, and did not accept consolation. Before anyone else had a chance to suffer from a lack of water, one morning he was found dead of dehydration. The Master had stubbornly refused to drink his ration. Hawserbraid became Master.

Slow, sun-beaten days later, the Giantship helplessly drifted stern-before-prow into a sea of sargasso. On the same day that the crew drank the last dregs of water, Skywake became ensnared by a carpet of weeds, weeds that seemed to swirl and creep and somehow push them towards some wandering destination. Without a hint of wind, they were at the mercy of the sargasso current.

By these things they knew that they had entered the Soulbiter.

More windstill days passed. The crew hid from the sun. It was so quiet, they could hear the vegetation rasping as it caressed the hull. Their breath rasped in their dry throats.

Then they found the sea fruit. One morning Horizonscan spied them floating like melons, here and there, in the sargasso beds. They had a waxy green rind, surmounted by a limp orange flower. Each was large enough for a Giant to wrap his arms around with little to spare.

The crew surmised that such gourds may be a source of potable water.

Down went the longboats. But the oars could not operate in the natted weeds, and the sides of the longboats clung to them irredeemably.

Brightworks gestured that he would attempt to swim to the fruit. Hawserbraid nodded his assent.

In silence, the seaman was lowered into the thick mire of vesicled fronds. Tough leafy strands wrapped his limbs after only moments of movement, as if the weeds desired to entangle and subdue any interloper. But they could not prevent a determined Giant from overcoming their grip by main strength.

Through herbage more arduous than any tangled jungle, Brightworks struggled, shouldering aside clots and kicking free of snares. But he reached his fruit. He rested but briefly, then unsheathed his knife and parted the pepo from its stem. Then he began his return, pushing his prize ahead of him. The crew waved him on, although they could muster no cheerful cries.

Suddenly, yellow gleams of power etched the water, centering on Brightworks. He screamed. For seconds the gleams flared, pinning the Giant to a crux of power. Then they relented, leaving Brightworks convulsing and crying wretchedly, winding himself impotently in a shroud of sargasso. The sailors on the ship watched helplessly.

Soon Brightwork's Giantish constitution asserted itself. For some moments he lied gasping on the water, barely aware. The dense mat, rife with vesicles, kept him afloat. Slowly, he shook himself clear of the effects of the jolts. Hawserbraid forbade anyone else to enter the water while Brightworks recovered.

Brightworks was jolted two more times before he made it back to the ship with his fruit. When they hauled him over the side and lay him on the deck, he was shaking as if the weeds were still assaulting him. He did not answer to anyone who called his name, but stared into the sun, and hugged himself, and shivered in the heat.

With solemn rue, Hawserbraid hacked at the fruit with a knife. Inside was a juicy pulp. It tasted fresh and clean and warm and his parched throat creaked from disuse as it went down. So they divided the fruit, and it sustained them like a long quaff of tepid water.

By the time this had been done, Brightworks had recovered to some degree. He accepted his share of the fruit, and its moisture helped steady him. Afterwards, he spoke of seeing disturbing visions, whose details he could not clearly articulate, but which he professed left him too fearful to re-enter the water. But there were no marks upon his body.

Now it fell to the new Master of Skywake. The fruit seemed the only way that they could survive, but it exacted a harsh penalty. Hawserbraid was loathe to command any of the crew to enter the water. He need only look at Brightworks to harden his resolve. However, another day went by, and the Soulbiter did not relent. They were still dying.

In the end, there was only one choice he would make. The ship's Master, and no one else, would enter the water to gather fruit.

It was forty days from when they entered the sea of sargasso until they left it. During that time, Hawserbraid swam in the weeds many, many times, with a rope around his waist for rescue. Many, many times was he stung by the power protecting the sargassum beds. Sometimes he returned unconscious, without any fruit. Sometimes he was not harmed at all, but the fear of it left him shaking in trepidation. Dark, terrible visions haunted him, and after a few turns in the water they swam before his eyes night and day. He shivered so much he often could not walk without help, and cried in fear at things no one could see, and managed sleep only between nightmares. He whimpered like a child when he went over the rail. But he went over the rail.

No one else went into the weeds, and no one else died of thirst. They emerged from the sargasso bed directly into a westerly breeze that caught them as if the Soulbiter had tossed them like refuse into a stream.

* 10 *

Down in the hold of Tern's Skip, beneath the glow of lanterns, Hawserbraid recounted his tale of the Soulbiter, and Brightworks listened.

"You saved us all," said Brightworks. Hawserbraid grunted. Brightworks said this every time Hawserbraid completed his story. Hawserbraid replied with a grunt each time. In this way, they signaled to each other that the necessities had been accomplished. Now they would talk about whatever came to mind, until the need for sleep overcame them.

"Do you know what we're going to do?" ventured Brightworks after some moments.

"No. It is beyond my understanding."

"Mine as well."

For a while, they worked quietly.

Then Brightworks resumed. "Now, the gaddhi, he's like the Master of this town, right? So the Kemper, he's like the Storesmaster. He's got his work to do, and he's got his say in that bit, but the Master is supposed to be ... well, the Master."

"I think Nom's opinion is that the Storesmaster should be the Master."

"Well, the gaddhi doesn't think so, that's for sure. He wants his Anchormaster to do what he's told. But he's no real Master either, if you ask me."

"Oh?"

"He'd never do anything like what you did when we was ... you know. That's how a Master should be. Remember Seaheartsward when we got back to Home? They saw it, after so long not seeing it. It's why I've been crewing with you ever since, no matter what ship."

"Hmm."

"The gaddhi doesn't think of anyone but himself. Neither does Nom, if you ask me. He may want to be Master, but he isn't."

Hawserbraid's answer came to him then, like a sun slowly rising from behind a hill: a hint, then a glow you can follow, and ultimately, an illumination that leaves you to wonder what darkness was.

He stayed to finish his mending, and then rose and left the hold.

* 11 *

In the silver hour before dawn, Hawserbraid walked along Harbor Avenue. Bhrathairain was subdued but not stilled. Idle conversationalists stood backlit in doorways, enjoying the cool air. Occasional windows beamed shaded lamplight. Men and women walked briskly on errands, while wains delivered morning loads to shopkeeps divesting shops of their evening armor. Drunkards meandered, confused by what they stumbled into.

As he neared the end of the avenue, Nom’s keep filled the view ahead. No one stirred behind window or balustrade; the main gate appeared unguarded. Without pause, Hawserbraid strode across the square, a coil of rope on one shoulder, a ragged cap on his head.

Before he could cross the square, Deel appeared within the gate.

"Giant."

Hawserbraid stopped a few paces before the young Haruchai, one short step from the threshold of the gate, and gave him cold regard.

"Giant, you are not welcome here. It would be best if you would return to your vessel."

Hawserbraid did not want to contend with Deel for entrance to the Hold, but there was one topic that he would broach. Glancing around him, he said "You have slain Kurin."

"That is a matter for Haruchai. It does not concern you."

Then Hawserbraid's attention focused on Deel as if he were a squall on the horizon. "He was my friend. He was my shipmate. This demands my concern. And that was no act of any Haruchai as I have known them."

"You have not known Neh-rual clan."

Hawserbraid enjoyed the Gift of Tongues: Neh-rual was easily translated. "The Vowbroken."

"We are descendants of those who broke their Vow to the Lords of Revelstone."

Looking about, Hawserbraid asked, "And had Kurin earned the enmity of the Vowbroken?"

"The Nimishi and the Ho-aru clans suffer us to exist, but hold us apart, and do not forget that the Bloodguard failed. Centuries of humiliation will be repaid when we ascend to our rightful place."

Hawserbraid paused. Then he tugged his cap down tightly and asked, "Ascend?"

He jumped upwards. At the apex of his leap, his strong Giant hands found purchase on the rough stonework above the gate. Hand over hand, he ascended the face of the Kemper's Hold by grasping course protrusions with Giant-strong fingers, by using oaken muscles honed on ratlines and anchor chains.

Deel leapt and grabbed Hawserbraid's leg. But one Giant shake was enough to reconsider his position. He dropped to the ground, and watched the Master climb. When he had deduced the Giant's probable path, he bolted into the Hold.

Hawserbraid climbed on.

At some level above the square, he encountered a balcony that afforded him entry into Nom's Garden.

He had no knowledge of this part of the Kemper's Hold. But he knew to hurry, and to seek a way down to lower levels. He encountered one pair of vigilants, whom he knocked flat as he raced by.

Soon Hawserbraid encountered a round gallery; tapestries and other artworks adorned the walls. The room was dominated by a large boulder in its center, taller than the Giant, roughly hewn but essentially round. It was balanced atop a plinth which was so small that it was undoubtedly a curiosity intended to amaze.

The gallery had several arched exits. Through one, down a long hall, Hawserbraid spied Deel approaching. The Haruchai was walking unhurriedly, knowing where to find the Giant.

Before Deel could reach the chamber, Hawserbraid moved so that the round stone stood between himself and the hall. As if to delay the outcome of their confrontation, he asked, "Why does a Vowbroken serve the Kemper?"

Deel slowed as he considered the question. He chose to answer it.

"The other Haruchai clans cling to the worthless command of the ur-Lord. They give their allegiance to an empty bastion, and spend their strength to protect farmers and shepherds. They serve nothing! And yet they eschew our worth.

"Nom speaks to us of redemption. He reminds us that Cail and Brinn were found worthy after failure and withdrawal of service, and that their worth was restored to them by the word of the ur-Lord. He suggests that the Neh-rual can also be redeemed.

"The ur-Lord is gone. I have come to judge if Nom can restore worth to our clan."

As Deel uttered those last words, and was just steps away from the gallery, Hawserbraid put his shoulder to the round stone and pushed. Ponderously slow, the boulder tipped off its plinth and rolled toward the opening which Deel approached.

Deel hardly had to hurry in order to step into the gallery and then move to one side to avoid the rolling stone. But Hawserbraid stepped around the stone's other side, and neatly ducked into the hall just as Deel was leaving it. The stone lodged itself in the opening, sealing it.

Hawserbraid ran again.

Eventually, he encountered the salon. From there, he followed his memory, eventually finding the passage he sought, the one with stone leaning overhead. And then up a long stair into sunlight.

When Deel reached the summit of the pinnacle, he found Hawserbraid cowering at the balustrade. He crowded the rail as if to put as much space between himself and Deel as possible. Dawn painted the Great Desert behind him, far below and far away. A cap and a coil of rope were discarded at the Giant's feet, and his hands were raised in defense.

"Nom cannot redeem your people," taunted Hawserbraid. "You would serve only ruin."

Deel desired no more conversation. He charged and attacked.

With no retreat possible, Hawserbraid made what defense he could against the sharp, exact blows of the Haruchai. The Giant had strength, but could not match Haruchai speed. He would have been driven back, if there had been space. Only his stature preserved him from being stunned immediately.

When Deel allowed an opening in order to draw Hawserbraid into his ambit, Hawserbraid was ready for it. At the cost of a staggering punch to the side of his head, he grabbed Deel's shift with a single hand, leaned backwards over the balustrade, and fell. He took Deel over the edge with him.

Combat forgotten, Deel scrambled to find a purchase on the rough stone side of the pinnacle. And failed.

Dazed, Hawserbraid merely fell. But when he reached the end of the cable that was surreptitiously tied about his waist, the harsh jolt did not prevent him from seeing Deel continuing to slide down, over an edge, and out of sight.

* 12 *

The dank stair descended with many turnings. The door at the bottom was not sufficient to prevent Giants.

In the center of a damp hole lie an ornate cabinet, like a sarcophagus for some vain merchant's child.

Nothing guarded the croyel except the croyel. It battered at Hawserbraid's reason like a tempest of longing and fire. But for all its striving, it crashed against a seawall that it could not overtop.

The cabinet was cumbersome. But Hawserbraid had a cable which would be of assistance.

* 13 *

Within yards of the Sandgorgon's Doom, the wind teasing his balance, sand streaming about his ankles, Hawserbraid felt Nom's approach like a drum during thunder. He turned. Nom arrived at the head of a plume of dust, with Deel sitting on his shoulder. The Sandgorgon stopped so abruptly that Deel flew and landed, arms windmilling for balance, half again closer to the Giant. The cabinet of the croyel lay between them.

"Master, turn aside!" Deel yelled over the wind. He strode forward, while Nom remained. Deel was abraded and bruised. The Sandgorgon was naked except for a golden ocular hanging from his neck.

Deel's eyes promised resolution as he approached. Hawserbraid changed his stance to prepare.

Then, with two quick arm-over-arm yanks on the cable, Hawserbraid wrenched the cabinet from the sand with such might that it flew over his head. He took two steps to the side while it was in the air, and then yanked again. At once, the cabinet was orbiting around the Giant, who swung his arms around over his head and leaned into the weight.

Deel balked as the whirling cabinet flew by again and again. For a moment, it effectively prevented him from closing with the Giant. But he, or Nom, had abandoned appeals. The Haruchai youth measured the cadence of the swings for a moment, stepped up to its limit haltingly, and then leapt forward.

But Hawserbraid had no intention of letting Deel past his whirling shield. And he was a sailor, for whom rope was like an extension of his limbs. He stepped to the side and hauled. The radius was shortened; the cabinet sped; Deel was smashed while he was in midair.

Deel might have been swatted halfway to the sea. However, he contrived to absorb the blow and maintain his position. He did this by twisting in time and grabbing the cable that wrapped the cabinet. The cabinet plunged, bounced rolling across the sand, and then resumed its flight: Deel hung on. Then, hand over hand, he began to pull himself along the cable toward Hawserbraid.

Hawserbraid let go.

Cabinet, croyel, cable, and Deel flew into Sandgorgon's Doom.

Before they all disappeared in the gritty murk, a huge Sandgorgon, thrice the size of Nom, partially emerged from the Doom. It caught the cabinet between its arms and chest, crushing Deel in its embrace. And then it vanished again.

A croyel had been introduced to the Sandgorgons of the Great Desert.

* 14 *

Nom leapt. In one bound, he crossed the distance to Hawserbraid, and as he descended on the Giant, the Sandgorgon's arms wheeled, then struck downward like maces. Hawserbraid was slammed onto his back with force enough to half bury in the sand.

The Sandgorgon crouched over the fallen Master, forearms resting on the Giant's shoulders, the golden ocular hanging by a yellow ribbon from his neck. By bending forward, the circlet came to lie directly on Hawserbraid's forehead. Hawserbraid was too stunned to interfere. Then Nom leaned further forward, and touched his blank forehead to the Giant's, with the circlet pressed between.

-WHY WHY WHY-

The words shrieked like a typhoon gale into Hawserbraid's mind. He felt as if tattered pieces of his consciousness were blown away, like sails ripped from spars.

-THE SANDGORGONS HAVE NAUGHT WITH WHICH TO RESIST THE CROYEL! IT WILL RULE THEM! WHY HAVE YOU DONE THIS?!-

Hawserbraid felt Nom rooting through his mind's store, testing and tossing. What was unwanted became jetsam blown away in the storm.

I will tell you why! Hawserbraid screamed into the wind. And from his memory's hold, he offered up his remembrances of the Soulbiter. His own tale. A chronicle of a Master's choices. A Giant's story.

And Nom ... watched. Heard. Found. Learned.

-IS THIS ... ?-

Yes.

-I COULD ... ?-

Go. Save them.

Nom rose. Faceless, wordless, and alone, he faced Sandgorgon's Doom squarely for some time. Hawserbraid grimaced himself upright, but then he waited and watched. No Giant would willingly abandon a story before it ends.

But, after Nom had run into the Doom and vanished, there was nothing left to witness.

* X *

Here ends all parts.

[StevieG]

Woah, very interesting story. I read it in one sitting. I thought it built up nicely.

It is a timely read too, because I am in the middle of the One Tree in my grand reread now, and am up to the Bhrathairealm chapters right now. TOT is seriously the best part of the Chronicles so far (in my current reread).

So, did you have the ending in mind when writing the entire story, and construct it in a similar way to SRD?