complaint, however, and followed his lord up the path of cut stones.
As they passed the three hundredth stair, Therian paused and cursed.
“What is it, milord?”
“The servants did a poor job of cleaning this path,” the King said. He picked up an oddment from the stair in front of him and held it aloft for Gruum’s inspection.
Gruum frowned at the lump of gray matter. “Is that a rotten potato, sire?”
Therian twisted his lips in disgust. “It is a fleshy morsel from one of my relations, man. Have you no eyes?”
Gruum apologized, but Therian ignored him. The King tucked the bit of cold flesh into his belt. Gruum hoped he planned to return the remains to a grave above.
“This is just the sort of thing that will get us into trouble up there,” the King commented.
Gruum swallowed, but did not ask the King to explain.
When they reached the end of the stair, they stepped out upon a terrace of land with cliffs all around. The spot was known as the Roof of the World, and Gruum knew that for centuries past, the Hyboreans had come here to bury their most revered dead.
The stone cairns of fifty Kings and eight Great Kings lay scattered upon a broad plateau that cut into the side of the Dragon’s Breath peaks. The Great Kings were reckoned as those few who had ruled for more than a century. King Euvoran, Therian’s father, had been laid to rest as the eighth Great King, the highest honor possible. All of the tombs, large or small, looked like unnaturally rounded hills carpeted in lichen and bits of frost. Many of them showed signs of disruption. Wounds had been opened up in their sides, but the bodies had been stuffed back inside and the stones replaced. The dead here had walked, as they had all over Corium in answer to Vosh’s great call a month ago.
Huffing from the long march up the stair, Gruum let his pack sag down and sat upon it. Therian look at him wonderingly, but did not demand that he get up again. Gruum was grateful for the rest. He knew his master rarely felt fatigue, but Gruum had never supped upon a soul and so became tired like a normal man.
“This is the place they will lay me to rest one day, if I succeed,” Therian said, eyeing the cairns of the Great Kings. “A strange right to struggle toward. The privilege to be buried under a specific slab of rock.”
“It is an honor, sire,” Gruum said. “I’ve never expected more than a gutter or a briny cove full of crabs to be my final resting place.”
Therian snorted and smiled with half his mouth. “Well said, man! You bring me good cheer.”
Gruum smiled weakly in return, uncertain as to how he felt about his master’s cheer. Therian busied himself locating a likely spot to inter the scrap of flesh he had brought up from the long stair. “Never will they rest properly,” he complained. “Not with their parts scattered. I should have overseen every step of their return.”
After a brief respite, Gruum got his wind back and shouldered his pack again. He followed his lord to a mound apart from all the other cairns. This one stood undisturbed. They could tell just by looking at the growth of lichen over it and the lack of earth spilled, the dead had never crawled forth from this tomb.
“Have a care,” Therian said, putting up a hand to slow Gruum’s approach.
Gruum halted on the instant. “What is it, milord?” he asked in a hushed tone.
“The dead did not exit this one. I find that suspicious.”
Gruum licked his lips. He found it hard to fathom a place where the quiet dead were the dangerous ones. But he knew little of the subject.
Experimentally, Therian rolled away a head-sized stone from the top of the cairn. It was not one of the larger eight mounds of the Great Kings, but rather one of the fifty smaller tombs. Rocks and debris clattered and rolled to a stop. Therian pushed away a second stone, then a third.
“Look here,” the King said, motioning Gruum forward. “What do you make of this?”
Gruum leaned close,
As they passed the three hundredth stair, Therian paused and cursed.
“What is it, milord?”
“The servants did a poor job of cleaning this path,” the King said. He picked up an oddment from the stair in front of him and held it aloft for Gruum’s inspection.
Gruum frowned at the lump of gray matter. “Is that a rotten potato, sire?”
Therian twisted his lips in disgust. “It is a fleshy morsel from one of my relations, man. Have you no eyes?”
Gruum apologized, but Therian ignored him. The King tucked the bit of cold flesh into his belt. Gruum hoped he planned to return the remains to a grave above.
“This is just the sort of thing that will get us into trouble up there,” the King commented.
Gruum swallowed, but did not ask the King to explain.
When they reached the end of the stair, they stepped out upon a terrace of land with cliffs all around. The spot was known as the Roof of the World, and Gruum knew that for centuries past, the Hyboreans had come here to bury their most revered dead.
The stone cairns of fifty Kings and eight Great Kings lay scattered upon a broad plateau that cut into the side of the Dragon’s Breath peaks. The Great Kings were reckoned as those few who had ruled for more than a century. King Euvoran, Therian’s father, had been laid to rest as the eighth Great King, the highest honor possible. All of the tombs, large or small, looked like unnaturally rounded hills carpeted in lichen and bits of frost. Many of them showed signs of disruption. Wounds had been opened up in their sides, but the bodies had been stuffed back inside and the stones replaced. The dead here had walked, as they had all over Corium in answer to Vosh’s great call a month ago.
Huffing from the long march up the stair, Gruum let his pack sag down and sat upon it. Therian look at him wonderingly, but did not demand that he get up again. Gruum was grateful for the rest. He knew his master rarely felt fatigue, but Gruum had never supped upon a soul and so became tired like a normal man.
“This is the place they will lay me to rest one day, if I succeed,” Therian said, eyeing the cairns of the Great Kings. “A strange right to struggle toward. The privilege to be buried under a specific slab of rock.”
“It is an honor, sire,” Gruum said. “I’ve never expected more than a gutter or a briny cove full of crabs to be my final resting place.”
Therian snorted and smiled with half his mouth. “Well said, man! You bring me good cheer.”
Gruum smiled weakly in return, uncertain as to how he felt about his master’s cheer. Therian busied himself locating a likely spot to inter the scrap of flesh he had brought up from the long stair. “Never will they rest properly,” he complained. “Not with their parts scattered. I should have overseen every step of their return.”
After a brief respite, Gruum got his wind back and shouldered his pack again. He followed his lord to a mound apart from all the other cairns. This one stood undisturbed. They could tell just by looking at the growth of lichen over it and the lack of earth spilled, the dead had never crawled forth from this tomb.
“Have a care,” Therian said, putting up a hand to slow Gruum’s approach.
Gruum halted on the instant. “What is it, milord?” he asked in a hushed tone.
“The dead did not exit this one. I find that suspicious.”
Gruum licked his lips. He found it hard to fathom a place where the quiet dead were the dangerous ones. But he knew little of the subject.
Experimentally, Therian rolled away a head-sized stone from the top of the cairn. It was not one of the larger eight mounds of the Great Kings, but rather one of the fifty smaller tombs. Rocks and debris clattered and rolled to a stop. Therian pushed away a second stone, then a third.
“Look here,” the King said, motioning Gruum forward. “What do you make of this?”
Gruum leaned close,
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