A Black Song

A Black Song

His wrinkled fingers closed around the harp. The bone of the harp-frame was cool compared to the steady heat of the basalt around him, and the inset gems—opals the size of undersky eyes—felt almost cold to his touch.

It was time for another melody, as the shadow wraiths were getting braver, coming closer. He would play, and they would regret their boldness. They would respect the distance he demanded, and then he would be free to walk another few hours further into the stifling darkness of the tunnel.

"Come and hear," he spoke softly to the nothings around him.

His thin fingers stroked the strings, and his voice crawled up from a bare whisper to a steady rasp, and leapt at once to a chilling howl. Falling softly again to mock the echoes that fled back down the tunnel behind him, his words weaved through and into the dissonant chords that dripped from the bone harp like the rhythmic drops of wet stalactites.

The shadow paths of deepest darkness woke

To open veins and arteries long hid

In hot and lightless heart of under-earth.

A black song flowing out into the depth,

Its like not heard in years of silent dark,

And taken up by echo-imps unseen

To wing and whisper one way and the next,

And bound from halls and walls and dust-caked floors.

With tome of ancient ways and harp in hand,

A slender form moved ever on and on,

Down abyss that would give a demon pause,

He strode into the darkness' deepest jaws.

"Not the deepest," came a distant voice, filling the silence after the last echo.

"Nor the darkest, for that matter," sneered another.

He crouched, wrinkled fingers moving automatically to a more aggressive chording, senses stretching forward through the blackness of the tunnel. His eyeless face contorted, wrinkling into even more labyrinthine twists, in his concentration. They had spoken his language, but with an accent he had never heard.

This was important. He would not ruin his efforts with hasty words. "The deepest and darkest that any Yithoulian has ever walked," called the bard, after a few moments' thought.

"Foolishness. Everyone knows Yithoul is a myth."

"Demon tricks grow tiresome on the watch. Especially when the demon sings like a strangled rock lizard."

The bard smiled to the dark, his thin lips parting to reveal filed teeth. How well he knew such mocking disagreement, such calculated insult. These watchers were no shadow-wraiths—they were his kind. And according to the old tome, they should have been far lower in the Ksatha Abyss. But times change. And this is a change, he thought, for the better. The Sept must have grown and enlarged its territories. All to the good.

"This is no trick. I am of Yithoul born. But what manner of shuddeni stand outer watch? That low and mindless task is for chaja," said the bard, emphasizing the last word, turning the intonation so as to rise and fall like a slap. A calculated but mild insult, enough to be certain he was taken seriously.*

The voices lowered, and the bard could not make out their words. Finally, one called out, "Wait, then. We'll taste this child's treachery you've baked. "

An old proverb, thought the bard. If we share such things, we should communicate easily enough. He heard the sound of footsteps as one of the sentries moved further down into the tunnels.

At length, the footsteps—many footsteps, returned, and brought with them the sound of poorly-wrought, clinking mail and rustling robes. His senses perceived the two sentries had returned with several hairy, brutish chaja standing dumbfounded in their crude armor. And there was an emptiness behind them, where it was likely that a priest-mage stood cloaked in arcane invisibility.

"They say you claim to be of Yithoul," called out a harsh, commanding voice. "What of this?"

"They heard my song," replied the bard. "And you hear my words. I do not speak as do you."

"Very well. We will assume for the moment that you speak truth. Why have you come?"

"Why should I not?"

"The tunnel unopened is probably trapped."

"The tunnel never trod is an opportunity squandered."

"Enough. Who are you, and answer directly."

"I am Steen Deti, Voidsinger of Yithoul, bard of the echoless night. And I have come because…" The bard employed his training, putting fullest emphasis and dramatic weight upon the words, "...it...is... time."

"Time? Time for what?" the commanding voice asked.

A demonstration of power—the only thing you'll respect, until I can teach you, thought Deti. He began to play his harp, moving toward the Ksatha grouped together down the tunnel. An aegis of sound formed about him, and the rocks trembled to harmonize their groans. Dust leapt from the floor to fill the stale air.

And so began again what had not been done since the Nightwars: the gathering of the shuddeni septs.

• Shuddeni have 23 degrees of insults, ranging from almost-but-not-quite friendly insults to mild, to strong, to near-mortal, to mortal. The 15th degree and beyond require a actions-beyond-words response to preserve face against equals or lessers (but the response is likely delayed and delivered in fitting coldness).