“Are you cold?” asked the Keeper.
“Tograth bi nidhan,” said the Kon.
“I’ll take that as a no.”
“Sho,” said the Kon.
“But you feel that wind right? It’s gonna be a rough one.”
“Kymal di nitt gho pli,” said the Kon.
The Keeper with the shovel grinned. “You got that right,” he replied, despite having no idea what the Kon actually said. He never truly grasped the subtleties of the Under, despite what he’d told his garrison commander when he first enlisted. It didn’t matter anyway. So long as the Kon kept up his steady delivery of kindle for the fire and performing its other trade, it wasn’t too much of a bother that it didn’t speak a word of the Real.
“I think it’s cold. Too cold. Dangerously cold, with a bad southern wind, if you get my drift. We should light the pit, you feel me?”
The Kon tapped its finger against the words ‘if you build it–‘ on its left arm, then tapped its right, with ‘–They will come’ marked on it, written in both words of the Real and the Under. The stern look it gave, along with the grim message engraved in its skin it was forced to silently convey to the Keeper once more, was the added spice to its warning.
“You think I don’t know that? Another attack so soon after the last would be devastating. My God, we just replenished the garrison’s numbers. We were forced to arm kids, for God’s sakes,” the Keeper said. “But the chill is moving in, and the pantries are only half-full. You can feel it in the wind, can’t you? If it starts to snow, we’ll need the fire. Gonna need that fire.”
“Dsjenzah bi se,” said the Kon, tapping its thin, callused finger on the word ‘They’ once more.
“To the Devil with Them. We’ve fought Them off and won time and time again, and we’ll keep on winning as long as the fire makes enough smoke to blind them. You want to freeze to death? You want the city to be hit by the frost? Have the streets filled with snow and icicles as long as spears dangling from the windows?”
“Sirowil,” said the Kon.
“You got that right,” said the Keeper. It took a few minutes before he realized his companion had asked if he was hungry, as it held out a strip of dried meat for him to take. “Thanks,” he said, taking the offered meal; his first of the day.
“Usyq,” said the Kon.
“Yeah. It’s good. I’m still cold though.”
“Byrrlilo khai dof?” asked the Kon. The Keeper replied with a shrug. He had no other way to reply to a question he didn’t understand. He would have asked for a Kon that spoke the Real, but if he was honest with himself, the Keeper liked their simple and brief talks. He was never one for long chats, and this way he usually held the last word.
The wind turned, now blowing in from the west. The two, one an exalted Keeper of the pit, the other a lowly Kon subordinate, looked out over the decayed fields that bordered the Ring, where not a blade of grass dared to grow. The Keeper exhaled, his hot breath dancing before his face in the icy wind. He ached to start the fire anew and warm himself before the flames. But the Kon wasn’t wrong. Fire and smoke kept the cold at bay, but it also drew Them toward the city. And even if They were rendered near blind from the smoke, Their ways were devious and cruel. They’d always claim a few victims during their raids, regardless of the cost of their own lives. Just knowing there were still survivors in the city lured Them to toward the rings, and death would ride with them. The risk was too high. To lure Them now, with their forces dwindles and their supplies low, would be disastrous, no matter how high they could raise the flames.
“Soy,” the Kon suddenly said.
“Hmn?” grumbled the Keeper, recognizing the Under word from long ago, but he was unable to pinpoint from where.
“Soy,” the Kon said, pointing to the dark clouds above.
“Clouds? What kind? Snow clouds?” asked the Keeper.
“Higa. Soy,” the Kon said again.
“Them’s snow clouds, innit?”
“Soy,” said the Kon for the third time. The Keeper could have sworn he heard that word before. Was it ‘pain’? Or perhaps ‘lame’? The Keeper brushed it off. If the snow fell now, the city would freeze to death. He had no other choice.
“If it’s gonna snow, we gotta light the fire. Sound the horn!” the Keeper said, taking the torch from its place in the cauldron of oil. With numb fingers, he struck the flint stones together, igniting the torch. But before he could throw it into the circle, the Kon placed its hand on his shoulder, nervously tapping its fingers against the message on its arms once again, caressing the words burned into its flesh with a searing hot poker so many years prior.
“I know! I know! But we can’t risk it. Now help me with the kindle. And move those stinkers. They’ll kill the flames before it can even get to our knees. We’ll put them back later when we need to make smoke, along with the others in your collection.”
The Kon did as told, pulling the charred cadavers of those given to the circle aside, making room for kindle wood. Poor souls, taken by the cold and the blight that ravaged their city during the hot days, reduced to feed for the flames. Normally, the Kon would bury the dead in the field beyond the pit. But with the coming of the cold of winter, no spade could break through the dirt. This was the best they could offer, amongst fires, bridging the city grounds and the waste, where They waited to smell a sign of life.
“Good. Now help me with lighting these,” said the Keeper, as he prodded for useful charred coals, lest he be forced to dip into his dwindling supply of firewood.
“Fenherra to hor? Se sanna qiim. Se sanna,” said the Kon.
“We can’t wait for the others to sound the call. It’ll be too late by then!”
The Kon tapped its arms again, practically shoving them into the Keeper’s face. But the keeper of the pit could not relent. Not in the face of the frost. It was his duty to ignite the ring of fire, be it to ward off the cold of winter or keep the blight of summer at bay. Even if They would come, and the war would begin anew, he could not let innocents fall to the snow, reduced to gaunt specters gasping for just a glimmer of heat. Not again.
“I’m sorry,” the Keeper said, taking the horn and blowing it twice. In the far distance, to the east, the west and the north, others replied. Soon enough, lights appeared in the dark, all around the pit that circled the city. The fires spread quickly by virtue of the thin layer of oil. Now it was to the Keepers of the pit to keep the fires alive.
“Uganog!” said the Kon, pointing to the mountains. The Keeper looked up to see the white of a thousand near-blind eyes in the darkness, approaching them with alarming speed. It was Them. They had smelled the smoke and felt the flames, and they were on the hunt for fresh meat.
“Here They come, ol’ buddy of mine. Help me with this. Let’s get it all nice and smokey up in here, eh? Give the garrison some cover for when they bring their cannons.”
“Nidoh,” said the Kon, pointing to the sky. “Soy.”
That word again. Did it say: ‘grain’? There hasn’t been grain since the first battle. ‘Maim’? Yes, there would probably be maiming in the upcoming battle, but what–?
The Keeper felt a cold sensation on his cheek. It was wet to the touch. Snow? No, it fell too fast for that. He looked up, when another drop hit his eye. A sizzling sound came from within the pit. It couldn’t be? How could they have prepared for this? Never once did this happen in the days of winter. Not once. In the distance, a thousand voices cheered. The Kon looked to the Keeper, shrugged its shoulders and said: “Degan soy.”
Yes, the rain was quite cold.
—
Joachim Heijndermans writes, draws, and paints nearly every waking hour. Originally from the Netherlands, he’s been all over the world, boring people by spouting random trivia. His work has been featured in a number of publications, such as Metaphorosis, Hinnom Magazine, Every Day Fiction, Asymmetry Fiction, Kraxon Magazine, Gathering Storm Magazine and Ahoy Comics. He’s currently in the midst of completing his first children’s book. You can check out his other work at www.joachimheijndermans.com, or follow him on Twitter: @jheijndermans
