Vorgal

Mountains sleep, but they do not dream. Vorgal knows this. Because when it woke, there was no dream behind it. There was only weight, heat, and a very long silence. Then a sound came. It was dry, sharp, and impatient. A wound opened in the slope, and air rushed inside for the first time. The air was cold. That day, Vorgal learned what cold was.

The Diggers had opened Ughrak's slope with powder. They wanted the ember-stone in the slope. An orange liquid flowed from the opening. The Askarans called it lava; the Crimson Clans called it blood. For a while, Vorgal wondered which of them was right. For a mountain, a while is long. For three days it sat motionless at the mouth of the wound. It watched the liquid flow. On the fourth day it stood up. Someone was singing it a lament.

The one singing was a red-haired man. He was Ruvok of the Hurr Clan. He was on his knees, and his eyes were wet. He had laid his two axes on the ground beside him. His was the first face Vorgal ever saw. Ruvok called it Ancestor. Vorgal did not know what the word meant. Still, it did not refuse. In the man's voice was the wish of something broken to rise again. A mountain understands that wish.

Since that day, the Crimson Clans have come to it for counsel. At the Hearth Moot, they seat it at the very front. They put their questions to it. Shall we fight Askaran? Shall we sell the ember-stone? On which slope shall we bury our dead? Vorgal thinks. Thinking takes it days. Its answer is usually a single word. The clans interpret that word for months. No one asks it the real question. Vorgal remembers nothing. It remembers neither the Mountain Ancestors, nor the old clans, nor its own name. Even the name Vorgal was given to it by Ruvok.

The only thing it remembers is a hand. Deep in the stone, inside something being wound, there is a great and patient hand. The hand turns as if turning a key. When Ruvok heard this, he wept. He said it was the hand of the Mountain Ancestors. Vorgal is not sure. Ember lines ring its neck like a collar. These lines are actually a script. It is a winding script, like a labyrinth. No one in Gurhal can read it. Vorgal has seen the same script in the lanes of the Arena too. It was on the broken stone slabs of the floor. It was on the cheek of the Sleeping Face as well.

Something is missing too. One side of its core is cold and hollow, as if carved out. When Vorgal touches it, it hears a far-off sound: tick. After a while, again: tick. The sound comes from the southwest, from somewhere toward the sea. There are gears and canals there. The Crimson Clans told it the name of that city: Tavellin. When it heard the name, Vorgal did not speak for a whole week.

It came to the Arena following Ruvok. In the Arena, champions earn Dem with each victory. Dem is time in solid form in Devran. But the clans' custom forbids taking Dem from the Arena. That was no problem for Vorgal. It had not come to take Dem, but to hear something. Inside the Arena, the ticking is closer and clearer. Sometimes it sees the Digger who opened Ughrak on the enemy team. Ruvok wants it to crush him. Vorgal only looks at the Digger for a long time. The hand that wounded it was the same hand that woke it. How does a mountain forgive that? Or how does it say thank you? Vorgal does not know yet.

The only thing it fears is sleep. Mountains live slowly. And when they wake, they have forgotten everything. Vorgal remembers that much. A champion who dies in the Arena is rewound and returns. With each rewind, Vorgal feels a part of itself grow heavier. The old silence calls it back. On the night of the Skip, all of Devran stopped for a single heartbeat. Vorgal did not stop. Instead, the hollow in its chest beat once, loudly. At that same moment, far away in Tavellin, something fell behind.