The Roots of the Mountains
By William Morris
The Road Beyond Peace
Apple sweetness clung to the sword.
In Burgdale, branches sagged over clear water, and every open door breathed bread, smoke, and safety.
Face of God knew each hammer note from Iron Face's smithy, each bend where the river flashed.
Still, his thumb kept rubbing the sword hilt smooth whenever mountain shadows crossed the orchards.
At supper, his gaze stayed on the black window beyond the fire.
Narrow is the Dale and the World is wide.
Iron Face looked at the untouched bowl, then at his son's packed cloak.
No warning followed; only the hammer stopped.
Before dawn, Face of God crossed the last orchard with dew soaking his boots and home smoke thinning behind him.
The wide road smelled of wet pine.
Under those pines, peace lost sight of him.
The Scarlet Warrior
Wet pine became cold stone beneath his sliding boots.
A scarlet stranger drove Face of God backward, weapon high, cliff wind clawing at their cloaks.
Folk Might's next step would have sent him over.
Sunbeam struck her brother's arm aside.
Steel rang once. Then silence opened.
At Mountain Hall, wolf hangings leaned above a fire that painted her red-wheat hair gold.
Across the flames, Face of God met Sunbeam's eyes, and his cup stopped halfway to his mouth.
She unfolded a hide map and placed one finger on Burgdale.
The room seemed suddenly smaller.
Her plain hood had crossed his market, measuring the heir who longed beyond peace.
Her raised palm sent him home.
Spring would decide the rest.
Snow soon erased his returning tracks.
Blood in the Wood
Snow turned red beneath tangled winter branches.
Face of God found a murdered woodsman, two daughters struggling, and horn-scaled raiders dragging them toward the dark.
His blade met theirs before thought could settle.
One silver arm-ring rolled across the snow.
It matched no craft in Burgdale.
The road no longer promised escape; it carried strangers toward his sleeping valley.
Spring brought an arrow quivering in the Maiden Ward, with Sunbeam's directions bound beneath its feathers.
He followed Surefoot past empty Mountain Hall and through a wolf-carved cleft where daylight narrowed to a blade.
Then Shadowy Vale opened below.
Roofs crowded the hollow, smoke rose from chimneys, and children ran beneath armed watchers.
The secret had breathing faces.
Surefoot raced down toward them, and Face of God followed with the blood-bright arm-ring clenched in his hand.
The Wound of Silver Dale
The silver ring struck Sunbeam's map with a small, hard sound.
Around it, the Children of the Wolf gathered in Shadowy Vale's low firelight, scarred hands resting on older weapons.
Sunbeam turned the hide and uncovered Silver Dale, drawn wide with vineyards, orchards, and a hearth at its center.
Her finger crossed black marks where the Dusky Men had killed defenders and chained families in their own fields.
No one around the map moved.
Silver Dale lives beneath its chains.
Face of God's hand opened above the map, then settled over the road linking the captive valley to Burgdale.
Sunbeam placed a bronze ring in his palm.
Their fingers closed around it together.
The bronze warmed in his palm, and every road on the hide now ended at another family's door.
Beyond the fire, war horns answered.
The War Leader
War horns became smith hammers as Face of God entered Burgdale before sunrise.
Orchard mist wet his cloak, but the silver arm-ring on his belt clicked against Sunbeam's bronze token.
Iron Face met him at the forge door, soot still dark on both hands.
Face of God laid the enemy ring beside a Burgdale sickle.
The same metal gleamed on each.
At the gate assembly, he spread Sunbeam's map where farmers usually weighed grain.
He showed chained fields, the raiders' road, and the narrow pass that could hide an answering force.
Murmurs died beneath the forge bell.
Iron Face lifted the strange ring, looked at his son's travel-worn face, and set the ring before the people.
Weapons rose around the map.
The restless heir did not look toward the road.
This time, the road looked to him.
No Thralls in Burgdale
Raised weapons became wet branches above his first patrol.
Face of God found Dusky Men dragging a bound woman, her bare feet leaving dark streaks.
A captor cut her down while fleeing.
Her severed rope lay beside her hand.
Gaunt fugitives watched from brush, gripping stolen tools as if every welcome concealed another chain.
Face of God lowered his sword first.
Burgdale has no thralls.
No one stepped forward.
He waited until a scarred man placed his broken shackle between those open hands.
Forty-one fugitives reached Burgdale beneath drawn swords, then saw flowers scattered along the guarded road.
Door after door opened.
Bread steamed in trembling hands while children slept under clean wool.
By dusk, the broken shackle hung above the gate assembly, and more hands were reaching for weapons.
One Ancient Kindred
Those hands filled Burgdale's market when Sunbeam and Folk Might arrived beneath the red-jawed banner.
Face of God met Sunbeam between flowers, their joined hands low while the crowd studied the exiles.
Iron Face welcomed them, but the council door remained closed.
Inside, enemy markers crowded the road to Burgdale.
Face of God traced a hidden strike through Shadowy Vale toward Silver Dale, and no one spoke.
Outside, the Woodland Carles unfurled an old banner.
The same red jaws faced the wolf warriors.
Folk Might touched the faded cloth, his mouth loosening as divided kindred recognized each other.
The council doors opened.
Families entered Shadowy Vale with carts and tools, while archers and spearmen turned toward the barren pass.
Face of God saw no wandering road, only homes standing behind the army.
At dawn, one banner moved east.
Arrows at Dawn
Eastward, the red jaws slipped through the Shivering Flood and across barren stone without a drumbeat.
Above Silver Dale, Face of God lay among wet leaves while dawn brightened vineyards below.
No campfire smoke betrayed the host.
In Silverstead's market, twenty bound prisoners knelt naked beside a pyre while priests raised broad blades.
Face of God's breath fogged one leaf.
Bow May crawled along the ridge with the Woodland Carles, her fingers reading each bowstring in the dark.
Below, the first blade began to fall.
Her raised hand dropped.
Arrows pinned sleeves, throats, and blade arms before steel touched a prisoner.
Not one blade reached flesh.
The prisoners stared upward, then ran as the hillside released a second black wave.
Across the southern road, allied spears lowered.
Silver Dale's morning shattered into war.
The Burning Pyre
War swallowed the morning in smoke, horn scales, and the hard knock of shields.
Face of God held the woodland slope until empty quivers forced the archers into close combat.
Bow May fought through blood darkening her sleeve, her jaw fixed toward Silverstead's market.
Enemy ranks kept rising from the fields.
Folk Might's scarlet cloak vanished inside them.
Face of God drove after it, striking through bodies until the sacrificial pyre towered above him.
Allied hands touched flame to the wood.
Orange fire climbed through the smoke.
The Dusky Men broke around it, but the Mote House stairs still bristled with locked shields.
Face of God raised his scorched sword toward them.
The last door waited above the fire.
The Hearth Rekindled
Above the fire, Face of God and Folk Might stormed the twin stairs together.
At the doors, both attacks struck as one.
The last shields folded inward.
Inside the Mote House, old wolf chieftains lay dishonored beneath dust and dried blood.
Folk Might sank to his knees.
Victory made no sound there.
Then Sunbeam crossed the ruined hall.
Face of God dropped his weapon, and soot marked both faces when their foreheads touched.
Clean wood caught in the holy hearth.
A wolf banner lifted through smoke.
Beyond the doors, freed families walked toward Silver Dale's abandoned homes.
Firelight followed their returning feet.
Home at Midsummer
Firelight became midsummer stars when Face of God reached the Maiden Ward outside Burgdale.
Sunbeam waited beside the pale stone, red-wheat hair loose in warm night.
Their eyes met, and both crossed the meadow.
Burgdale's windows were lamps beside an open road, not walls against the world.
Iron Face looked from Sunbeam's hand to his son's scarred knuckles.
His heavy hand covered both.
Cheers shook apple scent from the rafters.
Face of God looked through the open doors toward dark mountains, then back to Sunbeam.
Her fingers closed around his.
Outside, the road remained wide, while inside, apple sweetness warmed the hand that had once gripped a sword.

The Roots of the Mountains - Story Book

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