Codex >> Tales
Legends, stories, and myths told by kinsfolk in explanation of how their world came to be as it is.
Two Kammas
When Shennalar the Traveler crossed the Hidden River, he brought with him a following of Trow - Trow that heard snatches of song on the wind as he did. As they walked, they sang; as they sang, they walked, until each footstep was a drumbeat, each tree and flower a note in the song at the heart of them.
Then the song changed. The eager travelers looked about them, and found themselves in lands not seen before, nor written of in the archives of the Trow learned. These were lands of stone and spire, with peaks like melted glass, and fire on the horizon. Dark lands, lands of smoke; carved lands, the scarps themselves turned into some twisted parody of a scroll, scrawled in an alphabet like the ravings of a wilderkin.
And yet the song they sang pleased their ears and souls. This was a place of bells, of the great thrumming of grand drums, of deep horns and clarion glass. They might not, did not, understand the song they sang, but all knew there was mystery here, mystery that demanded travel's pause. And so their footsteps ceased, but not the song, and they set their camp at the base of a great peak, waiting in rapt contemplation.
Among the Forgeborn of Quag Dur, there was tumult, roil. Jagh'Kadda had been found the morning before, dead in his cave - dead! The Jagh, nothing more than a pile of dross; the Jagh, lifeless, unjoined to the ancestral pyre, the iron hammer of his heart lost to his people forever. Disaster!
Kamma shook his head. His sire was a coward and a fool: a coward not to have embraced the fires when the sickness first took him, and a fool to have trusted the ministrations of the upstart Baud. "He deserved his death," Kamma said to himself, but the words sounded false. He shook his head again. He heard a scratch outside his cave. Summoned already, he thought; they do not waste time. Good. I will pass their tests and take the mantle, then begin the long task of reforging. Sure enough, a messenger waited outside his door, but the message was not the one expected by Kamma. "Strange ones! At the valley floor! The elders shape a battle clast; they wish you at the Helm!" And the breathless messenger trundled off before Kamma could think to ask him for more. These were dire tidings indeed. His sire, lying among the ground rubble... intruders in the Valley of the Forge... what did the ancestors have in store for him and the clan next? Kamma's thoughts ran as fast as he did as he sped to the gathering cliffs, where the battle clast was already forming. Kamma gathered the warriors that were his to command as Helm. "Caution," he spoke. "In the night of unrule, be cautious and disciplined. We walk in shadows tonight, then stride forth into the light as one. Go." There were murmurings of discontent; Kamma knew the warriors yearned to stride forth, banging hammer and shield and yelling the forge-cry, but he also knew they would do as he commanded. The clast took up its arms and began a quiet descent to the Valley.
At the base of Dur, they found the strangers: fey forms, tall and thin, like twigs. Or spirits. And horned, like animals. They huddled and... sang? Sang like his people did only in the Time of Passing, that ritual now denied him by his sire's failure to die a good death. And so rage filled Kamma's heart as he and his clast rose as one in a perfect circle around the Trow camp.
Shennalar heard a new voice in the Dreamsong - and then an eyeblink later, dark forms surrounded the travelers. Armed with menacing weapons, wearing scowls on their heavy-browed faces, eyes glowing like the cinders of the fire, they were like demons out of the Old Stories. He sensed his people faltering at the sight of the ominous figures. Shennalar swallowed his own fear; he rose and put his palms outward in supplication as one of the dark ones strode forward. But the figure shoved him roughly to the ground. The singers stopped. All was silence, until the dark figure, gesturing sharply, began to yell in a language like nothing he or the other Trow had heard before.
Shennalar tried to speak in return, but this seemed only to further anger the dark one. It raised its spiked mace, and Shennalar began to fear that his travels were shortly to come to an abrupt end.
And then, something unexpected happened.
Another Trow - a smallish youngling, not months past her Turning - strode forward excitedly, saying, "Kamma, Kamma!" The girl patted his chest each time she said the word. Shennalar recognized Kamma as the girl's nickname; it meant "Firestarter", and was so given for Kamma's fascination with their campfires. She could get them started, too, quick as a flash; Shennalar still wasn't quite sure how she did it. One of life's happy mysteries.
Kamma looked at the small figure that walked toward him, beating its breast and chanting his name. Even through his rage, he could see that these people did not know his words, and yet somehow this little one had understood when he declared himself to them, proclaimed that he was Kamma, and took up their challenge to the valley. And now the little one had taken up his challenge! It strode to him, it beat its breast - it even spoke a name, though surely it mocked, yelling "Kamma" as if it were the rightful inheritor of the Kaghclast. As if it named itself the Drumbeat of the Mountain.
And yet, such a little thing. Deserving of pity, not of rage and power. Everything was misplaced. His sire was misplaced. These people, misplaced. This tiny, Kamma-bellowing challenger, misplaced. A time for caution. Remember his lesson to his own warriors. Remember to guard against rage.
So Kamma reached inside himself to his own forge, and calmed the bellows of his heart. The glow in his eyes cooled; his arms relaxed, and the mace returned to his side. No more fire for today; time to understand. He shook his head. "Kamma," he said, putting his fist to his breast.
The figure smiled. "Kamma!" Again, the hand to its chest. Bewildering. A game after all, taunting?
It was at this point that Shennalar began to understand. Later, he would be unable to say whether it was his travels that gave him insight, or whether he caught something in a turning of the Dreamsong - but he murmured to young Kamma, "He does not understand that it is your name you speak. Show him."
Young Kamma paused, then took up two stones from the ground. She knew these were the right ones. Then she found some twigs and made a little pyramid of them. Tall Kamma came closer as young Kamma crouched and began to strike the stones together. Three strikes, and then a spark, and flame.
"Kamma!" She put her hand to her chest again.
Tall Kamma blinked once, twice, three times. By the ancestors - she is blessed with the Flamegift! And they name her for it - and, in so naming, name me Firestarter as well. Truly, my sires have a hand in this day.
Now it is my turn. Tall Kamma looked at the small one and nodded. Then he sat down beside a large rock, and began to beat a slow rhythm. BOOM-bum. BOOM-bum. BOOM-bum.
The Trow looked at each other. A drummer, among these dark ones! Sennakar raised his voice, and soon his brethren joined him. And the warriors among the Forgeborn looked at each other too, then put down their weapons, and sat among the stones, and began to add their hands to the drumbeat.
And so was the first song played by the Trow and the Forgeborn, heralding peace and, if not friendship, at least a deep respect between the two races. And so it was that the Heart-Drummer and the Firestarter met, and began their long adventure - but that is a tale for another day.
Then the song changed. The eager travelers looked about them, and found themselves in lands not seen before, nor written of in the archives of the Trow learned. These were lands of stone and spire, with peaks like melted glass, and fire on the horizon. Dark lands, lands of smoke; carved lands, the scarps themselves turned into some twisted parody of a scroll, scrawled in an alphabet like the ravings of a wilderkin.
And yet the song they sang pleased their ears and souls. This was a place of bells, of the great thrumming of grand drums, of deep horns and clarion glass. They might not, did not, understand the song they sang, but all knew there was mystery here, mystery that demanded travel's pause. And so their footsteps ceased, but not the song, and they set their camp at the base of a great peak, waiting in rapt contemplation.
Among the Forgeborn of Quag Dur, there was tumult, roil. Jagh'Kadda had been found the morning before, dead in his cave - dead! The Jagh, nothing more than a pile of dross; the Jagh, lifeless, unjoined to the ancestral pyre, the iron hammer of his heart lost to his people forever. Disaster!
Kamma shook his head. His sire was a coward and a fool: a coward not to have embraced the fires when the sickness first took him, and a fool to have trusted the ministrations of the upstart Baud. "He deserved his death," Kamma said to himself, but the words sounded false. He shook his head again. He heard a scratch outside his cave. Summoned already, he thought; they do not waste time. Good. I will pass their tests and take the mantle, then begin the long task of reforging. Sure enough, a messenger waited outside his door, but the message was not the one expected by Kamma. "Strange ones! At the valley floor! The elders shape a battle clast; they wish you at the Helm!" And the breathless messenger trundled off before Kamma could think to ask him for more. These were dire tidings indeed. His sire, lying among the ground rubble... intruders in the Valley of the Forge... what did the ancestors have in store for him and the clan next? Kamma's thoughts ran as fast as he did as he sped to the gathering cliffs, where the battle clast was already forming. Kamma gathered the warriors that were his to command as Helm. "Caution," he spoke. "In the night of unrule, be cautious and disciplined. We walk in shadows tonight, then stride forth into the light as one. Go." There were murmurings of discontent; Kamma knew the warriors yearned to stride forth, banging hammer and shield and yelling the forge-cry, but he also knew they would do as he commanded. The clast took up its arms and began a quiet descent to the Valley.
At the base of Dur, they found the strangers: fey forms, tall and thin, like twigs. Or spirits. And horned, like animals. They huddled and... sang? Sang like his people did only in the Time of Passing, that ritual now denied him by his sire's failure to die a good death. And so rage filled Kamma's heart as he and his clast rose as one in a perfect circle around the Trow camp.
Shennalar heard a new voice in the Dreamsong - and then an eyeblink later, dark forms surrounded the travelers. Armed with menacing weapons, wearing scowls on their heavy-browed faces, eyes glowing like the cinders of the fire, they were like demons out of the Old Stories. He sensed his people faltering at the sight of the ominous figures. Shennalar swallowed his own fear; he rose and put his palms outward in supplication as one of the dark ones strode forward. But the figure shoved him roughly to the ground. The singers stopped. All was silence, until the dark figure, gesturing sharply, began to yell in a language like nothing he or the other Trow had heard before.
Shennalar tried to speak in return, but this seemed only to further anger the dark one. It raised its spiked mace, and Shennalar began to fear that his travels were shortly to come to an abrupt end.
And then, something unexpected happened.
Another Trow - a smallish youngling, not months past her Turning - strode forward excitedly, saying, "Kamma, Kamma!" The girl patted his chest each time she said the word. Shennalar recognized Kamma as the girl's nickname; it meant "Firestarter", and was so given for Kamma's fascination with their campfires. She could get them started, too, quick as a flash; Shennalar still wasn't quite sure how she did it. One of life's happy mysteries.
Kamma looked at the small figure that walked toward him, beating its breast and chanting his name. Even through his rage, he could see that these people did not know his words, and yet somehow this little one had understood when he declared himself to them, proclaimed that he was Kamma, and took up their challenge to the valley. And now the little one had taken up his challenge! It strode to him, it beat its breast - it even spoke a name, though surely it mocked, yelling "Kamma" as if it were the rightful inheritor of the Kaghclast. As if it named itself the Drumbeat of the Mountain.
And yet, such a little thing. Deserving of pity, not of rage and power. Everything was misplaced. His sire was misplaced. These people, misplaced. This tiny, Kamma-bellowing challenger, misplaced. A time for caution. Remember his lesson to his own warriors. Remember to guard against rage.
So Kamma reached inside himself to his own forge, and calmed the bellows of his heart. The glow in his eyes cooled; his arms relaxed, and the mace returned to his side. No more fire for today; time to understand. He shook his head. "Kamma," he said, putting his fist to his breast.
The figure smiled. "Kamma!" Again, the hand to its chest. Bewildering. A game after all, taunting?
It was at this point that Shennalar began to understand. Later, he would be unable to say whether it was his travels that gave him insight, or whether he caught something in a turning of the Dreamsong - but he murmured to young Kamma, "He does not understand that it is your name you speak. Show him."
Young Kamma paused, then took up two stones from the ground. She knew these were the right ones. Then she found some twigs and made a little pyramid of them. Tall Kamma came closer as young Kamma crouched and began to strike the stones together. Three strikes, and then a spark, and flame.
"Kamma!" She put her hand to her chest again.
Tall Kamma blinked once, twice, three times. By the ancestors - she is blessed with the Flamegift! And they name her for it - and, in so naming, name me Firestarter as well. Truly, my sires have a hand in this day.
Now it is my turn. Tall Kamma looked at the small one and nodded. Then he sat down beside a large rock, and began to beat a slow rhythm. BOOM-bum. BOOM-bum. BOOM-bum.
The Trow looked at each other. A drummer, among these dark ones! Sennakar raised his voice, and soon his brethren joined him. And the warriors among the Forgeborn looked at each other too, then put down their weapons, and sat among the stones, and began to add their hands to the drumbeat.
And so was the first song played by the Trow and the Forgeborn, heralding peace and, if not friendship, at least a deep respect between the two races. And so it was that the Heart-Drummer and the Firestarter met, and began their long adventure - but that is a tale for another day.
