He chiseled at the stone, carefully, as he had for the past seven months. It took a team of twenty laborers to bring the slab of limestone to his open air workshop. From dawn until dusk he stuck to his task, breaking once to eat, and often working into the night by torchlight if wasn’t too exhausted from the day’s work. Now the end was in sight, a day more, maybe two to get the finer details perfect. Thousands of hours of carving left behind the inner soul of the hunk of rock.
In a week’s time, the animist would arrive. He would no doubt be impressed. It stood twelve feet tall, with legs as thick as a tree’s trunk, a chest broader than the height of a man, and a angular arms with huge hands carved into fists. Impressive in its stillness, the stone carver’s mouth turned in a twisted smile as he thought of the magnificent sculpture imbued with motion and energy. He climbed down the ladder, satisfied with the day’s effort.
“Malthus!” he called out, “ready the tarp. I’m done for the day.”
A man, no taller than a child, jumped up from his game of chess, in which he played both the light and dark pieces, and started pulling the mass of loosely rolled canvas. He ascended the scaffolding lithely, like a monkey climbing a tree, pulling the tarp with him.
Malthus worked with the stone cutter from the beginning of the project. He was glad for the work, which mainly consisted of covering the statue at the end of the day’s work, and revealing it again each morning. For that he was fed, given a soft bed with a blanket, and some money to buy drinks at the local tavern after work was over. He mostly played chess and whistled tunes while the carver chipped away. Much better than living on the street, begging for food, which had been his life’s lot before the animist selected him as the stonecarver’s assistant.
“We are nearly finished here Malthus,” the craftsman said, “we should have a few days to rest and drink before Aninus returns.”
Malthus looked down with a smile and a gleam in his eye. This served as his way of voicing his pleasure, for Malthus could not speak. As far as he could remember, he never could. Whatever curse befell him, stunting his growth so that he remained small and childlike in physical form, also robbed him of the ability to talk. This caused most people who met him to think him a simpleton, but he was by far more literate than most. The local lord took pity on him, and let him read from his personal library. So Malthus knew more about the history of the Four Kingdoms, and the Free City than anyone but the the most scholarly sages.
He tied the ropes, securing the canvas to the great statue, and made his way down the scaffolding. Meeting him at the base of the great figure, the stonecutter extended his hand to Malthus. The latter put out both his hands in a cup and received the two pieces of silver from his master. He nodded his head in thanks and hustled out of the workshop making his way to the tavern no doubt.
The stonecutter watched him leave, and stared as the mute made his happy way to have a drink. As Malthus left his sight, he turned and stared at the covered form of his creation. The money from the commission meant he would never have to work for pay again. He could work for the pleasure and the craft, and not have to worry about the coin. When the animist arrived, as much as he would like to watch the sorcerer imbue the stone golem with life, he decided he would just take his pay and leave. No matter how marvelous it would be to see his work move and lift objects, and smash things with its stone fists, his soul couldn’t bear to watch. For he knew that for the animist’s magic to work, to bring the stone to life, a sacrifice would have to be made.
He wished things could be different. But he owed the animist a blood debt. He hoped, with great sincerity, that Malthus enjoyed his drink and revels this week.
In a week’s time, the animist would arrive. He would no doubt be impressed. It stood twelve feet tall, with legs as thick as a tree’s trunk, a chest broader than the height of a man, and a angular arms with huge hands carved into fists. Impressive in its stillness, the stone carver’s mouth turned in a twisted smile as he thought of the magnificent sculpture imbued with motion and energy. He climbed down the ladder, satisfied with the day’s effort.
“Malthus!” he called out, “ready the tarp. I’m done for the day.”
A man, no taller than a child, jumped up from his game of chess, in which he played both the light and dark pieces, and started pulling the mass of loosely rolled canvas. He ascended the scaffolding lithely, like a monkey climbing a tree, pulling the tarp with him.
Malthus worked with the stone cutter from the beginning of the project. He was glad for the work, which mainly consisted of covering the statue at the end of the day’s work, and revealing it again each morning. For that he was fed, given a soft bed with a blanket, and some money to buy drinks at the local tavern after work was over. He mostly played chess and whistled tunes while the carver chipped away. Much better than living on the street, begging for food, which had been his life’s lot before the animist selected him as the stonecarver’s assistant.
“We are nearly finished here Malthus,” the craftsman said, “we should have a few days to rest and drink before Aninus returns.”
Malthus looked down with a smile and a gleam in his eye. This served as his way of voicing his pleasure, for Malthus could not speak. As far as he could remember, he never could. Whatever curse befell him, stunting his growth so that he remained small and childlike in physical form, also robbed him of the ability to talk. This caused most people who met him to think him a simpleton, but he was by far more literate than most. The local lord took pity on him, and let him read from his personal library. So Malthus knew more about the history of the Four Kingdoms, and the Free City than anyone but the the most scholarly sages.
He tied the ropes, securing the canvas to the great statue, and made his way down the scaffolding. Meeting him at the base of the great figure, the stonecutter extended his hand to Malthus. The latter put out both his hands in a cup and received the two pieces of silver from his master. He nodded his head in thanks and hustled out of the workshop making his way to the tavern no doubt.
The stonecutter watched him leave, and stared as the mute made his happy way to have a drink. As Malthus left his sight, he turned and stared at the covered form of his creation. The money from the commission meant he would never have to work for pay again. He could work for the pleasure and the craft, and not have to worry about the coin. When the animist arrived, as much as he would like to watch the sorcerer imbue the stone golem with life, he decided he would just take his pay and leave. No matter how marvelous it would be to see his work move and lift objects, and smash things with its stone fists, his soul couldn’t bear to watch. For he knew that for the animist’s magic to work, to bring the stone to life, a sacrifice would have to be made.
He wished things could be different. But he owed the animist a blood debt. He hoped, with great sincerity, that Malthus enjoyed his drink and revels this week.