The King of Atakala stared in shock as a trembling digditcher named Coln handed him a long, silver tube lined with holes like Swiss cheese. Behind him, a gang of six digditchers cowered behind their shovels.

  Joao blurted, “I assure you, this is not what I brought you to see! Believe me, not two days ago, at this very spot, there was a monstrosity of a creation of such make and form which confounded even I, gifted in knowledge of every weapon and tool fashioned by men.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Zartro, “You keep saying that. I think these digditchers have some explaining to do.” Zartro waved the pipe in the air. “What on Earth is this thing? And what is all this other junk?”

  “Your majesty, we –” started Coln.

  “The name's Zartro!”

  “Zartro, we had no idea your majesty had need of this pile of scrap metal. When we stumbled upon it the other day, it had no mark or sign that it was of use to the Atakalan Nation.”

  Joao glared at him. “Perhaps, but what have you done to it? It has been ruined–why? What are these bent tokens you have made?”

  The digditcher fidgeted.

  “Speak!” ordered Zartro, his voice amplified by the weight of seven soldiers standing behind him, their spears eagerly pointed at the digditchers. “This thing, what is it?”

  “Um, a flute.”

  “A what!”

  “Sir, we meant no harm! You see, our marching band has quadrupled in size since its inception five centuries ago. We have a legacy of excellence in every aspect of the sport. With quality metal in such demand these days, we were thrilled when we stumbled upon this abandoned heap. It was perfectly suited for the making of new instruments for our growing ensemble. It is a metal finer than any we have ever bent.”

  “He is right,” muttered a scientist standing behind Joao and rummaging through the pile. “This metal is unlike anything found between the two rivers!”

  “Coln” asked Joao with a severe face, “was it not, ere you rent it asunder into this nightmarish confusion of instruments, all joined together, into a single form of the most amazing, elegant design? Whose very structure declared it to be a creation of such power that it should never have been dismantled?”

  Coln fidgeted. “Er, I don't know about that. I think it looks much better this way. I swear, we thought it was scrap metal.”

  Joao sighed, shaking his head in dismay. “It was not scrap metal.”

  “What was it, then?”

  Joao wrinkled his brow. “I don’t know. That’s why I went to Tsyanou to fetch the King and his scientists. We have come to investigate it and determine its origin and purpose. But now that knowledge is lost. It is…”

  “Now it’s a pile of flugelhorns and sousaphones, that's what it is,” stated Zartro. “Like, who needs flugelhorns and sousaphones?” He picked up a twisted saxophone which in a previous life had been a com-link radio. The buttons had been removed to make holes for fingers. “Geez you digditchers are weird!”

  Coln looked down. “Sir, marching is very important to us. We did not mean to interfere with the mission of the Great One.”

  “What were you doing here, anyway?”

  “We were en route to Oklagut for the upcoming marching festival. By next weekend, the city will be filled with competing bands. The other digditchers are coming later, but we were sent ahead to reserve practice spaces.”

  “Well you could have gone straight there instead of dismantling other people's stuff.”

  Neb stepped forward. “If I may, Zartro, could I mention that according to what I have heard, the digditchers were instrumental in defending Atakala from attack long ago. Perhaps we should not be so hard on them.” He thought of Smith, who had rescued him from certain death in Sped Swamp.

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  “Yes, there is such a tale,” sighed Joao. “What is done is done. Perhaps I was mistaken, and it truly was a junk pile left behind long ago.”

  Neb reached down and picked up a flute to examine it, then put it to his lips and tried to make a noise, his face turning red as a blew to no effect.

  “By the way,” asked Coln, “how is it that you are interested in a pile of metal, with the nation being under attack and all? Or was this contraption related to the war effort? If there is need, we will certainly relinquish the metal for the forging of arms.”

  Zartro glared at him. “What are you talking about?”

  Coln’s eyes opened wide. “You haven’t heard? An immense army crossed the Atakora Plateau last week, then crossed the Kor Mountains into Atakala. Both Makoi and Ralakiti have been sacked and burned.”

  “Ouch! I think I cut my lip open,” muttered Neb.

  “How do you know this?” demanded Zartro. “I ain't heard any such report.” He glanced back at his soldiers for confirmation.

  A soldier replied, “We've heard nothing, Zartro; no news from the north. We did think it odd that the mail has stopped from that direction, but with the recent rain, it may simply have been delayed.”

  “Stupid flute. My lip's gonna be swollen for days. And I'm bleeding like crazy.”

  Zartro turned to Coln. “What makes you give such a report? Have you seen this army?”

  “Seen? No. Few, if any, have seen it in person. Yet its existence is certain. This we know: at our marching band festival last weekend, the teams from Makoi and Ralakiti did not show up. We sent delegates across the mountains to send their entry fee back, but they found Ralakiti in ruins. Only the bridge over the Aketi River was left standing, connecting two halves of rubble. A few traders were found who reported in turn that the city Makoi had suffered a similar fate, as well as several lesser villages between the two. So the delegates returned to Adaletou, where I heard their report firsthand.”

  Joao frowned. “A great army is loose, felling entire cities, yet your trite band is wandering the jungle in search of instruments, instead of defending Adaletou?”

  “Does anyone else feel dizzy?”

  “Ack, Adaletou is safe. No army would be so foolish as to cross the dank murk of Emin Sped, then climb the muddy slopes of Noma Sped. Besides, the army is moving to the southeast… it seems to be aimed at Tsyanou.” Coln fidgeted. “Er, we would have sent you warning, but we assumed you already knew of it. And our tribe certainly can’t stop such an army.”

  “What of the stories that are told? Of a dozen digditchers who destroyed an entire army of Romans?”

  “I think I'll lie down for a while.”

  “Um, well… that was hundreds of years ago,” said Coln, embarrassed. “It seems there has been some poetic license in the telling, for the tale itself is far fetched beyond comprehension.”

  “This report seems to be of the same ilk.”

  “Stories are told to please the children and honor the dead,” said Joao. “Yet always are they lined with truth. Long ago, a great army arrived in our land–”

  “Yeb,” interrupted Neb, rubbing his lip. “I sawb it!”

  “Is he alright?” asked Coln.

  “Don't mind him. He's had a rough week.”

  “As I was saying, long ago, a great army arrived in our land. If it happened before, it could happen again.”

  Zartro was frustrated that the digditchers seemed better organized than the government of Atakala, but then remembered something. “Wait–before we left! Corran mentioned something about strange murmurings of doom or some such rumor from the north.”

  “Yes,” said Joao, “I remember that! It is a shame he is not here to clarify what he heard. An army descending upon our land would cause such rumors, though the news comes from an unexpected source. Yet, here is a new mystery: Why Makoi? Why Ralakiti? There is no easy route to either of those from the north.”

  “Yeah, they're supposed to go through Sentinel City. That's why we got so many soldiers there.”

  “Its defenses are known to all,” reminded a soldier. “No army would dare approach the great rampart whose arms stretch from the Kor Mountains to the Rahn Swamp. But the Atakora Plateau has no such strength, for there is little of worth except what is secreted away by the Mak in their holes peppering the Amono Cliffs. The plateau is a wide swath of windy desert, strewn with rocks and clefts that would hinder a force, but not stop it. Further, Makoi is lightly populated and poorly defended; a small army could plunder it with ease.”

  “Yet no army could have crossed the Kor Mountains without great skill and knowledge of the terrain. What's more, it would have taken a mighty host to destroy Ralakiti, for it is a vast metropolis compared to Makoi. If it is truly gone, we have much to fear.”

  “Our delegation estimated several hundred men, and numerous wagons. Their direction was easily calculated from the trail seen running into the jungle.”

  “Surely someone survived the attack on Ralakiti and fled to warn the other villages? I’m surprised that ere now, our knowledge of this was no more than a rumor.”

  “Ralakiti fell only recently. Perhaps messengers await at Tsyanou, while we tour a pile of instruments.”

  “Fine, let’s hurry back to the capital. Coln, we'll take a few of these so we can investigate this metal.” Zartro looked disgustingly at the pile. “They can have the rest.”

  Joao and the scientists dug through the pile to collect the more interesting looking instruments, and the group bid farewell to the digditchers.

  “Joao, will you stay with us? I think we'll need your services. I don’t like the sound of these rumors.”

  “Certainly. Perhaps a more thorough report awaits us in Tsyanou.” In his head, though, he wondered. Or perhaps the city is already gone.

  Neb followed behind, thinking only: A trouble falls upon the land, yet it was not predicted by the Great One. Will they not see the burden this adds to their faith in the strange bricks?