The Stairway of Tears was a league-high flight of steps cut into the mountainside granite. Every step was engraved with hundreds of names, most so blurred by centuries of footfalls as to be illegible. A great wonder of the ancient world, to be sure, but that made it no easier to climb. The three amongst us who breathed did so in gasps by the time we reached the summit, even I who bore no burden.

Our panting faded, and we heard eerie singing from the other side of the pass.

“What is your business with the Immortal Legion?”

We looked up and saw a ragged barefoot nun. Her drawn sword glittered with gemstones.

Djanni, Shreel and the golem lowered the palanquin to the ground. Djanni knelt and brushed his granmama’s unruly hair back into place. She looked well for a month-old corpse – her face was still firm and she smelt only of embalming vinegar.

He untied the silk scarf around her head, and her mouth fell open, revealing the brass Echo inside. The movement triggered the Echo’s mechanism and his granmama’s recorded words rang out: “I, Tyom Garl, dedicate eternity to defending Thamsa from the barbarians of Teskali. My children’s children have carried me here, and none shall move me. Beware, foul invaders!”

I’d heard this same defiant speech at least a hundred times – Djanni had replayed his dead granmama’s message over and again each day, perhaps to remind himself why he was on this hellish pilgrimage.

“Admirable sentiments,” said the nun. “She was a remarkable woman indeed, if you four are her grandchildren.”

Djanni blushed, as he always did when flustered, which was often. Shreel scowled as if he suspected some insult, which too was often. They were alike only in appearance.

“I, my sister Mwel and our cousins Shreel and Hizor began our pilgrimage four weeks ago,” said Djanni. “In the Valley of Druze we were beset by bandits – low rabble with no respect for the living or the dead. We feared for our lives until this noble steel golem happened past and came to our rescue.” He pointed to the tall machine by my side.

“Aye, it taught those vermin a lesson,” Shreel grinned. I’d never seen him happy unless violence was involved.

“Nevertheless, Mwel and Hizor were sorely wounded,” continued Djanni. “We left them in the care of the sages at Plume, then resumed our pilgrimage here. It would have been a harsh journey for just Shreel and I, but again the golem came to our aid, bearing one end of granmama’s palanquin alone, quite unasked.”

The nun frowned. “Why?”

Both men shrugged. They had no inkling that I’d organised both their attack and their rescue. Neither had the bandits.

“It ignores all questions, commands and conversation,” said Shreel. “And you’ll get no better answer from its servant – the lack-witted old crone understands nothing beyond keeping her master free from rust.”

I gave my best lack-witted old crone look, and the nun gave me only a half-second glance – like everyone else, she was far more interested in the golem. As I’d intended.

Without warning, the nun whirled and swung her jewelled sword at the golem. A skilful blow, but in the same instant the golem’s steel arms flashed and the humming blue edge of its huge axe quivered a fingers breadth from her neck.

“Magnificent,” she sighed. “I’ve never seen one of you in such fine condition before. If you too are here to join the Legion, noble machine, you are most welcome.”

She sheathed her sword and bowed to the golem. It stared at her then lowered its blade.

Djanni and Shreel were too ignorant to be surprised by this; indeed Shreel showed more interest in the nun’s firm bare thigh exposed by her exertions. I however was fascinated – why had the golem stayed its weapon, and how had the nun known to expect this? Clearly she had prior knowledge of golems – an encouraging sign that my quest here was not in vain.

Djanni cleared his throat. “Are warriors of flesh also welcome?”

“All are welcome in the defence of Thamsa’s peace,” the nun declared. “What are your granmama’s qualifications to join the Legion?”

“Only the best archer I ever met,” said Shreel, sounding offended again. “She served thirty years in the Forest Guard. She taught me all I know, and I am reckoned the finest hunter of man or beast in our village. And you needn’t turn your nose up at her old bow, either – it may be plain, not like your fancy sword, but it was her treasured possession since before I was born. She fletched those arrows herself, and –”

“I believe you,” the nun interrupted, with a small smile. “I can see her finger calluses. She was no flabby-armed merchant whose relatives think to impress us with some gaudy new weapon – alas, such are common here. All are welcome, but true warriors deserve positions of greatest honour.”

Shreel and Djanni nodded, encouraged. They and the golem lifted the palanquin, and we followed the nun over the pass. Shreel’s eyes stayed more on her legs than the ground, and he stumbled several times, but the golem’s firm grasp kept the palanquin steady.

The distant singing grew louder, and at last we gained our first glimpse of the Legion. The gentle mountainside below us was an endless sea of glinting weapons, all aimed across Thamsa’s border. And on the valley’s other side, half hidden by mist, Teskali’s equally vast army stared back.

It seemed the travellers’ tales were no exaggerations – these were surely the largest armies the world had ever seen. True, they were only skeletons, but that was no disadvantage, for the dead are fearless, have endless patience and ask for neither wages or provisions.

The “singing” surged as the wind gusted. It was nothing magical – I saw windhorns, rotachimes and buzzwings flapping and spinning from spears and banner poles, and the ever-shifting breeze did the rest – yet even so, the noise was spine-chilling. Historians claimed no army had dared cross this valley for three thousand years.

The path beneath our feet was a loose gravel of weathered bone fragments. On every side, thousands of dead stood at attention; faded ribbons held them and their weapons in position on rusty girders. Nearly all were bare bones, but here and there were the more recent dead, their dried flesh slowly disintegrating in the wind. The brass Echoes in their mouths marked our progress, replaying their owners’ patriotic messages as we passed.

Many skeletons were in various states of collapse, their sinews and ribbons brittle with age. Apparently they were left to lie wherever they fell. The nun took care not to touch any standing bones, but occasionally stooped to retrieve a silent Echo from the ground. I watched this with interest, for how the tiny machines were renewed was another secret that many would pay well for, but she merely dropped them in a clinking leather bag around her waist.

She set a brisk pace, and paid little attention to the men’s calls to slow down. We lost sight of her amongst the forests of bones, and were guided only by her tuneless rendition of some interminable hymn. Then even that faded. We came to a fork in the path and stopped.

“Now where has she gone?” complained Shreel. “Does she hope to gain four more legionaries by abandoning us here?”

I pulled my oil flask from my belt and began polishing the golem. Not that rust was my real concern.

“Perhaps she is testing us,” said Djanni.

Shreel snorted. “We’ve spent a month carrying granmama here – and in the middle of harvest, when our village can least afford our absence. Is that not test enough? Does she doubt the oaths we swore? I say the bitch has forsaken us for some ill purpose.”

While they bickered, I pretended to polish, and whispered into the machine’s ears the same words of power I had recited every twelve hours since unearthing it. “Machine, I command you. I freed you from the swamps of Dorjeenk and you are my slave.”

It nodded helplessly under my binding spell. Soon I would have a hundred more just like it, and then none would dare stand in my way.

“Have you not divined our destination?” asked the nun, emerging from behind a rank of skeletal horses and riders. “It is in plain view below.”

Tight-lipped, Shreel fingered his bow and stared out over the valley. “There,” he said at last, pointing down to a small hill. “That is where I would set archers. It has clear line of sight to the enemy, yet would be easily defended against berserkers or cavalry charges.”

She gave another enigmatic smile. “Well done, sir; our ancestors’ warmaster agreed with you.”

She did not mean to mock him, I thought – those who live and work amongst death often have a grim humour – but he scowled at her and muttered under his breath.

We drew closer to the hill, and a great regiment of skeletal archers came into view.

“Did your granmama like jucaro?” asked the nun.

“They were her favourite flowers,” said Djanni.

“Then I know just the spot for her.”

And it was a good spot, even Shreel had to admit. On either side, skeletons trailed tattered Forest Guard leathers, and the fallen bones below were laced with the creeping branches of a jucaro in full bloom.

The men carefully lifted Tyom from the palanquin. The nun and I held her in place as they tied her into position with a great many coloured ribbons. Each ribbon was embroidered with brave threats against Teskali foes or sugary compliments praising Tyom’s virtues as matriarch and archer. The words were sincere but badly spelt, probably scribbled by some travelling scholar then lovingly copied in thread by illiterate relatives. I doubted Djanni or Shreel could read their own names, so it hardly mattered.

Djanni brushed his granmama’s hair into place one final time, and untied the silk scarf around her head to let the brass Echo inside her mouth play her words yet again.

“Goodbye, granmama. Defend Thamsa well,” both men recited.

“I’m sure she will,” said the nun, too cheerfully for Shreel’s liking, then looked behind me then at me in puzzlement. “Has your master abandoned you?”

Confused, I twirled and saw the golem marching downhill.

I ran after it, careful not to come too close. Had the machine somehow freed itself from my enchantments?

It stopped not far away, at a long row of tall rusted shapes.

“Machine, I command you,” I recited out loud, somewhat out of breath. “I freed you from the swamps of Dorjeenk and you are my slave. Be still, be still. I command you.” I heard the others closing behind me, but it was too late now to care for my lost disguise.

“I am not your slave,” the golem said in a voice like scraping steel.

“They both can speak,” said Djanni in surprise.

“I was never your slave,” continued the golem. “You freed me from Dorjeenk’s sucking mud, and for that I have repaid you well: I carried you a thousand leagues, I slaughtered bandits, I bore the palanquin of Tyom Garl, all at your command. This was my destination anyway, so you were little inconvenience and paid your way by keeping me free from rust.”

Shreel gave a braying laugh. “I suspected her all along,” said the lying braggart. “Shall I kill her for you?”

“Leave her,” said the golem. “She came here seeking secrets, and the walk home will give her much time to contemplate what she has learnt. I do not seek revenge.”

“You wish to pay respect to your fallen comrades,” said Djanni.

Completing my humiliation, I realised this ignorant farmhand was right – the rusted shapes in front of us were the remains of more golems. Little more than scrap metal, as one might find stacked in the yard of any machinesmith, not the rows of gleaming warriors I had sought. Two years of costly research and travel for nothing.

“You honour us by your presence,” the nun told the golem, bowing as if addressing royalty. “Mighty generals have come here to rest, bringing their dead golems as you see, but never before –”

“Many are not dead,” roared the golem, and drew its humming axe. I dropped to the ground.

Any sharp axe can cleave flesh, and I had seen the golem make short work of a dozen bandits. But the glowing edge of this axe had some special magic, for it sliced through steel with equal ease, showering the ground with sparks. And I saw the golem spoke the truth, for many of its rusted comrades moved, not to avoid the axe’s edge but to embrace it. I wondered what it might be like to lie here broken and helpless for a thousand years, and thought I too might welcome death.

Soon nothing remained but metal shards. The golem marched away. Aghast, the nun scuttled off in the other direction.

Shreel grinned. “Perhaps there will be some profit to this journey after all. I’m going hunting.” He drew his bow and made to follow her.

“What are you doing?” demanded Djanni, grabbing his shoulder. “Our business here is complete. Would you dishonour us?”

Shreel shoved him away. “I swore a solemn oath to granmama to bring her here, and I have honoured that oath, cousin. And now I have business of my own. I will not steal from the dead – I don’t want granmama haunting me – but the living are a different matter. A certain impudent nun has a jewelled sword I like the look of. And something else I desire from her. If she doesn’t struggle beneath me, perhaps I may let her live.”

“No,” shouted Djanni, but Shreel punched him and sent him sprawling down the hillside.

“Self-righteous prig,” Shreel muttered, and turned to me, still grinning. “As for you, old witch-woman, you still live only because the golem bade it so. To it alone do I owe any respect.” He spat at me and left.

I peered over the hillside at Djanni. He hadn’t fallen far, and lay half-buried in scattered bones, his cheeks wet with tears.

“She’ll kill him,” he moaned. “She’ll kill him.”

I recalled her swordplay, and thought he might be right.

He was bruised and his left leg was gashed, but once bandaged he hobbled back up the hillside with my assistance.

The nun awaited us there, carrying Shreel’s bow and quiver.

“Do you wish your cousin to join the Immortal Legion?” she asked Djanni calmly.

He burst into fresh tears. “He’s unworthy,” he mumbled. “He has dishonoured our family.”

“All are welcome in the defence of Thamsa’s peace,” said the nun. “Even those who lived dishonourably may make amends in death. Follow me.”

We found four nuns tying Shreel’s surprised looking corpse to a girder amongst a row of swordsmen, the bloodied jewelled sword at his side.

“Don’t you want your sword back?” Djanni asked the nun.

“It was not mine,” she said. “I borrowed it from the previous fool who tried to kill me, just as I will give Shreel’s bow to the next fool.”

Djanni frowned, nodded, and turned to Shreel. “This is better than you deserve. Goodbye, cousin. Defend Thamsa well.”

“Go in peace,” chorused the nuns.

The sun was low in the sky, and Djanni’s leg slowed him, but we did not stop until we reached the pass. Neither of us wished to stay a night amongst the Legion.

In the sun’s last rays, we saw many words freshly carved in delicate axe strokes on the upper steps.

“What does it say?” asked Djanni.

I peered at the dim letters. The alphabet I recognised; it was that of the long-vanished empire which built the golems two thousand years ago. With a few weeks of study and the resources of my far distant library, perhaps I might have translated it.

“It says…” I said, “it says: ‘I, Tyom Garl, dedicate eternity to defending Thamsa from the barbarians of –’”

“You are lying again,” Djanni said. “Thank you. It is a good lie. Perhaps my family will believe it, or pretend to.”

We began the long climb down the steps.

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About the Author

Peter Friend has sold fiction to numerous magazines and anthologies around the world. In real life, he’s a computer analyst, but hopes to one day become a full-time living art treasure.