In the middle of nowhere there was a spring fed lake. It hosted little frogs and insects and even a few small fish had made their way there. The edges of the lake had thick grass growing upon them, tall rushes in their stands, cattails and ferns in their multitudes. Amongst those tall grasses were toads and birds and turtles and little hunting mammals and the big migrating herds of elk and gazelle who knew a good thing when they saw it. The herbivores were followed by wolves and coyotes and ultimately the Two Souled, who also knew a good thing when they saw it. As a result of the spring fed lake, this little piece of the middle of nowhere became somewhere important. So it was a considerable problem when a seven meter tall statue of a woman rose out of the center of the lake, hovered over the water, and started firing beams of concentrated light and heat (in both senses of the word) from her mouth. Unearthly music accompanied her, swelling as she was about to attack. She ignored the animals, just clearing away the humans. This was, apparently, her lake. And she wasn’t open to discussion.

The Two Souled had been happily making a month-long camp next to the lake during their summer migrations for generations. The lake wasn’t too deep, its sandy bottom had been poked and explored by many happy bathers. The previously known number of murderous statues was zero. In fact, there wasn’t a ruin or remnant tech site anywhere near there. The Two Souled very much wanted their lake back, but the statue appeared to be made of stone and could ignore their arrows and rifle fire. They needed someone to deal with this for them. They needed an expert. But Mazelton was going to have to do. Or else.

The whole mess was sprung on Mazelton and Policlitus around breakfast. A group of traders (who also acted as interpreters) slipped around their campfire at an easy canter, dismounted and humbly requested his services.

They were terribly polite about not mentioning the “Or Else.” But they were armed and had brought a spare cheve. Mazelton packed his tools, his weapon, a few other small essentials, and went. Trying to explain that he had no idea what they were dealing with did nothing. Which figured, he supposed. At least the spirit beasts were fun to watch run around. Even if they did make him feel inexplicably guilty.

Mazelton could feel the judgemental looks from the Two Souled as he was riding. It didn’t rise to the level of contempt. They seemed genuinely mystified that a person could be so useless on a cheve. Like watching someone try to clap their hands and managing to kick themselves in the nuts. Over and over again. They were very polite and only talked behind his back in a language he didn’t understand.

The Two souled had assured Mazelton (and Polyclitus) that they were a fast day’s ride away from the lake. It would likely be a bit tiring for Mazelton, if he wasn’t used to riding, but nothing too terribly strenuous. A nice easy trot, spaced with the rocking horse, ground eating canter that a child of six could manage all day. They were being sincere, it was all quite a doddle to them.

A cheve has four “gaits” that Mazelton knew of. Humans only had two- walking and running. Two different mechanical actions for movement; running is physically different from just walking fast. Same as with a cheve- walk, trot, canter, gallop. Walk was one foot forward at a time. Gentle as can be, and you move a bit faster than a person walks, but not massively so. Trotting. Well about trotting... The thing about trotting is that cheve never asked to be domesticated and decided to fight back dirty.

The trot is where a rear leg goes forward at the same time as the front leg on the opposite side of the cheve. There is then a jolt as the legs plant, and the action is repeated with the other two legs. Move-jolt-move-jolt-move-jolt. Over and over again. For hours. Right in the crotch. Bang. Bang. Bang.

There are two ways to manage the trot. One is to “post,” which is what Mazelton had been taught. Basically you very slightly rise up in your saddle in time with the jolt, avoiding it. It is quite comfortable, easy on both rider and cheve, and keeps the hands steady for exquisite control. But it requires stirrups short enough to permit that gentle rise, and if the rider isn’t skilled, they just bang around up there and hurt the cheve. Also you are performing what amounts to a tiny squat over and over again, for hours, but you can’t stretch your legs because of the shorter stirrups. Strictly speaking it’s easier on the cheve’s back, but only if done properly.

The Two Souled thought posting was for suckers. They sat the trot. How does one sit the trot? Apparently two ways- the way the Two Souled did it, and the wrong way. The wrong way was to try and hold on with your calves and thighs, bracing your foot hard against the stirrup for better stability. This had his cheve tossing her head and his tailbone compressing up into his neck in a real hurry. To say nothing of his burning, rapidly chafing legs. And OH DID THEY CHAFE.

“You have to roll with the cheve, Friend Mazelton. See, I don’t even need my stirrups. The cheve is going forward and backward while also gently rocking side to side. Just move with the cheve. It’s all in the hips.” Ffion, his interpreter, encouraged him.

Under other circumstances he might have better appreciated her rocking hips, but at the moment he was in no mood. Her voice barely rippled as the cheve jolted along. Mazelton sounded like a furious drum solo was being performed on his back as he tried to speak.

“Would you prefer to try a canter?”

“Please.”

Without a word, the cheve moved into a canter. Mazelton’s was a half beat behind, clearly just following the rest of the herd. It was comparative bliss.

Just as there are two ways to manage a trot, there are two ways to manage a canter. One is the half seat, where the rider shortens the reins, leans forward (degree of lean is proportional to speed of cheve, and inversely proportional to the skill of the rider), and slightly rises up out of the saddle. Think of a forward crouch, with most of your weight being held by your feet in the stirrups, but relying on your calves to actually hold you on the cheve. Very good posture for taking jumps, and one does more or less the same thing when galloping.

Unless they were literally about to jump, the Two Souled didn’t bother with all that. They just sat the canter. Same logic. Just move with the cheve. The difference was that the gait was completely different from the trot- a gentle rocking back and forth. Even if the cheve was moving at a fast canter, it was the same rocking back and forth. The hips formed a shallow ellipse on the saddle, sliding front and back with the three beat rhythm of the cheve. A good rider, which the Two Souled were, would keep their shoulders, head and arms near motionless and let their hips move with the horse. It took Mazelton a good bit to figure out, but once he did- oh, joy of joy’s. No more bang, bang, bang.

And it was faster than the trot! Which meant that it was more tiring too, damn it. So they alternated trotting, walking and cantering, rotating horses every couple of hours as they made their way up north.

The Two Souled ate jerky- the flesh of a bison, apparently. Mazelton brought his own food. He would try not to stare at Ffion, all power and long limbs, transforming into a monster with every contented tear of the sheets of desiccated flesh. Then looking away, feeling like a hypocrite. The spirit beasts were nosing around happily, lapping up the water and generally resting after a hard run.

They must be greensmithed too, Mazelton mused. Their stamina was unreal. And their speed. Being able to more or less keep up with cheve? For hours? Not many things could do that, even if they were stubbly little cheve.

The land was drying out some as they went north. Not what he had expected- the really big deserts were all south of here. The worst it got up here was, well, this. Dry grasslands. If the grass was getting thin, then there was likely something wrong. The big question was, how long ago did the bad thing happen? Was this new grass growing in, or old grass thinning out?

“Is it all desert up this way?” Mazelton asked.

“Oh no, not at all. Most of our range is grassland, with a few patches of forest by rivers here and there. Sometimes we travel farther up north and WHOA! You have never seen forests like this. Trees so big you have to take a walk to get around them. You could run one of your wagons straight through the forests. The canopy is so dense and the tree branches are so high up, there is no undergrowth to slow you down.”

Mazelton smiled and shook his head. He had heard of forests like that, but it was somewhat hard to believe.

“The desert bit is about a week or so all around in this area. We are passing through the southern edge of it. Where rivers and lakes are, there is more grass and animals, so we tend to move from water to water.”

Made sense.

“So you can see why the thing in the lake is such a big problem. Not like there are a lot of other lakes to choose from.”

“Is there anything else you can tell me about it beyond “Big, looks like stone, shoots beams of invisible heat, sings?”

“It doesn't exactly sing.”

“Well, no, it’s stone.”

“That too.” Ffion smiled, one of her upper incisors missing. Shame. Does not disqualify the skull as a trophy, of course, but definitely lowers the value. Maybe she’s a great fighter. If she has a name for herself that could bring it back up.

Mazelton shook his head in a self mocking way. He was putting way too much thought into a so-so skull. Hell of a rider, though, and she’s probably lethal with a bow. Might be something there.

Meh.

One of the spirit beasts made an incredible Yaawourp noise, which was generally taken as the signal to get back on their horses and ride north. Ffion didn’t see that as an impediment to talking.

“It’s more like it makes the whole area sing. Sort of a low aaaaaaaah to a high AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH then bounces up and down like AAAhhhhhaaaHHHHHAAAHAhhhAhAhA…” Ffion demonstrated.

Mazelton thought for a moment.

“No idea. Guess I will have to see.” It occurred to him, as he watched Ffion’s hips rock side to side on her chev, that the motion was kind of similar to a boat. Tossed around in his little rowboat, off to fight a sea monster.

They dismounted well before they got near the lake. The Two Souled had already shifted most of the tribe to a different lake, but left a dozen people to keep an eye on things. Since a dozen people were accompanied by a bit under a hundred spirit beasts, the land could be considered heavily surveilled. As they got closer, the spirit beasts started whining and shaking their heads, not wanting to go further.

“It’s the creatures’ song. Something about it hurts their ears. They can’t come any closer than this.” Ffion said. Mazelton just nodded.

They creeped forward, using the high, rough grass as cover. Mazelton was about as stealthy as a falling brick, but under the circumstances, he doubted it mattered. If he was building a giant floating murder statute, it sure wouldn’t be relying on human eyes to find targets.

He heard it from the stones first, a rising wine, almost more like the whimper of something that had been hurting for so long, it had forgotten it was screaming. As he got closer, the sound grew in power and timber, becoming more melodic, more atmospheric. Mazelton put his ear on a stalk of grass, and could hear the music ringing out from within.

And then, just the other side of a small rise, it flew into sight. Seven meters tall if it was an inch, and while Mazelton could agree that it was… gynoid… he vehemently denied that it was a woman. No woman, in his experience, could hover a hundred feet in the air and carve unsettling ridges into the nearby hills with glowing eye beams WITHOUT AT LEAST two drinks and a hit of something custom.

He wasn’t sure he one hundred percent agreed with the sculptor’s aesthetic. They seemed to be going for a heightened, if blurred, realism. Notably curvy, but with all the details left vague under a loose robe of stone. All gray with green mottling. Which, and he couldn’t emphasize this enough, you would have to really concentrate to see over the torso thick beams of heat and light carving unsettling curves and ripples in the loose dirt. The song was louder in that direction too.

Hey, he didn’t pee himself! Good job Mazelton. Good job. Now, how to tell the Two Souled that they should just find another continent to live on?

At the core of the statue, a black sun churned.