Connor Reads Books
Connor Reads Books
Episode 33: The Men of the Mountain - Drew Harrison
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Today's episode is a chapter read from Drew Harrison's The Men of the Mountain, a sci-fi/fantasy novel released March 2026, and will be released as an audiobook in the next month or so. Please enjoy this chapter, and please consider signing up below to be an early reviewer for The Men of the Mountain Audiobook.
Content Warnings:
No Content Warnings for this Episode
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Drew Harrison's Links:
https://www.amazon.com/stores/Drew-Harrison/author/B09PJWGGF2?ref=ap_rdr&shoppingPortalEnabled=true
https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/22160775.Drew_Harrison
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Voice Over, Mixing and Mastering Credits:
L. Connor Voice - Website
https://www.instagram.com/l.connorvoice/
https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100095473899665
https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCIC0iAX-pJlqW7LBq2PJL6A
Music Credits:
Louie Sanders, https://www.instagram.com/soundmonksound/
Any and all music, sound effects, or visual effects used in this production are royalty and copyright free. Lists of SFX and Music can be provided upon request.
Dicta And A Sky Of Ash
SPEAKER_01Chapter three Supplies Dictum the thirteenth Renia punishes the deserving and rewards the worthy. There are no coincidences. Ritual begets outcome.
SPEAKER_00Wren Oral Tradition. The sky glows with the dull gray of a snowstorm day. The lack of warming sun manifests in the chill, forlorn looks of the other wrens shuffling about in the agora. Nobody enjoys an afternoon as cold and wet as today's. The snow on the ground ranges from gray to black. It seems that the flakes drifting down are as much ash fall as snowfall. The soot-staining snow clumps on carts, piles high on roofs, and settles into heaping mounds wherever wren feet don't tread. But it always melts the moment it touches the plaza's statue of Tom Civics. It's one of the Green Robes' cheap warding tricks. Something that never lets the townsfolk forget who erected the metal idol in the first place. As the snow melts, it deposits its ash and soot over stoic Tom's frowning
Scrubbing Tom Civics Clean
SPEAKER_00face. A dark, fraying rag pats it away. Morning, Kite Clanness. Morning, Fortin Barber, I say to the young man, scrubbing at the statue from atop a wobbling stack of crates. Giving old Tom a shave, are we? Dictum 7 commands that we honor the founders, he cites dutifully. Which dictum speaks to building safer scaffolding? Fortin ignores my jibe. Eight months ago, we allowed bird droppings to stain his esteemed shoulders. And do you remember what happened? Not even two weeks later? I scratch at my head, trying to rewind the monotony of Fort Hope life. That was the third of The Sapping Bloyt appeared in the Cutter's Grove. Fortin clucked his tongue, considering the slightly cleaner face of Tom Civics. By now, his rag was so dark it more resembled a paintbrush than cleaning supplies. That it did. I remember. The men of the mountain had eventually taken care of the wood-eating fungus with incinerating wards, but there had been a few days of mounting fear as we reckoned with the idea of abandoning the fort entirely. Fortin finishes wiping away another smear of soot from Tom's cheek. Not even two weeks later, he repeats, shaking his head. How could we have been such fools to allow him to tarnish? Philosophical debate is the last thing on my mind this morning, so I don't push the matter. Hey, have you seen Clan Woodsman this morning? Fortin and Helga are friends. How she can stand the dicta reciting paranoid misanthrope is one of Fort Hope's great enduring mysteries. Left on a survey round dawn to see the state of last night's burn. Fortin begins to slowly climb his way down the stack of crates. He stumbles as he readjusts to deliberately touch the ground with his left foot first. Another Wren superstition. Journeys are to begin with the left foot and end with the right. Turning the concept of touching the ground into a journey takes a certain type of mental not tying, but in that discipline, Fortin is ever the expert. They say which way they'd go by or when they'd be back. Fortin points vaguely westward. I heard it was real bad out there. Hope those rabbits of yours were burrowed deep.
A Winter Burn And A Summons
SPEAKER_00I start towards the western end of town. But halfway across the agora, a bony arm pokes forward to block my path. Strength to tribe, Kate Glatinless. I turn and bow my deep, sincere respect to Heckton Civics. Strength to tribe, Bar Civics. Strangest thing. A burn at this time of year. I nod grimly. I was about to head out and assess how impacted the trapping might be. Late start to the day, he notes. Heckton Civics is a skeleton of a man whose white hair barely clings to his skull in loose fraying patches. Tumors and lumps model his skin, and he leans heavily on a crooked withered cane. It was a late night for me, I admit. Boars had me pinned in a tree until nearly dawn. Hecton nods.
SPEAKER_01So I'd heard. Go check the wilderness, boy. But tonight, seek me out.
SPEAKER_00We've something important to discuss. My eyes widen. Hecton, as a town overseer, was also our envoy with the Men of the Mountain. Did you receive a message then? From Hecton shakes his head in the negative, wearing a sorrowful look for the false hope, even if it was merely momentary.
SPEAKER_01No, not that. But nothing you need to worry about either. Find me tonight, and I will explain. I bow.
SPEAKER_00I will, Bar Civics.
Footprints Through The Fresh Ash
SPEAKER_00It took me no more than a quarter hour to find Shay and Helga Woodsman dragging their cutting cart back toward town. Once I'd explained that the caribou I'd sighted were in the now burned Becker's wood, and once I'd projected a suitably embarrassed air, Ben Woodsman agreed to nullify yesterday's trade. We can't do anything for the rabbit meat we ate yesterday, she'd said. But we can return all the rest and take you off the job queue. Helga, take Cade back to the house to retrieve his wares. As we walk, Helga describes the devastation in the valley adjacent. It's like after the men of the mountain purged the forest with their flame runes. No natural burn gets that hot. And especially not this time of year. Did you see any green robes out there? I try to make my question sound as nonchalant as possible. No, but enough footprints stamped into the ash to suggest nearly a whole army had been through just before dawn. Not Krieger sized, at least. I nod, a feeling of unease rising. We soon arrived to the Clan Woodsman House. Appropriately enough, though most homes in Fort Hope are sagging aged things, the woodsman home stands proudly upright with fresh timber. Your things are in the foyer. I could probably use a hand loading them, Helga says. Before I can object about the propriety of me entering her home with no chaperone, she sweeps me into her home, her skirts gliding smoothly across the swept floor. I turn at the portal, seeing if anyone is watching. Ted Baker frowns from across the ruddy road. Nothing to be done for it now, I think. I push my way into the home, pulling the door shut behind me. You look as red as a civics robe, Helga says with a laugh. Warm hearth will do that after a cold morning, I reply. Helga nods humoringly. Can I make you some tea? If it's all right with you, I'd like to get my things and be on my way. I've got to get some bartering done this afternoon if I'm to eat tonight. Suit yourself, Helga says, that twinkle still not quite leaving her eyes. I begin to suspect she enjoys seeing me on the back foot. The foyer is that room over there? Helga nods. Just look for the big pile of rabbit. I'll get the cart from Round Back.
Returning To The Hidden Outpost
SPEAKER_00As I wind my way up the greying soot stained hills, the pack slapping at my back is burgeoning with its overstuffed contents. Healing poultices, dried meats, sheets, and even fresh candles from Clan Chandler. I did the mental math, deciding how many hours it had been since I deposited the woman onto the mattress. Far too many, I decide. I brace myself for disappointment as I puzzled through the options. Most likely, she's gone now. Woke up, gathered herself, and vanished into the gray. Next most likely, abducted, or rescued, by one of the wizards, could be dead, still on that same mattress, killed by some hidden wounds from her fall from the heavens. I don't relish the thought, but my pick hangs from my pack in case I need to dig a shallow grave. As I near the secluded outpost, I note that no wisps of gray smoke puff from the chimney. No fire was lit this morning. I swallow the lump in my throat as I knock on the door, an alert more than a request. The keyway is creaky and heavy from the cold. The door groans as it opens.
Robin Wakes And Nothing Translates
SPEAKER_00Bundled up in her blankets, the woman sits upright on the mattress. Her eyes are wide, locked to me with apprehension, but there's a forlorn cast to her face. A brittleness to her gaze that's as sharp as the icicles that line the outpost's sloping roof. You're awake, I say, my relief immediate. How are you feeling? Are you all right? I pull the door stiffly shut behind me. It takes a full body effort to get the rigid, rusted latch to engage. I then turn to the woman expectantly. Had she not heard me? I said, Are you all right? The woman's reply is a few words that I can't understand, and, after a pause, she then erupts into a stream of desperate, unintelligible speech. At first I worry that a blow to the head might be to blame, but after a few seconds, patterns are obvious. Her star speech nearly sounds like the incantations uttered by the men of the mountain, but I quickly decide that the words don't have the right shape. The consonants are misshapen and lumpy. Do you speak Rennick? I ask, drawing closer to the bed. The woman babbles more in her strange language. It might as well be the cooing of an infant for all the sense it makes to me. I momentarily laugh at my own stupidity. I'd just well, sort of assumed that the woman who fell from the crown of the sky would speak perfect Rennick. Of course, beings of another plane of existence might have other languages, and the men of the mountain were not exactly known for sharing their mythology with the lowly Wren. I don't speak sky person, I tell her. Watching is my words, of course, do not register. She barks something back, pointing at the tatters of her robe in the far corner of the room. I step back as she rises unsteadily to her feet, still wrapped tightly in her blanket. Her arms poke from beneath as though she were wearing a drooping, oversized poncho. As she speaks with increasing volume and fervor, I notice the puffs of white that leave her lips. Only then do I realize how frigid the room actually is. There's firewood by the hearth, I say, pointing towards the place where a fire had been burning yesterday. Fire, I repeat, moving to touch the hearth. She may be healed enough to stand, but for some reason, she'd chosen to light no fire. Maybe she was afraid of the smoke being spotted? She needn't have worried. The small fort here was built to control a narrow gap between two craggy stony peaks. The formation itself blocked all visibility and any smoke, except perhaps for the birds overhead. You can light a fire, I say slowly, making my mouth into exaggerated shapes as I speak. Fire I say again. To demonstrate, I grip the sparking stones and strike them until a fresh wad of kindling catches. She nods, comprehending. The stern, if distressed look, never quite leaves her face. Cade clanless, I say, pointing at my chest. Then I point to her and wait. She looks at me with a cocked head. Cade clanless I say again, pointing to myself. Then I point back to her blanket wrapped chest. Understanding crosses her face. Robin Havlock, she says, pointing to herself. She points to the hearth. Fire she repeats, grimly serious. She points back to herself and repeats her name for good measure. Robin Havlock. Tension releases from my shoulders. Not rendered senseless from her fall from the heavens after all. I wrinkle my brow, unsure what sort of job Havelock was. Its meaning evidently lost in translation. And yet, the exchanging of names feels like a tremendous step forward. It's good to know your name, Robin. She answers back with a sentence in her strange tongue, but I can hear the word Cade embedded in her words. It's an acknowledgement more than a greeting. I see now the deep worry lines that crease her face, the heavy set of her shoulders, the way her eyes dart to my every detail, lingering on the lumps and growth that dot my neck and back. She must be in such pain, I think. Feeling a pang of sympathy for the woman who fell from her world. In a flickering moment of doubt, I wonder if I've done her a bad turn, depriving her of the life of mystical luxury the Men of the Mountain might have ushered her off to. I catch myself in these unproductive ruminations and manage to shake myself free by unslinging my overladen supply bag onto the room's table.
Supplies, Names, And A Knife
SPEAKER_00I unpack the oilskin wraps of meats, the sheets, a skin of wine, two chemises, and a smock that Adria once wore. Clothing that was baggy and large on my young sister, and would no doubt be small and confining for the much older Robin. Still, clothing that was too small was surely better than nothing. I tug at my clothing. Cade's clothes. Then I point at the folded garments. Robin's clothes. I wait, and she reaches for the clothing with uncertainty. I nod with reassurance as she takes them. They're for you, I say. She murmurs something in her own tongue as she unfolds the clothing, appraising each item. I assume I've just learned the sky people phrase for too damned small, so I shrug apologetically. All I could get so short notice, I admit. I'll have new clothing made. The water pitcher I'd left by Robin's bedside is emptied, as she considers the clothing. I grab the pitcher and head back outside into the cold. Her mutely curious gaze follows me through the window as I reach the stone reservoir connected to the chimney. Its top can be opened to let in snow, and the heat from the hearthstone melts it down. A small metal tap at the base dispenses the water into the pitcher. As I set the pitcher back on the counter, Robin immediately grabs it with two hands and takes several lengthy gulps. I return to the unpacked sundries. One at a time, I say the name of each item. The woman's accent is thick and tinged with the colors of the stars, but she seems to be a surprisingly quick learner. Wine, she repeats, pointing at the skin. Fire Close Kate. Clothes, I repeat for emphasis. Close she says, face screwed in concentration. I pantomime the application of the poultices I brought. I then gesture meaningfully at my back, my side, and my torso, lingering especially long on where I saw Robin's deepest cut. She frowns, understanding. Holding the poultice, I step forward, intending to offer my help, but Robin merely snatches the bundle from my hand and pulls it beneath her blanket. I think I get the gist. Her wounds are now her own private business. In slow, painstaking detail, we move our way through the rest of the items in the pack. As I reach into the pack for the final item, I hesitate, wondering if I should even give this one at all. I still know nothing about this woman, her allegiances, or even her opinion of me. Her face has been anything but friendly, permanently stretched by expressions ranging from forlorn frowns to confused scowling. But no, this final item was an essential for anyone out in the wilderness. I say, setting the sheathed blade onto the table. She briefly recoils, eyeing it with deep concern. Robin's knife, I say, turning it on the table so that the handle points toward her. From a young age, we're taught never go far from home without a good knife. You're pretty far from home, Robin. You'll need one to keep yourself safe. There are dangers in these woods. She takes the knife. It too vanishes beneath her blanket. Knife, she repeats, mimicking a stabbing gesture with her free hand. Knife, I confirm, smiling wanly. A question occurs to me.
Home Drawings Turn Into Runes
SPEAKER_00Your home? Where is Robin's home? Home? Her head cocks, and I can tell by the inflection that it's a question. It's well I head to the hearth, finding a suitably thin piece of kindling. The flames lick at my fingers as I pry the sapling twig loose. Its end is a charred black. This I say, dragging the singed sapling tip across the wooden wall. Is home. I'm no artist. I stopped stick drawing sometime around my sixth winter, but the bowing, pentagonal shape is recognizable enough. The door at the front, the small round window, the chimney with a streak of smoke. A quick twiggy drawing of a wren beside the house completes the image. Home, I repeat warmly. Robin home, she says, pointing upwards. I nod solemnly. I can see the dampness in her eyes. She's on the verge of tears, but she retains her composure. Why did you fall from the sky? I ask her. Her answer is in a tongue I could never understand, but the words twist and twine about themselves with a beauty I hadn't before recognized. This ancient language of the stars has a sound to match their shimmering, their twinkling. Cade home? I can again hear the question in her inflection. She wants to know where I live. I freeze, considering. If I point her in the right direction, I'll never be able to explain to her that she absolutely cannot visit, that the superstitious wren would turn her in the moment she approached the gates. Instead, I point down at the floor. Home. I repeat. My message I live right here. Robin purses her lips. It clearly wasn't the answer she wanted, but she's unsure how to ask me for more. She finally points at the sapling stick with the burnt tip. I gladly hand it over. As she presses the tip to the wall, I squirm, anxious to see the images she traces in the soot. But as the tip wiggles, too small for any drawings, I see the lines and crossed hatches and curves. My stomach drops. Writing. Wait, no! I shout, springing forward. Her third cymbal tears off into a jagged downward line as I snatch the stick from her hand, stopping the woman's reckless runecraft. Her babbling reply is confused. Angry, I think. She's probably not actually suicidal, simply ignorant. There's danger in runecrafting, I explained to the uncomprehending woman. Very bad. I then reach down and begin to scuff at her cursed etchings. My sleeve, thankfully, takes the bulk of it off. My work finished, I turn to face Robin again. She's taken a step back and is scrutinizing me carefully, as though I were a wild animal. As though I were the dangerous one. As though I were the one who nearly killed us both. When you bind a concept to a rune, when you compress so much stuff, meaning substance and purpose all into a symbol, it's unstable. It's dangerous. Her chest heaves with indignation. She gestures at the picture of the house, the stick, at me. I can see that she's angry, as though she weren't being treated fairly. One wrong line, and you could start a fire. One misplaced hatch and and and a plague could ravage the forest. I shake my head, remembering a day I would rather forget.
Are The Green Robes Good
SPEAKER_00Two years ago, the men of the mountain came to Fort Hope. I sketch my best imitation of the robed cultist as I speak. My poor artistry becomes downright laughable as I try to multitask. They held a competition where Wren could try their hands at rune-scribing, under supervision, of course, to see if any had a pen steady enough to bind and control. I watched Carla Grain miscurl a line. Her quill bent. And that was that. Intense convulsions overtook her. I've never seen muscles bend like that. And there was a smell of burning flesh, and when it ended, seconds later, Carla was dead. Although Robin, of course, can't understand a word of my story, her face softens. I think she can see the troubled recollection in my own countenance. It's home good. I say, pointing at the house. Robin? Good. Cade good. Then I lean over the wall, holding the charred stick above the surface, mimicking the gesture of writing, but not actually touching the tip to the wall. Writing? Bad. I shake my head vehemently. I then mime the stabbing gesture from the discussion of the knife earlier. Bad. By the quick nod Robin issues, I think she understands. Fire? She asks, and it takes me a moment to understand. Good and bad. Good in the winter bad for a crop field. Wine? Good, I answer. Close? She asks, still not quite getting the syllable right. Good. I confirm. She steps in close, placing a pointing index finger on my neck. I can see sorrow in her eyes. Bad? She asks. It takes me a moment to understand what she means. Her finger rests on the small tumor bulging from the back of my neck. My most prominent manifestation of the touch of Rennia. We all have them, save for the men of the mountain. And now, save for her. Neither good nor bad? I say, shrugging my shoulders. Just life. She nods, confirming her understanding. She then points at the drawing of the green robe. Good? she says. I pause for just a moment. She frowns at the hesitation. Men of the mountain, I say, pointing at them. Green robes. Wizards. Bed? Robin asks. I chew my lower lip, thinking. I don't know if Robin has already met any of the mountaineers. If some of them found her here, would she repeat my words directly to them? Just who was this female member of their tribe who didn't even speak our common rennic tongue? And, to be frank, were the men of the mountain, the people who brought us our children, who cured our sick and fed our hungry, truly even bad? I decide there is rarely harm in the truth. Very strong, I say, flexing my arm for emphasis. And strong means dangerous.