Whelan led them northwest for the next two hours. They soon moved beyond the fields, making good time across the sandy ground, but slowing where the ground was rocky and ill suited for the camels. The wind blew prickles of sand against the skin.
The desert stretched in all directions like a vast, lumpy rug streaked with different colors of brown. The occasional sage brush clumped in the lee of a boulder, or a desert thorn gnarled its way defiantly from a crack in the rock. Far to the west, the mountains shimmered against the heat, and Darik thought he could see a hint of white at their crowns. As the sun set, it turned the desert brown to a deep, brooding red. It grew difficult to see.
At last Whelan brought them back onto the Tothian Way. It was fully dark by now, with the barest crescent moon in the sky. The camels settled down as they plodded west along the road. None of them spoke, and Darik found himself drifting to sleep. He fought it, not ready to surrender consciousness. He leaned back in the saddle while Sofiana lead.
The stars shimmered overhead. His mother used to tell him they were the souls of the dead scattered across the sky by the Harvester. “For everyone knows,” she said, “that you must sow before you can reap. The heavens are his fields and souls are the seeds he plants.”
The image was comforting. Darik thought of the rich fields of irrigated grain outside of Balsalom, waving in the desert wind. He thought of the smell of desert in the Grand Bazaar early in the morning, before the smells of the souks awakened to the day’s business. That smell came from here, the vast southern desert that only crept this far north in the extreme western khalifates. It was the Desolation of Toth that allowed the desert to spread, his tutor had told him once. His peaceful thoughts evaporated as he thought of crossing that hellish waste.
He closed his eyes until sleep washed over him. As he did, his hand drifted down to his saddle bags and rested upon the steel book.
Darik woke to an insistent tapping on his shoulder. He opened his eyes and found Sofiana leaning over him looking annoyed. He sat up, disoriented, but the girl put a finger to his lips. A pain shot up his back where he’d slept at a crooked angle. Other muscles also complained, from his calves to his shoulders and arms.
Whelan pulled his camel next to theirs, face shadowed. His sword lay across his lap. Markal’s camel sat empty. The wizard was nowhere to be seen.
Whelan leaned over and whispered, “Markal heard something. He thinks someone is on the road ahead.”
Darik’s stomach clenched with memory of the battle in the Slaves Quarter. “Wights?”
“They won’t be out on a night like this. The Harvester is abroad. Listen.”
Darik listened. At first he heard nothing but the wind and bugs chirping. And then, in the distance, a huntsman’s horn. Baying hounds. The sound was gone as soon as it had come. He shuddered. A moment later, the horn and the baying hounds again, this time further east. Darik sighed in relief. So the Harvester didn’t mark their own deaths. It didn’t necessarily mean they would live to see the morning, but it was an encouraging sign.
Whelan sounded grim. “If the Harvester is hunting souls, there must be killing aplenty. My guess is, Cragyn’s army has sacked the city.” He pulled his camel away and they waited for the wizard.
Darik’s thoughts turned to Balsalom, to Kaya. By the Brothers, let her stay safe.
Markal returned shortly, approaching so silently that none of them heard him until he was on them. The others dismounted and held a brief counsel with the wizard.
“We’re on the edge of the Desolation of Toth,” Markal said, not bothering to whisper. “I thought at first I heard the Famine Child whispering in my ear.
“But no,” Markal continued, “It’s definitely men I heard. A Veyrian cavalry unit—ten of them—has set up camp on the edge of the Desolation. They’ve got a fire, and no perimeter sentry, so they’re not expecting company. About half of them are asleep, in fact, and I suspect the rest would be too, if they weren’t afraid to be so close to the Desolation. I think they’re here not to fight, but simply to stop traders or spies from getting through.”
“Did you hear anything about the khalifa?” Whelan asked. “How she died?”
Markal shook his head. “If something happened yesterday, these men wouldn’t know. My guess is they split from the army before it reached the Great Gates. The problem is, what do we do? We don’t want to leave the road in the Desolation.”
“If they’re so unprepared,” Darik said, “can’t you cast another thunderclap or something and kill them?”
“Thunderclap? I’d be hard pressed to snap my fingers. I have no magic in me whatsoever right now. Apart from that, we’re not at war with these men. I don’t want to kill them if I don’t have to.”
“The Free Kingdoms might not be at war,” Darik said, “but I’m from Balsalom, and they’ve just killed my queen.”
“True,” Markal said. “And it is also true enough that they will soon be at war with King Daniel as well.” He shrugged. “You know what those men were talking about? How their children learned to crawl. Hard to kill a man when you hear that. Now, I felt no remorse blasting that torturer last night, but this is different.”
“There’s another thing to consider,” Whelan said. “We kill them it makes a lot of people sit up and take notice.”
“So they’re not paying attention,” Darik said. “The road is wide. If we keep the camels quiet, we can creep by in the dark.”
Markal said, “This close to the Desolation, these men are jumping at every little sound. They’ve also got horses, which will smell the camels and make a stir.”
“All we need,” Sofiana said, “is a diversion. Veyrians are notoriously superstitious.”
Darik nodded, remembering how they feared the Tombs of the Kings. He began to see the beginnings of Sofiana’s plan.
She continued, “And everybody knows that the Famine Child lives in the Desolation.”
The Famine Child was a thin, waifish girl, half-insane sister to the Harvester, who appeared in times of hunger and pestilence, spreading misery wherever she went. She was rumored to live in the Desolation of Toth where thousands had once died, feeding off the decay that still permeated the land.
Sofiana’s plan was simple. She would chase their horses from the road, dressed as the Famine Child to frighten the men if they saw her. Whether the soldiers panicked or tried to recapture their horses, the companions could slip by on their camels. Whelan didn’t want to send his daughter into danger, but agreed with the others that it was an excellent idea.
Still sitting on the ground, Whelan rested his knee on his chin, scratching idly at his face. “Not bad, Ninny, not bad. It might work.”
“There is one thing,” Darik said, hesitating and looking at Sofiana, half afraid to contradict her plan. She was younger than he, but these men obviously valued her opinions and skills more. “If the plan fails, they’ll catch her easily.”
Sofiana frowned. “They won’t catch me. Why do you say that?”
“No offense,” Darik said, “But you’re only, what? Twelve? You’ll never outrun those men. I should play the Famine Child. I can run faster.”
“No,” Sofiana said. “You’re too tall, and you’ll have to wail and act half-insane as you come upon them.”
“I played Migrath in the Harvest Festival for three straight years,” Darik said, regretting the overly defensive tone in his voice even as he spoke but helpless to stop it. “I did well enough playing the role of a drunken idiot.”
Markal said, “Ah, so drunken idiot comes naturally, does it?” He gave Darik a friendly elbow to the ribs. “Yes, I can believe that.”
“He’s right,” Whelan said to Sofiana. “You’ll be more useful guarding his back. I don’t think he knows the crossbow, do you Darik? No, well Ninny is an excellent shot.”
Markal rubbed his beard thoughtfully. “And she’ll already be mounted on the camel, ready to flee if necessary.” He turned to Darik. “Don’t take any risks. Veyrians might be
superstitious but they’re excellent swordsmen.”
Sofiana looked displeased, but didn’t argue further. Darik also found himself frowning, even though his plan had been accepted. It was a petty thing, he knew, and he struggled to suppress his irritation; somehow he’d won the argument but reinforced his uselessness.
* * *
The Veyrians camped in the middle of the Way, and their campfire cast the road in a dim, flickering light. They had no sentries but huddled together, closer to the fire than must have been comfortable.
Darik couldn’t say he blamed them. A humming wafted from the west, rising and falling in pitch. It was an eerie, unpleasant sound.
He crawled forward on his belly as close as he dared and watched for a few minutes as Whelan had instructed. A snake slid past his hand, creeping across the road to take advantage of the warmth captured by the brick during the day. The snake flicked its tongue a few times in his direction, then, deciding he was of no interest, continued its way across the road. Darik watched the snake warily until it crawled out of view, then turned his attention back to the soldiers.
“Make sure you know where everyone is before you move,” Whelan had told him. “You can execute your plan flawlessly and still be cut down by the man who stepped into the bushes to take a piss.”
He counted ten. Four slept in blankets with boots off, although from the way they tossed about, he doubted any of them truly slept. The other six played a game of bones, placing bets with a few coppers. They did it simply to pass the time, he guessed, as one of them with no money bet from a stack of small pebbles instead. They spoke in low voices, and Darik couldn’t make out anything they said. Swords lay within easy reach as well as crossbows strapped to saddlebags.
As for the horses, they acted much the same as their owners. They huddled to the north of the soldiers, milling in the shadows beyond the camp fire. They nickered nervously at the moaning sound. None wore saddles. They were roped to a single lead horse, a large roan, branded across its back. To scatter them, Darik would have to cut that rope.
Markal had dressed him as the Famine Child. He shredded and muddied a cloak from Whelan’s bag, then draped it across Darik’s shoulders. It was too large and hung in tatters to the ground, making him look thinner than before. Markal stripped off Darik’s outer cloak, leaving him with only an under cloth around his waist. The wizard then rubbed dirt and sand into Darik’s skin and hair, mixing it with water until it left him with the proper mud-streaked look. Sofiana had turned up her nose, but admitted that he looked the part of a starving child. Markal pressed two vials into Darik’s hand, one an oil to rub onto his face before he acted, the other a powder to throw into the fire should the need arise.
Time to act, Darik decided, heart pounding.
Darik had spent time with horses in his father’s stables and moved quickly to sooth the animals before they grew jittery. He ducked low behind the lead stallion, then took the first vial, broke the wax plug and dumped the oil on his hand. It might have been a pure cooking oil of some kind but that when it touched his flesh, his skin glowed with a pale sheen. He rubbed it quickly onto his face, then struggled with the knot. The Veyrians kept talking. He could understand them now.
“D’ya suppose they’ll make us march through the Desolation, too?”
“Sure,” a second soldier said. Darik heard the rattle of bones shaken and tossed. “You think we’re going to sleep in Veyre this winter?” He chuckled. “You’ll see the Wylde itself within the fortnight, I’ll wager.”
“Well I don’t like it.”
Darik could not work the knot free. It was too tight and tied in an unusual way.
“Nobody likes the Desolation, you fool. But if we stick to the road, we’ll be fine. Traders cross the waste all the time.”
“Sure,” a third man said. “But when the spirits howl, they cast lots and sacrifice the loser.”
“Good thing we’re not casting lots, the way you’re throwing the bones tonight.”
“Why don’t you all shut up so I can sleep,” a new voice said.
At last, Darik worked the knot free. He slipped the rope carefully through the bridle as the horses danced in anticipation.
“Hey!” one of the men shouted, jumping to his feet. “What’s that?” He snatched his sword and stepped toward Darik and the horses. The other men turned.
Darik froze. An overwhelming urge to run came over him. He took an inadvertent step backwards before he remembered.
“Aieeee!” he shrieked, stepping toward the light. Not a frightened cry, or an angry cry, but the cry of a mad man. The scream was the signal to Markal and Whelan to go.
He lurched into the fire light. “Food!” he cried. “I’m starving. Give me flesh to eat. Wine, red, bloody wine. Ahhh!”
He held out his hands in a pleading gesture, a gesture that showed his hands, glowing from Markal’s oil. They stank too, like something rotting. He let the cloak fall away from his face.
The men jumped to their feet in a hurry, even those sleeping a moment earlier. The bones and money scattered. One man staggered backwards over the fire, kicking up sparks and smoke. He fell into another, who tripped into the coals with a scream. The horses pranced nervously, and freed from their tether, two of them simply trotted into the darkness.
“Ah!” Darik cried, lurching toward the men with outstretched hands. “Give me flesh!” He grabbed one man by the shoulders.
This shredded the last of the soldiers’ courage. One man, eyes drunk with sleep, screamed and the others turned and fled. The horses neighed at the confusion and ran.
Plan working perfectly and a grin on his face, Darik turned to go. Or, he would have, if Whelan’s overly long cloak hadn’t slipped around his ankles. His feet tangled in the cloak and he fell, hands outstretched to break his fall. He landed with a grunt.
And as chance would have it, one of the more level-headed soldiers saw him fall. Darik climbed to his feet, and in a panic.
“Stop!” the man shouted. “It’s a boy!”
Many of the others, those still close enough to the fire to see him, stopped running. Darik turned and fled.
“Stop him!”
Darik reached the darkness before they could grab him, but the shouts spread as the other soldiers joined in pursuit. He almost cried out for Whelan and Markal, but regained his senses. Not enough time bought yet, and the horses not scattered far enough. If he could keep running to draw them further from their camp, then he could call the others and the soldiers would be too far from their horses to reach them in time.
Some of the swifter soldiers closed behind him. One grabbed his cloak and it shrugged from his shoulders and fell off. Darik lurched to the left, leaving the man grasping at air. Heavy footsteps followed.
And Darik found himself surrounded on three sides. Some of the men had looped around while he snaked back and forth to lose them. Hands grabbed, one seizing him by the wrist. He stumbled backwards and lurched in the air on the edge of the road. The grip on his wrist broke as he fell down the embankment.
Darik rolled down the hill, striking rocks. His head landed against a rock and exploded with light. He sat up, dizzy, and looked around him. Dust rose from the ground to fill his nostrils.
“No, don’t follow him,” one of the men said from the road. The voices trailed away as the men drew back from the road.
Darik climbed unsteadily to his feet, thinking at first that he’d broken an ankle. But no, it was only a sprain. He looked around but saw nothing in the darkness. Even the very stars appeared to have been snuffed from the sky. It was then that Darik realized what had happened.
He stood alone on the Desolation of Toth.
* * *
Darik thought at first that he would simply walk alongside the Way for a few minutes, and then return to the road. The soldiers knew nothing about his companions, so they would have no reason to mount a pursuit. Certainly, he didn’t expect them to ride through the Desolation until morning. For this reason, he expect
ed that Markal and Whelan would come looking for him on the road.
But it was dark, and he stumbled with every step. After a few minutes, he turned back toward the road, determined to creep halfway up the hill and listen for the soldiers. As he turned toward the Way, however, he found only empty space. He stumbled in that direction for a few minutes, then gave up and tried to return to the spot from which he’d come.
The moaning sound was much louder than it had been on top of the road. It rose in pitch and volume then disappeared, leaving silence so complete that he could hear nothing but the roaring of his own breath and the rattle of his feet kicking stones. And then it returned, howling around his ears.
Darik’s outstretched hands touched a wall unexpectedly and he knew that he’d headed off in a new direction. The wall came to shoulder height and was ragged and uneven on top. On the side, the stones were rounded and smooth.
He was afraid. He could see nothing, not even phantom lights blinking in his own wide-open eyes. Darik forced calm upon himself. Let panic take hold and he’d lurch forward all night into the waste, until he could no longer see the Way when sunrise came. If daylight ever came to this cursed land.
And then, like the slats opening in a window, he could see. The landscape blinked into existence in front of him. It was day time, but a haze draped over the land, cloaking everything in muted gray. The rising sun struggled to penetrate the haze. Darik staggered backwards in shock and fear at what he saw.
The wall his hand rested against was made of skulls, bleached white and mortared into the wall. It stretched in either direction as far as he could see. He could see over the wall and to his back, but didn’t see the road anywhere in sight, just the wind-blasted plain in every direction.
The stones he’d been kicking were more bones, some broken and splintered, others laying as whole skeletons. All clothing had long since vanished, but some still wore rusted armor, held swords in hand, or wore rings on their fingers. One man grinned back at Darik where he’d fallen, an axe buried in his skull.
The landscape was pockmarked with holes filled with brackish water. As soon as it grew light, a scum of tiny flies rose from the ponds and filled the air, swarming about his face. Plants grew here and there, but they were sickly things, huddling low to the ground. A purple, stinking vine climbed the bone wall in places, and as he brushed it, tendrils reached out to wrap around his leg. Darik stepped hastily back.
Magic, Myth & Majesty: 7 Fantasy Novels Page 113
