As he stood trying to figure out what to do, the howling started up again, and as it did, the bones on the ground came to life. Darik shrank back against the wall, no longer concerned about the vines.
Bones reassembled themselves. Tendons and flesh grew on the bones, then organs, skin, and clothing. Rust melted from old swords and armor, and the people jumped to their feet. Houses reformed themselves, fields of wheat and barley sprouted from the dead ground. But everything remained hazy, as if the land itself had been bleached.
The newly risen dead paid him no attention, but set about fighting. As far as he could see, men and women engaged in battle, rape, robbery, and murder, thousands of individual struggles. A man rode by on a horse and impaled a man standing next to Darik with a spear. The man staggered back against Darik, or rather through Darik, who felt nothing, then fell to the ground, blood gushing from his mouth. As soon as he died, the man jumped back to his feet to rejoin the struggle.
Now that he could see, Darik could also hear and smell. Screams, shouts, and curses. Burning houses and fields. And above everything, the howling, as if something ripped apart the earth itself. A child screamed as a man on horseback ran her down, hooves throwing her into the mud.
At last the howling stopped, leaving a near-perfect silence but for the buzzing gnats still swirling around Darik’s head. The combatants collapsed to the ground, returning to bones. Fields and burning homes faded. From one of the stagnant pools came the forlorn croak of a stench toad.
Darik followed the wall, heart pounding. Ahead, stretched nothing, behind, nothing, but he had to move. And the howling started again. Armies reformed themselves and fought. This time it was too much for him. He slumped against the wall, trying to shut his ears against the sound, and clamping his eyes shut. The battle raged.
A scream sounded in the air overhead. A second scream closer, and then claws sank into his shoulder. He flinched, but didn’t open his eyes.
“Darik!”
Darik opened his eyes to see Scree sitting on his shoulder, eyes bright and piercing. The falcon looked back through the battle and Darik followed her gaze.
Whelan strode toward him, sword in hand. It was he who had shouted Darik’s name. Whelan’s blade blazed brighter than anything else on this blasted landscape, and cast everything gray into sharp colors as he passed. Caught in this circle of color, the wights took notice of the man, wailing and dropping their weapons to shield their eyes. Whelan held out his arm and Scree flew to his wrist.
Darik climbed to his feet and embraced the man, so happy was he to see him. As he drew inside the circle cast by Whelan’s sword, everything changed. He could see the Tothian Way now, not more than a hundred feet behind him. And the battle changed.
The war was no longer in some field, but in Balsalom itself. He saw the Merchants Quarter burning, one of the minarets toppling to the ground. The palace itself blazed with an unnatural green light. Soldiers slaughtered people in the streets, setting fire to buildings and overturned carts. Smoke strangled the air, penetrated only by the smell of death. The bodies of children lay in the streets, and Darik thought for one horrified moment that one of them was his sister Kaya, but the vision faded before he could see for sure. Again, the scene changed.
The flat, blasted plain rippled and shimmered, then turned into water, its edge marked by a flat, rocky beach. A sharp, salty tang filled the air and sea birds wheeled overhead, their shrill cries rising above the sound of the waves. Darik lurched toward the water in amazement, even as he knew it was only an illusion.
“Darik,” Whelan warned, reaching out a hand to stop him.
A woman dragged herself from the surf. In her struggle to gain the land, the waves had pounded her against the rocks, and she bled from numerous cuts. Her clothing hung in tatters.
“No,” Whelan whispered. “Not this. By the brothers, please, not this.”
He staggered past Darik and onto the rocky beach. His sword dropped from his hands as he rushed to help the woman from the water. Scree rose from Whelan’s wrist with a startled squawk. The blade glittered at Darik’s feet. He didn’t know whether to follow the man, or remain. Howls rose from the blasted plain at his back and the smell of death mingled with the smell of the ocean that lay in front of him.
Whelan cradled the woman in his arms. “Oh, Serena. Please, don’t die.”
But the woman was not pleased to see Whelan. “No, Whelan. Don’t. Find him and bring him to me. I am going to die.”
“No, Serena. He’s not here.”
“Then leave me alone.”
This last bit tore the man apart worse than seeing the woman broken by the waves and the rocks. He cried out and pulled away, before reaching for her again. This time, she didn’t resist, but closed her eyes, breathing labored.
Once again, the landscape shifted and the sea and beach disappeared, leaving them in the midst of the flat plain again. The battle raged on all sides.
Whelan was left holding nothing, a terrible, choking look across his face.
“Whelan,” Darik said, grabbing the man’s arm and trying to pull him to his feet.
“Go away.”
“Come, we can’t stay here.” In desperation, he picked up the sword from the ground and handed it to Whelan.
Whelan stared at the sword for a moment, before rising woodenly to his feet. Scree let out a bewildered scream overhead and the man lifted his wrist for the falcon to land.
Whelan swung his sword in an arc and the illusions fled before them. He strode across the plain and Darik struggled to keep up the pace. Tears dried on Whelan’s cheeks, replaced by a grim frown.
At last they regained the road and the visions vanished, replaced by a flat gray plain, much as Darik had originally seen it. He could also see the wall stretching parallel with the Tothian Way. From here, it was impossible to see the skulls that bound it together.
The sun crawled into the sky. Thankfully, it was day—that much hadn’t been an illusion. Pale as the sun was, it lifted his spirits.
Whelan breathed deeply, and appeared to have regained his senses.
“Is this Serena going to die?” Darik asked.
Whelan turned to look at him and shrugged. “Serena is already dead. My sword, there are some who call it Soultrup, lies sometimes. I don’t know what was real, what had happened, what was going to happen.”
“Who was she?” Darik asked. He noticed even as he asked, that Whelan’s cloak was still stained with blood from the dying woman.
Whelan met his gaze, face unreadable. “Serena? Serena was the queen of Arvada and the Citadel.” He nodded. “Yes, that’s right, King Daniel’s wife and Ninny’s mother.”
But Sofiana was Whelan’s daughter, not King Daniel’s. How could she … ? Belatedly, he realized the implications. Darik looked to the ground.
Whelan sheathed his sword and sent Scree aloft. He looked down at his hands and breathed deeply. “Yes, that’s right.” His voice had taken on a curious tone. Almost flat and emotionless. “I was young, she was young, and my brother was completely absorbed in the chores of a young king after Father died. It was all too easy to—” he stopped mid-sentence. “No, there is no excuse for what I did. I accept full responsibility and I will beg the king for forgiveness when we reach the Citadel.”
“So that’s why King Daniel banished you from Eriscoba,” Darik said, so many things growing clear. He’d been so overwhelmed to discover that Whelan was a prince in the Free Kingdoms that he’d almost forgotten what Ethan had said. “But why did he wait so long? Sofiana is what? Twelve years old?”
Whelan’s face clenched in sudden rage, the calm look on his face swept away. “Because I was a fool. I thought I could escape my problems, first by fleeing to Balsalom, and then by joining the Brotherhood. I suffered my ordeals in silence, purging myself and learning to control my appetites. But I simply could not admit to my brother what I had done.”
He laughed bitterly. “So I waited until the queen drowned and, in a fit of reg
ret and mourning, told my brother of my earlier sins. At any other time Daniel would have forgiven me, I’m sure of it. But he had grown to love Serena too, you see, and in his grief, he exiled me. Banished from Eriscoba, from my home in the city Arvada, and from the Citadel.”
“But wait,” Darik said. He grew angry as another part of the story came into focus. “What about Sofiana? It wasn’t her fault. Why would the king banish her, too?”
“Oh no, Daniel didn’t hold Ninny at fault. He was angry, but not that angry.” A wry smile touched his lips. “You can blame my daughter for that one. Headstrong girl.”
“It was her own choice?” Having been torn from his own life of ease, Darik couldn’t see why she’d prefer to live on the road, instead of as a princess.
“Does that surprise you? It shouldn’t. Boys aren’t the only ones who crave adventure. When I returned the first time from Balsalom when Sofiana was young, I made sure I became her favorite uncle. That meant teaching her the bow and sword, horsemanship and falconry. Not that she doesn’t love her father.”
Whelan sighed. “And then when her mother died and I foolishly chose that moment to confess my crimes, she thought it would be a great adventure to follow me into exile. And justice, too. Alas, she’s not the sort of child you can compel to obey you, or I’d have sent her back to Eriscoba long ago.”
Scree returned with a scream.
“Come,” Whelan said, putting a hood over the falcon’s head. He swept the emotion from his face. “They’ve gone ahead.”
They found Markal and Sofiana a few minutes later with the camels. Markal looked at them grimly. “You do, indeed, look like a wight, Darik. I’m afraid you won’t be able to wash until we cross the Desolation.”
Darik looked down at his filthy, scratched hands to see that they still glowed with the oils Markal had given him.
“Ugh,” Sofiana said. “What’s that smell?”
Darik said, “It’s me, I’m afraid. Something in Markal’s potion.” He pulled the camel to the ground and mounted behind the girl. “It worked, though.”
She made a face. “You smell worse than the camel.”
Darik said, “You might not say that if you had to sit in the back.” He turned to Markal. “I don’t know how you happened to have that potion in your bags but it worked. I’d have escaped if not for my clumsy feet.”
Markal smiled. “The oil is an ointment for an ailment I suffer in the, er … nether regions. The luminescence was a handy side effect. Sorry about the smell.”
Sofiana giggled. It might have been funny, or disgusting, or both if Darik and Whelan hadn’t just emerged from the Desolation.
“What happened out there?” Darik said, pointing to the Desolation. “My father used to ride through here on trading missions. He didn’t like the place, but I had no idea what it was. I don’t think he did either.”
“Most people don’t,” Markal said. “Not unless they leave the road and if they do, they don’t usually return.”
“This was once a prosperous kingdom. Aristonia.” Markal’s voice was reverent when he spoke the name. “The Fair Land, some people called it. Its people were free, its lands rich beyond belief. It was said you could plant anything in the ground, even gold, and a tree or bush or plant would sprout forth. A valuable gift was a box of the Aristonian soil. Plant it in your gardens and your produce would be the envy of every other grocer in the souk.”
“What happened?” Sofiana asked.
“King Toth demanded allegiance of the Aristonians. He’d subjected most of the world by then, and Aristonia had already suffered the Tothian Way to be built through its lands. Toth thought that if he turned the magic of this land, he could better make war against the Mountain Brother, his sworn enemy, who lived in the mountains just west of here.”
Darik shook his head. “What kind of man thinks he can kill a god?”
“The kind of man who has already killed one,” Markal said. “Toth had slain the Forest Brother the previous year. Most people don’t realize what happened to the fifth brother.”
“As he marched on Aristonia, all the free people of Mithyl united. Those chaffing under his rule revolted. For three years the battles raged across the land. Hundreds of thousands were killed, the Aristonians themselves scattered across Mithyl. When the war ended, Toth lay dead, but his curse remained on the land. I suspect it will always remain.”
“Come,” Markal said. He turned his camel to the west. “We need to reach Montcrag before Cragyn does.”
7
The Desolation stretched on either side with only the Tothian Way to break the blighted landscape. As the sun rose, the air filled with a muggy stillness and the companions settled into an uneasy quiet. The camels plodded along; they had become lethargic in the heat. But the camels’ stamina was relentless.
They saw nobody else on the road.
Darik slept in the saddle before the heat woke him. By then, Sofiana began to droop, overcome by exhaustion herself, so he traded with her and let her sleep where she could lean into the saddlebags. Markal and Whelan rode in front, Darik and Sofiana in the rear. About once an hour, Whelan sent Scree aloft to look for pursuit. She saw none.
Darik found himself rubbing the spine of the steel tome jutting from the saddlebags. He hefted it onto his lap to look at the curious script hammered across the front leaf. The remnants of paint still clung to the low parts, red and blue. A flowering vine snaked up the side of the leading letter.
He tried to remember what he’d learned of the old script. The letters represented ideas, rather than sounds. The leading letter looked like a soth, and he thought he made out tef and ithnat. If you twisted the tail the other way, one of the letters look like kormat. The rest was gibberish.
Markal’s instructions were clear. Don’t read the book. But Darik couldn’t read it even if he’d wanted to. It had been too long, he’d paid too little attention to his lessons, and this script was an older style even than the one he’d been taught. So he doubted it would hurt to thumb through the leaves. A guilty voice in the back of his mind suggested he ask the wizard anyway, but this voice was easy to dismiss. No need to disturb the man. Markal looked half asleep anyhow, slumping in the saddle.
Darik opened the book.
The first page wasn’t writing at all, but a picture of a cloud castle. It was hammered with surprising delicacy, and the paint still hung fresh and bright. Tiny people stood in the castle towers, while a griffin launched himself from the side of the cloud, a woman riding on its back.
The picture interested Darik not so much for the artistry in the picture, but for the cut away diagram of the windmill to one side, with gears and machinery exposed. Whoever had drawn the picture knew how the giant windmills that moved the castles worked.
He turned the page to discover that the writing was on the back of the leaf, and unlike the initial page, the script flowed from right to left. Was this the way everyone had written, or just an artifact of this particular book? Beyond the page, the next page contained another picture, just as fascinating as the first. He forced himself to look back to the writing to see what else he could learn, before he simply skipped ahead. Somehow, it felt important.
“Welcome boy,” the lettering said. “A bridge of time separates us. Time and pain that you cannot understand. Your companions do not yet understand the significance of this bridge, not even the wizard, but they will. In an act of mercy, the Sky Brother built castles in the sky for the survivors of the wars, hoping that by so doing he would—”
Darik shut the book in surprise. The words had come directly from the script to his mind, as easily as if he’d read one of Graiyan’s recipes scrawled in the common tongue. But more: Did the book know who he was? The thought staggered him.
Markal shifted in the saddle and Darik hastily slid the book back into the saddlebags. He must have clanked the leaves together as he did, for the wizard turned around and fixed him with a peculiar gaze. Darik swallowed, certain Markal knew what he’d done
.
“Darik? Are you ill?”
“What? Oh, no. Just hot.”
Markal watched him for another minute, then turned back around. Darik found himself sweating. And why? He’d looked at the book, but nothing had come of it. And it wasn’t going to happen again.
They reached the edge of the Desolation sometime after dusk. The first sign was a small brook running across the road. The camels spotted the water first, breaking into a great, loping gate. They stopped at the spring and took in great gulps of water.
“Springfell,” Whelan said. “We’ve crossed the Desolation.”
Indeed, the air smelled different. A breeze blew from the west, holding the promise of mountain glens and wild flowers. It mingled and clashed with the heavier air to the east.
Markal wanted to keep riding, but the camels were exhausted, and everyone needed to get off for a few hours to rest. They stripped down to loin cloths and bathed in the brook, washing road dirt and the pervasive smell of camels from their body. The water was startlingly cold.
They ate in a small clearing off the road, in the midst of some scrubby trees. Scree hunted down a rabbit and a pair of doves and they cooked this fresh meat over a small cook fire. Sofiana and Markal went to search for herbs, while Whelan cleaned his sword. Darik watched him work.
“Darik,” Whelan said, “I meant to tell you about your father.”
“My father?” Darik asked, confused.
“Yes, about your father. Both Markal and I knew, that is, we know him well.”
“You know where my father is?”
Whelan looked uncomfortable. “Well, no, but I believe he’s still alive somewhere in Veyre. Your father might have been a terrible merchant without your mother’s help, but he was an excellent spy. He brought information from Veyre to the Free Kingdoms for several years.”
Magic, Myth & Majesty: 7 Fantasy Novels Page 114
