by Marc Secchia
Now, the young woman’s tone rang with fury, echoing off a vaulted roof above. Whisper struggled to press her eyes open. “Please …”
The woman stooped close; her spicy breath wafted over Whisper’s nostrils as she blurted out, “What? It speaks?”
“Message … King Rhuzime …”
Now, she could make out a pair of blue eyes in the haze washing across her vision. A dark patch of mouth opened and said, “The King is ill unto death, Whisper. You’ll have to tell me – us. All of us. I am called Rhyme, and these are the King’s closest councillors. What is this message for which you have been whipped, and suffered, and now bleed upon my sheets?”
She tried to draw herself up, but sank back with a drawn-out groan. When she spoke, it was into a silence that gripped the Princess and her advisors sorely, as though a hint of foreboding had stolen their tongues.
Whisper wheezed, “This is the message: ‘Greetings to you from Sanfuri the Conqueror, o –”
Curses burned the air.
“Silence!” roared the Princess, quelling her councillors. “I will hear this message of doom!”
Chapter 6: Whisper Home
ALL WAS SOFTNESS, a lascivious, dreadful lassitude that sucked her down into the realms of fungus and darkness, down toward the lapping, acidic waves – Whisper awoke with a jolt. Where was she? She lay in downy and unaccustomed splendour upon sheets of Tinshubar silk. A spongy pillow supported her throbbing head, and bandages – more bandages than fur, apparently – swaddled her person. Her left leg was heavily splinted, and held completely immobile six inches above the sheets by a device of decidedly terrifying proportions that stood clamped to the sides of her simple wooden cot, looming over her with the air of a whippet-draconid slavering over a furry snack.
A girl lay on her right side, facing Whisper’s cot. She blinked to try to force her eyesight to adjust. Oh. One eye was indeed bandaged shut. Judging by the delicate snoring emanating from beneath the gauzy, eggshell-blue hangings, the girl must be sound asleep. The Princess? Whisper wrinkled her nose at the combination of homely smells in the simple round chamber – wood smoke, candle wax, woolly, freshly laundered blankets, the oily trace of armour or weapons, and a sweet perfume unknown to her. A painting hung facing the octagonal bed, featuring a woman not much older than the girl, evidently a relative, who had – her eyes flicked back and forth like a buzzing dracowasp, ascertaining and imprinting the details upon her memory – hair of a blue so light it was almost white, like clouds against sunstrike, and soft blue skin, just like the girl. The City of Blue. Hmm. Imaginative descriptor. The woman in the painting was smiling, an upward curve of the lips that unexpectedly lifted Whisper’s heart too, and her rounded face communicated more honesty than beauty, in truth, but it was a strong, amiable and even noble face.
Strength of character was another form of beauty.
Perfumed smoke curled out of a brazier set between the Princess’ bed and the cot, creating an atmosphere thick enough to swim through. Pungent medicines. Charred herbs and essences. Interesting that Humans chose to burn the goodness of medicines when blackwort, sikkur-bark and temurgon would have done much better administered in powdered form and digesting in her lamentably hollow stomach. She brightened. These Blue Humans had neither chained nor whipped a Whisper – but she remembered the shouts of ‘animal’ and ‘how dare the little beast’ before she had slumped once again into a useless, insensible heap. Her lip curled. Savages.
Savages that might be persuaded to feed a starving Whisper? Perhaps they were civilised, unlike that Warlock and his fellow-brutes.
The perfume was so strong, it tickled the insides of her sensitive nostrils. Whisper tried to stifle her sneeze against the pillow. Atish, she managed, really quite politely.
Great galumphing Dragon talons, that hurt!
The Princess sat bolt upright as though Ignothax had sneakily pinched her rump, and stared wildly over at Whisper. “She’s awake!”
“Awake, milady?” said the guard by the door. Myntix. Whisper could have smelled her stench from the next canyon. She owed that thoughtless thug a kick right in her pair of oversized cushions.
“Aye. Fetch the Councillors.”
Myntix cracked open the solid wooden door, rounded at the top. She whispered, “Awake.”
“Awake?” Drex’s deep tones shook the doorframe.
“Awake,” repeated the soldier.
Drex rumbled, “Awake now. Fetch Warleader Ammox, Consul Yara and Mage Shivura. Hurry, man.” Another pair of booted feet, perhaps with the lightness of a youth, immediately retreated down the corridor outside. Running.
“You’re awake?” repeated the Princess.
Whisper blinked. Were these Humans as dense as old dragonhide? How many Humans did it take to agree on such a simple matter? Now, the Princess swung out of her bed. She had slept clothed, as if prepared for war. Perhaps a soft, furless Human female might take exception to being compared to crusty dragonhide – Whisper grinned weakly. Insults were no way to make allies.
Rhyme tugged a thick grey woollen cloak over her shoulders against the early morning chill, and belted it around her waist. Quite unlike a Whisper, the Princess was all curves, but those appeared to be belied by her straightforward personality. She slipped a long dagger into her belt, gathered the extraordinary length of her pale blue hair into her hands – that silken waterfall was longer than a Whisper was tall – twisted it efficiently, and pinned it somehow behind her head. She poured herself a glass of water from a crystal decanter set upon a low, hand-carved istilaki-wood table at her bedside, then with a gruff laugh, raised the blue-stained glass toward the cot.
“Water?”
Whisper nodded. “Thank you.”
Food? Whisper-steps. First, she must assess the situation.
The Princess stepped quickly around the bedframe. Strong, capable hands raised Whisper’s head, mindful of her bandaged shoulder, and helped her drink. Then, Rhyme considered her … captive? Messenger? Enemy? The deep blue eyes crinkled at the corners, made rather more startling by the very long, near-white eyelashes that framed those striking pools. She made a twirling gesture with her right hand. “Welcome to Arbor, the City of Blue Humans. It is not often we play host to scandalously mythological creatures named only in ballad and lore. I am the Princess Rhyathala-Shimmira, but just Rhyme will do – trust me. And if you mangle my name like everyone else, I’ll – sorry.” Her gaze dropped to Whisper’s bandaged belly. “I hope you’re … ah, comfortable?”
“As in, my intestines are comfortably returned to my abdominal cavity? So I am.”
The Princess voiced that gruff laugh of hers. Her tones were deep for a woman, Whisper’s memories told her – tribal memories? Racial? Cultural? “You joke after all you’ve been through in Arbor’s service? Where is the Warlock? How far? What do I call you – I don’t want to call you ‘animal’, or Drex’s ‘lil’un’? What about pet? Cutesy? Furry creature –”
“Pet? Furry?”
Whisper’s furious hiss was lost in a banging at the door. Ammox, the slightly asthmatic rasp of his breathing proclaimed. “Ready, Princess?”
Rhyme’s gaze did not waver for a second. “Come in.”
What lurked in those unexpectedly probing blue eyes? Sympathy? A flash of anger? Whatever the case, the Princess’ intense consideration lifted to greet the tall, older warrior who stepped through the doorway. “Princess,” he said. “She’s awake?”
Here they went with the repetition. What a curious race.
“Awake,” Rhyme echoed, on cue.
Right behind the stern warrior came another man of reddish complexion, popping out from hiding as though produced by a conjurer’s sleight of hand.
“I’ve been researching the matter, fascinating, fascinating,” said the small man, tangling his fantastical red-shot beard about his hand as he gestured excitedly. Aiming a large, rolled-up scroll at Whisper’s forehead, he declaimed, “Behold, one prime example of a mysterious, exquisite, elu
sive creature known as a Whisper! Marvellous, I tell you. Simply marvellous. What an opportunity this represents for all manner of highly valuable research, I tell you, Princess – it shall be an unprecedented boon for Arbor. Of course, I humbly offer my services in the pursuit of –”
“Mage Shivura,” Rhyme said drily.
“It is magical and therefore innately treacherous,” Ammox grunted, folding his gnarled forearms across his stalwart, metal-clad chest. His pallid blue gaze silently diced Whisper up with axes.
Shivura drew himself up in his deep indigo robes, which were decorated with what Whisper took to be mystical sigils and runes picked out in gold thread, and adjusted his rather ridiculous, floppy-brimmed mushroom hat upon his head. His search for a rejoinder eventually bore fruit, for he spluttered, “You distrust everything magical, Warleader.”
“So I should.”
The Warleader’s heavily wrinkled cheeks settled into what must be a habitual ominous smile, making it quite clear that the Mage was more than included in his dour pronouncement. The Mage sniffed as if to indicate he was miles above such unsolicited disparagements.
“I would recommend interrogating it with an axe blade twisted in the vitals. Cut through any subterfuge,” added the Warleader. Like Rhyme, Whisper observed, Ammox appeared to have slept fully clothed, although this man’s chosen attire was a solid, one-piece metal breastplate over chainmail. Whisper knew she could never have lifted half the armour he wore; his physical presence and robust stance reminded her of twin jentiko tree trunks planting themselves with the expectation of not moving for a thousand years.
These Arborites must possess the strength of Dragons.
“I must be allowed to study this unique creature,” cried the Mage, rushing toward the cot in a flurry of robes. “Its magic is among the oldest of our world. The oath-imperative is nonpareil, and it detects – hear this, all of you – it detects magical fields! Most extraordinary!” Extending his hands, his many rings flashed in the soft brazier-light. Just like the Warlock’s knuckle-infestation of peculiar rings! Whisper shuddered. “I simply must be allowed to analyse it fully in my laboratory. This is my muse, my destiny, my path to the higher powers!”
“Aye, you find your path, Mage,” said a newcomer, in a voice as dry as crystal dust. “We’d prefer to save our necks. Captain Drex, come inside. Interrogate the creature.”
Drex had not yet appeared, although his boots had palpably shaken the corridor and the Princess’ room as he approached. He must have waited for his seniors to enter first. A humble man? Or a calculating one? Unlike the others, he had known about Whispers …
Rhyme bowed briefly, and indicated the persons now crowding her room. “Consul Yara. You know Captain Drex. He reports to Warleader Ammox. Together with Mage Shivura, we five make up the King’s chosen Council.”
The Consul was an older, iron-haired woman of indeterminate age, with the smooth, give-nothing-away face of a consummate politician, also blue of cast, like Rhyme. Unlike Ammox, her emotions were veiled, but her quiet authority weighed palpably on the gathering – this woman was the true power behind the throne, Whisper guessed.
“Not my exact choice,” Ammox pointed out.
Her eyes darted again. A barb, directed at the man-mountain outside. Tilting his mighty shoulders, the warrior who had wielded his hammers in her defence crammed through the – for him – undersized doorway, since only one of the double doors stood open. He grunted, wriggled a bit with a scowl that threatened to lift the lintel clean off its doorposts, and eventually managed to pop through, whereupon he immediately snapped to attention, pretending that nothing was amiss. Whisper smothered a giggle. Drex stood head and shoulders above the others, perhaps six feet and eight inches without the solid boots, but it was the eye-watering bulk of his muscled body that made this man dangerous. She imagined he breakfasted on iron hammers and snacked on Dragon bones between meals. Rows of parallel scars, too regular to be anything but man-fashioned, scarified his cheeks, his forearms and the boundless bulge of his bare deltoids. Even at rest, his biceps displayed undulating, sharply defined veins and eye-popping striations in the muscles.
“Drex.” Rhyme beckoned peremptorily. “Stop holding up the wall.”
His clear grey eyes assessed the room with a professional soldier’s aptitude before he turned to the cot, and advanced. His tread shook her cot as the giant loomed ever larger, until he stood opposite Mage Shivura. Eyes ringed her. Blue. Grey. Cool. Assessing, openly inimical and wary – she could read many of their emotions as if they were written upon unfurled scrolls.
Drex said, “What we done call yar?”
“My name is Whisper.”
The Warleader sniffed unhappily.
“Good. Whisper, how came yar by thar message?” asked the huge warrior, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
Whisper replied, “As far as I recall, I was conjured into being some days ago by Warlock Sanfuri. He beat me, oath-bound me to deliver his message across the Sundering –”
“You crossed the Sundering?” the Mage blurted out.
Whisper breathed, “You repeat everything?”
Shivura leaned over the cot, shaking his fist beneath her nose as he turned a magnificent shade of puce. “I am infinitely more intelligent than some furry boot-rug stinking up Arbor’s best bandages and beds! Don’t entertain any delusions about your treatment here, beast! I warn you, you will tell the truth, or so help me, I will have your brains pickled in the cause of magiscience!”
“Hear, hear,” grunted Ammox. “Dumb animal.”
White anger speared through Whisper’s being. Her paws shot upward, taking two handfuls of the Mage’s straggling beard. Tugging him downward, she spat, “I am not an animal!”
Shivura vented a screech like a mortally wounded draconid. Before he could respond, Drex’s huge hand covered Whisper’s paws, easing the pressure on the Mage’s precious beard-hairs. He said mildly, “Enough. Tell yar tale, lil’un, an’ make it concise. Thar’n time enough for argument later. Yar Council, listen good. Afterward, we’ll interrogate the an – the Whisper.”
Whisper slumped back against the pillow, exhausted by her brief fit of rage. Foolish. She had made an enemy. In quiet, bleak tones, she told them how the Warlock had turned her to his service. As she spoke, she watched the gathered faces for clues. At her description of the whipping and subsequent amputation of her tail, even Warleader Ammox’s jaw clenched. Shivura, surprisingly young for a Mage despite the knee-length profusion of his evidently much-pampered and beloved facial hair, nodded at her recollection of the binding magic, undoubtedly filing away the reference to be used against her in the near future – this intention was clearly writ on his narrow, calculating features. When she noted what she had seen and heard of the Warlock’s Dragon and Human army, Rhyme gasped softly and paled, while Drex’s hand leaped to the hammer on his broad belt, his knuckles whitening as if he sought to twist the metal in the kiln of his anger.
Consul Yara interjected, “So, you conclude the Warlock used your magical nature to blaze a blood-trail to our gates?”
Whisper dipped her gaze. “I’m so sorry …”
The Warleader’s glare had taken on a poisonous quality, but his thoughts were faraway, outside the room – perhaps upon defences, or planning how to block the trail toward the Sundering, or considering an immediate evacuation.
Shivura hissed, “You couldn’t help it, Whisper. Once the oath was bound – that’s very old magic. Unstoppable.” She turned to him, more shocked by this statement of support than anything the Mage had said or threatened before. “And, you must understand, the whippet-draconids are known to track not only blood and scent, but magical aura. Admirably devious, that Warlock. And powerful, if he can conjure a Whisper or control a Dragon in the familiar bond … his powers would be unthinkable.”
“Better the beast had tossed herself into the Brass Mirror!” Ammox’s teeth ground audibly in his stolid jaw. “How dare you excuse the condemnation of her own
mouth?”
More mildly, Consul Yara said, “So, we are besieged on all sides. Ill news, my friends. Now is the time for wise heads to determine strategy. We cannot face this threat alone. Ammox and I can see to our defences, but as you well know, no city under any bulwark in the world can withstand the concerted attack of Higher Dragons. If Sanfuri – sunstrike curse his filthy ancestors to an early grave – commands even the mighty ones of the Dragonkind, our situation is beyond grave. It is untenable.”
“What does he want of us?” Shivura put in.
“Simple conquest? Ken’nt be, nowt for a man o’ thar ilk,” Drex said. Whisper struggled to follow his thick accent.
“Go on, educate us,” sneered the Warleader. “You and he seem to think alike.”
Truly? Whisper could not understand the accusation. Nothing about Drex was like the Warlock. He was a good man, but tortured, as the charge betrayed now. He seemed to wilt within, as though concealing a weakness of heart.
“Somethin’ more,” Drex growled defiantly. “Somethin’ that takes thar Warlock on a several-week jaunt ’cross a Sundering. Sure, he’d whip an animal – curse my tongue, a Whisper! Sorry, lil’un. We knows thar be easier targets bulwarkside an’ windward o’ here. He done wanted Arbor sore-like an’ took it out on yar. Why?”
Blank looks passed around the circle.
The Mage snapped his fingers, his sallow eyes gleaming with an unholy light. “Unless … unless we use the Whisper the same way the Warlock used her!” Rhyme stiffened, but Shivura added with inevitable glee, “She can break through to our allies at Azarinthe. The air-bridge was sabotaged, but she will find another way and bring aid. That’s what she’s made for.”
Rhyme appeared to regain spots of colour in her cheeks at the mention of Azarinthe. Intriguing. Whisper’s mind filed the information as assiduously as every other aspect of their conversation so far.
“There’s no other way,” Ammox agreed, appearing pleased. “When your brain isn’t addled by all those noxious fumes in your laboratory, Mage Shivura, you do manage a few cunning thoughts.”
