Whisper Alive

by Marc Secchia

  Thanks to the draconic windstorm, she was able to spread her limbs, gliding in a rapid arc back over the pool in time to catch a second, weaker thermal. The quintet of Dragons searched the ground nearby with low, frustrated growls, but she was already two hundred feet aloft, whispering away for all she was worth.

  * * * *

  Whisper stretched her flight for ten minutes before she was forced to skim to a landing half a mile from the Igneous Dragons. They appeared to have abandoned the search in favour of having another warming squabble – blaming each other for her escape, no doubt. Fangs clashed; wings flared and two Titian Dragons spun away, locked in battle. Moronic lizards. She eyed the clash with a certain sense of righteous satisfaction. So buzzing with relief at her good fortune was she, Whisper felt almost guilty. Almost. The state of not trotting across a Dragon’s taste-buds to investigate the sweltering delights of his stomach-cavity – possibly several bits of her person investigating several different cavities simultaneously – did inspire a certain contentment.

  Odd, how Volcagurth’s Dragon-magic had triggered her own defensive magic. Whisper pondered the link between those … tastes of magic? Scents? How did one describe such a sense? Magic-sense? Correlation? A familiarity, or a kinship between the Higher Dragon’s expression of magic and her own? She theorised that a commonality of magical expression was only natural. That said, despite the Mage’s claim that all magic originated in mana, she doubted that all manifestations of mana could be the same. What property of mana, for example, affected the physical realm in such a way as to create a gravitational flux? How did Dragons cope if they flew into a gravity inversion which pulled them irresistibly into a canyon wall or down a volcano?

  She could gladly flush Volcagurth and his kin down the nearest volcanic pipe! Dragons of evil-malevolent orientation … she should have known better than to ask for aid.

  Lesson learned, with near-terminal prejudice.

  However, Whisper was also aware that the rippling sensation of her fur had eased. She was visible again, a flame-orange furry creature lost in a volcanic, blasted realm. Mana ran out? Her ability to command her magical defences had been exhausted? Whatever the case, she did not have time to ponder her incapacity. Whisper slipped from boulder to boulder and shadow to shadow, making the fastest speed she deemed safe. Reaction-wobbles played havoc with her sense of balance. Adrenaline. The rush of relief. The levels of stress-hormones having peaked, her muscles quivered in response. She raced through a small forest and detoured around a wide set of sulphurous springs, having to leap dangerously over several boiling tributaries, before disappearing into a thicker forest beyond. She backed out far faster than she had entered. The whole forest was overrun by carnivorous protodragon plants, great green floral traps lying jaws-agape on the ground – deadly to a creature the size of a Whisper.

  When the flight of Dragons took off to return to their roosts, Whisper hid and rested for several hours, well aware of the documented superiority of Dragon sight. Dark clouds began to sweep across the stars, presaging the second squall of her short life. Lightning flashed over the strongside horizon, forking repeatedly down upon the volcanic cones, and she wondered why lightning seemed to strike from the ground to the sky, rather than vice versa. She scented moisture on the breeze. A decent cloudburst ought to wash away any tracks she might leave – excellent.

  Soon, the first fat raindrops splashed into the hot springs and hissed off the ground ahead of her. She scented the oddly musky, yet citrus-fresh quality of the moisture on the breeze as Whisper forged ahead, angling for a low saddle in the hills she was gaining upon, which rose several miles above her current position. From there, she would try to plot her onward route to Azarinthe.

  Would the whippet-draconids dare to brave these volcanic barrens beyond the canyon – well, not entirely barrens, but the avowed territory of these Igneous dunderheads? Even draconids must seem smarter than that. She trotted on with a spring in her step, revelling in the coolness of the raindrops plopping down on her head and ears. Navigate with care. Beware the open lava flows or cracks of unknown depth, for on a dark, wet night, she had little doubt even a Whisper might make a mistake and find a boiling-hot splashdown inside one of these fumaroles or vents.

  This was her gift. As she travelled onward all of that night, peering into the darkness and tracking around the dangers, Whisper turned the problem of her nature over and over in her mind. Why was she a creature born of monomaniacal purpose? How had the Warlock conjured her? From where? Had fluke or design motivated him when he drew a Whisper forth from nothingness? Where might all the other Whispers be hiding, or was the grim truth as she feared? Everyone seemed to think Whispers had once been common in the land. What was a realm without Whispers – what, forgiving herself the obvious pun – did a silence or absence of Whispers portend?

  So many unanswerable questions.

  * * * *

  The journey to the saddle took her three days of hiding, backtracking and perseverance, mostly undertaken in darkness due to the lack of cover from sunstrike. Several major lava flows formed insurmountable barriers to a land-bound Whisper, and there were no heights to work with from which she could launch herself. She was forced to track miles and miles out of her way to forge crossings, once over a narrow rock-bridge, and a second time, when she discovered the lava flow disappeared into a vast sinkhole, perhaps two miles in diameter and without apparent bottom. Huge clouds of sulphurous, acid-bitter steam poured out of the hole, billowing on the winds and dampening her fur constantly, but the cover was a boon. Whisper travelled with greater confidence thereafter, ignoring the grime and filth that encrusted her pelt into draggling, twisted hanks, and after cresting the saddle, found herself at last in sight of an abandoned or at least, little-used trail, which would according to her knowledge join up with the main trail leading to Azarinthe.

  The Grey Humans would have travelled this way to treat with the Igneous Dragons, she supposed.

  Beyond the saddle, she descended into another dangerous forest populated by new and – she smiled sardonically – fascinating varieties of protodragon plants, botanically speaking, sporting hair-triggers and whip-vines and a cornucopia of digestive gourds or lashing, sticky leaves with which to entrap the unwary traveller, or even the basic intelligence to stalk and sniff her out. Foliage rustled all around her as the plants crept about the boles of the ancient sarfir and mulyfir trees, until Whisper worked out that the best way to travel this forest was well above the ground, leaping from bough to bough or trunk to trunk. Then, she had the pleasure of soaring over or looking down upon open plant-mouths or hungry wooden maws champing forlornly in her wake.

  Imbecilic flora!

  Human Mages or Warlocks must shield themselves in order to travel through such a forest.

  She pictured the Warlock crawling about down there, weeping and crying out as the plants chewed his fingers off one by one. She really must banish these vile thoughts, but they also felt just that fraction too gratifying. If only …

  For an afternoon, Whisper led a nest of smallish Arboreal Redleaf Dragons a merry chase through the treetops, using her gliding ability to keep ahead of the pack, before the faint trail finally dipped into a crack in the rising shoulders of the land, and she was back to more familiar territory. Long ravines. Connecting tunnels, many freshly dug or blocked by recent dracoworm activity in this region; jagged caves of unknowable depth and isolated, towering stele forming vertical foundations for the ubiquitous sentikor boughs above.

  Not all was familiar, however. Whisper noticed the increased frequency of exposed or broken geodes formed by ancient volcanic activity, and remembered now that Azarinthe was also named for azarite, a deep, blue-grey mineral with reputed magical powers that the Azarinthine people mined and sold as their primary economic activity. The exact methods of mining and preparing the mineral were an Azar secret, and she idly wondered how dangerous it might be for the uninitiated to attempt an extraction in their own right.

 
; The following day, she stumbled upon the skeletal remains of several Humans frozen in the act of raising pickaxes to – well, a wall of rock that appeared to have been blasted by blue fire. She eyed the grisly spectacle pensively. It appeared as if all the flesh had been vaporised, leaving just the blue-stained bones as evidence of the disaster that had overcome them. They were neatly and magically fossilised in place, and recent enough not to be particularly weather-worn.

  She remembered Mage Shivura’s warning, ‘Misuse of mana can be lethal. Never forget that lesson, apprentices.’

  I am chastened.

  Lest she forget, she also needed to make haste. Whisper set her paws to the trail with redoubled fervour.

  Whisper-memories taught her how to pace herself, but she assumed they had belonged to a stronger, faster and perhaps older Whisper. She possessed only a fraction of the endurance her memories told her she should enjoy, and her balance oftentimes remained an issue. It seemed her tail had many more uses than she had imagined. She sprinted along the clear or open stretches of the trail, which most often were the sections along the bottom of ravines or cutting through long, manmade shendite and granite tunnels, and slowed to a wary trot when she came upon more dangerous areas, infested by protodragon plants or nests of draconids, or where the trail had simply become faded due to disuse, catching her wind.

  Learning. Always learning.

  That afternoon, the trail climbed along the flank of a huge ravine almost choked shut by mighty burgundy-coloured alukubor boughs, with their distinctive, tinkling-bell white blossoms, well sheltered by tangled lurkibor overgrowth four miles overhead, and Whisper enjoyed watching flights of birds and colourful dragonets fishing in what appeared to be a well-stocked river two miles below, while the leafy tunnels and glades were chockfull of a startling variety of bright, busy finches. She was enjoying herself so much that she missed the first trail-sign, so that when she came pelting up behind a file of Human soldiers, she almost collided with the tracker at their rear, kneeling to do up his left bootlace.

  Greys of Azarinthe. She peered curiously around a boulder behind which she had flattened herself. How was instinct faster than thought?

  How should she approach these men? The scout’s hair was iron-grey, despite his apparent youth, and the cast of his skin definitely tended toward a metallic, silvery sheen rather than the dull grey she had expected. The Azar were meant to be formidable in battle, their skins naturally tougher than most of the Human or humanoid creatures she knew of.

  Handy if a Dragon happened to slap your jowls with a fireball, say.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Whisper stepped out confidently and called, “Greetings, men of Azarinthe.”

  The soldiers whirled, cursing. Steely swords sprang into hands and pipe-crossbows bristled in her direction, but Whisper held her hands apart in the gesture of peace Drex had taught her.

  “Who are you?” demanded one of the soldiers. “What are you?”

  Whisper said, “I am a messenger sent by the Princess Rhyme of Arbor, bearing tidings for King Xaryiza-das-Azarin’s ears alone.”

  The soldier who had spoken growled roughly, shoving his short, broad-bladed sword back into its sheath at his belt. Even the belt was metal-link in design, she noticed, taking in his flexible chainmail armour, covering his upper body, the arms up to the elbows, and hanging down his thighs. Heavy metal greaves covered his shins and flared up to protect the knee, and metal bracers protected his wiry but strong-looking forearms. The noble grey brow remained unfurrowed, but his metallic grey eyes glimmered angrily at her from the man’s considerable height of several inches over six feet. This man did not like Whisper-shaped surprises, she deduced.

  He strode past his ready men toward her. “How did you cross the broken bridge?”

  She replied, “In the way of Whispers.”

  The man stilled the shocked murmuring of his patrol with a flat gesture of his left hand. “You are a Whisper?”

  “I am a Whisper.” She smiled as the repetition game started. Humans were so funny.

  “Yet you travelled from Igneous Dragon territory?”

  “Aye. I barely escaped with my hide, and I’m definitely missing a few whiskers,” she said. Not a single face even cracked a smile at her joke.

  “The Whispers are no more,” the man stated flatly. She bowed briefly, choosing not to reply. Did the evidence not stand before him? “You’re definitely a Whisper?”

  “No, I’m an Arborite in disguise,” she said.

  He extended his right hand toward her. “Give me the message.”

  “I’ve memorised it for safety,” said Whisper. “Will you let me pass? The message is urgent, and I travel much faster than you Humans.”

  “You know the way to Azarinthe?”

  “Yes.”

  “Though you’ve never been to our city?”

  “Yes.”

  The soldier said, “How can I be certain you aren’t a spy?”

  Whisper stroked her tingling whiskers. Magic. “Ask your Mage, since he’s trying to read my thoughts.”

  The soldier did not even blink. “Even the best Mages may be fooled. You’ll have to travel with us, with an escort. And you are not seeing the King, not until we’ve checked you and your story more thoroughly.”

  Now, she hesitated. “I’m not certain I can prove my identity to you. But I am concerned that I need to reach Azarinthe and speak to the King as quickly as possible. The Warlock Sanfuri is about to attack Arbor. We need help.”

  A second time, the man quelled his men with a stern gesture. “The King passed on two years ago. Your presentation of outdated information may be an indicator of your claim’s veracity, or might be subterfuge on your part. Your apparent point of origin lies in hostile territory. Dragon territory, to be precise. Sanfuri is no citizen of Azarinthe, nor has he been for many years, and the mention of that foul traitor’s name accords us little alarm, since we understand he is cut off behind a Sundering. Or hopefully, burned to ashes, although your message appears to preclude that enticing prospect.” Stroking his smooth chin, he stared down at her with a gaze suddenly turned penetrating, even antagonistic. “You have been well-trained, spy or no spy. I wonder which the true – now!”

  If his abrupt shout was meant to paralyse her, Whisper failed to obey. She really was becoming quite disobedient. Already, she was moving as a net flashed toward her, cast somehow by an unseen Mage’s magic. Instinct informed her neat forward-roll, beneath the net’s trajectory and right between the officer’s legs. He snapped his heels together in reaction, briefly pinching her tail before she tore loose. Sprint! Leap! Glancing deliberately off a boulder, Whisper changed direction and felt a crossbow bolt part the fur of her right shoulder, scoring the skin painfully but missing anything vital. Ugh – what was it with arrows and shoulders?

  She jinked sharply a second time, having the satisfaction of hearing a soldier behind her be wrapped in a Mage-net, and then she was through the patrol, sprinting down the trail toward Azarinthe for all she was worth, willing herself to flicker out of existence … yelping as a bolt sparked off the rocks beneath her paws, dodging once more as her sensitive ears caught an incoming whine. Metal ropes and blades wrapped themselves about the trunk of a tree just behind her departing hind paws as Whisper swarmed up the twisting, helical trunk of a coniferous mulyfir, and out of their sight.

  Curses followed her flight into the foliage.

  Shaking in reaction to her narrow escape, Whisper shook the dust off her paws, sprinting along the narrow mulyfir branches as she kept parallel to the trail, but several hundred feet above it. Gritty, redolent yellow pollens exploded around her body as she was unable to avoid the dense clusters of soft cones. Slowly, the sounds of pursuit faded behind her.

  These Greys were not as easy to deal with as the Arborites, nor were they at all friendly. She had neatly led the soldier into concluding she was a spy.

  Great job, Whisper!

  Now, she must beat the patrol to the city
of Azarinthe, and find out what had become of the King. This first part would be easy. The next, convincing the King – well, she had a day and a night’s travel to consider how she might improve upon her first attempt.

  Perhaps she might play upon Prince Xan’s hoped-for romantic memories of Rhyme? Or would his Grey cunning see straight through such a ploy?

  Then, she spied two dragonets flitting past her at high speed, lower down toward the trail, and another memory surfaced. Short-range messengers. Likely, the patrol’s Mage had sent ahead to warn the City Guard of a small, furry Whisper who wanted to speak with the King, and they would prepare a courteous welcome – a crossbow bolt applied briskly to the guts, say, or a snug bed in their torture chambers where a confession would be coerced out of her by the delicate application of red-hot irons to her paws.

  Grr! She flew across the branches. Run! Run for Arbor’s survival!

  Chapter 11: Grey Whispers

  THE CITY OF Azarinthe clung beneath a massive outcropping of grey tihoriabite like a blue-banded dragonet hatchling clinging to its mother’s belly-grips, studded with patches of gleaming obsidian, depending from and delving into a concave wall of azarite beneath the outcropping that was as spectacular as it was unlikely. Her eyes widened at the spectacle. The city dangled. It was built hanging downward from the great heptagonal spines of azarite and burrowed in among the complex, crisscrossing segments of crystal. How did people not simply fall to their deaths? How did one even begin to assault such a natural fortress, an overhang of exposed geode some three miles wide and eight tall, and slippery beyond measure?

  Having avoided five patrols en route through the vast canyon that housed Azarinthe, Whisper now gazed upon this wonder with a certain degree of perplexity. She felt miffed. Her unpredictable memories had not hinted at such a location. Such grandeur. They certainly did not serve up any instant answers as to how one might penetrate the city’s defences. Nor had they bothered to include this inkling of the presence of magical protection, either, as if the advent of an unwanted visitor would set every alarm in that city jangling or clanging in ear-splitting warning, before unseen magical bulwarks terminated a certain furry invader’s existence in a Whisper-sized puff of smoke.