The Last Whisper of the Gods

by Berardinelli, James

  “Oh, I don’t think water will be a problem,” said Warburm. “But I detest traveling in wet boots. Wrinkles your damn feet. No help for it, though.”

  For a while, it felt good to be rained on. Sorial, like his fellows, stripped off his ragged, filthy clothing and allowed the water to wash away the accumulation of salt that was a byproduct of bathing in the ocean. After a while, however, the refreshing sense of cleanness gave way to a waterlogged feeling. The storm brought with it not only a cool wind but a marked drop in air temperature. As the ground beneath his feet turned into liquid mud, Sorial had to wrap his arms around his chest to keep warm

  The storm didn’t last long and, as the more permanent darkness of night fell in its wake, Sorial had trouble finding sleep. He shivered and curled into a ball. He would have given anything for a warm, dry blanket but it was worse putting on sodden clothing than lying naked and exposed.

  “Chilly this morning,” muttered Warburm several days later, emerging from beneath the cloak he had been using as a blanket. It wasn’t yet cold enough for his breath to be visible, but it was getting close. Sorial had to clamp shut his teeth to keep them from chattering. When the sun was high, it warmed considerably, but the mornings were the worst.

  Later that day, they reached a barrier. The easy shoreline route they had been following for a week vanished as the land once again rose up from the ocean to create a precipitous drop into crashing surf. The top of the cliff, where it fell off in a five-hundred foot plunge into the ocean, was unsafe. The footing was insecure and an accident couldn’t be risked. They had little choice but to move inland and climb.

  The crags here weren’t as high or dangerous as those to the north and east, but they proved taxing; Warburm would lead them miles out of their way to find a gentle passage or manageable trail rather than risk a challenging slope. It took them three days to cover the same distance they might have trekked in three hours over smooth ground.

  Then they saw it.

  They crested the top of a rise that was too steep to be considered a hill but too gentle to be called a mountain, and glimpsed it far below on the ocean-facing side. At first, they weren’t sure what they were looking at, then Lamanar put it into words. “That’s Havenham. Or at least what’s left of it.”

  If Sorial had expected it to resemble a city, he was mistaken. All that remained were the broken remnants of stone towers, pointing like accusing fingers at the sky. The smaller buildings had been devoured by the shifting earth. Surprisingly, little in the way of vegetation grew there, despite its abundance in the mountains. It was the absence of greenery more than the presence of visible ruins that called the eye’s attention to the spot.

  And there was one other thing: smoke. Havenham might have been abandoned fifteen centuries ago by its citizenry, but it was no longer uninhabited.

  “A settlement?” asked Warburm to Lamanar.

  “We’re too far away to tell for sure, but that’s probably it. They may have dug out some of the old buildings to use for shelter. It’s only natural. People lived here once for reasons, and those reasons remain valid.”

  “Why was the city abandoned?” asked Sorial.

  Warburm shrugged. “Who knows after so many years? We know little ’bout Havenham, ’cept it was the biggest of all the southern human cities.”

  “Plague,” said Lamanar simply. “Plague the likes of which men never seen before or since. Some of the old scrolls tell of it. So many bodies that streets were impassable. A stench so foul that the living had to flee into the mountains to escape it. No one knows what started it, but it took half the population in one night and the rest who stayed in the second.”

  “No one tried to re-settle it?”

  “Oh, it was tried. Many times. Over the first hundred years, more’n a few expeditions went to Havenham, some organized by survivors who emigrated to Vantok. Most were never heard from again and the few that were told tales of strange, inhuman creatures inhabiting the lands around the city, as if the plague that killed men gave birth to monsters. After that, the territory south of the mountains became known as The Forbidden Lands, and no one with any sense ventured there.”

  “And now we be here,” said Warburm. “Strange how things work. So, was it truly plague that killed all those men?”

  A plague that killed so quickly, without warning, and left no survivors? And gave birth to a land populated by monsters? “Sounds like magic.”

  “My thinking exactly,” said Warburm. “And of the most ill sort. Be interesting to know what caused it, and why.”

  “I don’t see a portal,” said Lamanar, who was studying the landscape below using a small telescope produced from his backpack.

  Warburm shielded his eyes from the bright sunlight and squinted down at the brown patch of ground far below. “We be too high up to see it.”

  “Or it’s buried.”

  “Or it be buried,” he agreed reluctantly.

  “And if it’s buried, how do you intend to find it? Ask the current inhabitants if they wouldn’t mind if we dig up their settlement looking for an ancient ruin?”

  Warburm scowled, but it was clear he didn’t have answer. Of the various possibilities he had prepared for, this wasn’t among them. “We’ll know better when we get closer. Maybe this be where the Farthan live.”

  Lamanar’s skepticism was plain on his features.

  “Let’s go,” said Warburm. “We got to find a way down there.”

  For Sorial, the taste was less like the triumph of a journey nearly finished than the terror of an ordeal begun.

  The path to the remains of Havenham proved to be anything but straightforward and it became clear it wasn’t going to be a quick or easy few miles. One full day after first spying the ruins, they had descended into a valley within the mountains and altogether lost sight of their destination.

  “In the morning, I’ll scout ahead,” said Lamanar. “There has to be a faster, easier way down. We’re getting low on water again and we can’t afford to waste a week stumbling around in these mountains.”

  “Faster and easier, yes,” said Warburm. “Safer, no. Our goal ain’t to get there as quick as possible. It be to get there alive and whole. I seen a half-dozen ways down we could have taken that would put us much closer... or dead in a ravine.”

  Warburm turned his attention to the two guards, who were quietly setting up camp for another cool night in the mountains. “When we get closer to Havenham, Lamanar and I’ll leave Sorial in your care and approach the settlement together. We needs to understand the nature of the people who live there and whether they be hospitable to strangers. If the elf was right and there be a bounty on Sorial’s head, it’d be wise to keep him hidden.”

  Brindig and Darrin nodded in concert. Professional soldiers, they knew how to take orders and understood that, the closer they got to their destination, the more likely it was their swords would be needed.

  Sorial awoke with a start early the next morning before any of his companions were awake except Lamanar, who had last watch. It was the muddy first hour of dawn; with the sun still hidden by the mountains, the light was dim and gray. A faint mist hung in the air, waiting for the touch of the day’s first rays to dispel it.

  Sorial couldn’t say what brought him to such a sudden and urgent wakefulness but the feeling of disquiet receded once he sat up. Nevertheless, he withdrew Alicia’s dagger from its sheath and got to his feet. Lamanar noticed his actions and shot him a quizzical look.

  The ground beneath Sorial’s feet shifted. He jumped back as an impossibly long, serpentine head erupted through the crust, spraying dirt and pebbles in all directions. Its skin, like that of a snake only with larger scales, was a deep umber that appeared black in the poor light. Its eyes were dark and unfathomable. A whip-like tongue slithered between thin lips. The extraordinary thing about the creature, however, was its size. The mouth would easily be able to swallow a fully grown man.

  The body followed, rising from the ground behind the he
ad. At least fifty feet from snout to tail, the creature looked less like a snake once its entirety was visible. It walked on four squat legs that ended in vicious claws and its back was topped with bony protuberances that looked like irregularly cut pieces of quartz. They, like everything else about the creature, were of the darkest brown.

  Sorial dropped into a fighting crouch, then froze. The instant his eyes locked with those of the monstrous lizard, he was transfixed. It was equally immobile, although strange half-hisses/half-growls emerged from its mouth every time the tongue darted out. Sorial caught a glimpse of sharp, nasty teeth. He experienced the strange sensation that the creature was trying to communicate with him, or that it expected him to communicate with it. They faced each other for perhaps several seconds, although it seemed longer, before Sorial’s companions leaped into action.

  Brindig and Darrin attacked from opposite sides, staying clear of the whiplashing tail, while Lamanar placed himself between Sorial and the creature’s rows of lethal teeth. It reared, lashing out at the priest with one of its forelegs. Lamanar, expert swordsman that he was, saw a chance to strike at the belly and took it, recognizing he would pay a heavy price for such a decisive and reckless action. His blade, however, was deflected by scales as tough on the underside as they were on the rest of the creature. Lamanar’s chest had no such protection and it was opened almost to the bone by three slicing claws. The only sound he uttered was a grunt of pain as he staggered out of the way of a follow-up attack.

  The guards were having little luck with their strikes at the creature’s flanks, which were impervious to their blades. Attempts to stab in between the interlocking scales were fruitless. They struck and dodged repeatedly but, although their positioning made it difficult for the giant lizard to lash out at them with either teeth or claws, their blows had no discernible effect beyond blunting the edges of their swords. The creature was largely ignoring them, however, no matter how vigorously they pressed it. It was focused instead on the injured Lamanar, whose wounds were spilling bright blood; its lunges, although effectively blocked by his two-handed parries, were driving him back.

  A shot rang out, followed in quick succession by another. The creature reared, letting out a fearsome bellow of pain as thick drops of ichor spilled from the twin holes made in its left eye by Warburm’s pistols. Behind him, Sorial could hear the innkeeper cursing as he reloaded. Brindig and Darrin continued pounding uselessly at the sides while Lamanar, seemingly unaffected by the damage to his chest, closed with the lizard, risking another injury from the fearsome claws. It snapped at him and his sword caught the tongue in mid-dart, lopping off the tip. It screamed and reared again.

  Another shot rang out. This one missed wide of the mark - the right eye - but even bouncing harmlessly off the scales, it was sufficient to convince the creature that it was facing adversaries capable of causing harm and pain. Using its hind legs to propel it, it leaped skyward, executed a mid-air flip, and plummeted face-down. Instead of impacting on the earth, however, it passed into it like a diver cleaving through water, the body burrowing into the rocky surface as if it was soft sand. Once the tail vanished, there was hardly any sign of its passage.

  “Rock wyrm,” muttered Lamanar, dropping his sword and nearly collapsing, his breath coming in huge, ragged gasps and the front of his tunic stained crimson.

  Sorial and Warburm were by his side in an instant. Darrin and Brindig took up defensive positions in case the creature returned or some other threat approached.

  After ripping away what was left of Lamanar’s tunic, Warburm washed the three claw marks with water and examined them critically. “You be lucky,” he said. “It looks worse than it be. You should survive.”

  “Bandage me up and give me a little time to recover my strength.”

  Warburm shook his head, “You’ll stay behind. We’ll pick you up on the way back.”

  “Not likely. You need me now more than ever.”

  Warburm, after removing several long, stout strips of cloth from his pack, started binding Lamanar’s injuries with practiced ease. “Hale, that’d be true. Injured, you be more a burden than a help.”

  “I can travel. I can swing a sword if need be. I didn’t come along on this journey to sit out the final steps because of a few scratches from a wingless dragon.”

  “You be as like to bleed to death as not if you walk.”

  “Sew me up then.”

  Warburm looked at him dubiously. “We done got no spirits to dull the pain. It’ll hurt like shit.”

  “Do it,” said Lamanar, removing the bandages Warburm hadn’t even finished applying.

  The innkeeper shrugged, reaching into his pack for a bone needle and catgut twine.

  Lamanar, despite his stoicism, passed out mid-way through the procedure, which made it easier for Warburm to complete the job. The seventy stitches stopped the bleeding although it gave the chest a ghastly appearance exacerbated by the pallor resulting from blood loss. Clean bandages were applied and, by the time Lamanar recovered enough to stand, it was early afternoon. Brindig and Darrin had been on high alert all morning in case the wyrm returned.

  “Best not to wait here till nightfall,” said Warburm. Then, looking at Lamanar standing unsteadily while leaning against a large rock for balance, he added. “We can move off a little and make camp. We could all use a break after the exertions of the morn.”

  “No,” barked Lamanar harshly, sounding like he had a mouthful of gravel. “I won’t slow or stop our progress. We have a duty and we’ll fulfill that duty.”

  The one concession he allowed was for the items from his pack to be distributed among the others; with his injury, he couldn’t tolerate the straps chafing his chest. He insisted on wearing his sword, although it was scabbarded at his waist rather than slung across his back.

  Despite the priest’s assertion that he wouldn’t slow the group’s progress, they had to rest twice more before twilight and covered significantly less ground than they would otherwise have. A glance at Warburm’s face told Sorial of the innkeeper’s concern.

  Lamanar wasn’t bearing up well. Although he didn’t complain, it was obvious that his strength was at a low ebb. His skin was pallid and clammy. He drank water but refused food. When his chest was exposed to change the bandages, a foul odor emanated, and there was puss mixed with the drying blood.

  No one said anything, but some things didn’t need to be spoken. Even Sorial, who had never before seen a mortal wound, knew it was only a matter of time before the number of companions would be reduced from five to four.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE: TRUTH

  King Azarak awakened early, his sleep troubled by concerns about what was transpiring to the south. Somewhere in The Forbidden Lands, the hoped-for future savior of Vantok was making his way toward his destiny while darkening storm clouds gathered. Meanwhile, within the borders of his city, the rule of law grew weaker. The Temple’s authority was crumbling. Only those of the stoutest faith hadn’t renounced their belief in the gods. The strong preyed on the weak and Vantok’s newly formed militia struggled to stem the criminal tide. In fact, if the rumors were true, some of the worst offenders were officers. Azarak had faith in his top generals, but they were overwhelmed by the demands of their duties and weeding out “bad seeds” was difficult. Their task would hopefully become easier with the incorporation of seasoned fighting men from Obis. If nothing else, discipline would be improved, although he worried that resentment would fester.

  Next to him, enveloped in peaceful repose, was his lithe queen-to-be. He regarded her with a mixture of fascination and affection. Lying on her back wearing nothing but the thin silk of a top sheet, she appeared so very, very young. Yet her delicate appearance belied a sharp intellect. She had come to Vantok uniquely prepared to ensnare a king and the solitude of wearing the crown had encouraged him to succumb to her charms. Five years was a long time to be alone. Myselene wanted to share his burden and he desired the companionship of an equal. None of his other sui
tors, and there had been many over the years, had come close to matching her qualification. They had offered the pleasures of the night to compensate for their indifference regarding the process of governing. Myselene promised so much more.

  The betrothal contract was finalized. Surprisingly, it had taken only a few days to resolve the details - an astonishingly short time that was testimony to how badly both sides wanted the agreement. All that remained to make it formal were the requisite signatures. Today, Azarak would officially propose to Myselene and, after her acceptance, he would scrawl his name on the document, which would then be carried north by Obis’ vice chancellor. The wedding ceremony would be held when King Rangarak could arrive with her dowry. With Widow’s Pass closed during Winter, the large contingent would have to come by way of Earlford, a route that added five-hundred miles to the trip. Although fast riders could cover the distance in four weeks, the king’s entourage would be slower. The current hope was that having the ceremony shortly after the Midwinter carnival, which would begin in about twelve weeks, would be workable. It would offer the added advantage of showcasing Vantok’s most clement weather during the ongoing heat surge.

  Myselene moaned softly in her sleep and rolled onto her side. The sheet slipped to her waist. Azarak continued to watch her, his expression becoming distant. As desperately as he didn’t want to recollect similar moments with his first wife, he couldn’t stop the unbidden memories. In the beginning, he and Amenia had been so happy, or so he had thought. His final act where she was concerned, a brutal necessity of state, haunted him these many years later. Of the countless hard choices he had made since taking the throne, none had been more personally painful. By convincing himself there had been no choice, that the situation had robbed him of options, he had learned to live with his actions. His greatest concern was that the end of his first marriage might poison the seeds of the second.