A World Without Heroes

by Brandon Mull

  “It isn’t far,” Rachel encouraged. “It looks easy.”

  “After you.”

  Rachel reached for the first handhold and started up the remainder of the rocky face. After taking a few seconds to steady himself, Jason followed, the sea breeze tickling his naked back. Teeth chattering, he tried not to think about the drop behind him, or to heed the churning surf far below. By focusing on finding secure places to put his hands and feet, he was soon pulling himself over the lip of the cliff.

  Standing, Jason scanned the area. The trickling stream lay at least fifty yards off to one side. Rachel was jogging toward where they had left their gear. Nobody else was in sight. His clothes lay scattered around the bush where he had stashed them. Jason ran to catch up to Rachel.

  Crouching near the bush, she held up the crystal globe with the orantium inside. “Safe and sound.”

  “Looks like Puggles chewed on my clothes.”

  “He was probably excited to get a full dose of your scent. At least he left our gear alone.”

  Jason collected his clothes, fingering spots where they had been torn or punctured by boarhound teeth. It felt good to put on clothes and wrap up in his cloak. His boxers only retained a trace of dampness.

  “Are you cold?” Jason asked.

  She had bundled up in her cloak. “Not with my cloak on. My clothes are still damp, so I was feeling that wind.”

  Jason surveyed the area. “I don’t see anybody else.”

  “We should take advantage of the daylight while it lasts,” Rachel said. “Get away from here, find a place to camp.”

  “We should have asked for directions to Trensicourt,” Jason said.

  “We’ll keep following the road,” Rachel replied. “It has to lead somewhere. Eventually we’ll find someone who can tell us.”

  They walked back to the road, and began hiking eastward along the cliffs. Gazing back, Jason felt immense relief to have the ordeal of the sea cave behind him.

  “Can you believe we survived?” Jason asked after they had been walking for some time.

  “I know . . . Once the boarhound showed up, everything happened so fast,” Rachel responded. “Now all I can think about is how close we came to ending up just like Puggles.”

  Afternoon dwindled to twilight, and twilight deepened toward night. They found shelter in a recessed thicket. After a hasty meal Rachel insisted on taking the first watch.

  “I won’t fall asleep,” Jason promised. “I had a big nap, and you didn’t.”

  Rachel eyed him warily. “Are you sure? If we both fall asleep, we might wake up dead.”

  “We probably wouldn’t wake up. We’d just be dead.”

  “No, I think you’d wake up just long enough to feel incredible pain and realize the shame of your failure.”

  Jason chuckled darkly. He raised his right hand. “I’ll stay awake. I promise.” His mind flashed back to the image of Macroid tearing apart the boarhound, and he gave his head a shake. He couldn’t let himself think about what either creature would have done to him and Rachel if given the chance. “I’ve been scared straight,” he reassured her.

  “Let’s decide on a punishment if either of us dozes. You know, extra motivation.”

  “Besides a possible death penalty?” Jason paused, then smiled. “How about whoever messes up has to smell the other person’s socks?”

  Rachel raised her eyebrows and cocked her head. “Not bad. I would have a much smellier punishment than you, but I’m not going to mess up. Okay, here it is—whoever naps while on watch has to smell the other person’s sock and stick it in their mouth.”

  “You’re disgusting!”

  “The punishment needs to be brutal, or it will be worthless. Remember, our lives are at stake.”

  Jason sighed. “Fine. I’m not going to mess up either. If you want to eat my socks, that’s your business.”

  “Is it official? Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  CHAPTER 9

  TARK

  Three days later, in the early afternoon, Jason and Rachel reached the area where the peninsula joined the mainland. The cliffs had leveled to a beach of silvery sand that mirrored the sky when moistened by waves. An oval, narrow-mouthed bay reached inland from where the peninsula and the mainland met. Beyond the mouth of the inlet desolate beaches stretched southward to the horizon.

  Ever since the sea cave, Jason had remained wide awake during his watches, and he had failed to catch Rachel napping. They had felt tense on the road, since many expanses had offered little cover. Nevertheless the days had passed calmly, with no frenzied dogs, horrible manglers, or even fellow travelers passing them on the road. Their food supply had steadily dwindled however, leaving them with only enough for another day or two.

  As the road meandered toward the rear of the bay, a fishing village came into view, huddled near the water. A sizable wharf with many docks projecting into the inlet stood devoid of any vessel bigger than a rowboat. A few small crafts floated in the calm harbor, rocking as fishermen slung nets. Two men sat at the end of a worn dock, holding long fishing poles and talking.

  The houses in town were boxy structures painted in fading colors. Most of them looked to have been constructed from driftwood and flotsam. On many sagging porches crates and casks served as tables and stools. Plain canvas curtains hung in malformed windows. Seashells or wildflowers in colored bottles invariably decorated the sills. Atop one house a figurehead of a plump mermaid, paint peeling, leaned out over the yard. A lazy mood pervaded the town. Few people walked the street—those who did seemed to wander.

  One structure in town stood out from the rest—a wide, round building with a shallowly sloped conical roof. It drew attention because it ponderously rotated like an overgrown carousel. The bizarre rotunda sat high on a slope, the farthest structure from the water.

  Jason glanced at Rachel. “Our first town,” he said quietly.

  “It’s almost weird to see people.”

  “Nobody stares,” Jason said, “but everybody glances.”

  “They seem wary,” Rachel said. “Should we check out the spinning building?” Jason nodded.

  Through streets powdered with orange dust they walked up to the odd edifice. A freestanding sign posted out front dubbed the building THE TAVERN-GO-ROUND. Up close the walls whirled by fast enough that Jason wondered how anyone came or went. Since laying his eyes on the peculiar structure, he had not yet noticed it stop. A platform with a few steps led up to the moving wall. The door came by. A square-faced man leaning out called, “You want in?”

  “Yes!” Jason shouted, mounting the platform.

  The man and the door spun out of sight. When he came around again, wind ruffling his hair, the man held a meaty arm outstretched. Jason caught hold, and the man swung him through the portal.

  “The lady also, I expect?” the man asked.

  “Yes, please.”

  Inside, Jason found a single large common room, with a circular bar curved around the center. Tables and chairs were fixed to the floor. Rafters strewn with glowing kelp added a turquoise radiance to the sunlight flashing through the moving windows.

  Only a few patrons sat at tables, a few more at the bar. Two of the men seated at tables were dressed as soldiers. A pair of barmaids navigated the room with trays, leaning expertly to keep balanced. Here by the door the outward pull was difficult to resist.

  Rachel came through the door, supported by the square-faced man. “Look at this place,” she murmured.

  “I’m surprised there isn’t more puke on the floor,” Jason mumbled back. He strode to the bar, noticing how the pull lessened the closer he came to the center of the room. Rachel joined him at the bar, where the sensation was minimal.

  “What can I do for you? I’m Kerny.” The bartender, a lanky man with a huge overbite and hair visible in his ears, introduced himself.

  “Why is this place spinning?” Jason asked.

  Kerny blinked. “An underground river turns a wheel far below u
s.”

  “Does it ever stop?” Rachel asked.

  “Only if the river does. The speed varies with the season. We’re going round pretty good right now. Takes some folks a little time to get accustomed, like earning your sea legs. The Tavern-Go-Round put us on the map. Back when maps were legal.”

  Kerny turned to a man squatting on a nearby stool. The man mumbled something, pulled a copper pellet from his pocket, and handed it to Kerny. Jason began rummaging through his satchel.

  “What food do you serve?” Jason asked, after Kerny had placed a bowl of stew before the man.

  “All kinds of seafood. Best we serve is puckerlies. We keep them alive in a tank. You ever had puckerlies?”

  “No,” Jason said.

  “Nothing beats a platter of puckerlies served live.”

  “How much?”

  “Three and a half drooma. But worth it.”

  “Did that guy just pay a drooma for that stew?” Rachel verified.

  “Yeah. It’s really hearty.”

  Jason and Rachel glanced at each other indecisively. At least Jason now knew that the copper balls were each a drooma. The bronze ones would hopefully be worth more.

  “Can’t we get parasites from raw seafood?” Rachel asked the bartender.

  “Not every puckerly is fit to serve,” Kerny said. “We’re selective. We don’t get complaints.”

  “Haven’t you had raw fish?” Jason asked Rachel. “You seem like the type who would eat sushi.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Of course I’ve had sushi. How it’s prepared matters a lot.”

  “How’s this,” Kerny offered, clapping his hands down on the bar. “I’ll let you each sample a puckerly. If you like them, order the platter. Agreed?”

  “Sure.” Jason said.

  Kerny returned quickly. In each hand he held a black thimble-shaped shell roughly the size of a plum. Jason accepted one and peered at the squirming, multicolored tissue inside. Rachel was right that raw seafood could be dangerous. He remembered his biology teacher expounding on the perils of consuming raw fish. Jason glanced at Rachel. “Ladies first.”

  She gave him a snotty grin. “You’re such a gentleman when it’s convenient. I vote you be the guinea pig.”

  Jason was acutely aware that Kerny was waiting and listening. Now was not the time to argue. Mutely dreading the unseen parasites about to turn his body into their vacation resort, Jason raised the shell to his lips.

  “Squirt a little pulpa oil in there to loosen it up,” Kerny interrupted. “Otherwise you’ll have to suck like a tube-billed mud strainer.” The bartender held out a glass vial with a tiny mouth and inky blue liquid inside.

  Jason tipped the vial above the puckerly, wrinkling his nose as the colorful flesh writhed at the contact from the dark drops. Tossing his head back, he dumped the contents of the shell into his mouth, disturbed that it kept squirming.

  The texture was like raw egg yolk, the flavor slightly salty, richer than any seafood he had ever tasted. He chewed briefly, then swallowed, the slimy mass coating his throat on the way down.

  “What do you think?” Kerny asked.

  “Really good,” Jason said, surprised.

  “Honestly?” Rachel asked.

  “Try it,” Jason challenged.

  Rachel dripped some oil into her shell, then downed the contents. Her expression brightened. “We’ll take a platter.”

  Just then a man jostled into Jason from behind. Turning, he saw a short, stocky fellow who had been seated at a table near the door. The man had thick black hair and dense stubble on his face. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled back over hairy forearms bulging with muscle.

  “I’ll have the chowder,” he growled in a deep voice.

  “Not until you bring in some money or wash some dishes,” Kerny responded, overly articulating his words. The bartender glanced apologetically at Jason.

  “I’m not good enough to wash dishes,” the man blubbered in despair. “I’m not good enough for chowder. Sorry to bother.” He wheeled around and plopped down at a nearby table, laying his face on folded arms.

  “What’s his problem?” Rachel asked softly.

  Kerny shook his head. “He’s depressed and dizzy. Nobody should sit near the outer wall when we’re spinning this briskly. I extended him some credit, but there are limits to what a person can do. I pity him for his mishap, but I can’t let him bankrupt me.”

  “What mishap?” Jason wondered.

  “Where have you been? He’s the sole survivor of the Giddy Nine. Poor sap.”

  Jason whirled. So somebody did jump from the raft! His rescue attempt had not been a total failure. He felt a rush of relief knowing he’d saved at least one person’s life.

  “Will you take your food at the bar or at a table?” Kerny asked.

  Jason turned back. “At a table. And I’ll buy that man some chowder.”

  “Suit yourself. What will you and the young lady drink?”

  “Water,” Jason said.

  The bartender shrugged and moved away.

  “Notice he didn’t ask me what I wanted,” Rachel whispered.

  “Now is not the time to discuss women’s rights,” Jason whispered back. “Did you want chowder too?”

  “Water is fine. But I wanted to be asked.”

  Jason sat down beside the man he had rescued. Rachel sat across from them. “I’m Jason,” he said. “This is Rachel.”

  “Tark,” the man replied in his gravelly voice, not looking up.

  “I ordered you some chowder.”

  Tark raised his head, smiling. He leaned back as he looked at Jason, as if trying to bring him into focus. “That was right gentlemanly of you.”

  “No problem. I heard about your friends.”

  “They were the lucky ones,” Tark moaned, clutching his hair.

  “But didn’t they die?” Rachel asked.

  “Like I was supposed to.”

  Jason tried to cover his surprise and confusion. The one person he’d saved was devastated at having survived? He cleared his throat. “So, uh, what instrument did you play?”

  Tark eyed him. “You aren’t from hereabout.”

  “We come from far off.”

  “I play the sousalax.”

  “What is that?” Rachel asked.

  Tark huffed. “Merely the largest of all lung-driven instruments. Only six or seven men along the coast have the capacity to sound it properly. Away north they use the instrument to summon walruses and sea elephants.”

  “That sounds handy,” Jason said, sharing a small smile with Rachel.

  Tark nodded obliviously. “I was supposed to play to the end. The sousalax lays the foundation for the other instruments. You know? And it was more than that. Listen, this stays between us. Simeon, our leader, had been absent a long while. He had a habit of going on excursions. One day Simeon shows up claiming a prophetess told him if we floated down the river to the waterfall playing music, we would summon a hero to help depose Maldor. He had an exact date and time in mind. At first we thought he was having fun with us, but he just kept staring, grim as a widow on her anniversary. We discussed the idea a long while, and eventually came to a unanimous accord. I mean, what do we need today more than a real hero? Not these fakers looking for a free ride to Harthenham—I mean the kind of heroes we sing about, the kind who actually stand for something. Simeon convinced us to play right up to the end and summon a hero by our sacrifice.” Tears brimmed in his eyes. “But I reneged.”

  A barmaid approached and laid down a platter of puckerlies beside two tall glasses of water and a wooden bowl of chunky chowder. “Don’t let him get started,” she warned Jason. “You’ll be trapped here all night with him repeating the same sorry story.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Jason said. He turned back to Tark. “Go on.”

  Tark raised the bowl to his lips, took a long sip, wiped his mouth, and sighed contentedly. Jason dripped some pulpa oil onto a puckerly and swallowed it. Rachel grabbed
a puckerly as well.

  “It was all the fault of that sadist who fired the rescue arrow,” Tark resumed, gazing at his chowder. Jason stiffened, biting his lip. “We were all resolved to our course of action until a chance for escape thrust itself upon us. With the arrival of that line to shore our determination slackened.

  “The arrow took Stilus through the shoulder. Funny thing, he had been the one most opposed to the idea of our sacrifice. It took a good deal of cajoling to convince him. Old Stilus was superstitious, you see. I’d wager he took the arrow for a sign he’d been right all along. No sooner had he fallen than he began wrapping the line in a figure eight around one of the cleats. Stilus never did have much luck. I suppose he thought he was doing the right thing, trying to save us.

  “When the boat started swinging in to shore, a bunch of us assumed we would be saved whether we liked it or not. A few kept playing, but most of us, myself included, began stripping away our bindings. We had lashed ourselves in place, you see, so we could keep playing through the rough water. By the time we collided with the bank, even the few folks still playing were having second thoughts. Our chance to survive was so near. I jumped to shore the same instant the line was severed, and found myself alone, the sole defector, watching my comrades float away.”

  Tark sniffed and ran the back of his hand across his nostrils. “By that time everyone thought they would be saved. I saw it in their eyes. Because of that hope of survival they experienced true terror as they reembarked toward the falls. Most couldn’t play their instruments, either out of fear or because they had unlashed themselves and toppled over.”

  His voice became painfully intense. “What should have been a proud occasion of willful self-sacrifice degenerated into a pathetic farce where a raft full of cowering musicians plunged frantically to their deaths. Gelpha got off a blast on the clarinet. And some brave soul crashed the cymbals.”

  Jason felt a growing sense of horror, each word of Tark’s like a punch to his gut. He’d only tried to help, and he’d caused so much suffering. How could he ever make up for it?