The Land's Whisper (21 page)

“Dione,” the man announced in a gravelly
voice as he secured the craft. He was a bronzed beast, about a hand
shorter than Darse, with thickly muscled arms and neck. His
weathered oblong face was stern and honest, framed by dense brown
eyebrows and a square jaw. His dark eyes were somewhat sunken, but
without a hint of cruelty, and his yellowing teeth betrayed many
summers of pipe tobacco and strong beer. Darse liked him
immediately.

“Darse and Bren.”

The dark eyes flicked over them. “It’s ten a
head.”

Darse fingered out a few bills with the
awkward unfamiliarity of a foreigner and looked expectantly to the
ferryman.

“The river isn’t gonna yank off ya shoes,”
he said in answer to their raised brows, and the two toed
themselves unsurely aboard.

The canoe held four seats. Darse and Brenol
loaded into the first two while Dione settled in the stern and
untied them from the pier.

The current was not choppy, but it certainly
tugged at the craft with persistent fingers. The ferryman’s
breathing only increased slightly; if anything, he appeared to find
the passage calming as he swept his paddles repeatedly through the
clear with deft strokes. They arrived at the shore downstream, and
Dione leaped out to hold the canoe steady with an expectant glance.
Darse and Brenol, realizing he would never scrape his boat across
rock simply to keep their ankles dry, clambered out with less
experienced movements. Darse emerged with drenched clothing up to
his thighs; Brenol, his waist.

Dione then lifted and hauled the craft in a
dripping shower up the hundred paces to the hut. The two dogged his
heels and watched as he secured the canoe amongst the trees. He
gave a quick flick of a finger toward the house and grumbled out a
promise of coffee. The two nodded gratefully and waited in sopping
puddles for the ferryman to emerge with tin mugs brimming with a
steaming, pungent brew. They sipped thoughtfully as he granted
their request for directions.

“You got this from tha Queen?” he asked
mildly, fingering their rudimentary map. His rumbling voice was
deep, with words meshing together like a child’s finger
painting.

Brenol nodded.

“One would think she ’ud had somethin’ a bit
better. Or sent ya wid a lil’ help.” Dione shrugged a shoulder.
“’Gardless, the best route ’ud be here.” He pointed with callused
hands to a section on the map. “An’ here.” His rough digits swept
across to illustrate Broning, the Inest River
,
and Stonia’s
mountainous north cupping Ziel.

“Stonia’ll be easy enough. Get a raft at tha
inn and Inest’ll carry you west ’til she flows inta Lake Cabel.
’Pends on tha rains how rough Inest’ll be on ya, tho’.”

He gulped from his mug as though the dark
searing liquid were tepid. “From there ya’ve got ’bout three or
four hours walk ta tha’ border a Stonia. It’s Selet that’ll beya
monster t’ cross. It’ll take five days ah movin’ hard.” Dione
peered down at them, and he puckered his lips in thought. “Prob’ly
seven o’ eight tho’.”

Darse grinned, amused at Dione’s swift
appraisal of their lacking skills.

“Tha woods ’n Selet are difficul’ ta folla’.
Don’ run off explorin’. Leave that ta
others.
” His lips
smacked at the last word as though it tasted of bilge water. His
eyes drove into them meaningfully, obviously seeking to say more,
but both Darse and Brenol stared back without comprehension.

He sighed. “Jus’ watch yerselves. There’s
much betta left alone. Don’t get too curious, ’n follow tha roads
when ther’re roads. And avoid tha south if ya can.”

He waved at the eastern section of the map.
“I don’t know much ’bout Selet. Weird place it is…lights ’n
invis’ble people…anyway, just ask for help ’n one of tha cities. I
know there’s this one here… ’n up here too if ya end up more north
’an ya meanta.”

The two offered thanks for the help and
coffee, and the man granted a wide, yellowed smile before ducking
into his house.

“Wonder what that was about,” Brenol
said.

Darse shrugged. “As long as Selet doesn’t
remember my da, I think we’ll be fine,” he said.
Then we’ll only
have to worry about tracking down a kidnapper,
he thought
wryly.

Brenol peered back across the river,
pondering. “Dione is right though. Isvelle sent us without much at
all. Why didn’t she at least give us a guide?”

Darse grimaced. “I imagine it’s more because
of Ordah than anything. When a prophet orders, these people seem to
sit, fetch, and heel without question.” He shook his head in
exasperation. “Isvelle would have sent us with an army if Ordah had
said she should.”

Brenol replied with a grunt of
agreement.

At least we’re almost out of Veronia,
Darse thought, but while the promise brought relief, he was also
filled with trepidation for all that the future held. Brenol’s
prophesy rang through his head, lingering and replaying:
Death
will be a close companion.

Darse shuddered but shouldered his pack.
What choice do I have? I am swept away by the fates and workings
of this mad land.

It was true. There was no escape for them
now, even had they wanted it.

~

They will feel my wrath over this,
it
thought.

The spirit could barely glance down upon its
flesh without shuddering. The warm lake water had ballooned the
dead maralane’s body into a bloated ball of white rot. Chunks of
skin and scale had begun to string out and trail behind its body,
attracting little fish to nibble and prey. Its nose had loosened
and been tugged away by the same, and for that it had at least a
measure of gratitude—it could no longer smell the wretched stench
of its own cadaver.

Yet there was little to be done. No maralane
would welcome him now.

Seeing me will only reveal the truth to
them. They’ll know this is no disease. They’re smarter than the
rest. And Massada cannot know,
it thought.

Massada is mine.

Slowly, the spirit worked its way back from
the isle. It had been a wonder—and mistake—that it had even
accomplished getting there with Jerem and his prisoners.
Although it was amusing to see that little spider working his
sickly webs…

It spread the sagging flesh of its face into
a smile.
There will be no small amount of discord in the
unraveling of Jerem’s presence there.

Perhaps it will be enough to start a
war.
The thought filled it with a gloating elation.

Its smile fell though, tainted, as a fish
darted up boldly to rip a mouthful of skin from his chin.

I hate this place.

Enough.

It released its hold on the body and watched
the mess of flesh rise like a bubble and bob upon the surface of
the water.

Flotsam for their thought, I suppose.

The spirit wrenched at the discomfort of
being bodiless. The concreteness of this world gave it a ripping
sensation when it was without one.
And it is so much harder to
find a body in this state,
it thought.

It hovered around the lugazzi, eying the
people as a concealed predator surveying its hunt.

Massada is mine.

A beautiful girl caught its attention. She
was young, nearly a woman, and her healthy form swayed under her
gait with an agile rhythm. She would certainly last longer than
those it had recently taken.

I want her,
it thought, and drew
close.

~

The two tromped northeast, abandoning the
rocky riverbank and pressing forward toward the looming
mountains
.
They were unused to travel, and their feet and
calves cried out while shoulders ached from the laden packs. They
rested often, especially as the plain graded up, and in the
afternoon dined on their stores of dried fish.

“We could stop for the night,” Darse said,
even though there were several hours of daylight remaining.

Brenol chose not to respond. His resolve to
leave Veronia thinned like a fraying rope with every matrole
forged. The discomforts of travel had worn away much of the
previous night’s fear, and the connection seemed no more unnatural
than sunlight, wind, soil. The mere memory of his decision took on
the perception of nightmare. It felt wrong, so wrong. He rose and
walked wearily on, with angst roiling in his gut. Darse
followed.

The remainder of the day passed in a dream.
The two were quiet in their musings, and the land was remembered
more for the blisters it formed on their feet than any great
landmarks. They eventually camped beside a cluster of rocks and
built up a strong fire to combat the night air. Even Brenol slept
hard, despite his churning mind.

Their bodies ached through another day of
travel. By dinner they arrived at Broning, a little town nestled at
the base of the Perti Range
.
The peaks jutted up
magnificently, clothed in the deep green of forests. They strode
through the town, watching people bustle about with purpose,
indifferent to the mountains that filled the skies in the
northwest.

It did not take long to locate the inn, as
it was at the center of town and full of life. They stepped through
the doors just as twilight was turning the massive peaks into dark
giants and streaking the sky with hues of navy and slate. The
lights within welcomed, and a brazier glowed with a promise of warm
comfort. The air was thick with voices and the clang of dishes; it
surged with an exuberance as though musicians had recently vacated
the stage and speech was suddenly free again. The aromas of dinner
rose and all but gripped Darse by his shirt, yet Brenol barely
noticed; he felt the stares of the crowd with an acute
revulsion.

They’re so different,
Brenol
thought.

The boy suddenly recalled Gerard’s words
from the castle, and the smug expression the man had harbored when
speaking about nuresti. “Different” was precisely the word
used.

I’m not so different,
he
rationalized, risking a smile to an elderly man with a
froth-covered upper lip. The man stared back without response.

“Dinner,” Darse mouthed over the crowd’s
roar, pointing toward the bar. Brenol waited with drooping limbs
while Darse pressed his way to the bartender and shouted
instructions. The squat man motioned to the far doorway and belted
out a few words before Darse returned and led the way to their
room.

The fare arrived shortly after their feet
had crossed the threshold, and the two dined on fried fish with
bread and beer—on their two pallets as these were the only
furniture in the room—before they had even found a chance to peel
off their shoes.

Once fed, they shook free of their footwear
and crumpled into exhausted heaps. Sometime in the night Darse
awoke to turn off the lantern and then swiftly crawled back to his
blankets.

Only in service can one claim another as one’s
own.

-Genesifin

Daylight, and with it an assortment of aches
and pains, roused them, and they dressed gingerly before bravely
attacking the morning’s greasy fare delivered to their door. The
bar was stripped of the night’s exuberance, yet several prying
glances met them as they entered. Darse and Brenol ignored them and
any conversation as their coffee set to work. They paid for the
meal and then followed a reedy boy through the town until he led
them to the river’s rocky shore.

The urchin lifted a finger at one of the
four rafts secured along the bank. “
Hula.
That’s tha’ one.”
He eyed the two strangers as they traced his gesture to the
craft.

She was a small pole raft, narrow and built
for no more than two souls. Though she appeared recently
constructed, her wood was so worn it must have been plucked from
the debris of a storm. Long, thin rails rested across her
splintering belly, while a diverse rainbow of chipped paint adorned
her logs, and a curious smell clung to the wood.
Hula
was
written upon one russet wooden rib in black paint.

Darse dipped into his pocket and tinkled
through the coins before finally selecting a copper piece and
handing it to the child. The boy palmed the
greno
happily
but made no move to shift his gaze or unroot his spindly legs.

Brenol, still battling his internal war,
gave the boy a menacing look. “You’re done. Go on now.”

Darse raised his brow but did not comment.
He watched the child race with surprisingly fleet feet back down
the path to the town’s heart before loading his pack cautiously
upon the raft. Wordlessly, he untied her, waited for Brenol to
board his things and person, pushed her out to deeper water, and
clambered up in a sodden mess. He shivered slightly as the breeze
met his dripping frame, but the bright sun gave him hope he would
be dry shortly.

Darse eyed his friend as he righted the
pole. He pushed
Hula
further into the clear by the force of
rail to river bottom until she finally caught the smooth current
and swept down the center of the lane. The raft was easy to
maneuver, once Darse had a few minutes of practice with the pole,
and the rippling river ushered them forward at a manageable pace.
Brenol wistfully stared back toward the heart of Veronia, knowing
all too soon that they would meet the lugazzi.

Inest wound east, and as they left the base
of Broning’s Peak, the Perti Range still grazed their vision to the
north, driving up fiercely into the deep blue sky. The mountains
looked ominous and threatening in their lofty heights. Darse
devoured the untamable, wild beauty with intrigued eyes.

“
Brenol
,” a voice rang
suddenly in the boy’s ear.

Brenol’s stomach lurched. It was the voice
he had grown to love, to crave, to loathe. He was flooded by desire
but also felt his guilt clawing at him.