The Land's Whisper (44 page)

It was deliberately laid out, but the
reasoning behind the order remained unclear. Ordah had never seen
anything of its kind before, and he grappled and sweated to
organize a searching pattern in covering the maze. They divided up,
laden with paper and pen and the odd fabric-light Ordah called
canata
, and mapped as they went, working as quickly and
silently as possible. No one was allowed more than thirty minutes
at a time in any direction, and they always regrouped at the hour.
If Jerem’s presence was located, the finder was to return
immediately to their rendezvous site and wait for all three to
orchestrate an ambush. All this meant time wasted, but it also
meant safety. Or perhaps just the illusion of it.

After hours, days, and even nights
underground, though, their caution began to slip. It was not a
place that elicited rational thought. It stank of rot and dirt and
stone, and the putrid scents sank into nostril and pore. Their
clothes and bodies were caked with red clay and usually wet from
the rock’s condensation. Their eyes ached from straining in search
of a monster in the dark and constantly readjusting to light and
darkness, and began to play tricks on their minds. The maze became
monotonous; their lives, a droning left-right, map, and return.
They met no success, and they rested less and less as the pressure
mounted to find Jerem before he discovered them. What was more, on
the third day, Brenol somehow misplaced several of their maps, and
the group was forced to re-map already explored sections. Soon, the
nausea from lack of sleep and their living patterns nestled down in
their bellies without hope of reprieve. It was hellish.

~

The rendezvous times stretched as the
intervals to travel to the last mapped place grew. It had been over
a septspan since their initial descent, and Darse blearily took in
the slate stone curve of the tunnel. He saw this image so often
that it stalked him even when his eyes closed, like the sensation
of rocking after being upon the waves for moons.

He sighed. Darse knew by instinct now that
he had only a few more minutes before he must return, without
success, to meet the others. Each return trip left them with less
strength, less fire. And it would happen again in only a few more
minutes.

Don’t think. Don’t think about it. Just keep
moving.

Who made these caves? Who? Why?

Why would anyone think to build this? What
could the purpose be?

Darse labored along through the tunnel. It
was very low, and he was forced to bend uncomfortably. The gray
rock scraped and scratched beneath his soles. He was weary of the
sound. He would give anything to never hear it again.

Just another minute. We’re going to have to
do something else soon. We can’t continue like this.

And then, suddenly, he caught a murmured
sound that sent his pulse rocketing and drew his eyes wide and
alert. He froze and strained his ears. The noises were like
whispers on the wind; indiscernible and muffled. He shuffled
forward with a new care and caution, cursing the rock below
him.

Up ahead, the tunnel tightened still more,
and Darse dropped to a crawl. The rocks clattering under him
sounded as loud as a siren. Abruptly, the murmuring stopped. His
limbs trembled, and his breath choked in his throat.

Should I go back? Should I get the
others?

Darse’s heart raced. Something was ahead; it
was undeniable. There were faint lights on the curve before him,
and the sounds had ceased at the approach of his fumbling legs.
Life was around the next turn in the cave.

Whatever it is, it knows I’m here. It heard
me…

If it’s Jerem, he’ll disappear if I go back
for help.

He waited for what felt like hours, eyes
stretching toward the light. Then, he heard a small clanking, and
the murmuring returned. Darse gulped in a large but silent breath
and wormed his body through the narrow passage. The tunnel opened
up, and he drew his body to a grateful stand. He pressed his lips
together, steeled his purpose, and plunged forward around the bend,
knife clutched in white-fisted courage.

Darse’s adrenaline shot his body forward
with a speed he was not anticipating, but the scene before him made
his stomach sink even faster. The room was a small cavern with
low-ceilings, about six paces long in each direction, and connected
to three additional cave tunnels that snaked out in eerie darkness.
The area was lighted dimly by a lantern hanging on the wall
farthest from him. Its low, eerie beam painted the area with a
quiet orange glow that Darse’s eyes took in hungrily; they had only
known canata light for too long. He swept his anxious vision around
for the source of the noise. There were three people in the room,
all bound upon the floor. Darse’s jaw dropped.

One was Brenol.

The boy clawed frantically at his bindings,
whimpering in desperation and fear like a trapped, wild animal. He
yelped at the sight of the Darse, until he recognized the filthy
figure. “Thank goodness. Darsey, I’ve never been so happy to see
you. I could cry.” He pointed at the closest of the bodies. The
person was limp and unmoving. “Darse, I found her. It’s really her!
Look!”

He tore his eyes from Brenol. It was surreal
to fill his vision with the girl they had been seeking. He stooped
to brush a strand of hair from the white face, and his jaw clenched
with a click. There was no denying the resemblance to Isvelle. Her
face was lovely—although skin hugged her bones tightly from lack of
sustenance—and her cheek bones were high and evenly framed beneath
closed almond eyes. Her hair was a shade darker than her mother’s,
a chocolate-coffee to Isvelle’s chestnut, but thick and undoubtedly
luxurious when clean and groomed. The young woman slept, but far
too deeply for it to be natural, and her breathing echoed through
the cavern in its heavy evenness. She was held by a different sort
of chain than Brenol.

Darse was unable to speak, so he turned and
knelt to examine Brenol’s bonds. It was unlike any trap he had ever
used or seen. It was a delicate but strong little thing, with a
sinister snap of metal clamped fast around Brenol’s foot. The
trigger system was entirely unfamiliar. He teased his fingers
carefully along the thin metal, urgently seeking the release.

The dark entryways to the tunnels stared at
Brenol. The boy swept his vision between them and his trap in a
frenzy until his eyes met Darse’s, and Darse saw it: the animal
fear, the desperation.

“We’re not to gnawing off limbs yet, Bren,”
he said, although his voice could not fully muster a jovial tone.
It echoed out lifeless and grim.

Brenol let him work for a moment but then
spoke through clenched teeth. “Nothing works, old man. I’ve been at
it for ages. It
hurts
too.”

“Looks it,” Darse replied with a grimace.
The sturdy metal bit into boy’s flesh with merciless tenacity.
Blood had soaked through and stained his pants, dripping dark
crimson onto the stony floor. Darse refused defeat, though, and
traced the trap with his fingertips yet again.

“You didn’t see it?” he asked softly.

Brenol whimpered. “It was covered in dirt.
He hid it really well. And all I was looking at was her.”

“Ah,” Darse said, exhaling softly. His
movements had been achingly slow but deliberate, and he had been
rewarded. What Brenol could not see was a keyhole hidden underneath
the piercing metal. It was no larger than a half greno.

“Bren, I’m going to look for a key. Look
around the room, too, and try and think of ideas.”

“A key? Why would you want a key for a
trap?” Brenol asked.

Darse began rustling though the bags along
the wall, making sure to watch closely for any other traps he might
encounter. “Keys make capturing smarter creatures possible. No easy
releas—Ah ha!” He held up a small circlet of keys. The dim light
danced off the metallic ring and jumped happily across the cave
walls.

“Quick! This is killing me.” Brenol glanced
furtively at the limp girl beside him. She was so silent, so still,
so beautiful.

Darse lit down and gingerly tilted the trap
to expose the keyhole. Brenol sucked in air but did not speak.
Darse attempted the keys, one after the other, yet nothing gave
way. Not a single one fit. The man’s chest shook as his heart
pounded in fear and frustration.

Brenol trembled but tried to disguise it,
pointing instead to the two on the ground. “Why don’t you try the
keys on them? They look like different locks. At least they aren’t
losing a bucket of blood over there.”

Darse stepped carefully over to Colette,
bent, and smoothed the hair back from her forehead and cheeks. She
stirred slightly but did not wake. Darse’s heart melted in the
small motion, and swelled alive with renewed purpose; he would
never quit until he had saved her.

He tenderly lifted the braces on her hands
and feet and attempted the locks but met no success. Without hope,
he shuffled to the next body. It was a young man whom he guessed to
be a little older than twenty orbits. He was littered with cuts and
markings and bruises. Again, Darse worked through his keys. The
shackles held doggedly.

“What about something to break them?” Brenol
asked. His voice floundered out in a betraying croak.

“Thinking the same thing, Bren. I’ll look.”
Darse scanned about, trying vainly to not return his gaze back to
the boy’s foot. There was little hope of breaking that iron monster
apart without smashing his bones in the process.

Brenol waited quietly, listening with perked
ears to the dark holes before him. The blackness promised
nightmares to come, and he could hardly glance away.

Jerem. Any moment.
Any
moment.

As if in answer to his thoughts, scuffling
began to sound through one of the dark corridors. Brenol’s whole
body quivered, and his face paled to the color of cream. He glanced
frantically to Darse, who shot a finger to his lips and slid into a
shadowy corner. If he was motionless, he almost blended into the
walls. Almost.

Darse waited silently, straining to calm his
nerves and quiet his breathing. There would be little time to
overpower or outsmart Jerem—or whatever was coming through the
tunnel.
I must have my wits. Breathe,
Darse thought.
Breathe.

They were only waiting for thirty seconds or
so, but an entire lifetime could have been lived in those moments.
Brenol’s heart threatened to fly from his chest. Cold sweat soaked
his shirt, and his stomach clenched into a tight stone.

We’re lost. We failed,
Brenol
thought, yet even in the realization he was struck by a surprise:
he was crushed by the finality of the moment not so much for
himself, but for the lovely creature shackled beside him.
If
only…

Light trickled its way in until it grew
steadily at the tunnel’s entrance. The scraping rock clattered
under foot, and a man entered. His height immediately startled
Darse; his face, Brenol.

The man was tall but carried himself well
for having to bend and maneuver through the low caves. Entering the
room, he straightened his back with pleasure, sighing deliciously,
and allowed his shouldered pack to slide to the stone floor with a
gentle thud. He scanned the room briefly, somehow, mercifully,
missing the shadowed figure frozen against the wall. He wore
traditional Massadan attire: tan shirt and trousers, precisely
tailored and undeniably expensive—an odd sight amongst cavern and
stone.

He had an even and handsome face, light
sandy hair, and an underlying air of confidence. His features
resembled Ordah’s, but this man was far more attractive. His square
jaw was shaped by softer angles, and his eyes did not sink in under
his brows to shadow his glance. There was, however, another element
about the man that differed from his brother. The cockiness of the
head tilt, the pressing together of the thin lips, the soft blink
of the eyelids—this man was notably intelligent, but there was a
quality of something unpredictable, something unnerving. Darse felt
his teeth clench together in a silent grind.

Jerem inhaled deeply and settled his eyes
upon Brenol. A lurid grin spread across his face. His teeth shone,
and his attractive face could not hide the nastiness in his
smile.

“I see we have a guest, Colette. Did you
invite him, Deniel?” He spoke to each in turn, never moving his
hard eyes from his prey, although he managed to kick Deniel solidly
in the ribs during the address. His voice was as smooth as ice, and
the quality of his articulation and manners indicated
education.

Brenol shuddered involuntarily.

“Oh, you didn’t invite him? Not even you,
Deniel?” Again, he booted the young man a powerful blow. “That
is
surprising. You do have a knack for this kind of awkward
and unwanted presence. I wonder then where he received an
invitation to our little gathering… Hmmm…” Jerem cocked his head to
the side and smiled broadly. “Do
you
want to tell us then?”
He opened his arms wide with his palms up as if offering the world
to Brenol. “Or shall we play a game to discover where you came
from, and for what purpose?” He strode toward the boy, and as the
cavern was so small, the man was nearly upon him in three
steps.

Brenol fought to not look at Darse and to
remain silent, although everything in him longed to scream and claw
his way out of the tunnel. He drew his quaking eyes up to take in
the terrible giant with the light looks and easy mannerisms. To see
a devil shrouded in handsomeness was particularly unnerving.

Darse stole along behind Jerem, knife
unsheathed, and Brenol spied the movement through his peripheral
vision. The boy shuffled his foot in the trap to provide cover
noise and distraction, and whimpered authentically at the rush of
pain that resulted. Jerem’s hazel eyes sparkled with amusement.
Brenol forced down another shudder and drew his fist around the
paltry handle of his own knife. It looked like a child’s toy before
the towering figure of Jerem.