Kingdomturn

by Matthew Williams

  “Where can I be of use?” Keltin asked, bowing to the floor before the High Conduit. The man’s hand caringly took hold of Keltin’s shoulder.

  “Lift your eyes, Keltin. In time, we will find you a suitable task,” the High Conduit said. “But you are of no use to me in your current state, untrained and wholly unprepared for the threat the Cynmeren pose to us. You arrived intact by the grace of the Venerates, and although your actions during that journey give me hope that you might one day become a skilled warrior, that role is not yet within your grasp. Your first purpose must be to focus on your transition lessons as you progress through your initial testing. Learn all that is taught to you, and serve well.” With that, the High Conduit lifted his hand from Keltin’s arm and stepped back, his brow already once again furrowed as he examined the map on the wall.

  “As the Venerates will, let it be so,” the Draeden said with a slow and affirming bow of his head. There was a moment of awkwardness as Keltin, still kneeling on the floor, waited for further instruction. When none came, he glanced at Draeden Ansund.

  “You have your task. Get moving,” the Draeden commanded. Keltin clambered to his feet and caught up with Ansund as he walked towards the entry doors. “It’s time to deliver you back to your transition lessons,” the Draeden said. “The day is just getting started.”

  13

  The heat that the sun brought with it at the edge of the Plateau Desert faded the farther east Wyand’s group traveled. Now he longed for even a few moments of its previous intensity as the chill from another gust of wind surged into the valley and sliced through his sweat-soaked clothes. The hills that earlier seemed to constantly remain at the horizon had abruptly crowded both sides of the path, and with their arrival also came a steady upward climb. It was impossible to see more than a hundred strides forward or backward, winding as the path was, but in the brief glimpses he could see between hilltops, Wyand was certain that he had gained considerable altitude.

  Wyand breathed heavily through the cloth that remained tied across his mouth. His right shoulder was numb again from the weight of the Mainwright, so he dipped his head low and passed her legs over to his left shoulder. She grumbled in her sleep each time he did this, but in the hours since reaching the Plateau Desert, Mainwright Stora had not truly awakened once. Occasional hushed words drifted back to Wyand as Eyrie and Halwen walked together at the front of the group, but everyone else was silent. He glanced back over his right shoulder and found the Unwoven woman not more than three strides behind him—exactly where she had been since he had begun carrying the Mainwright. She watched Stora with considerable worry, though Wyand wasn’t sure it stemmed entirely from concern over the injuries the woman had endured.

  “I know you can’t speak through that cloth,” the Unwoven said, studying Wyand now instead of the Mainwright, “so I will speak to you. Did you see Celina die?”

  Wyand faltered, nearly catching his foot on a stone, which earned him a dissatisfied snort from the man carrying Stora’s upper half. Wyand nodded sadly as the memory of Celina’s death appeared in his mind yet again.

  “But you didn’t kill her, did you?”

  Wyand shook his head emphatically as he tried to force the word “no” through the cloth. The Unwoven walked closer then and spoke in a whisper only Wyand could hear.

  “You appear saddened by Celina’s death whereas the rest in this group show no remorse at all. You are not dressed like the others, and they seem to talk down to you any chance they get. I have only heard them refer to you as ‘Newfallen,’ so tell me—are you Unwoven like me? Were you recently cast out too?”

  Wyand met the woman’s eyes, unsure how to respond. He wasn’t “Unwoven,” whatever that truly meant, but he had, in essence, cast himself out. There was no way for him to explain all of that now, so instead he decided to simply nod. He would clarify the details later once the loathsome cloth was removed. The Unwoven woman smiled then, and let out a quiet sigh.

  “I know it sounds selfish, but I am so glad I’m not alone anymore,” she said, then without another word she slowed her pace to resume her earlier position. Wyand’s thoughts raced as he walked on, but more than anything he hoped this woman wouldn’t feel alone again whenever she learned that he wasn’t actually Unwoven at all.

  As the endless march to the mountains continued, Wyand began to notice sudden changes in the environment around the path. Underfoot, the ground held much less sand than it had in the Deadlands and now consisted of a coarse, dark red dirt that sounded as though it retained a small amount of moisture. After rounding the base of another enormous hill, Wyand was surprised to find a patch of dense foliage in its shadow. The path was suddenly lined with clusters of wist reed and what looked like a squat version of the familiar Spineleaf tree from Aldhagen. For as far ahead as Wyand could see on the path, this surprising burst of life followed the outline of shadows behind the hills.

  As the jagged edges of the hillsides grew steeper, the vegetation became increasingly dense and interwoven. Whereas previously there were only miniature Spineleaf, now the trees soared into the air above and left only scant patches of sky visible through the thick canopy they formed. Their gnarled trunks and limbs twisted together in patterns that Wyand’s eye could not trace, until it seemed that every rock, every crevice had either a tangle of roots encasing it or branches bursting from it. Life clung to this canyon with a passion that rivaled the overwhelming nothingness of the desert beyond.

  “Prepare yourselves for what you are about to see,” Eyrie called from the front of the group. “The scrid’s appearance is surprising at first to those who have never experienced it.” She halted and clicked her tongue four times in rapid succession.

  What is a “scrid”? Wyand wondered as a faint clattering noise seemed to materialize from all sides at once. In response to Eyrie’s call, something stirred within the dense undergrowth on the left of the path, then on the right. When Wyand looked to the Unwoven; she gripped the bone weapon tightly as her eyes scanned the surrounding vegetation. Wyand’s free hand darted to the stone in his pocket, half for comfort and half in the hope that it could be used in defense if need be—he knew the damage it could cause, whether he liked to admit it or not.

  As the clicking sound grew louder, so did the pounding of Wyand’s own heart. Looking into the brush directly beyond Eyrie he spotted movement that had to be the source of the noise, but what he saw made no sense. Parallel to the ground, two long, thick tree limbs that tapered to points struck against each other rapidly, then bounced back to their original positions. They were curved in such a way that only the ends of each branch made contact with one another before springing apart. Wyand only had an instant to study this curiosity before it became suddenly clear that these limbs did not belong to a tree at all, but were instead only one part of a much larger creature. As it scuttled out of the foliage in front of Eyrie, her smile confirmed that this thing was indeed what she knew as a “scrid.”

  It appeared that the forest itself had come alive because of how well the animal’s coloring and texture blended into the surrounding landscape. Despite its incredible size, the scrid was easy to overlook even now as it emerged onto the path. Its segmented body was long, low to the ground, and equipped with more than a dozen identical pairs of arching legs. The scrid did not crawl from one place to another, though; it was more accurate to say that it flowed along the ground as it moved. An undulating wave of legs being lifted and lowered rippled down the length of the animal’s cylindrical body in such perfect synchronization that the motion was identical to that of wind moving through a copse of trees. To further add to the scrid’s concealment, small protrusions sprouted from each leg at random points to mimic the appearance of the gnarled roots and branches that filled this place.

  Wyand stared in both terror and amazement as the scrid’s jaws snapped together less than a stride from Eyrie’s face. He could see what he assumed was the creature’s recessed mouth between each swing of the powerful tusks o
n its otherwise-featureless head, but Eyrie did not look even slightly concerned by its proximity to her. The jaws spread wide and stopped their clattering as Eyrie suddenly lifted her hand close to the scrid’s mouth. A second, smaller pair of jaws lined with teeth like the blade of a saw shone a deep, brilliant red as they extruded from the mouth opening until nearly touching Eyrie’s hand. The scrid paused briefly, then slowly brought its tusks to a resting position as its inner-most mouth retracted.

  Although only seconds had passed, Wyand felt as though he had been watching the scrid for hours. This creature was entirely unknown to him; its every detail was both fascinating and alarming. Halwen seemed to be far more alarmed than fascinated, however, because she let out a shriek as more of the scrid appeared from the wood line directly beside her. At the sound, their jaws flung open threateningly before each animal was hastily calmed by one of the irritated boatmen.

  Ignoring Halwen’s panic, most of the Cynmeren completed the same process that Eyrie had demonstrated before doing something that struck Wyand as complete insanity—without any hesitation, they climbed on top of the scrid. Wyand hadn’t seen it earlier, but every one of the animals was fitted with a series of ropes, straps, and fabric to form a sort of seat just behind its head. These, too, matched the colors and textures of the lush valley. Once in place on the seat, each boatman carefully looped a thick rope around the large tusks and gripped the other end. Then they all waited in ominous silence, holding the ropes taught and watching the newcomers with looks that ranged from total apathy to mild amusement.

  “There’s no need for concern,” Eyrie said soothingly, touching Halwen’s trembling arm. “All of the scrid in this group were raised by us from hatchlings, and they will only attack something if we instruct them to do so. With that said, though, you must make your scent known to them before they will transport you willingly.”

  “I am not getting on top of one of those things,” Halwen protested, her wild eyes seeking agreement from the Unwoven.

  “No one said you were riding on top of them,” Eyrie pointed out. “You’re not ready for that. I said you would be ‘transported,’ as we would transport any cargo.”

  “And what does that imply?” the Unwoven asked, studying Eyrie intently. The Cynmeren woman offered no answer, instead taking hold of one of the nearest scrid’s tusk ropes and turning the animal away from the group. As the full length of the creature came into view, Wyand noticed that the scrid’s aft-most segments were tucked under its body. This formed a cavity nearly a stride high between the tail and the main body, and within that cavity he could see a large, woven mesh of branches. Sets of legs much smaller than those on the main body segments of the scrid gripped this framework tightly.

  At another clicking signal from Eyrie, the scrid’s tail slowly unfolded from beneath it, still gripping the mesh as it was flipped over. With a sound like creaking boards, the tail stretched out and lowered the wooden framework to the ground. The tiny legs lining its tail spread open then, leaving the tangle of woven branches on the path as the scrid crawled forward.

  “Bring Stora here, Newfallen,” Eyrie commanded, pointing to the mesh. “We need to secure her in the transport cage before attending to the rest of you.” Wyand realized then that the framework was indeed just large enough for one person to fit inside of it, but only if that person was lying down. He was pulled forward reluctantly by the man supporting Stora’s upper half.

  “Wait,” the Unwoven interjected. Eyrie raised her hand, which caused Wyand and the boatman carrying Stora to stop abruptly. “We agreed to travel with you to Cynmere to seek healing for the Mainwright,” the Unwoven continued. “Allowing strangers to carry her this far was bad enough, but now you are asking us to stuff her into one of these cages, alone and unprotected beneath this beast? No. We can’t do that.”

  “This ‘beast’ is the only hope she has of reaching Cynmere and, in case you have forgotten, that is her only chance for survival,” Eyrie explained coolly.

  “I would sooner carry her there myself!” the Unwoven shouted.

  “You would never make it.”

  “Then we will seek healing somewhere else!”

  “THERE IS NOWHERE ELSE!” Eyrie roared, silencing the Unwoven and all other sounds for a hundred strides in any direction. Even the scrid stood motionless after an outburst like that. “You don’t understand yet, because you have not seen the horrors we have seen. The haugaeldr have ruined this world; Cynmere is the only safe water source left within three days’ journey. If you don’t come with us, Stora will die. Halwen will die. You will die.” A faint cry emitted from the bundle in Eyrie’s arms, and she quickly turned away from the group to whisper to it.

  “Do as you wish,” Eyrie said softly over her shoulder a moment later. “But know that it is my duty to assist you, and that is what I am trying to do. You’ve seen how readily death can be found in this land; I’m offering to help you find life.”

  The Unwoven was silent as she thought through the situation. She met Halwen’s eyes, but could find no clear guidance amidst the panic that still gripped her friend. Then the Unwoven looked to Wyand, seeking an answer from him instead. Wyand was shocked by this and shifted under her gaze as he tried to gather his thoughts. The Mainwright grumbled in her sleep again, which caught Wyand’s attention as well as the Unwoven’s. It was a reminder of what was truly at risk if they did not find safety soon. Looking back to the Unwoven with concern, Wyand nodded his head reluctantly—their only choice was to go with the Cynmeren.

  “We accept your offer,” the Unwoven said at last. “Do whatever you must to get the Mainwright to Cynmere.” Halwen gasped, shaking violently at the thought of being put in one of the transport cages, but a sharp look from the Unwoven silenced Halwen’s protest before it could find any words.

  “Good,” Eyrie said with a relieved smile. “Now, Newfallen, move Stora into the cage and make certain that her back faces up.” Wyand and the boatman carrying the Mainwright set her down gently at the open end of the cage. Wyand searched for some means of opening the top of the wooden cage, but there was no access at all except for the one end. He looked to the boatman helplessly.

  “Get on your back, pull her on top of you, and crawl into the cage,” the boatman instructed. Wyand looked at him incredulously, but the man replied with a low growl that signaled he would tolerate no further hesitation. With no other option, Wyand lowered himself to the ground and carefully hooked his arms under Stora’s own. She grumbled once more as he rolled her slowly on top of his chest—he was surprised by how light she was. As he used his legs and shoulders to move towards the cage, Wyand stared up at the canopy overhead and almost laughed. The absurdity of his current position had grown so far past confusing that his mind now regarded it with a note of humor instead of worry.

  Once Wyand was completely in the transport cage, he felt the Mainwright being lifted as something was slid beneath her. In seconds, her weight was no longer resting on him at all. Wyand tucked his chin as far as it would go to see what had changed, but Stora’s face and shoulder were all that he could see.

  “Crawl out, Newfallen,” Eyrie called with a chuckle. “And try to look a little less clueless.” Several of the boatmen snickered from their mounts atop the scrid. Wyand felt his cheeks going red with embarrassment, but then he remembered what these people had done to him before. He decided banter wasn’t so bad when compared to another beating. Wyand reversed his motion from entering the cage and shuffled out using primarily his shoulders. The bruises from Wracandyr ached with a dull pain each time his back thudded against one of the cage supports; it was a reminder that Stora wasn’t the only one who could use a few days to heal.

  When Wyand cleared the last of the woven branches, he turned back to examine how the Mainwright had been suspended in the cage. Large straps secured each section of Stora’s body to the framework, and as Wyand watched, the boatman cinched the last one into place around her head. Satisfied with his final knot, the boatman guided
the scrid over to the transport cage and took hold of one of Stora’s arms. The man lifted Stora’s hand and offered it to the scrid just as Eyrie had done with her own hand before. The tusks flared open wide, the inner mouth extended, and the creature lingered for only a few seconds before retracting the mouth once again. Then, without any direction, the scrid spun around, lowered its tail onto the transport cage, and rotated this new cargo up and under its body with the same creaking sound Wyand heard earlier.

  Four more scrid were brought forward after Stora was in position, and each lowered a transport cage to the ground. Three of the cages were empty, just as Stora’s had been, but the fourth was lined with a large sack. Eyrie approached the end of this sack and reached inside, removing two smaller bags that she then passed to Halwen and the Unwoven. The women stared at her blankly.

  “Before we depart, I know you’re hungry after so many days. Please, eat,” Eyrie urged them. The Unwoven slid the bone weapon into her waist sash and hesitantly untied the pouch she had been given. After emptying a portion of its contents into her hand, she sniffed the unappealing brown chunks and looked at Halwen before placing a piece in her mouth. The Unwoven’s eyes grew wide before she hurriedly ate another piece and another. Halwen followed the example, and within a matter of seconds the two women were laughing between bites about how incredible the strange new food tasted.

  Wyand felt a pang in his stomach when the aroma from this food drifted over to him. How long has it been? he wondered, trying to remember the last time he had eaten. Too long, was the only answer offered by his empty stomach. He stared longingly at the food pouches until the Unwoven at last took note of him.

  “What about him?” she asked Eyrie. “Shouldn’t he eat too?”