“Na herebouts,” he said. “All’s there own. None ta sell.”
She paused, searching him with her eyes. How far could she trust him? He was watching her, patiently, expressionless. Other than a trace of a smile when she came out of the room in his clothes, he hadn’t shown any emotion at all. “Where are you going?” she asked.
“N’tahar,” he said.
“Is that a city?”
He laughed, and she saw the smile again. “Na city N’tahar? No, no.” Then, more seriously, “A village. Safe for ya.”
Sayri nodded slowly. “I must get to the garrison of the North Province. Is it in that direction?”
Dol Vi stared at her for a long moment, his face blank. When he answered, it was unexpected, nearly startling her. “Not really.”
She sighed. It couldn’t be that easy. “Could I find passage from your village? Or buy a horse?”
“One or other,” he confirmed. “Might take some time. But ya be safer until I can arrange.”
She closed her eyes for a breath, then opened them and smiled at him. “Very well then,” she decided. “I would be honoured to accept your offer of hospitality, Dol Vi. Please escort me to your village.”
20 JODHRIK
There was a humming sound. And water, perhaps a river—no, the sea. Waves gently rolling on a beach. Once he identified that, he could make out the rustle of trees in a breeze. And humming.
Jodhrik faded in and out of sleep for a while, dreaming of walking on a beach in the summer sun—he had done that a lot in his younger years, before he joined the Sanctuary—then coming to a semi-awakened state, where he knew he was listening to actual waves and actual wind.
Through it all was the pain in his head. He first became aware of it in the dream; a girl was walking with him then, a girl he had never met with yellow-blond hair and a faraway look, and she was making flirty eyes at him, but he couldn’t talk to her because of a blinding headache. He started to explain, hoping that they might continue another day when the weather was just as wonderful, and he didn’t have the pain . . . oh, the pain.
Then the girl was Sayri, the beautiful Lower Valley murderess, and she was holding his head in her hands. “Does this hurt?” she asked, squeezing his head at the temples. Excruciating pain flashed through his skull and he yelled at her, startling her into releasing him.
“It hurts,” he confirmed meekly, cradling his forehead with his hands.
Then it was dark, and Sayri’s face was flickering in orange firelight, her eyes hooded, with yellow lights where her pupils should be. “I can channel, Proselyte,” she said, her voice calm and deadly. “Do you doubt that I can crush your feeble skull in the grip of my focus?”
The pain blazed and he awoke. It was night, and there was a campfire burning brightly beside him. The sea was dark but near; through the haze of throbbing pain he could make out reflections on the waves. Overhead were several large trees; he didn’t recognize the type. They had long, bare trunks and great, leafy canopies dangling from their crowns, and they were swaying gently in a breeze.
He tried to sit up but the pressure in his head intensified and rush of vertigo spun him, forcing him back down. Then came nausea, and he decided to stay prone.
Time passed as the waves swept in and out and the trees swayed. He played a continuous game of breathing through the pain, calming the mind to dull it . . . feeling almost well enough to sit up—then being enveloped in another rush of agony.
The sun wheeled across the sky.
Finally the pain lessened, though it did not fade entirely. He must have awoken the first time late at night, but there was still no sign of dawn. Very slowly, Jodhrik managed to prop himself up on an elbow, and look around.
He was at a campsite, that was to be sure; there were spears in the sand nearby, and a rack of sticks tied with vine leaning against two of the tall trees. The fire pit was lined with rocks, and he was lying on furs. There was even a partially finished basket sitting on the sand nearby.
Where was he? How had he made it to shore, when he had surely been unconscious far out in the deep waters of the sea? Who had found him and brought him here?
Wherever he was, he had been unbelievably lucky; this camp was well established, perhaps even a permanent site. Without the help of whoever had saved him, he would surely be dead.
Abruptly his sense of smell returned, and he detected something horribly foul. He looked around for the source, then realized with horror that it was him—the pressure between his legs confirmed it; he had soiled himself, probably many times.
Raising a hand to his face, he confirmed his suspicions. The growth on his face was many days old, at least.
Slowly, agonizingly, he pushed himself up, pausing every few seconds to breathe and allow himself to adapt. Each time he straightened further, more pain lanced behind his eyes; then it dulled gradually as he adjusted to the new position.
Finally he reached his hands and knees. Good enough. He didn’t trust himself to stand, in any case. He started crawling toward the water.
Repulsively, he became aware of a mass of dried filth between his legs. Silently he blessed his good fortune in having been reduced to his small clothes; his stole in this situation would have far worse, and impossible to clean. It was certainly warm enough here—wherever here was—that he was better off without it.
When he reached the sea, he sank into it with a sigh of relief; it was pleasantly tepid. He pulled off his small clothes very slowly, and washed them in the sea. They would still stink of salt water, but far less than before; he threw the wet clothes on the beach, and proceeded to wash himself.
Once he was done, Jodhrik crawled back up on shore, and collapsed on the sand. His clothes were further on shore, but he was already too exhausted to move. He lay on his back, his head pounding, staring at up at the stars; the Swirl was clearly visible, with no clouds in sight. He fell into the sky, the rustling of the trees and rhythmic swells of the sea surrounding him, entrancing him . . .
Jodhrik thrashed in a panic; something had him by the arms and was dragging him! He twisted back and forth but was unable to break free.
Then he became fully conscious and realized he was being pulled out of the sea and up on the beach. The hands under his arms were human; he rolled his head back and saw a bearded face above him.
As his rescuer placed him back on the furs, he understood; the tide had come in while he was passed out. His benefactor had saved his life a second time.
“Thank you, friend,” he said, once he had his breath back. “I fear the effort of cleaning myself was too much, and I passed out. I owe you my gratitude, for that and for finding me.”
The other man was staring at him from across the fire, his brow furrowed heavily as if he doubted Jodhrik’s words. He didn’t answer.
Jodhrik’s eyes cleared fully, and he saw his saviour’s face lit by the firelight. It was the bungman! That explained why he hadn’t answered. “You don’t understand me, do you?” he asked.
The bungman stared at him for a moment, then made a grunting sound.
Jodhrik placed his hand on his chest. “Jodhrik,” he said slowly. Then he reached out—slowly—towards the bungman to touch his chest. The bungman slapped his hand away, growling.
Jodhrik tried again. “Jodhrik,” he repeated, touching his chest. This time he just pointed at the bungman.
The bungman cocked his head to the side, apparently considering his meaning. Then, he pointed at Jodhrik.
“Jarak,” the bungman said.
“Yes!” Jodhrik exclaimed, surprising the bungman, who leapt to his feet with the apparent agility of a boxcat.
Jodhrik held his hands out to show peaceful intent, then touched his chest again. “Jodhrik,” he said.
The bungman squatted again; Jodhrik realized he had never seen him sit, not even in the cage on the ship. He waved at Jodhrik. “Jarak,” he growled.
Jodhrik smiled, being careful not to show teeth, then waved at the bungman.
<
br /> The bungman lifted his head in comprehension. He touched his own chest. “Bauma,” he said. It sounded like bungman, but spoken without the tongue.
Jodhrik blinked. “Bauma?” he asked incredulously.
“Bauma,” the bungman said again, smiling—with teeth. He slapped his chest. “Bauma.” He waved at Jodhrik. “Jarak,” he repeated.
Was he raised by the traders who sent him on the boat? Jodhrik wondered. How else could he have no name but what the sailors had called him?
“Jarak,” the bungman—Bauma—said, pointing at the fire. Jodhrik saw a spit set up there, with a large creature roasting on it; he didn’t recognize it.
The smell of cooking meat hit him then, and he felt light-headed. He was starving! Jodhrik reached quickly for the meat.
Bauma was faster; he had Jodhrik by the arms before he made it halfway there. “Jarak,” he said, pushing him back down.
“I’m starving . . . Bauma,” he pleaded. “Please.”
But it quickly became evident that Bauma wasn’t refusing him; he was protecting Jodhrik from burning himself. He picked up an animal skin from the sand beside him, and wrapped it around a leg of the cooking animal, pulling. The leg tore off, and Bauma placed it on the edge of Jodhrik’s furs.
Bauma whistled at Jodhrik, holding his hands away from the meat, as if it were a fire. He pointed at his open mouth, then and whistled again.
Jodhrik shook his head in astonishment. Not so stupid after all, he said to himself. He looked around the campsite, taking in the comfortable surroundings Bauma had set up in what was probably less than a tenday. “Not stupid at all,” he repeated aloud, smiling.
The beast-man smiled back, then used the skin to tear off another leg for himself. He sniffed at it, grinned at Jodhrik, and started blowing on it to cool it off.
・
Jodhrik stayed near the fire for two more days, regaining his strength. He did what he could to help out, weaving baskets—though the beast-man was better at it—and creating twine from strings of bark, which astounded and thrilled Bauma. His host, in turn, returned from prowling every night with a fresh kill; he was an apt hunter.
Jodhrik was beginning to become concerned with the rudimentary diet, however; though Bauma seemed quite content with meat, roots, and grubs, Jodhrik didn’t think it would sustain them indefinitely. He had no way to explain this to Bauma, who proved incapable of learning more than a few basic sounds, so Jodhrik took it upon himself to recover sufficiently to do some foraging of his own.
On the third day after his awakening, he decided that he was ready. Bauma showed up during the night with prey, as he always did, and they ate before dawn. When his savage companion curled up to sleep, Jodhrik tried to explain with gestures and sounds that he would be going for a walk. He wasn’t sure if he was understood, but the beast-man thrust a spear into his hands before curling up on his furs again, so Jodhrik assumed he had some idea.
With the spear in hand and his feet covered with a pair of makeshift leaf and twine sandals—he had lost his shoes with the ship, and Bauma didn’t use footwear—he started along the beach.
The morning was clear, as it mostly had been during the days so far, though it rained often shortly before dawn. Trees of various types littered the edge of the beach, becoming thicker inland so that it was impossible to see beyond the first few dozen paces. Jodhrik’s first order of business was to find a better vantage point, where he hoped to get some idea of where they were. After a few hundred paces he spotted a promontory where the sand reached out into the sea a fair distance; he made his way to its base and started out onto it.
The sea was split by the sand bar, which stretched out perhaps a hundred paces from the tree line; from the pieces of broken coral showing in the sand, he guessed that a reef had once stood here before enough sand gathered to raise it out of the water. The sand was very soft and wet in places, as if the sea still tried to claim it.
Far enough out, he turned to take in the view, and his breath caught. He stood either on an island or a peninsula; if the latter, it stretched far into the distance directly away from him, because he could see only water on both sides of the land mass before him. Above, a mighty mountain rose from the forest, its slopes steep and covered almost entirely with black rock; few plants grew there. At the summit, towering far above the beach, the peak was flat. A narrow plume of white smoke drifted from its centre lazily, as if the mountain itself was burning.
Jodhrik had never seen a volcano, but he was familiar with the concept. When pressure beneath the earth became too great, it pushed up the ground itself until it tore open, spewing fire and burning rock.
Staying near one too long always meant death.
Putting aside the alarm that gripped his heart, he began making his way back to the beach; he would walk as far as he could around to the right, and determine if he was stranded on an island, or if there was a way inland.
It took him most of the day to circumnavigate the island. The regularity of its circular shape was impressive; he encountered no other promontories like the sand bar he had found a short distance from camp, and the forest formed a nearly symmetrical ring around the mountain, which was itself a near perfect cone.
The forest was quite thick and he had seen no animals, though he had heard some noises from within, and there were plenty of birds. Jodhrik suspected that any large creatures on the island must be plant-eaters; in very little time, a single carnivore would have wiped out the small population of prey.
He further suspected that he and Bauma (he had quickly adopted the bungman’s name, despite its origin) would eventually upset the natural balance in the same manner; they couldn’t remain here indefinitely.
“I certainly do not intend to live out my days on this island, alone with a savage,” he said aloud. His voice sounded odd, and unusually quiet in the backdrop of the sea and wind. A man could disappear here, and no one would ever know.
Eventually he found his way back to the campsite, from the opposite direction. Bauma was still sleeping, curled up on his left side with his hands under his head, snoring gently. He was, Jodhrik thought ironically, just about the best companion he could have hoped for in such a situation.
Excepting a shipwright, he amended.
Jodhrik himself knew nothing about building a boat, but it would have to be a priority. No one was going to find them here, and there was no other way to leave. He eyed the bungman skeptically, wondering if he knew anything about boat building. Likely not.
This time, saving them both would fall to him.
21 GALLORD-SMIT
Mellie was crying. He could clearly hear her high-pitched wail, but was unable to determine what direction it came from. The house seemed to be burning everywhere except out on the stone patio where he stood, but there must have been safe areas, else how could the child be crying?
He ran into the main room, where the walls and ceiling were aflame, and the hardwood floor was beginning to smolder. The house would not burn to the ground, but everything inside would be destroyed; houses in Promontory were framed in thick stone, but the floors, walls, and roofs were wood.
He could still hear the two-year-old screaming. For some reason he did not call out to her; instead, he ran from room to room, looking in every corner and behind every piece of burning furniture. As he stepped through each threshold, her voice seemed momentarily louder, as if he had found her, then faded as though being drawn away.
The fire crackled and popped, and smoke filled his nostrils.
In the sleeping room, the platform was engulfed. On the centre of the platform he could make out Daeyella’s form—his beautiful, young wife —lying on her back with her hands clasped before her in sleep, undisturbed by the roaring inferno or the cries of her daughter.
Mellie’s cries sounded again, and he turned away. From room to room he searched again, his entire life on fire. Still her cries rose and fell, and in every room he thought he had found her, only to hear her somewhere else. The i
nterior of the house was an oven. Sweat scorched his face and neck, his hands and feet were covered in burns, and desperation hammered his heart, but he still did not call out.
He ran into the sleeping room again; the flames consuming his wife’s body were bright orange, and nearly reached the ceiling. Her hands, rolling with fire, lifted from her chest, and he heard her moans. He thought she called his name, but how could she, with her lips and throat afire?
He backed away from her, pushing his hands out before him as if to ward the vision away. At the threshold, he turned, catching Mellie’s voice yet again above the roar of the home’s desolation.
The main room was engulfed now; there was no way through. His daughter’s cries carried on the scorching wind that tore through the house. He couldn’t reach her.
He dropped to his knees, looked at his shaking hands. They were charred through, the skin black and red and yellow, riddled with cracks oozing blood. His small clothes were nearly burned away, and the flesh beneath them was all likewise blistered and breaking. His body was ruined, his wife was dead; his daughter was lost.
Why couldn’t he die?
Gallord-Smit’s eyes spasmed open. His heart was thundering, and he was drenched in sweat. It was daytime, perhaps morning, and he was in a large room with great white curtains suspended above him. A sheet covered his nude body.
What did he remember? The dream had gone on so long, much longer than ever before; it seemed more real than any memories he could pull up. Where was he?
He had been on a ship. Talking to the young krakari, Arad. Arriving at Yalcinae . . .
Perrile! The Somrians had betrayed them. Sherzi had murdered his men, captured Lord Perrile. Surrender or die?
He reached slowly to his side where the crossbow had found him. No packing, just skin. Had he dreamed it? No, he found the spot; a swollen lump formed around a thick, fresh scar. How could it already be a scar?
He heard soft footsteps, and looked to his left; a white curtain—the entire room seemed to be draped in them—had been pulled aside, and a young woman entered, carrying a basin of water and a towel.
Sayri's Whisper: The Great Link Book 1 Page 22