The short man shot Tedel a suspicious look, his eyes focused on his scarred cheek. “Get Captain Gregers.” He motioned with his head back toward Endeling, and the other man lumbered away. “Little late ain’t ya?” He edged up to the cart to inspect the contents.
“Don’t know about that, but if I’m late, it’s his fault, not mine.” Tedel snapped the rod against the mule for emphasis, and it started moving toward the village. Now you go. The one time I’d rather you stay.
“What’s the problem, Yaser?” a man called out as the mule approached the edge of the village. He strode forward to meet them, a scowl on his flat broad face.
“Tedel here’s deliverin’ for Arvid,” Yaser explained.
“Why?” The captain’s eyes narrowed. He tugged at the trimmed patch of hair around his chin.
“Says Arvid’s got the runs,” Yaser answered, but the captain’s look made clear he’d meant for Tedel to respond.
“Like he said.” Tedel’s voice cracked, further stressing his nerves. “Arvid’s doubled over. Qualm done hired me to take his place. Three silvers when I return.”
“Looks in order,” Yaser said from the back as he continued inspecting the goods in the cart. “Except a couple barrels is opened. Seal’s broke.”
Gregers looked askance at Tedel. “We’ll get her unloaded, you come on in and have some dinner.”
“There’s still light.” Tedel tried to steady his voice. “I’ll just head on back if it’s all the same to you. Arvid’ll be back soon, I reckon, for the next delivery.”
“You’d pass up dinner and drink?” Gregers tilted his head, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Don’t know I’ve ever met a deliveryman who’d pass up food to spend the night alone on the road. What’s your name again?”
“Tedel, sir.” He held out his hand.
Gregers ignored the hand, instead calling out to Yaser. “Set those two barrels aside but take in the others for the feast. We’ve finished the last batch. And grab me a mug.”
Tedel tried to talk his way out of joining. “About dinner, ‘spect I might be gettin’ what Arvid got—gut’s been gripin’ somethin’ fierce. And I already took a few sips of the ale along the way. Hope you don’t mind. Arvid said he done the same ‘fore I left.” Tedel chanced a quick glance toward the woods for any sign of his colleagues. Just stay calm.
The big soldier who’d first greeted him along with Yaser returned with a mug. The captain filled it half full from one of the opened barrels. “After a long trip you must be thirsty.” He offered Tedel the mug.
“You don’t mind?” Tedel tried to act surprised by the captain’s generosity. “If I’d known that I’da drunk my fill instead of just the few sips.” He took the mug. Please be from the barrel Arvid tried in town. He risked another glance toward the woods then raised his cup high so Whym, Stern, and Kutan could see what was happening. “Cheers!” he yelled, too loud for the situation, but loud enough, he hoped, that his voice would carry to the woods.
Then he brought the mug to his nose, sniffing appreciatively—delaying—but there was no sign of the others. Gregers crossed his arms and glared. Tedel drank. It tastes…like normal ale. He gulped down the half mug of liquid. The clanging of pots turned his head as he finished the last swallow.
“Dinner’s ready,” Yaser announced from beside the wagon. The men were almost finished unloading the goods.
Tedel held the empty mug by his side, resting it on his thigh.
“Here,” Gregers held out his hand. Reluctantly, Tedel handed over the mug and watched as Gregers filled it half-full from the other opened barrel. “Drink up.” Tedel took the proffered mug, but hesitated in lifting it. The captain slid open the tabard he wore to reveal the handle of a dagger tucked under his belt.
Tedel looked at the dagger, then the drink, then again toward the trees. If I run, I’m dead. If I drink, I’m dead. If they try to rescue me, we’re all dead. He raised the mug to his lips. It tastes like ale…with a flowery aftertaste…honeysuckle? He pictured Arvid’s stiff body. “Aaahhhh, Qualm’s best stuff,” he managed, needing to cling to his anger to prevent from wailing over his fate. “Is it too late to change my mind about dinner?”
Gregers seemed to relax after Tedel downed the ale. The captain led the way to the common hall where the other soldiers were waiting. He took his spot at the end of the table, then motioned for Tedel to occupy the empty seat between him and Yaser. “To our friend, Tedel!” Gregers lifted the mug in front of him above his head. “For arriving with the ale in time for dinner.”
“Here, here,” the soldiers answered and hammered the table with their fists, bouncing the loaves of bread.
Tedel raised the mug in front of him. His hands and feet had started to tingle. To every one of you bastards being dead by morning.
“Dinner!” Gregers belted, and a line of women tottered in carrying trays filled with bowls of bread. The women were naked but for the rope hobbles around their ankles and the chain that bound them neck to neck. Their backs, legs, arms, and a few of their faces were marked with flay scars. As they neared with their stunted steps, Tedel noticed the hobbles had stripped the skin from their ankles and now rubbed against pus-filled sores.
Yaser caught his dismay, and elbowed Tedel in the ribs. “Don’t worry, it’s their pleasure to serve.” As a paunchy woman with a long pink scar above her eye placed his filled bread bowl on the table, Yaser smacked her hard enough on the rear to cause some of the brown soup to slosh out. Without hesitation, she bent to lick it up.
Tedel was reminded of his own time as a captive when he watched the way the other women contorted their bodies to accommodate her movement. “This one,” Yaser pinched the woman’s nipple hard enough she bit her lip to absorb the pain, “was meaner than a cottonmouth before I trained her.” The girl finished, and subtly stepped just beyond his reach. They bowed in unison, the chains linking their necks jangling, and left as fast as their hobbled feet would allow.
The men scarfed down the stew, easing their swallows with swigs of ale. Drink you bastards, drink!
Shortly after the women left, music started from the opposite corner of the hall and snagged Tedel’s attention. A slip of a woman was playing a string instrument that produced a deep sorrowful wail—a strange accompaniment to the festive chatter at the table. Her left ankle was chained to a thick wall beam, but the shackle had been wrapped with fur. Unlike the others, she showed no evidence of abuse, her unmarked body moving like a snake along with the rhythm of the strings.
“Ain’t hungry?” Yaser elbowed him when he noticed Tedel’s untouched stew.
Tedel didn’t move, his eyes fixed on the woman, his mind focused on the music. She’s beautiful.
“Hey. Hey, I’m talking to you.” Tedel couldn’t feel the shove that sent him to the floor, but surmised what had happened. Instead of the girl, he was staring at the leg of a chair, his body unfeeling and stiff.
“Poison!” He heard Yaser’s voice as the sound faded from his ears. His vision was blurred and distorted, as if he were seeing from thousands upon thousands of eyes at once.
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“Whym? You all right?”
Whym cracked open his eyes. Kutan knelt beside him, outlined by the moon’s glow. Whym started to speak but gagged as something pressed against the back of his throat. He moved his hand to his lips and yanked a cloth from his mouth.
“You passed out and were groaning,” Kutan explained. “I was afraid they’d hear.”
Whym closed his eyes, the voices still pounding. The last thing he remembered was Tedel raising the mug. “Tedel?”
“He drank—” Kutan stopped himself. “We don’t know.” He pulled Whym up to a seated position. “There was a flurry of activity, but nothing else for a while.”
Whym remembered digging and looked down at his fingers, surprised they weren’t covered with dirt.
The vision that had seized him seemed so real he could still taste the last meal the woman had eaten before burying the amulet—before the soldier had rounded the corner. I must find that amulet. He didn’t know why, but knew finding it was crucial.
Kutan stood, brushing wet leaves from his knees. “Stern and I are going in. Will you be okay here?”
“Wait.” Whym grabbed the bottom of Kutan’s trousers to prevent him from leaving. “I’m going, too.” He squinted, willing the voices to the back of his consciousness.
“I don’t think—” Kutan started to protest.
“I’m going,” Whym repeated forcefully. “You’ll have to tie me up to keep me here.”
“Get up, then.” Kutan had turned, so Whym was unable to read his expression. But the tone of his voice had changed from concern to a bitterness not present since the Mysts. Whym grunted as he rose to his feet, fighting through dizziness and nausea to catch up.
“Still nothing?” Kutan asked when they reached the spot where Stern was watching the village.
The seeker shook his head, his white hair reflecting the little light that penetrated the tree cover. “Is he okay to wait here?”
“I’m going.” Whym didn’t give Kutan time to answer, and was surprised when the seeker didn’t argue.
“Fine, but stay at the back,” Stern said. “If I sense a trap, we’ll wait until morning and scout from a distance.” He pulled up his hood and crept through the brush, moving toward the village with steps as quiet as if he were walking on sand.
Kutan and Whym followed several strides behind, scanning the periphery for movement. The village was silent, the only noises coming from the babble of the stream that ran through the center of Endeling and the pulsating buzz of the insects in the trees surrounding. Kutan stopped and grabbed Whym’s forearm, pulling him down to a knee. Ahead, Stern was also kneeling. When he didn’t move, they tiptoed over.
“They’re dead,” Stern whispered, lifting his finger from the neck of one of the two bodies lying in the street. Then he pointed to the large building in the village center, where a soft light seeped from the open door. He sneaked toward the building, peeked inside, then recoiled. The flicker of torchlight revealed his face, drained of color, as he stepped back and rested his head against the outside wall of the building.
Tedel! Whym yanked free of Kutan’s grip on his arm and rushed toward the door. Servant of Death, the voice in his mind repeated as he surveyed the grisly scene illuminated by fading torches. The soldiers’ bodies were scattered like dead leaves in the throes of winter. Sticks had been jammed into their eyes, and several had been mutilated in ways that made Murck’s torture seem dull and unimaginative.
“What are they doing?” Kutan whispered from behind, pointing at a circle of women near the far corner of the room. Cautiously, he moved toward them with Whym at his back.
Kutan reached out to steady himself against the table when he was close enough to see them. The women were seated, legs crossed, hands placed demurely in their laps. The bodies of all but the woman seated in the center of the circle were scarred and bruised from abuse, and their eyes plucked from their sockets.
Whym moved past Kutan, stepped into the circle, and squatted before the woman in the middle. She was stiff, eyes unmoving. With quivering hands, he reached toward her face, removed her eyes, then placed them in the empty pouch around her neck. The voices pummeled him as if he were standing underneath a waterfall. New voices, the soldiers’ voices, had joined the babel.
“Whym!” Kutan rushed toward him, his voice echoing through the silence of the room. “Why?”
Whym turned. He could see Tedel’s body lying on the floor, frozen in a seated position. “Pile the soldiers. All of them. Outside. In the street. Leave the women. Leave Tedel.” He stumbled from the room into the darkness outside. The amulet. I must find it.
Endeling, Chapter 58
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Weep not for the dead. Weep for those who must bury the bodies.
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—Truth (Lessons 7: 1-2)
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Endeling
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“What’s in that drink Whym found? They’re not stiff like the dead should be. They’re hard like stone.” Kutan clenched his teeth and strained to pry the dead soldier’s fingers from the table leg. Whym had told them it was a potent poison, but he’d been elusive regarding both where he’d found it and how he’d known it would work. Kutan trusted Whym, but was frustrated by the incomplete explanations his fellow apprentice had provided since inexplicably rolling from the fog of the Mysts. He grabbed the rock they’d used to prop open the door, and swung it against the soldier’s hand. The fingers snapped like a dried limb, and he dragged the body away.
Stern flipped another soldier to the side so his spread arms would fit, then shoved the body through the door. “I’ve never seen or heard of anything like it.”
“Last one.” Kutan slung the broken-fingered soldier on top of the pile of bodies as the sun rose in the morning sky behind him. I don’t understand the point of this. It’s not like it matters what happens to their bodies. What’s done to the dead is for the benefit of the living.
Stern stared at the pile. “Wonder what he plans to do with them now?” Only the two soldiers they’d found outside stared back. The others all had objects driven into their eyes.
Kutan looked around. “Have you seen him lately?” The last time they’d crossed paths, Whym was going door to door mumbling to himself about finding a buried amulet.
“Not lately.” Stern looked at the pile of soldiers. He and Kutan had carried out Whym’s demands due to the urgency and conviction in the youngest apprentice’s voice. But there were limits to how far they’d go based only on that conviction, particularly with as crazy as Whym was acting.
“Just wish we knew what happened in the Mysts. Maybe we could help.” Kutan worried Whym had lost his wits.
“Maybe.” Stern looked unconvinced.
“I’ll go find him,” Kutan grumbled. “I’m ready to leave this place.” He didn’t need to search the structures. Instead, he followed the trail of holes Whym had dug outside the front doors of the different buildings. Before long, he saw movement and recognized Whym’s boots jutting from around the corner of a cottage near the village edge.
“Whym?” he said as he neared, but received no answer. When he reached the corner, he found Whym on his knees, scraping at the dirt, oblivious to Kutan’s calls. “Hey!” Kutan bent, intending to grab his friend and force him to listen.
“I found it!” Whym sat up suddenly, the back of his head just missing Kutan’s face.
“You found what?” Kutan asked, a tinge of anger in his words despite his attempt to hide it.
“I found it!” Whym held a soiled hand high above his head. The fingernails that remained hung at odd angles. “I found it!” He turned, tears streaming down dirt-covered cheeks.
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Whym gripped the amulet. He’d felt the pain in his hands as he dug. That pain was nothing compared to the pressure of the voices in his head—as if they were trying to split his skull and escape. “I found it.” He clutched the warm stone against his chest with throbbing hands.
The voices quieted—whispers, then silence. “Are you still there?” he called to them with closed eyes.
“You’re the connection.” A gnarled man with only a few wisps of wiry hair left on his sun-spotted head was holding the amulet out toward him. Whym reached for it with little girl fingers, and realized he was again in the grip of a vision. “You’re the link between the Before and the living. This is the last of the speaking stones Zvi entrusted to our people.” He could feel the excruciating pressure of the voices in the girl’s mind, and empathized with her
discomfort.
She grasped the amulet, and the voices stopped. “With this amulet you may speak with the Before,” the man revealed. “And you may silence them. Keep it with you always until you learn to manage them with your own mind.”
“And Mama?” the girl asked.
The man’s expression darkened. “Your mother fell to the prophet’s curse. Her body was burned.” He placed his hand gently on the girl’s shoulder. “The burned cannot speak. Their visions are lost to us.”
“Papa?”
The man smiled and patted her shoulder. “Your father had a proper burial by the lake. He didn’t drink from the Darkness, so he’s not part of the Before. But if you learn to listen well, someday you may hear his voice.”
“I’m here. Whym, I’m here!”
The vision stopped abruptly. Whym opened his eyes, angry at the interruption. It took him a moment to recognize the figure before him. “Kutan?” He clutched the amulet, his head filled only with his own thoughts—a first since leaving the Mysts. “I found it.” He looked down at his clenched fist and gaped at the ends of his fingers. With a grimace, he pushed his knees off the ground and rose to his feet. “I’ll be okay, now. Really.”
Kutan looked unconvinced, but didn’t press the issue. “Let’s go. You can clean in the stream.” He led the way back to the commons building.
Stern was already there, standing away from the pile of bodies. “What happened?” he asked when he caught sight of Whym’s condition.
Whym blanched and turned away at the sight of the grisly pile. He held out the amulet. It was glowing orange against his palm. “I found what I needed.”
“What is it?” Stern reached out, but Whym snatched it back to his chest.
He knew he had to tell them something—something believable. “I don’t remember what happened in the Mysts, but I’ve been hearing voices since we left. They were driving me crazy. If I relaxed and stopped resisting them, visions surged into my mind. It’s how I knew about the drink.” He opened his palm again to show the glowing stone. “It’s how I knew about this. This quiets the voices. I really am okay.” He could feel the lump of guilt forming again in his gut for lying to Kutan. It was a burden he was resigned to suffer. He knew somehow the Sorg was a secret he shouldn’t share.
Birthrights_Revisions to the Truth Page 37