Whisper Alive

by Marc Secchia

  She punched the release. Nothing.

  Again!

  The flechettes fanned out slightly as they shot upward, a distance of a mere twenty-five feet. The two solid armour-piercing bolts crunched into the eye socket, followed by a dull, fleshy thud as the yellow bolt exploded inside the Dragon’s fiery eye-orb. The red dart vanished into the mess that gushed out of the wounded eye; the injured Dragon fell away with a howl seemingly bent on waking the souls vaporised by the Sundering.

  After a moment’s silence, a blistered blue face peered over the edge. “Whisper!”

  “Oh … Inshari?” Rhyme had called her a promising young Water Enchantress. Whisper had met her during the initial briefings before leaving for Azarinthe, along with many of the magical establishment of Arbor.

  “Inshari it is. Saved me a Dragon-grilling. Hand up? Paw?”

  “Thanks. Is Rhyme close?”

  As Whisper scrambled out of hiding, the girl added, “We’re all here, stuck like idiot Mages in a spell of our own casting. I think I just learned how difficult it is to summon water when the atmosphere’s as dry as the inside of a Dragon’s fire-stomach.” She pulled Whisper up onto the trail. “You’ve a plan?”

  “Find you an axe.” Whisper selected flechettes from her bandolier. “If you look after my backside, I’ll shoot anyone who dares to peek at yours. Deal?”

  “Deal. Start there.”

  Whisper followed the stab of her finger, and looked a second time. Two of Sanfuri’s Warlocks appeared to be walking about in flexible metal cages armed with multi-jointed tentacles, perhaps a dozen arms to a cage. The arms flailed about holding a motley assemblage of bladed weapons, the only criterion for which appeared to be, large and barbed in nasty places. As she watched, an Arborite axman whanged an almighty blow atop one of the cages; the metal reverberated, but held firm. A magical shield, she deduced. Four arms simultaneously tried to hack the axman’s head off his shoulders, but he retreated behind his shield, clearly shouting although she could not hear the sound above the din of battle. Meantime, flocks of metallic silver dragonets and more whippet-draconids made merry among the refugees who had not drawn behind the protection of Rhyme’s phalanx. As she watched, the diminutive Princess unleashed a two-handed meat-cleaver of a blow that split a draconid clean in half. Twirling the axe about her head as she rotated to build centrifugal force, she slammed a second draconid so lustily in the fangs, bits of teeth sprayed over twelve feet ahead of her, giving the other whippet-draconids pause.

  If Xan saw her in combat, he might just run screaming back to Azarinthe.

  If there were more Higher Dragons about, Whisper could not spot them immediately. The two renegade Warlocks closed in grimly on Rhyme’s position; the phalanx held firm with impressive discipline, but it was only a matter of time before whippets attacking low or the steely, champing fangs of dragonets flitting above found a chink somewhere.

  Inshari said, “To think this was only one of their skirmishing forces. Those Warlocks have incredible control and power.”

  “Cover me.”

  Kneeling, Whisper loaded the crossbow, selecting one blue and one yellow dart. She hastily loaded her wristlets with full clips for Dragonkind. She glanced up. Three Mages at the back of Rhyme’s group kept the Warlocks’ machines at bay – barely. The blades skittered and scraped against a glowing, dome-shaped shield, furiously trying to hack their way through.

  It was almost impossible to line up a good shot. After five seconds, she gave up and simply fired both darts simultaneously. One flechette pinged off a blade, the other struck but appeared to have no effect. Angrily, Whisper whipped her arm forward, trusting the distance to open the spray of darts as she fired at a group of draconids, hoping to free up the Arborite formation. Another flechette deflected off the Warlock-machine! Armour-piercing didn’t seem to work. Yellow? Or acid green? Selecting her last two green darts, for Gemmini had not made enough, Whisper blessed them with a fond tap each and loaded the crossbow. Quick paws. Deft. Tension the As the nearer Warlock spun his machine, seeking to overpower a defender to Rhyme’s left, she realised that the arms were mostly located on the front and sides of the machine, optimised for a frontal attack. That left the rear relatively undefended.

  Snick. The trigger clicked beneath the pressure of her talon.

  Square in the region of the kidneys.

  For a few seconds longer the man pressed his attack, but the machine suddenly jerked and began to flail wildly as the acid boiled through his metal armour. Whisper, not feeling in the slightest bit merciful at this juncture, fired at the other Warlock’s head. The dart struck an upraised blade, spraying highly concentrated Dragon acid from the shattered inner vial directly into his face.

  “Whisper!” Rhyme’s delighted scream carried over the mayhem as the two Warlocks grappled in an unwitting dance. She walloped a draconid to emphasize her joy.

  A team of six axmen rushed forward and slammed their shields against the machines. They shoved them unceremoniously off the cliff.

  Whipping one bandolier over her head, Whisper rushed in, plucking flechettes out of their clips to hurl them rapidly at any and every enemy in sight. The stolid phalanx stood its ground as Whisper danced around them, dropping Dragonkind as fast as she could manage and trying, by any and all tricks she knew, not to have her intestines cut out a second time or the other knee mangled in order to sport matching scars. Rhyme marshalled her group to drive the draconids back.

  Oh. She had news.

  Whisper yelled, “The Azar are coming!”

  “What?” The Princess held a hand to her bloodied ear.

  “Azar! Coming!”

  With that, Rhyme yelled, “For Arbor! Charge!” She showed the way by clobbering a draconid off the edge of the cliff.

  * * * *

  That evening, after a dint more fur-ruffling than any self-respecting Whisper could stand, and a five-hour military briefing, she retired to the Princess’ quarters to groom the stink of Human hands off her fur. The Arborites had a right to feel cheerful, she told herself crossly, unable to work out why it was that suddenly, every Human in the vicinity seemed to stink. Armour. Sweaty armpits. Unwashed groins. Boots that caused their toe-ooze to suppurate for days. She supposed the oils and grime kept the dragonhide leather of their footwear supple. Flying buttresses, did this entire colony reek? Or had one of her Whisper-senses taken another lurch toward nonsensicalness?

  She dunked herself entirely in the bathing bucket. New-fangled Drexor innovations such as warm running water for showers – or just a diverted waterfall, say – had not yet arrived in Arbor’s tradition-bound Palace.

  Intuition struck. Whisper twisted her head underwater to glare at her tail-stump.

  I am mutable.

  Of course she was mutable. She was a Whisper who was coming of age, her Beacon-knowledge reminded her. Her senses and abilities would continue to develop apace. If her world-sense continued to expand, she’d be talking to canyons, soon. Whisper gave that notion the forceful snort it deserved, and instead glanced at herself in the mirror. Humans did this all the time. She just could not see the attraction. She had wide malachite eyes and tiny threads of white in her russet ruff of fur, especially in the finer detail around her eyes, giving her the alleged cute or innocent look that, considering her nature, was a complete lie; white bases to her four-inch, curving black whiskers and a dainty white bridge upon her nose, and further white spotting and detailing up around her pert ears, three inches tall and fetchingly pointed. Whisper smiled at herself, and then nearly bit through her tongue in annoyance. She was no preening Human! No!

  At least, in a nod to refinement, Arborites produced towels in the super-fluffy astorox-yarn variety that were big enough for entire villages of Whispers to burrow into. One wet Whisper was just happily building herself a nest when a Princess’ delicately booted foot introduced itself to her ribcage.

  “Whisper.”

  “Aye?” She peeked out of her hidey-hole.

 
“Oh, sorry, I mistook that for a nest of draconids that had moved into my bath chamber.”

  “You need to bathe,” Whisper said politely.

  “That’s the aroma of freshly-smoked victory,” the Princess advised, starting to strip off.

  She wriggled out to help Rhyme with her greaves and bootlaces, saying, “That, my dear Princess, is the reek of sweaty axe-wielder bits that will chase any respectable Prince back over the bulwarks and into the embrace of a canodraconid quicker than you can say, ‘Kiss me, o Xan.’ ”

  A quirky look from the deep blue eyes ensued. “Oh, is it now?”

  Whisper grinned over her shoulder before stacking the pieces of armour against the wall. The armourer would check them over before morning. “It was a nice trip. Xan is nice. All the Greys are nice. It’s nice to be back in Arbor.”

  Rhyme prodded her firmly in the ribs. “Death or details – you choose.”

  Whisper observed, “You wear frilly underwear into battle?”

  “Excuse me! That was –” Rhyme hurled said underwear at her. Whisper caught the garment smartly. “Accident of choice this morning. Alright? No more shall be breathed outside of these locked doors. Or, shall I don the locking chainmail sort of underwear that keeps handsome Princes at bay?”

  “Judging by Xan’s response, I advise the locking ones,” Whisper said with a droll wink.

  The Princess skidded on the wet floor as she stepped up to the bucket, but caught herself on the towel rail with a wobble and a low growl. “Oh – Whisper!”

  She folded her arms across her chest. “Or, perhaps the frilly ones. Either way, a virtuous Prince might be successfully diverted from his morals – blub!”

  That earned her a dunking.

  The Princess had just started lathering up with soap of the hyssop-like ansarblue flower when a smart knock sounded at the door of her chambers. Whisper sniffed the air. “Drex. Locking or frilly, milady?”

  This time, she had to catch a fast-flying chunk of soap.

  Given as the Princess’ chambers boasted double doors and the soldier on duty was thoughtful enough to swing both open, Drex could forego his usual wriggle-and-scrape routine. Instead, he did a wriggle-and-dance when he discovered that the Princess was bathing, and backed up to the barely-ajar door of her bath chamber with a slightly deeper colouration than usual about his dark neck as he stared fixedly in the opposite direction. Interesting. She needed to find this fine man-Dragon a wife last week, Whisper concluded, bumping this task up on the list she was developing. He loved his Tysi with adorable devotion, but twelve years was a very long time to be faithful, wasn’t it? Oddly complex, these Human notions of virtue, fidelity and truth – she must investigate, just not on Drex. He was the first man who had stood up for her, and she had a strangely squishy feeling in her chest when she considered his precipitate, draconid-smashing advent. Whisper rubbed the spot pensively. Could her Whisper-homing sense respond to emotional imperatives as well as magical?

  “Report, Drex,” Rhyme said crisply.

  Quickly, the huge man updated her on the inconclusive battle on the near side of the bridge. Sanfuri appeared to have air-dropped troops on both sides of Arbor, clearly intending to cut the city off from any possibility of help from Azar-side. “Thar’n his strategy whether we sent’n Whisper or not,” he concluded. “Plus, stretchin’ our lines fifteen miles-like to the bridge makes yar difficult to combat. Dragons crawlin’ through our canyon. Ammox read the rights of it. Sew up the front, burst through the back. Thar’n happening t’morrow, Princess. Battle’s been thick th’ night long, m’lady. Also, we heard yar Azar arrivin’ far side of the bridge. Makin’ some tasty Warlock-soup, sounds like.”

  “We can hope,” Rhyme called through the door, towelling off vigorously considering the kafuffle in there. The Princess squeaked in annoyance as something crashed to the floor.

  Whisper winced. “Back in two flicks of a Whisper’s tail, Drex.”

  “Aye, Whisper.”

  Perfumed toes of Princess aside, all was well.

  Shortly, her towel-clad Princess finished debriefing and distracting Drex. The warrior would return to the battle line with fresh troops and equipment. In the city, the refugees were being settled into new caves and homes, she knew – the night was rife with the sounds of people arriving from the outlying villages and hamlets. The hospital caverns next door to the Palace were full to bursting. Rhyme sent a messenger to order spare rooms lower in the Palace to be given over to the cause.

  The Princess eyed the mound of rolled-up missives and briefing notes covering her desk, broodingly. “Looks like a late night ahead. Work never stops.”

  “Rhyme, can I see your father?”

  She took pause, and then nodded. “What’s Xan up to, Whisper?”

  Smart! Whisper covered her surprise by combing her whiskers. She said, “Chasing your tail, Rhyme.”

  “Was there a message – ugh, look at me! Blushing again.”

  Whisper grinned. “You’ve pale skin. Maybe you should try blushing blue?”

  “Maybe I should trim your whiskers with my axe?”

  “I need to observe the King’s situation, Rhyme,” she explained carefully. “I need as much information as I can gather about everyone who works in the Palace and who has access to him.”

  Rhyme’s eyes widened. “Oh … oh no, Whisper.”

  She took the Princess’ hand in hers. “He’s a Wyrm-sized genius – but less so when he’s preoccupied with Princesses Blue.” She winked at Rhyme. “Come on, girlfriend. This is just another type of battle, one that won’t be won with axes. You give me information and I’ll tell you all about King Xan.”

  “King?”

  “Aye. He’s one-third of a ruling triarchy with his twin sister Xola and his older brother Xorda.”

  “Outranks me by the proverbial flying buttress, then,” Rhyme said ruefully, shucking her towel with mock irritation and tossing it back into the bath chamber. “Right. I’ll feel positively underdressed without my armour, but I’ll pack a couple of calming axes just in case. So, girlfriend. I’m starving for flower-detail. Start spilling that eidetic memory of yours.”

  “Aye.” Whisper clenched her fist over her heart. “Every look, every question, every shade of greyish sunset he turned every time I mentioned your name.”

  Chapter 19: Whispering to Kings

  THE KING’S CHAMBER was located on the same level as Rhyme’s, just around the corner and a few doors down. A lilac chaorite statute stood in a corner recess just where the corridor turned, and here the Princess paused to touch the regal woman depicted in stone, then she kissed her own fingers, and touched them to the statue’s lips.

  “My mother, may her soul soar free of sunstrike,” she said faintly.

  “How –”

  “Her name was Sonjé. Died in childbirth, after delivering my youngest brother,” said the Princess. “They thought she was fine. Late that night when everyone was finally sleeping – including the midwife – she haemorrhaged suddenly. Never even woke up. Never got to speed her soul …” She pressed her forehead against the statue, which was almost exactly her height. The workmanship was easily detailed enough to show the similarities in facial features; the Queen was depicted smiling sweetly, her right hand outstretched. “I was the one who found her, Whisper. I stepped in a puddle of blood seeping beneath the door.”

  “That’s awful,” she whispered.

  “Aye.” A gruff sob misted the beautiful, polished chaorite surface, with its rich striations of colour exhibiting subtle chatoyancy as Whisper moved to comfort her friend.

  Rhyme said, “Not really a forgettable moment, is it?”

  “Never.”

  “Like your moment of … what did you call it? Quickening?” One axe-calloused hand descended to touch Whisper’s left ear and deliver a meditative scratch. “No Human remembers their birth – although for you, it might be better understood as a rebirth. The Azar believe in the fundamental connectedness of all life, that the
sins of past lives or forefathers must be expiated in the present, for example. You might think them rabid scientists, but I can tell you, their spiritual practices and beliefs take some unexpected detours that they wrap up in the most fantastically convoluted theories. Xan used to talk about the discovery of the past being the key to unlocking the future. He’d be very happy with any whispers of reincarnation he might happen to run into.”

  Whisper appreciated the double meaning of that joke! “So, riddle me this, o Princess Blue. Why do you present a simple axe-girl on the outside, when your inner thought life is this rich?”

  “Because my thoughts are private,” she said.

  “I think the King’s councillors underestimate you as a result.”

  “Better that, than …” Rhyme sighed. “To be honest, it was Xan who first sparked my interest in grasping the nature of Yanzorda’s miraculously complex forms and cycles of life. He’s really a very deep thinker.”

  “He was after your frillies,” Whisper said bluntly. “Still is.”

  “Whisper!”

  The quartet of royal guards stationed outside the King’s chamber glanced about at Rhyme’s dismayed squeak. Whisper had felt their gazes upon them all the while, but when the Princess had paused at her mother’s statue, they had politely averted their more obvious stares.

  “Shall we open the doors, Princess?” one asked.

  “Just a moment, Fared,” she replied. She pinched Whisper’s ear. “You! Impossible keeping a decent conversation with you. Actually, it was perfectly innocent back then, just friendship between a boy and a girl. We took long walks around his crystal gardens in the caves beneath Azarinthe. We talked and laughed together – we laughed so much. It was only after the sunbolt that I realised … perhaps I felt more. It was the kind of love that sneaks up on you and has ensorcelled your heart long before you realise it. Perhaps, since he’s three years older than me, he knew sooner. But by then, it was too late.”