The Blood of Whisperers

by Devin Madson

  I will find him and I will teach him pain.

  These dreams filled my mind as the afternoon sank into night. I was only vaguely aware of stopping in a town, and of another prisoner being added to our cage. The complaints washed over me. There was not enough space. The new driver spat in the boy’s face. ‘Shut it, scum,’ I heard him say. ‘Go ahead and sit on ‘em. They might like that. You’re the prettiest piece of meat to come their way in a long time, eh?’

  I heard laughter, but I felt pain. It twisted inside me, voracious teeth grinding in my gut.

  The town dragged on. Tangled threads of emotion clogged the air. It was hard to concentrate, hard to breathe. The wheels bumped over cobbles. The cart swayed. Whispering voices hissed around me.

  Slowly the air cleared of souls and I was drawn toward wakefulness. We were leaving the town behind, the warm night containing nothing but the men trapped with me. My arms ached. The smell of rain tickled my nose, tantalising, my mouth drier than ever. Kisians were attuned to the smell of brewing storms.

  Leaving the last lanterns, darkness closed its hand upon us, the empty road stretching ahead into nothing. I could have walked faster. The cartwheels turned but we seemed barely to move, the steady clip-clop of the horse’s hooves melding into a soporific pattern.

  The boy turned his head sharply, staring into the night. The horse walked on. Another head turned. I felt the change, like a gentle tug drawing my gaze. Then came the sound of hooves falling out of rhythm. Faster. Faster. More heads turned to stare into the night.

  A bell clanged, cutting through the still air. The driver went on humming to himself. Every head had turned, and the men scrambled to the back of the cart, pushing and shoving to see. A shout rang out and the bell clanged again, much louder now. Four riders appeared in our lantern light, slowing as they came alongside. Their crimson sashes proclaimed imperial allegiance and each man was clad in armour, a leather helmet shoved down upon his head.

  ‘Halt!’ one ordered, slowing alongside the driver.

  He dragged on the reins and the cart began to slow, the horse throwing its head back at such handling. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘We have orders from Mei’lian,’ the rider said. ‘We’re looking for a prisoner named Endymion, a recently branded exile. Do you have him?’

  The cart came to a halt, wheels juddering on the rough edge of the road. Around us the other riders reined in their mounts, each horse backing uneasily in the long grass.

  ‘How am I supposed to know the names of these stinking rats?’ the driver complained. ‘They’re all traitors. I’m doing a messy job and getting them out of your way.’

  The rider turned his horse, the medallions hanging from the bridle glinting in the lantern light. He held out his hand. ‘Give me your manifest.’

  ‘I’m not meant to hand it over until I get there.’

  Impatience snapped in the air. ‘And I have urgent orders. Hand over the manifest or you will answer for it.’

  Shifting the lantern, the driver began hunting under his seat. With a grumble he produced the papers and handed them over. They were snatched from his hand, a pair of hungry eyes scanning the names.

  ‘There, Endymion,’ the man said, triumphant. ‘Which one of you is Endymion?’

  No one spoke. The others kept their eyes averted, only the boy daring to look, wide-eyed, upon the soldier.

  ‘Come on! Speak up.’ The man slid from his horse and stalked to the cage. ‘What’s your name?’ he demanded, glaring up at the boy.

  ‘Virrik, my lord.’

  ‘And which one of these men is Endymion?’

  The boy shook his head. ‘I don’t know, my lord, but there’s one that doesn’t talk.’

  He pointed at me, all eyes following his accusing finger. The soldier came around the cart, his sandals crunching over loose stones. ‘He’s tied up. Why is this man tied up?’

  The driver grunted and mumbled something indistinct.

  ‘We heard he killed men, back in Shimai,’ one of the others offered.

  ‘Then he’s the one we want.’ The soldier nodded to his companions. ‘Get him untied and out of there and be quick about it. Driver, get the key.’

  Someone tugged at the knot that bound my hands, mutters issuing from the shadowed faces of the other prisoners. All except the boy. He was looking back along the road.

  Another head turned.

  From out beyond our lantern-lit sphere came the sound of more riders.

  Fingers stopped working at the knots. ‘Captain,’ the man said, his voice trailing away, warm breath dancing across my fingers. The captain looked up. For an instant everyone stood frozen in place.

  The thundering hooves grew louder.

  ‘They’re here!’

  The captain dashed for his horse, tearing his sword from its scabbard. ‘Quick, to your horses! Form up!’

  A black stallion burst from the night, an imperial soldier upon its back. The rider had dispensed with the traditional helmet, instead allowing his ponytail to fly wild like the unknotted mane of his horse. He wore a crimson sash too, but there was something different about him, something indefinable, little more than a taste on the air.

  Fear.

  Light flashed off a large sickle. The tip slid into the captain’s stomach, skewering him neatly, front to back. Flesh ripped. The rider did not stop, but yanked his weapon free, dragging the mangled torso behind him.

  The pain was like a shudder through my body, there and gone. More of the strange soldiers streaked past. Some crowded about the cart, each horse a black stallion, each man’s head unadorned, ponytails flying. My body tingled, the short stabs of pain like prickling thorns.

  Bow in hand, our driver was shouting, his words inaudible beneath the clattering of hooves. His fingers trembled as he tried to nock an arrow. Behind him a black stallion turned. A soldier swung. Pain, like the whip of a cord across my throat, and the driver’s head hit the ground. Blood spurted from his open neck, pulsing in time to his dying heartbeat.

  The cart lurched forward as the horse bolted, the heavy cage slamming into a rider hovering too close. My stomach bounded with the cart as it left the road, jolting over rough ground. Branches whipped at the bars. My companions swore, kicking each other to be free of the writhing pile of limbs. Steadying myself with a foot against the front bars, I tried to wriggle my hands free, each attempt deepening the grazes around my wrists.

  A black horse appeared beside the cart, its rider ducking reaching branches. The sounds of pursuit followed. Hooves pounded the dirt. Men shouted. And crashing through a nest of branches, we emerged into a field. Pulling free of the dense trees, the panicked carthorse charged ahead. The lantern bounced, and its light gleamed off the flanks of the dark horses circling close.

  The wheels dropped into a rut, throwing my companions forward. The jolt tore through my bound arms so sharply I was sure the force had ripped my shoulders from their sockets.

  One hand wiggled loose.

  We hit a ditch. My other hand ripped free and I was thrown into the bars, smacking the metal with my shoulder.

  The cage rolled and we rolled with it; even the moon turned upside down. I hit the ground, my head striking the side of the cage. Blades of onion grass tickled my face. The smell was sharp and unpleasant, spiced with sweat from the stinking blanket of elbows and knees piled on my back.

  ‘The cage is open!’

  I couldn’t tell who spoke, but the men moved quickly, digging their feet into my gut in their desperation to escape. Clawing over one another, they clambered toward the moon and freedom. Outside the bars the old man dropped onto the ground.

  ‘I’m free!’ he crowed, kicking the bars by my head. ‘I’m–’

  Blood sprayed the grass. His head landed with a heavy thud, rolling a little way toward the surviving lantern as his body crumpled.

&nbs
p; ‘We want Endymion.’

  A rider stepped into the light. He was dressed in the imperial uniform, but there was no sign of his rank upon his crimson sash. He carried no sword either, just a large sickle in his hand, blood dripping from its barbed points.

  No one spoke.

  ‘Are you all deaf?’

  Other riders gathered, edging their horses into the light.

  The prisoners stood frozen upon the grass, not daring to speak or move. Eventually, it was the boy’s quavering voice that answered. ‘We don’t know any Endymion.’

  ‘Don’t you?’ the first rider said, stepping away from the fallen body of the old man. With each step his feet sank into the soft, moonlit grass. ‘Very well. Line them up.’ He nodded to one of the horsemen. ‘Conceit, light another lantern. Get the rest of those rats out of the cage.’

  I let the others climb out first, happy to crouch in the shadows and watch the first rider stalk back and forth before the gathering group, a short ponytail protruding from the back of his head like a fistful of needles. He held onto his sickle, letting it caress the grass with every step.

  ‘Come on.’ This voice came from above, where the open cage gaped at the night sky. It was my turn. I pulled myself to my feet and reached up, just able to grip one of the bars. A hand grasped my arm, and with a grunt I was helped through, scrabbling at the bars with my sandals. Balancing on top of the cart, I found my saviour wasn’t one of the other prisoners, but a black rider.

  ‘Here,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ll help you down. Give me your hand.’

  He held out his hand, and when I hesitated he just clicked his tongue and took mine in his firm grip. Skin to skin the connection was instant. I didn’t force it, didn’t want it, it was just there, bright and blinding, like his soul was on fire. His whispers filled my head.

  Stinking prison carts, it said. We’re good at this kindness to all men thing, huh? What in shiva is this boy doing? Is he going to climb down or stand there staring at me all day?

  I yanked my hand away, but not fast enough. The shock of recognition leached up my arm.

  ‘Wait!’

  He gripped my upper arm as I leapt, and instead of hitting the ground I slammed back against the bars, feet dangling. I wanted to scream. The sound choked my thoughts as his hold on my third branding tightened, charred skin cracking. Through holes in the scorched linen his skin touched mine. The connection flared again. Hot white light seared across my eyes.

  The man let go and I hit the ground, knees buckling. My arm throbbed and I could feel it oozing blood.

  ‘He’s here! This is the one. He’s like the Master.’

  I scrambled up and ran, tall grass whipping at my legs. A whole world lay beyond this sphere of light. If I could run far enough there would be trees and I could hide, but how far would I get before a rider cut me down like a blade of grass?

  I rounded the front of the cart. It was a tangle of splintered boards, like eruptions of gold needles in the lantern light. The traces had dragged the stricken horse. Its body was a mangled mess, its flank shredded. One huge eye stared above a blood-crusted cheek, something of its fear hanging around amid the stench of guts.

  Shouts went up behind me.

  Cart. Grass. Dead horse. There was nowhere to hide, nowhere to run. I stopped, heart hammering. Someone was screaming. Closer, I could hear the rustle of the grass as men strode through its reaches.

  The driver’s bow.

  It had hooked on the lantern post, thrown from his dead hands when he lost his head. It wouldn’t be waxed and might even be damp, but a bow was a bow and right now I needed a weapon.

  ‘There’s no point running,’ a voice called behind me as I caught sight of a quiver tucked beneath the smashed seat. ‘We will follow you wherever you go.’

  There were only two arrows. I grabbed both, biting one between my teeth and nocking the other to the bow.

  On foot, the riders gathered in the light. Behind them, others moved like shadows and another scream rose to the night sky. I faced them, aiming the tip of my arrow at their leader’s eye. He carried a lantern now, its brighter glow showing up handsome features.

  ‘You are Endymion?’ he asked.

  I kept the bow drawn, the effort burning down my arms. My string hand trembled.

  ‘That’s him.’ The man who had helped me out of the cart stepped forward. ‘I felt him.’

  Every breath was difficult and I swallowed as best I could with the arrow still between my teeth. I wanted to gag, but mastered the impulse and dug my teeth in with a crunch of wood.

  ‘Put it away, boy, we aren’t going to kill you.’

  ‘Just let him fire the damn thing at you, then maybe we can get out of here,’ another said. ‘I’m sick of riding.’

  ‘And we haven’t eaten since we left Mei’lian.’

  ‘Shut up your moaning,’ snapped the man I thought of as their leader. I had not turned my arrow away, yet he was perfectly calm. He set the lantern down and spread his arms.

  ‘Go on then,’ he said. ‘We don’t have all night. The Master wants to see you and we do as the Master commands. He can tell you your name.’

  My grip on the string tightened. The pursuit of my identity had so far brought me nothing but trouble. One man had given me his necklace, and now I had a branding, gifted by his son. But what choice did I have? I could not run and these men hadn’t killed me yet.

  I lowered the bow.

  Disappointment hung heavy around me. ‘Really?’ one of them said. ‘That was anti-climactic.’

  ‘Drop the bow,’ the leader ordered.

  I did, letting it fall from my shaking fingers. I needed food. I needed sleep. I needed just a single moment of peace. Taking the second arrow out of my mouth, I licked my lips, eyeing my saviours warily.

  All danger having passed, their leader jerked up one shoulder. The movement seemed to dislodge something, and a shower of white flakes fell from him like snow. Each was a piece of white-hot anger, solid for an instant before it faded into the night.

  Someone laughed. ‘Look, he’s shedding.’

  ‘Shut it, Parsimony,’ the leader snapped, shaking the last of the flakes off like a dog shedding water. ‘We ride to Nivi Fen. Hope, bring the boy.’

  He turned as he spoke, stepping on his lantern. The thin bamboo cage snapped, crushing the waxed paper. The night clawed back a little more darkness. There were other lanterns, but the light didn’t seem to matter. Even without it I could feel the movement of each soul around me. One came forward, the one who had helped me out of the cage.

  ‘You’re riding with me,’ he said, one hand on his hip, all too close to the handle of his sickle. ‘We are the Vices,’ he went on when I said nothing. ‘The man you nearly shot is called Ire. My name is Hope.’

  It was a strange name, but somehow suited him.

  ‘You don’t talk?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘But you understand?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Good. Come, we have a long way to ride and the Master is waiting.’

  * * *

  The night ended and the day came, dawn light shearing through the tall trees. Dark clouds threatened to the south, but the prospect of rain did not seem to trouble the Vices.

  At the first stream they stopped to rest their horses. Working to what looked like a well-practised routine, they dismounted, loosened their saddlebags, and led the beasts to water. I knelt on the bank and ferried water to my lips with cupped hands, getting so close to the surface I might have lapped it like a dog. It was cold and made my teeth ache, but I kept drinking all the same.

  The Vices had complained they were hungry for much of the night, but before they fed themselves they fed their horses. When Hope handed me a food parcel wrapped in linen, my mouth began to water. Tearing the parcel open, I found a fat chunk of Chiltaen brea
d, pickled fish and preserved fruit, a meal better than many Jian and I had shared on the road.

  I inhaled it almost without chewing. The others ate as voraciously, not speaking a word, each man in his own space with his own thoughts. There wasn’t time to talk. With the meal consumed, they loaded their saddlebags, cleaned their weapons, refilled their water skins and wandered into the trees to piss. It was a stir of silent activity, far from any road or town.

  Once we were mounted again, Ire led the way, the other Vices falling in behind. I had dozed much of the night against Hope’s shoulder, not caring where we travelled, but now I looked about me for familiar landmarks. We had left the road in the night and were travelling downhill, following the undulating ground around hillside streams and rivulets. Knots of cedars gathered in our path, and herds of wild goats watched us warily from rocky pastureland. The Vices barely seemed to notice them, just kept on travelling south-west, the slopes leading into fenland.

  In the sticky glare of another summer day the riders looked like normal men. It was hard to believe the night’s massacre had not been a dream, that I had really seen those sickles carve heads from bodies, and watched Ire shed anger like dust.

  As the afternoon dragged on, the Vices began to talk as they rode, complaining about the heat, about their grumbling stomachs and the stench of a place called Nivi Fen. Sometimes they were silent for long stretches of time before they broke into argument, begging the gods to provide them with wine and whores.

  ‘The Pikes will have both at Nivi Fen.’

  The day began to fade, but Ire chose to push on rather than rest, quickening his pace. We cut through a field of bright red poppies, lush like carpet, their heads dancing despite the lethargic heat.

  At the edge of the field a narrow track led steeply downhill. There, the fenland stretched out before us, dense trees as far as the eye could see. The Vices did not stop to appreciate it, but began down the track in single file, slowing their pace as the ground became damp and slippery. At the edge of the marsh a pleasant breeze picked up. It stripped back the heat of the day, sending willow fronds dancing.