Dilladrum looked like an overweight beggar. His coat and dark britches were faded and poorly patched. Long, dirty hair burst out from under a formless felt hat as if in protest. His beard, equally mismanaged, showed bits of grass nested in its snarls. His face was dusky, and his teeth yellow, but his eyes sparkled in the afternoon sun. He stood on the roadside before a train of curious beasts. They appeared to be shrunken, shaggy horses. The animals were loaded with bundles and linked together by leads from one to the next. Six short, half-naked men helped Dilladrum keep the train under control. They wore only breechcloths of loose linen and clattering necklaces of colored stones. Like Dilladrum, they grinned brightly at the sailors’ approach.
“Welcome, welcome, gentlemen,” he warmly addressed them. “I am Dilladrum, your guide. Before we leave our fair city, perhaps you would like some time to peruse our fine shops? As per previous arrangements, I and my Vintu friends will be providing you with food, water, and shelter, but we’ll be many days afield, and as such, some comforts as could be obtained in the bazaar might make your trek more pleasant. Consider our fine wines, liquors, or perhaps an attractive slave girl to make the camps more enjoyable.”
A few eyes turned appraisingly toward the shops, where dozens of colorful signboards advertised in a foreign tongue. Music played—strange twanging strings and warbling pipes. Hadrian could smell lamb spiced with curry, a popular dish as he recalled.
“We will leave immediately,” Wesley replied, louder than was necessary for merely Dilladrum to hear him.
“Suit yourself, good sir.” The guide shrugged sadly. He made a gesture to his Vintu workers and the little men used long switches and yelping cries to urge the animals of the caravan forward.
As they did, one spotted Hadrian and paused in his work. His brows furrowed as he stared intently until a shout from Dilladrum sent him back to herding.
“What was that all about?” Royce asked. Hadrian shrugged, but Royce looked unconvinced. “You were here for what—five years? Anything happen? Anything you want to share?”
“Sure,” he replied with a sarcastic grin. “Right after you fill me in on how you escaped from Manzant Prison and why you never killed Ambrose Moor.”
“Sorry I asked.”
“I was young and stupid,” Hadrian offered. “But I can tell you that Wesley is right about the jungle being dangerous. We’ll want to watch ourselves around Gile.”
“You met him?”
Hadrian nodded. “I’ve met most of the warlords of the Gur Em, but I’m sure everyone’s forgotten me by now.”
As if overhearing, the train worker glanced over his shoulder at Hadrian once more.
“Everywhere landward from Dagastan is uphill,” Dilladrum was saying as the troop walked along the narrow dirt path through farmlands dotted by domed grass huts. “That is the way of the world everywhere, is it not? From the sea, we always need to go up. It makes the leaving that much harder, but the returning that much more welcome.”
They walked two abreast, with Wesley and Dilladrum, Wyatt and Poe, Royce and Hadrian in front while Thranic’s group followed behind the Vintu and the beasts. Having Thranic and his crew behind them was disconcerting, but it was better than walking with them. Dilladrum set a brisk pace for a portly little man, stepping lively and thrusting his bleached walking stick out with practiced skill. He bent the brim down on his otherwise shapeless hat to block the sun, making him look comical even while Hadrian wished he had a silly-looking hat of his own.
“Mr. Dilladrum, what exactly are your instructions concerning us?” Wesley inquired.
“I am contracted to safely deliver officers, cargo, and crew of the Emerald Storm to the Palace of the Four Winds in Dur Guron.”
“Is that the residence of Erandabon Gile?”
“Ah yes, the fortress of the Panther of Dur Guron.”
“Panther?” Wyatt asked.
Dilladrum chuckled. “It’s what the Vintu call the warlord. They’re a very simple folk, but very hard workers, as you can see. The Panther is a legend among them.”
“A hero?” Wesley offered.
“A panther is not a hero to anyone. A panther is a great cat that hides himself in the jungle. He’s a ghost to those who seek him, deadly to those he hunts, but to those he doesn’t, he’s merely a creature deserving of respect. The Panther does not concern himself with the Vintu, but stories of his valor, cruelty, and cunning reach them.”
“You are not Vintu?”
“No. I’m Erbonese. Erbon is a region to the northwest, not far from Mandalin.”
“And the Tenkin?” Wesley asked. “Is the warlord one of them?”
Dilladrum’s expression turned dark. “Yes, yes. The Tenkin are everywhere in these jungles.” He pointed to the horizon ahead of them. “Some tribes are more welcoming than others. Not to worry, my Vintu and I know a good route. We’ll pass through one Tenkin village, but they’re friendly and familiar to us, like the one you call Staul, yes? We’ll make it safely.”
As they climbed higher, they entered a great plain of tall grass that swayed enchantingly with the breeze. Climbing a large rock, they could see for miles in all directions except ahead, where a tall, forested ridge rose several hundred feet. They made camp just before sundown. Hardly a word passed between Dilladrum and the Vintu, but they immediately went to work setting up decorative tents with embroidered geometric designs and neatly bordered canopies. Cots and small stools were put out for each, along with sheets and pillows.
Cooked in large pots over an open fire, the evening meal was strong and spicy enough to make Hadrian’s eyes water. He found it tasty and satisfying after weeks of eating the same tired pork stew. The Vintu took turns entertaining. Some played stringed instruments similar to a lute, others danced, and a few sang lilting ballads. The words Hadrian could not understand, but the melody was beautiful. Animal calls filled the night. Screeches, cries, and growls threatened in the darkness, always too loud and too close.
On their third day out, the landscape began to change. The level plains tilted upward and trees appeared more frequently. The forests that had lined the distance were upon them, and soon they were trudging under a canopy of tall trees whose massive roots spread out across the forest floor like the fingers of old men. At first it was good to be out of the sun, but then the path became rocky, steep, and hard to navigate. It did not last long, as they soon crested a ridge and began a sharp descent. On the far side of the ridge, they could see a distinct change in the flora. The undergrowth thickened, turning a deeper green. Larger leaves, vines, thickets of creepers, and needle-shaped blades encroached on the track, causing the Vintu to occasionally move ahead to chop a path.
The next day it began to rain, and while at times it poured and at others it only misted, it never ceased.
“They always seem content, don’t they?” Hadrian mentioned to Royce as they sat under the canopy of their tent watching the Vintu preparing the evening meal. “It could be blazingly hot or raining like now, and they don’t seem to care one way or the other.”
“Are you now saying we should become Vintu?” Royce asked. “I don’t think you can just apply for membership into their tribe. I think you need to be born into it.”
“What’s that?” Wyatt asked, coming out of the tent the three shared, wiping his freshly shaved face with a cloth.
“Just thinking about the Vintu and living a simple existence of quiet pleasures,” Hadrian explained.
“What makes you think they’re content?” Royce asked. “I’ve found that when people smile all the time, they’re hiding something. These Vintu are probably miserable—economically forced into relative slavery, catering to wealthy foreigners. I’m sure they would smile just as much while slitting our throats to save themselves another day of hauling Dilladrum’s packs.”
“I think you’ve been away from Gwen too long. You’re starting to sound like the old Royce again.”
Across the camp they spotted Staul, Thranic, and Defoe. Staul waved
in their direction and grinned.
“See? Big grin,” Royce mentioned.
“Fun group, eh?” Hadrian muttered.
“Yeah, they are a group, aren’t they?” Royce nodded thoughtfully. “Why would a sentinel, a Tenkin warrior, a physician, a thief, and … whatever the heck Bulard is go into the jungles of Calis to visit a Tenkin warlord? And what’s Bulard’s deal?”
Wyatt and Hadrian shrugged in unison.
“Isn’t that a bit odd? We were all on the same ship together for weeks, and we don’t know anything about the man beyond the fact that he doesn’t look like he’s seen the sun in a decade. Perhaps if we found out, it would provide the common connection between the others and this Erandabon fellow.”
“Bernie and Bulard share a tent,” Hadrian pointed out.
“Hadrian, why don’t you go chat with Bulard?” Royce said. “I’ll distract Bernie.”
“What about me?” Wyatt asked.
“Talk with Derning and Grady. They don’t seem as connected to the others as I first thought. Find out why they volunteered.”
The Vintu handed out dinner, which the Storm’s crew ate sitting on stools the Vintu provided. Dinner consisted mostly of what appeared to be shredded pork and an array of unusual vegetables in a thick, hot sauce that needled the tongue.
After the meal, darkness descended on the camp and most retired to their tents. Antun Bulard was already in his, just like he always stayed in his cabin aboard ship. The light in Bulard and Bernie’s tent flickered and the silhouettes of their heads bobbed about, magnified on the canvas walls. A few hours after dark, Bernie stepped out. An instant later, Royce swooped in.
“How you been, Bernie?” Royce greeted him. “Going for a walk?”
“Actually, I was about to find a place to relieve myself.”
“Good, I’ll go with you.”
“Go with me?” he asked nervously.
“I’ve been known to help people relieve themselves of a great many things.” Royce put an arm around Bernie’s shoulder as he urged him away from the tents. Once more Bernie flinched. “A little jumpy, aren’t we?” Royce asked.
“Don’t you think I have good reason?”
Royce smiled and nodded. “You have me there. I honestly still can’t figure out what you were thinking.”
The two were outside the circle of tents, well beyond the glow of the campfire, and still Royce urged him farther away.
“It wasn’t my idea. I was just following orders. Don’t you think I’d know better than to—”
“Whose idea was it?”
Bernie hesitated only a moment. “Thranic,” he said, then hastily added, “but he just wanted you bloodied. Not dead, just cut.”
“Why?”
“Honestly, I don’t know.”
They stopped in a dark circle of trees. Night frogs croaked hesitantly, concerned by their presence. The camp was only a distant glow.
“Care to tell me what all of you are doing here?”
Bernie frowned. “You know I won’t, even to save my life. It wouldn’t be worth it.”
“But you told me about Thranic.”
“I don’t like Thranic.”
“So he’s not the one you’re afraid of. Is it Merrick?”
“Merrick?” Bernie looked genuinely puzzled. “Listen, I never faulted you for Jade’s death or the war you waged on the Diamond. Merrick should have never betrayed you like that, not without first hearing your side of it.”
Royce took a step forward. In the darkness of the canopy, he was certain Bernie could barely see him. Royce, on the other hand, could make out every line on Bernie’s face. “What’s Merrick’s plan?”
“I haven’t seen Merrick in years.”
Royce drew out his dagger and purposely allowed it to make a metal scraping sound as it came free of its scabbard. “So you haven’t seen him. Fine. But you’re working for him, or someone else who’s working for him. I want to know where he is and what he’s up to, and you’re going to tell me.”
Bernie shook his head. “I—I really don’t know anything about Marius or what he’s doing nowadays.”
Royce paused. Every line of Bernie’s face revealed he was telling the truth.
“What have we here?” Thranic asked. “A private meeting? You’ve strayed a bit far from camp, dear boys.”
Royce turned to see Thranic and Staul. Staul held a torch, and Thranic carried a crossbow.
“It’s not safe to venture too far away from your friends, or didn’t you think about that, Royce?” Thranic said, then fired the crossbow at Royce’s heart.
“Antun Bulard, isn’t it?” Hadrian asked, sticking his head in the tent.
“Hmm?” Antun looked up. He was lying on his stomach, writing with a featherless quill worn to only a few inches in length. He had on a pair of spectacles, the top of which he peered over. “Why, yes, I am.”
The old man was more than just pale—he was white. His hair was the color of alabaster, while his skin was little more than wrinkled quartz. He reminded Hadrian of an egg, colorless and fragile.
“I wanted to introduce myself.” Hadrian slipped fully inside. “All this time at sea and we never had the opportunity to properly meet. I thought that was unfortunate, don’t you?”
“Why, I—Who are you again?”
“Hadrian. I was the cook on the Emerald Storm.”
“Ah, well, I hate to say it, Hadrian, but I was not impressed with your cooking. Perhaps a little less salt and some wine would have helped. Not that this is any great feast,” he said, gesturing toward his half-eaten meal. “I’m too old for such rich foods. It upsets my stomach.”
“What are you writing?”
“Oh, this? Just notes, really. My mind isn’t what it once was, you see. I’ll forget everything soon, and then where will I be? A historian who can’t remember his own name. It really could come to that, you know. Assuming I live that long. Bernie keeps reassuring me I won’t live out this trip. He’s probably right. He’s the expert on such things, after all.”
“Really? What kind of things?”
“Oh, spelunking, of course. I’m told Bernie is an old hand at it. We make a good team, he and I. He digs up the past and I put it down, so to speak.” Antun chuckled to himself until he coughed. Hadrian poured the man a glass of water, which he gratefully accepted.
After he had recovered, Hadrian asked, “Have you ever heard of a man called Merrick Marius?”
Bulard shook his head. “Not unless I have and then forgotten. Was he a king or a hero, perhaps?”
“No, I actually thought he might have been the man who sent you here.”
“Oh no. Our mandate is from the Patriarch himself, though Sentinel Thranic doesn’t tell me much. I’m not complaining, mind you. How often does a priest of Maribor have the opportunity to serve the Patriarch? I can tell you precisely—twice. Once when I was so much younger, and now that I’m nearly dead.”
“I thought you were a historian. You’re also a priest?”
“I know I don’t look much like one, do I? My calling was the pen, not the flock.”
“You’ve written books, then?”
“Oh yes, my best is still The History of Apeladorn, which I’m constantly having to append, of course.”
“I know a monk at the Winds Abbey who’d love to meet you.”
“Is that up north in Melengar? I passed through there once about twenty years ago.” Antun nodded thoughtfully. “They were very helpful, saved my life if I recall correctly.”
“So, you’re on this trip to record what you see?”
“Oh no, that’s only what I’ve been doing so far. As you can imagine, I don’t get out much. I do most of my work in libraries and stuffy cellars, reading old books. I was in Tur Del Fur before setting off on this wonderful trip. This has been an excellent opportunity to record what I see firsthand. The Patriarch knows about my research on ancient imperial history, and that’s why I’m here. Sort of a living, breathing version of my boo
ks, you see. I suppose they think that if they put in the right questions, out will pop the correct answers, like an oracle.”
Hadrian was about to ask another question when Grady and Poe poked their heads in.
“Hadrian.” Poe caught his attention.
“Well, isn’t my tent the social center tonight?” Antun remarked.
“I’m kinda busy at the moment. Can this wait?” Hadrian asked.
“I don’t think so. Thranic and Staul just followed Royce and Bernie into the jungle.”
Royce heard the click of the release and began to move even before the hiss of the string indicated the missile’s launch. Still, his reflexes could not move faster than a flying bolt. The metal shaft pierced his side below the rib cage. The impact thrust him backward, where he collapsed in pain.
“Lucky we found you, Bernie,” Thranic told the startled thief as he moved away from Royce’s body. “He would have killed you. Isn’t that what you said bucket men do? Now, don’t you feel foolish for saying I couldn’t protect you?”
“You could have hit me!” Bernie snapped.
“Stop being so dramatic. You’re alive, aren’t you? Besides, I heard the conversation. It didn’t take much for you to give me up. In my profession, lack of faith is a terrible sin.”
“In mine, it’s all too often justified,” Bernie snarled back.
“Get back to the camp before you’re missed.”
Bernie grumbled as he trotted back up the path. Thranic watched his retreat.
“We might have to do something about him,” the sentinel told the Tenkin. “Funny that you, my heathen friend, should be my stalwart ally in all this.”
Rise Of Empire: The Riyria Revelations Page 54