Wanderers of the Silent Season (Heartbeat of the World Book 2)

by T. Wyse

  “Are you alright?” He coughed, watching a cloud of silted earth rising from their impact.

  “You broke my fall,” she answered, a silhouette of darkness against a lighter bedding of earth. “Did you hurt yourself? You must have broken a—”

  “No. I’m fine.” He stood, feeling the earth beneath his feet. Sarah managed to stand with him, his clubs ready and waiting.

  He regained his feet and slipped into the rhythm of the sleeping earth below. “I’ll push it back. You focus on it. Get some distance just in case.”

  “I don’t understand how,” Sarah stated. “I’ve seen it before and it’s still nothing, still just a hole.” The creature pooled out the window, stretching with the haste of molasses, clinging and clawing at the texture of the house’s bricks.

  “You’ve seen through its eyes. It fed on you, but you felt it, didn’t you? You gained understanding of it while you sat there wrapped in it. You even steered it. You’ve changed; grown. You’re stronger now and you were strong before. We can do this!” he roared as he took a swipe at the forming cloud, chiding it back. “Where should I strike?” Kechua rushed the thing, still unfocused, and slid to a halt on its left. Quick tendrils of the thing—flaps of lazy skin—slid across the earth below.

  “I think . . . ” Sarah crept backwards from the dance.

  He slid as the thing collected itself, only to lash out in a careless explosion. He felt the thing’s vague weight jostle the earth, felt the swaying slithering cold, and he danced with it leading.

  “This is what others see when they look into the dark. Not you or me, but normal people. People who can’t see special things. It’s always the same expression on their faces, confusion and then a special kind of fear. Like their minds are filling in something where there’s nothing,” she said before retreating a few steps, breath hanging.

  “Good!” He laughed, cutting off a reaching glob of the creature from pursuit of her. The thing reached for him, but he slipped backwards, stumbling on the hidden fence and rolling to regain his feet, ever within the dance.

  “On the outside, it’s nothing, but on the inside, it’s like layers of cloth that don’t quite touch one another. It can’t exactly even touch you, unless you’re inside of it.” Her voice wandered furiously.

  The earth moved and shook with each stamp of his feet, in symphony with the earthen heartbeat below, something the creature of shadow and fear had no understanding or control over.

  “I’ve had those dreams . . . being chased by something, something I didn’t know. They weren’t ever in darkness for me though. It was always so bright, blindingly bright. I can’t see through the light like I can the dark . . . ” Her voice trembled a little. “The dogs are coming. The other things are close too . . . ”

  “Then let’s finish this!” he replied, his words jostled by the rhythm wrapping him up. He danced away from increasingly hasty, swishing blows. His flourishing stomps sent it reeling back with withdrawn pain and irritation. Perfect; it focused on him, letting her think.

  “Is it like smoke outside, skin inside?” she pondered, her rhythm pausing. “God . . . I feel them . . . there’s so many of them,” Sarah whispered as she stared into the core of the numb creature.

  “When I was alone, before all this, I knew how to beat the nightmares; stop the pain.” She stepped towards the beast. “In the light, being blind and chased, I couldn’t run, so I became like smoke. Nothing can hurt you then.”

  Kechua tried to steer the Aspect’s attention away from her, and the chill in the air grew. The pattering of hail sounded upon a roof, far off but growing closer. A legion of feet approached from all around in the night.

  “Did I do this? Did I make you like this?” She stumbled forward, towards Kechua’s dancing spot.

  He smiled, spinning away, and allowed a clear line from the Aspect to the girl. “You don’t strike at smoke.” He chuckled. The thing reached out with spearing tendril, the hungry barbs jutting outward, and he raised the smaller of his two clubs to stop the blow.

  The tooth of the blade nicked it, and in that moment, Sarah’s hand whipped out. “There,” she whispered and gently poked the punctured spot. A yellow spark danced down her arm, and a scream united with the light. The light blinked out of existence as the spear recoiled in a shivering oily blob and spiraled into its core.

  “When you were running in the light, your monsters, your fears . . . ” Kechua raised his clubs, fighting off another sneaking attempt to touch the woman, this time catching it with the largest of the obsidian teeth. Her arms whipped up without prompting and tore open the airy wound. Another burst of yellow tore against the dark, rising to the sky. He had the faintest glimpse of her hands, slick with oil, before the world went dark again. “They were your masters. You thought you were helpless, but look what you’re doing now!” The thing struck in a pair, from both sides. He slipped in front of her, opening the gaps in the blackness with wide slashes that ended with him on his knees before her. She made a similar motion, tearing at the blackness and ending on her knees before him. The light poured forth, and the anticipatory triumph was briefly squashed as he saw her face, wide eyed and trembling, her arms coated in the dripping ink to her elbows.

  It screamed in raw, primal terror, but it was the terror of terror itself. It was the most beautiful thing he had heard. It was the sound of a brook to a traveler dying of thirst; the sound of a roaring fire on a chilled night. She smiled through the trembling, closing her eyes into a peaceful serenity as they both rose again together. He slashed again at it, and it was torn open, screaming. He heard the songs of his people, a joyous uproar, a night of ceremony and celebration.

  “Are you alright?” he asked.

  The ink splashed onto her neck, quickly banishing the joy of the screams. The thing lashed out directly at him outside of their dance, panicking and breaking their duet. The thing tore at him, ripped his arms and chest with iced chill. The buzzing was audible in the reality of the night. He broke free of the tendrilous connection between himself and the beast with a twirling lunge forward, away from her, but the rhythm shuddered. The earth became drowned by the march of the growing footsteps all around.

  Even their footfalls abandoned him as the cold clung into his chest, leaving him with only his own heartbeat to guide his desperately clinging rhythm. He struck slowly at the gripping tendrils, and a slight warming joy tickled him as again the light burst forth. She was there and fighting, but the Terror of Night no longer paused from the wound; no longer screamed.

  He shivered, his breath biting against his lips and nose, the sound of his heartbeat chilling as the cold cloth closed in around him. He sunk and found himself alone beside the child’s light. “I hope it was enough,” he whispered as the tendrils closed in on him.

  Yellow ignited the space, two hands thrusting from Kechua’s side, prying open the torn false cloth of its belly. The sands and fence erupted into brilliant gold, the sparking rain firing forth. The thing shrieked and the circle of silhouetted shapes reeled back, burning eyes closed against the blinding display of fireworks. The light lingered, the entire world shimmering with the warmth. The thing puddled against the wall, reeling from its own spilled life. It held onto Kechua, but the tendrils no longer reached beyond him to strike at her.

  Sarah stood there, trembling, and oozing with the shifting black blood. Her arms were coated nearly to her shoulders and ink dripped from her fingers, only for the droplets to flutter down like tissue paper. Her clothes were splattered in black, and she moved to him with a juddering half reality. She stooped down a moment and gave Kechua a kiss on the forehead, her lips like soft ice. “You were right, but . . . ” Her voice was tinged with a sadness that chilled him worse than the embrace of the cloth.

  She reached into the core of the thing, her blackened arms slipping inside as the last of the yellow light faded. Trembling grey light replaced the yellow, and she held the silly little night light in her tainted hands as if offering it to the dull moo
n above. Wordlessly, she crushed it as the Terror of Night withered below her, its jaw and tendrils reaching in one last tired attempt, only to falter completely. The creature unwound as arterial light poured out, tearing it at the seams. His eyes slammed shut, the light bright enough to feel like coarse salt upon their surface, but he could feel shapes thumping onto the sand; could smell the earth being coughed up around him.

  The black cloth flaked away from him, falling away like sunburnt skin. This only forced him to crumple on the ground, his arms not even strong enough to catch him into a crawl.

  The spraying light widened, and he looked away from the source, confirming the imposter daylight had chased away the dogs at least. He coughed, a mouthful of dirt grinding against his teeth, but he managed to glimpse a slippered foot glowing like molten gold through the concealing sand.

  “You were right,” she whispered, slipping to her knees. “But you were wrong too.” She laughed gently, falling onto her knees beside him.

  The yellow light became a trickle in the glory of an explosion of pure white, and yet his eyes eagerly opened to witness it. Sarah held onto a trembling ball of light as the puddled creature’s form trickled away, the narrow mouth fading from its distortion into nothingness.

  The orb shivered and poured upwards, purest reds and greens mixed with blues and yellows inside the yawning bolt, and the pulsing white jewels flew into the sky like angels returning home.

  “Painting the sky,” she laughed feverishly.

  Kechua rolled to his side and struggled to worm his way towards her, the sleeping silt coughing up as he disturbed it. “Need to get you inside. The dogs are gone, but . . . ”

  “It’s alright.” Sarah turned to smile at him, her eyes closed. He felt a chill rise against his relief as he saw her. Her arms and hands glowed, golden pinpricks through a fine mesh of the shifting black that clung to her arms. The puddled blackness wrapped tight around her, encircling her from the neck down. She no longer trembled, but still . . .

  “No, no.” He furiously forced himself to kneel beside her. “I have to . . . ” He raised his club.

  “I had to take it on. We’d gone too far together. I couldn’t kill it.” She smiled. “Wouldn’t be right. It’s better this way, it’s better . . . ”

  “Listen . . . listen to me.” He leaned in behind her, not daring to brace her shoulder with his touch. “Do you want this? Are you sure you want this?”

  “Do I want it?” Her white eyes opened partway, shining like her hands.

  “Fight the sleep for now, please!” He nudged her, but his arm fell limply to his side. “Are you sure you can live with this, or do you want me to . . . ”

  “Kill me?” She smiled sleepily. “I want to live. Want to live.”

  “I . . . ” Kechua winced and slipped onto his back in a final exhaustion. “I can’t.” He gasped. He opened his eyes and saw the stars twinkling above, bright and pure, giving cold and slender comfort.

  A giant appeared between him and the mobile above, though he wondered how long he had been staring up. The man wore a loose and heavily soiled shirt, sporting a beard that bordered on getting away from him.

  “Saw you when it opened,” his voice rumbled like Tyran’s, with a dry rattling gravel undertone. “Can I help you?” He offered a hand, though it shook weakly.

  “I’m fine.” Kechua tried to smile reassuringly, but he felt himself sinking into the stars above. “Glad you can stand. There were others. Are they?”

  “Seem fine. Amazing if they’ve had the same sleep I have. We should all get inside though. Even though it seems downright bright out here now, I think there’s still things out there. Bad things.” The man glanced around, letting out a roaring yawn.

  “True,” the boy muttered, fighting himself to sit and his pride driving him to stand. “I have her. I’ll come out to help you with the others.”

  The man glanced at the house and the fence. “I think we’re still at Tim’s. There’s beds, not for everyone, but I know I don’t feel like sleeping.” Kechua carefully grasped her under the arms, the glowing flesh singeing his hands, and the black cloth bit him with chill as he carried her.

  “I’m okay.” The man had pulled up a boy younger than Kechua, who despite his protests, ended up leaning on the giant for support. “Second floor, third door down. That’s a good bed,” the boy dazedly instructed, leading them to the front door.

  “It’s jammed,” Kechua replied. He glanced at the cellar door but followed the man.

  “Now it’s not.’ The giant shoved the blockage away with a firm nudge from his foot. He went in first and the sound of whatever it was scraped against the groaning wooden floor.

  “Second floor,” the boy repeated, collapsing to sit against the wall and sliding down. “Third door.”

  “Thank you.” Kechua hoisted her sleeping form up the stairs.

  “Thank you,” the boy corrected and gave a weak wave.

  He barely remembered ascending the stairs, passing his pack and the broken window, and his dazed mind counted the third door. He got Sarah onto the bed, and with his aching and singed hands, he folded the blankets over her, pausing a moment to check the blankets under her shoulders. The cloth was feverishly warm, but neither the chill nor the burn reached the inanimate.

  He stumbled into the hallway, knocking his head on the door frame and catching himself in a spin, fighting to remain standing. He limped back through the halls intending to help, refusing to leave this job half done in the off chance anything would return in the night. He stumbled to avoid people hunched over in the halls, sitting in a daze, legs splayed and causing him to stumble a few times before he returned to the sands.

  “Lot of strange faces in the mix, but I know a few of them.” The man joined Kechua in helping the last two inside. “The kid’s Timothy. His house. Good kid.”

  “Alright!” the man boomed as they shut the front door, then he lowered his voice. “We’ve got a bit of food here, but we need to be careful about it. Don’t know how long it’s been there. Assuming the well isn’t dry, we should be able to draw some come daylight. Now—”

  “I’ve got it.” Timothy smiled at the man. “Go ahead and make sure she’s okay.” The boy slipped through the hallway, and as Kechua returned up the stairs with the man in tow, he heard the boy begin. “Okay, veggies are still good. We don’t have anything hot, but we can each—”

  The voice drifted to silence as they closed the door to the room. Kechua dragged and lugged his pack haphazardly, slumping to sit on the soft mat on the floor, and rooted inside.

  He found some of his berries and gnawed, welcoming the gritty sweet to help wake his aching muscles.

  He listened to her breaths, her heartbeat echoing inside the room’s floors, and felt a sort of kinship to her despite the years between them. The room sparkled pink in the pallor of the awoken night as they sat there in silence.

  After soft footfalls and mumbled words in the hallway, the door opened and the boy presented himself again. “Oh, it’s not her. I thought it would be her.” He passed a pair of cups to those waiting.

  “Thank you.” Kechua smelled it, and the oversweet apple scent made his eyes water.

  He held it aloft in a toast to the window, neither aped by the large man nor questioned.

  “We can figure that out later. She isn’t here now, so that means she got away,” the giant rumbled. “Maybe with the professor. I don’t know. Later.” He dismissed Timothy.

  “You know that man, James Barret?” He glanced at the man sideways, gnawing on some meat.

  “Yeah. You one of his?” The man smiled.

  “No,” Kechua nearly growled, but the man ignored it.

  “My name’s Osmond, Osmond M’grevor. People just call me M’grevor.”

  “Kechua.” He nodded back.

  In his exhaustion, he probed the man’s booming heartbeat, the woven drum in his wake. There was sincerity, kindness, but pointed strength and a lingering anger only recently padded do
wn by necessity. His heart beat with truth, and the threaded coil reached to tightly grip those around him.

  “How does he seem to you? The professor?” Kechua broke the silence again, half lost in the rumbling of the great man’s breath.

  “Not a great judge myself.” M’grevor shrugged. “I was stunned by the school when I was there. It’s so normal that it’s beautiful. I think most say he’s energetic, inspired; quick thinking?”

  “Not . . . manic? Unstable? Nothing like that?”

  “Quite the opposite. Completely reasonable. Always been fair dealings with him and his people. More than generous with the trading.” The man let out a rumbling sigh. “I think we’ll have to send most of these people there to get their bearings. Maybe I can even convince Tim to stay this time,” he muttered. “You seem young enough, maybe they’d let—”

  “I’d ask a favor,” Kechua cut him off, and the man willingly fell to silence. “Keep them here one more day if you have the supplies. I will go out this morning to the school. I have business with him still. I would ask that you don’t share my name with anyone here or with him, for your sake more than mine.”

  M’grevor breathed in and out, ever slowly, his heart making a begrudging rhythm of calm. “Alright, alright. Figure you have your reasons. You gotta promise me a couple things in return though.”

  “Sure.”

  “One, you aren’t raising a hand against anyone in the school.” The rhythm of suppressed wrath bubbled in his heart. “They’re almost all kids. You don’t swear here and now, and we’re going to have—”

  “I swear, I will raise arms against none. Even if attacked, I will not strike as long as I can run.”

  “Even if you can’t run.” M’grevor’s head turned slowly to the boy.

  “You haven’t seen me run.” Kechua met the ominous glare.

  The man leaned down, and the bare glow of the light against his hiding irises cast another twinkling field of stars. He could feel the breath upon his mouth; the heat of the man’s pulsing blood.