The Red Sea

by Edward W. Robertson

  Blays rubbed his jaw, which was beginning to sport a blond beard. "I hate it when you use logic."

  "Do you even want to help these people? Or do you just want to argue with me so you can tell yourself you tried?"

  "Some of both. And quit knowing me so well."

  Dante smiled. "Don't worry, I'll be the monster for you. Winden, please tell them we're sorry, but we can't help. My father's too sick. If we don't get back to him, he'll die."

  Winden stared at him, an unreadable emotion flickering in her eyes. She turned to the other Harvester and spoke in Taurish, her voice heavy with regret. The woman replied sharply.

  Winden raised a brow. "She says you must help them. That the Tauren's demands are too high for them to meet."

  "We've already faced them," Dante said. "And fared no better than the Shigur have."

  She translated more. "They will pay you. Whatever it takes."

  "It's not a matter of payment. We don't have the time or the strength to help them."

  Winden passed this along. While she was mid-sentence, the Harvester snapped back at her. Their voices rose; within seconds, they were yelling over the top of one another. The Harvester jabbed a finger into Winden's chest and pointed to the south, then spat at Dante's feet.

  Winden's jaw bulged. "We are to leave. Now."

  She continued to glare into the other Harvester's eyes. Dante touched her on the shoulder and walked southward away from the stone building. The Harvester and her soldiers followed a few paces behind them. Winden was breathing hard, but she kept her tongue. The path led to a gate through the wall of brambles. The gate's edges blossomed with tiny flowers of all sizes. If their mood had been better, it might have been beautiful. The Harvester and her people watched them walk away.

  "Sorry if we offended them," Dante said once they were out of earshot. "It was certainly not our intent to make you any enemies on this trip."

  Winden rolled her eyes. "You have nothing to worry about. Their Harvester, she's ridiculous. Full of herself. Did you see her cape?"

  Blays glanced behind them. "The big leafy thing? Is that fancy?"

  "Do you see me wearing one? Flaunting it for all to see? Acting like I am some blessed spirit that fell out of a tree to make your lives better?"

  "Not exactly," Dante said. "But if anything, you should be dressed in whatever the mischievous spirits wear."

  She gave him a look, then chuckled, expression softening. "The Boat-Growers, they're famed for their harvests. They must look the part. Much as you arrived in your finery."

  Beyond the Boat-Growers' living wall, the forest was untamed. Rough footsteps marred the mud. Wary of raiders, Dante removed the dead rats from his pouch—he'd hidden them away while climbing the wall—and sent them out to range ahead. They would alert him of their own accord if they saw any people, but when his path ahead was clear enough to not require his attention, he delved into the rats' sight, eyes sharp for the rabbit-eared red flowers that continued to elude them.

  Twilight neared. Since crossing to the south lobe of the island, ants had been a problem at night, and Winden spent the last of the daylight locating and growing a patch of peppery-smelling leaves which she shredded around the camp. No ants infiltrated their blankets, but Dante's undead rats repeatedly alerted him awake. No matter how hard he strained his eyes into the darkness, he saw nothing but the shifting of leaves in the wind.

  In the morning, they veered deeper into the jungle. On the first ridge they crested, Winden pointed ahead. A mile away, the land rose, more gently than a cliff but far steeper than a hill. A scarlet line ran down the center, as though a god had cleaved it like a peach.

  They had reached the Bloodfalls.

  7

  Blays stared at the red line cascading down the bluff. "Tell me that's not actually blood."

  "It looks like it to me," Winden said. "But you can taste it and find out."

  "That sounds more like Dante's thing."

  "What is it?" Dante said. "And is its presence why the molbries only grow here?"

  "Probably, yes." Winden moved on, swerving around something that looked like a plant but smelled like a rotting carcass. "As to your first question. Our people tell a story. Long ago, a woman named Dre lived above the Bloodfalls. She was a gardener of mushrooms. Each type she grew did something different. Some made you strong. Others helped old men remember their vigor. Others helped those with failing vision to see. She was born with a disease that made her limbs weak, so she also grew one to prevent further withering of her muscles. Her mushrooms took a long time to grow, but she made enough to trade for everything she needed.

  "There was also a Harvester named Martin. He heard of Dre and traveled here to see her mushrooms for himself. And discovered they were even more wonderful than he imagined. In awe of her skill, he fell in love with Dre. He offered to help her Harvest more. To sell across the island. To become rich.

  "Dre resisted. But Martin wouldn't leave the falls. He asked her over and over. Telling her how many more people she could help heal. At last, she agreed. He set to work, harvesting her crops to grow ten times as many. Then a hundred. And one day, Dre woke to find her legs wouldn't move.

  "By growing so many, Martin had caused the mushrooms to lose their spirit. Dre's medicine no longer worked. She tried to regrow it, but before she could do so, the wasting illness reached her heart. It crumbled to shards and she died in her fields. Ever since, the blood of her cracked heart has stained the falls."

  "Are any of her mushrooms still here?" Dante said.

  "Many mushrooms grow around the falls. But Dre was the one who made them special. Without her, their powers have been lost."

  Dante nodded. Much in the way that a dream was only interesting to the one who'd had it, a region's fairy tales were rarely of interest to outsiders. A few minutes later, water burbled ahead. Red water glimmered through the trees. As they neared, the vegetation thinned. Instead, the shores of the Bloodfalls were crowded with mushrooms. Some rose knee-high, the caps big enough to function as end tables. Up close, the water looked no less like blood, swirling scarlet and opaque. It smelled earthy and metallic.

  Winden pointed to the ill-defined border between the mushrooms and the plants. "The molbries usually grow there. We'll follow the stream. Don't drink it."

  "Thanks for the warning," Blays said. "What about those jagged rocks? Should I avoid consuming those, too?"

  "By all means, feast. Then I won't have to listen to you any longer."

  Dante smirked. They walked up the shore, scanning for molbries. After a quarter mile, they reached the first of the many waterfalls cascading down from the heights. Red water tumbled forty feet and crashed into a pool of unknowable depth. The banks of the pool were smooth red stone, though Dante couldn't say whether this was the cause or the effect of the water's tint.

  Vines and ivy hung over the brow of the cliff like an urchin in need of a haircut. After a sweep of the area revealed no molbry flowers, Winden extended the overhanging plants downward and ascended to the plateau above. They worked their way upstream, coming to another waterfall and corresponding pool. Mist swirled in the air. It smelled of fresh water and the damp, freshly cut rock of the stoneworkers' district in Narashtovik.

  This level didn't have any of the flowers, either. Neither did the third or the fourth. Hours later, they were six plateaus up. It was nearly noon, and with no trees around the creek, the sun's rays beat down on Dante's face and neck like fists of heat. The only reprieve came from the mist whipped up near each waterfall.

  "Hey!" Blays called. Without Dante noticing, he'd crossed the stream to the far bank and was now waving his hands above his head. "I have flowers! Flowers that think they're rabbits!"

  At a wide spot in the stream, red rock broke the surface in natural stepping-stones. Dante made the first few steps, then slipped, plunging knee-deep. He slogged the rest of the way across, dripping over the toadstools and the slimy yellow fungus that sat on the shore like scoops of cold
jelly.

  At the fringe of the leafy plants, Blays stood triumphant over a waist-high bush. Small red flowers hung from its branches, two long petals drooping from their top edge.

  "Molbries," Winden confirmed. Dante reached out to pluck one and she slapped his hand. "Stop that. You'll kill them."

  He frowned. "They need to be living to work? Then I'm afraid we've made a huge mistake, as we've left our patient on the opposite side of the island."

  "They need to be kept fresh. This is why we have no dried supplies in Kandak. But I have methods to preserve them." She unrolled a leather sleeve filled with numerous knives and snippers.

  "That looks like a set of thieves' tools," Blays observed. "But, you know. For gardening."

  She gave him a look, then trimmed off several branches. She got out a narrow black box similar to the one she'd carried the shaden in. The bottom was layered with dried-out sea sponges. She soaked these with water from the stream, sticking the stems of the molbry cuttings into the now-pliable sponges. She sealed the box's lid with a wooden click and repeated the process with a second box.

  When this one was filled and sealed, she handed it to Dante. "Carry this. If something happens to me, give them sun and water daily. If they die, you'll still have a few days to get them back to your father."

  He repacked his bag so the tall box would stay upright while he walked. They rinsed off in the red water—Winden assured them it was safe to touch the skin—then began their descent from the heights.

  "After this, he's going to literally owe you his life," Blays said. "Think of the ways you'll be able to hold that over his head."

  "The possibilities are staggering. I might even come away with an apology."

  Blays laughed. "I won't pretend like this will make up for years of abandonment. But I do think that, once we're back home, you'll be happy you came here."

  Dante grunted, unwilling to agree out loud even though he suspected Blays was right. He did feel a certain thrill at having traipsed across such a strange and wonderful land. After weeks in the tunnels at Gallador, the sun and the sights were a joy.

  Finding the molbries was quite an achievement, too. Seeing what the Tauren had done to the Boat-Growers had cemented his conviction that it was important to help his father stand against them.

  On top of that, he was starting to have ideas about opening trade between Narashtovik and Kandak. Successfully completing this mission would earn him a great store of goodwill. The Plagued Islands had much to offer—food, medicine, dyes, the creations of the Boat-Growers. As much as he had strengthened Narashtovik's military and political position, its navy remained anemic. Hence why he had to hire diseased sea captains from disapproved-of corners of the world. If he could open up a line of revenue from the islands, he could use that to build the fleet Narashtovik sorely needed.

  As they walked toward the ledge of the third plateau before the bottom, Blays slowed, then stopped. He turned to them, a funny look on his face. "Was this here when we came through the first time?"

  Dante moved beside him. At a shaded spot within the prolific fungus not three feet from the edge of the falls, a baby rested on its back, hands balled into fists. Red mist dewed its skin.

  Winden gazed down at it. "Tauren."

  "Tauren?" Blays said. "How can you tell? The chain mail diaper?"

  "Their young. They leave them here for three days. The strong live, to make their people stronger. And the weak don't return to burden them."

  "Do any return? Doesn't the crying draw predators?"

  She laughed dryly. "That is why the Tauren's children haven't cried in hundreds of years."

  "Why here?" Dante said.

  "To them, the Bloodfalls are a place of courage. The will to fight. They hope their babies will absorb this." She kneeled beside it and slid her left hand under its neck, tipping back its head. With her right hand, she drew a steel knife and put it to the child's throat.

  "What are you doing?" Blays said.

  "What does it look like? I'm killing this child."

  "Do you need me to ask why?"

  "If it lives? It will join the Tauren. Become our enemy." She looked down on the baby's smooth, pudgy face. "One day, it will kill Kandean children instead."

  "Not for fifteen years or more!" Blays grabbed her wrist, pulling the blade away. "By then, you and the Tauren might be friends. For all you know, this kid will grow up to be the one who ends the war between you."

  With her unrestrained hand, she pulled a knife from Blays' belt and set it against the infant's throat. "I'll take that chance."

  "You're right," Dante said.

  "To murder a baby?" Blays honked with laughter. "No wonder you believe all of your people wind up condemned to be eaten by birds and crabs!"

  "Her people weren't the ones that started this war. It was the Tauren. They maim and kill adults. Kidnap children. When the people they've wronged do the same to them, you're going to blame them?"

  "Is this a trick question?"

  "But you shouldn't do this, Winden," Dante said softly. "Even though you're right. Because it will crack you inside. It will weigh you down every day of your life. Even sleep won't be an escape from it."

  She clenched her teeth. "If this saves a single one of my people? I'll be able to shoulder the guilt."

  "And what happens when you die? And you're brought before Kaval? There's no way to lie nicely about killing a newborn. When you tell him why you did it, do you think he'll spare you?"

  Her face twisted with anger, then frustration. She withdrew the knife, flipped it in her hand, and held it out to Blays hilt-first.

  "All right then," Blays said. "So where shall we take it? The Boat-Growers?"

  Winden lowered her eyes. "They'll know where it came from. And they will kill it. As will the Kandeans. And even the monks of the Dreaming Peaks. Do you want this child to have any chance to survive? Then we have to leave it here."

  Blays stared down at it for a long moment. "I can't believe we're doing this. At least if it survives, it'll be too young to remember to come hunt us down."

  Dante moved to the cliff's edge and climbed down the plants Winden had extended across its face. In time, they reached the bottom of the falls. There, they paused to clean themselves up and eat a meal of mashed bananas and jods, a pale green fruit that tasted like sweet eggs. Not exactly Dante's ideal flavor, but Winden insisted they were almost as nutritious as san root.

  With the molbries boxed away, they headed back toward the Dreaming Peaks by the most direct route available, with Dante using dead rats to locate game trails through the woods. They made good time through the afternoon, pushing on until last light. Winden thought they might be able to make it back to Kandak in as little as four days.

  In the middle of the night, Dante woke with a gasp. One of his rats had just winked out; the severing of the nethereal connection between them had stung Dante like a wasp. He directed his lone remaining rat to the site where the first had disappeared. The turf was torn up as if by hooves.

  The next day, they hiked past the Boat-Growers' territory, giving it a berth of a few miles. Whenever they stopped to rest, Dante checked on his molbry cuttings, giving them air and light and water. The flowers looked the same as they had on the bush. Now that they had them, he was much less confident they'd work. Winden had said they often didn't cure the sickness—and that they could cause a toxic reaction instead.

  He didn't like the thought of failure. Blays would tell him that he should be proud to have done all that he could, but Dante didn't find that much consolation. Common wisdom held that it was better to have tried and lost than to never have tried at all. Maybe that worked for most people.

  For him, though, he'd always wonder what he could have done to win.

  The land sloped up gently. They stuck to the jungle, as much for the shade as for the concealment. As they walked up a dry creek bed, Dante felt a twitch in his head. He shifted his vision to that of the rat's. Grass flew past its face. Hoo
ves thundered behind it. He made it look back just in time to see a tusked mouth gawping like an eel.

  Darkness enfolded the rat. Bones crunched. The connection went dead.

  Dante staggered down the gully, rubbing his eyes. "That's a new one. Guess what just ate my rat?"

  "I'd rather not," Blays said.

  "A pig."

  "A carnivorous pig? I don't know whether to be hungry or scared."

  Winden stopped in her tracks. "It's a pig? You're sure of this?"

  "Flat snout. Little tusks. Beady eyes. Bit of a beard right here on the chin."

  "We're being hunted."

  Blays tilted his head to the side. "By a pig? Do you think we can talk two slices of bread into hunting us as well?"

  "This is a jone," Winden said. "Its sense of smell is better than any dog. The Tauren use them to track prey. Can you send another scout?"

  Dante nodded vaguely. Another rat might get eaten. Or look suspicious. That ruled out birds, too; to get them light enough to fly in undeath, he had to trim off everything unrelated to flying and seeing. Like legs. And guts. Not exactly sneaky.

  Light sparkled on an iridescent blue butterfly flapping along the bank of the creek. Dante knocked it down with a toothpick-sized spear of nether, then reanimated it, sending it flapping clumsily into the canopy.

  Through it, he saw nothing but an uninterrupted sea of treetops. As the butterfly neared where he'd lost contact with his rat, he ordered it to descend. It bashed into several branches on its way down, cutting through the canopy and into the shadows below, where he let it hover.

  Dante hated using flying bugs to do recon—their vision was shifting and kaleidoscopic, and between that and their erratic flight paths, he often got sick on his shoes. Yet the butterfly's sight was sharp enough to spot a jone loping from the undergrowth, heading in the opposite direction of the Dreaming Peaks. He directed the bug to flap along behind it.

  Voices rang out from ahead of the hog. The butterfly cleared a moss-draped tree and gazed down on some fifteen people. The man in the visored steel helmet jerked up his head and stared straight at the butterfly.