“True,” Markal said. “And it is also true enough that they will soon be at war with King Daniel as well.” He shrugged. “You know what those men were talking about? How their children learned to crawl. Hard to kill a man when you hear that. Now, I felt no remorse blasting that torturer last night, but this is different.”
“There’s another thing to consider,” Whelan said. “We kill them it makes a lot of people sit up and take notice.”
“So they’re not paying attention,” Darik said. “The road is wide. If we keep the camels quiet, we can creep by in the dark.”
Markal said, “This close to the Desolation, these men are jumping at every little sound. They’ve also got horses, which will smell the camels and make a stir.”
“All we need,” Sofiana said, “is a diversion. Veyrians are notoriously superstitious.”
Darik nodded, remembering how they feared the Tombs of the Kings. He began to see the beginnings of Sofiana’s plan.
She continued, “And everybody knows that the Famine Child lives in the Desolation.”
The Famine Child was a thin, waifish girl, half-insane sister to the Harvester, who appeared in times of hunger and pestilence, spreading misery wherever she went. She was rumored to live in the Desolation of Toth where thousands had once died, feeding off the decay that still permeated the land.
Sofiana’s plan was simple. She would chase their horses from the road, dressed as the Famine Child to frighten the men if they saw her. Whether the soldiers panicked or tried to recapture their horses, the companions could slip by on their camels. Whelan didn’t want to send his daughter into danger, but agreed with the others that it was an excellent idea.
Still sitting on the ground, Whelan rested his knee on his chin, scratching idly at his face. “Not bad, Ninny, not bad. It might work.”
“There is one thing,” Darik said, hesitating and looking at Sofiana, half afraid to contradict her plan. She was younger than he, but these men obviously valued her opinions and skills more. “If the plan fails, they’ll catch her easily.”
Sofiana frowned. “They won’t catch me. Why do you say that?”
“No offense,” Darik said, “But you’re only, what? Twelve? You’ll never outrun those men. I should play the Famine Child. I can run faster.”
“No,” Sofiana said. “You’re too tall, and you’ll have to wail and act half-insane as you come upon them.”
“I played Migrath in the Harvest Festival for three straight years,” Darik said, regretting the overly defensive tone in his voice even as he spoke but helpless to stop it. “I did well enough playing the role of a drunken idiot.”
Markal said, “Ah, so drunken idiot comes naturally, does it?” He gave Darik a friendly elbow to the ribs. “Yes, I can believe that.”
“He’s right,” Whelan said to Sofiana. “You’ll be more useful guarding his back. I don’t think he knows the crossbow, do you Darik? No, well Ninny is an excellent shot.”
Markal rubbed his beard thoughtfully. “And she’ll already be mounted on the camel, ready to flee if necessary.” He turned to Darik. “Don’t take any risks. Veyrians might be superstitious but they’re excellent swordsmen.”
Sofiana looked displeased, but didn’t argue further. Darik also found himself frowning, even though his plan had been accepted. It was a petty thing, he knew, and he struggled to suppress his irritation; somehow he’d won the argument but reinforced his uselessness.
The Veyrians camped in the middle of the Way, and their campfire cast the road in a dim, flickering light. They had no sentries but huddled together, closer to the fire than must have been comfortable.
Darik couldn’t say he blamed them. A humming wafted from the west, rising and falling in pitch. It was an eerie, unpleasant sound.
He crawled forward on his belly as close as he dared and watched for a few minutes as Whelan had instructed. A snake slid past his hand, creeping across the road to take advantage of the warmth captured by the brick during the day. The snake flicked its tongue a few times in his direction, then, deciding he was of no interest, continued its way across the road. Darik watched the snake warily until it crawled out of view, then turned his attention back to the soldiers.
“Make sure you know where everyone is before you move,” Whelan had told him. “You can execute your plan flawlessly and still be cut down by the man who stepped into the bushes to take a piss.”
He counted ten. Four slept in blankets with boots off, although from the way they tossed about, he doubted any of them truly slept. The other six played a game of bones, placing bets with a few coppers. They did it simply to pass the time, he guessed, as one of them with no money bet from a stack of small pebbles instead. They spoke in low voices, and Darik couldn’t make out anything they said. Swords lay within easy reach as well as crossbows strapped to saddlebags.
As for the horses, they acted much the same as their owners. They huddled to the north of the soldiers, milling in the shadows beyond the camp fire. They nickered nervously at the moaning sound. None wore saddles. They were roped to a single lead horse, a large roan, branded across its back. To scatter them, Darik would have to cut that rope.
Markal had dressed him as the Famine Child. He shredded and muddied a cloak from Whelan’s bag, then draped it across Darik’s shoulders. It was too large and hung in tatters to the ground, making him look thinner than before. Markal stripped off Darik’s outer cloak, leaving him with only an under cloth around his waist. The wizard then rubbed dirt and sand into Darik’s skin and hair, mixing it with water until it left him with the proper mud-streaked look. Sofiana had turned up her nose, but admitted that he looked the part of a starving child. Markal pressed two vials into Darik’s hand, one an oil to rub onto his face before he acted, the other a powder to throw into the fire should the need arise.
Time to act, Darik decided, heart pounding.
Darik had spent time with horses in his father’s stables and moved quickly to sooth the animals before they grew jittery. He ducked low behind the lead stallion, then took the first vial, broke the wax plug and dumped the oil on his hand. It might have been a pure cooking oil of some kind but that when it touched his flesh, his skin glowed with a pale sheen. He rubbed it quickly onto his face, then struggled with the knot. The Veyrians kept talking. He could understand them now.
“D’ya suppose they’ll make us march through the Desolation, too?”
“Sure,” a second soldier said. Darik heard the rattle of bones shaken and tossed. “You think we’re going to sleep in Veyre this winter?” He chuckled. “You’ll see the Wylde itself within the fortnight, I’ll wager.”
“Well I don’t like it.”
Darik could not work the knot free. It was too tight and tied in an unusual way.
“Nobody likes the Desolation, you fool. But if we stick to the road, we’ll be fine. Traders cross the waste all the time.”
“Sure,” a third man said. “But when the spirits howl, they cast lots and sacrifice the loser.”
“Good thing we’re not casting lots, the way you’re throwing the bones tonight.”
“Why don’t you all shut up so I can sleep,” a new voice said.
At last, Darik worked the knot free. He slipped the rope carefully through the bridle as the horses danced in anticipation.
“Hey!” one of the men shouted, jumping to his feet. “What’s that?” He snatched his sword and stepped toward Darik and the horses. The other men turned.
Darik froze. An overwhelming urge to run came over him. He took an inadvertent step backwards before he remembered.
“Aieeee!” he shrieked, stepping toward the light. Not a frightened cry, or an angry cry, but the cry of a mad man. The scream was the signal to Markal and Whelan to go.
He lurched into the fire light. “Food!” he cried. “I’m starving. Give me flesh to eat. Wine, red, bloody wine. Ahhh!”
He held out his hands in a pleading gesture, a gesture that showed his hands, glowing from Markal’s oi
l. They stank too, like something rotting. He let the cloak fall away from his face.
The men jumped to their feet in a hurry, even those sleeping a moment earlier. The bones and money scattered. One man staggered backwards over the fire, kicking up sparks and smoke. He fell into another, who tripped into the coals with a scream. The horses pranced nervously, and freed from their tether, two of them simply trotted into the darkness.
“Ah!” Darik cried, lurching toward the men with outstretched hands. “Give me flesh!” He grabbed one man by the shoulders.
This shredded the last of the soldiers’ courage. One man, eyes drunk with sleep, screamed and the others turned and fled. The horses neighed at the confusion and ran.
Plan working perfectly and a grin on his face, Darik turned to go. Or, he would have, if Whelan’s overly long cloak hadn’t slipped around his ankles. His feet tangled in the cloak and he fell, hands outstretched to break his fall. He landed with a grunt.
And as chance would have it, one of the more level-headed soldiers saw him fall. Darik climbed to his feet, and in a panic.
“Stop!” the man shouted. “It’s a boy!”
Many of the others, those still close enough to the fire to see him, stopped running. Darik turned and fled.
“Stop him!”
Darik reached the darkness before they could grab him, but the shouts spread as the other soldiers joined in pursuit. He almost cried out for Whelan and Markal, but regained his senses. Not enough time bought yet, and the horses not scattered far enough. If he could keep running to draw them further from their camp, then he could call the others and the soldiers would be too far from their horses to reach them in time.
Some of the swifter soldiers closed behind him. One grabbed his cloak and it shrugged from his shoulders and fell off. Darik lurched to the left, leaving the man grasping at air. Heavy footsteps followed.
And Darik found himself surrounded on three sides. Some of the men had looped around while he snaked back and forth to lose them. Hands grabbed, one seizing him by the wrist. He stumbled backwards and lurched in the air on the edge of the road. The grip on his wrist broke as he fell down the embankment.
Darik rolled down the hill, striking rocks. His head landed against a rock and exploded with light. He sat up, dizzy, and looked around him. Dust rose from the ground to fill his nostrils.
“No, don’t follow him,” one of the men said from the road. The voices trailed away as the men drew back from the road.
Darik climbed unsteadily to his feet, thinking at first that he’d broken an ankle. But no, it was only a sprain. He looked around but saw nothing in the darkness. Even the very stars appeared to have been snuffed from the sky. It was then that Darik realized what had happened.
He stood alone on the Desolation of Toth.
Darik thought at first that he would simply walk alongside the Way for a few minutes, and then return to the road. The soldiers knew nothing about his companions, so they would have no reason to mount a pursuit. Certainly, he didn’t expect them to ride through the Desolation until morning. For this reason, he expected that Markal and Whelan would come looking for him on the road.
But it was dark, and he stumbled with every step. After a few minutes, he turned back toward the road, determined to creep halfway up the hill and listen for the soldiers. As he turned toward the Way, however, he found only empty space. He stumbled in that direction for a few minutes, then gave up and tried to return to the spot from which he’d come.
The moaning sound was much louder than it had been on top of the road. It rose in pitch and volume then disappeared, leaving silence so complete that he could hear nothing but the roaring of his own breath and the rattle of his feet kicking stones. And then it returned, howling around his ears.
Darik’s outstretched hands touched a wall unexpectedly and he knew that he’d headed off in a new direction. The wall came to shoulder height and was ragged and uneven on top. On the side, the stones were rounded and smooth.
He was afraid. He could see nothing, not even phantom lights blinking in his own wide-open eyes. Darik forced calm upon himself. Let panic take hold and he’d lurch forward all night into the waste, until he could no longer see the Way when sunrise came. If daylight ever came to this cursed land.
And then, like the slats opening in a window, he could see. The landscape blinked into existence in front of him. It was day time, but a haze draped over the land, cloaking everything in muted gray. The rising sun struggled to penetrate the haze. Darik staggered backwards in shock and fear at what he saw.
The wall his hand rested against was made of skulls, bleached white and mortared into the wall. It stretched in either direction as far as he could see. He could see over the wall and to his back, but didn’t see the road anywhere in sight, just the wind-blasted plain in every direction.
The stones he’d been kicking were more bones, some broken and splintered, others laying as whole skeletons. All clothing had long since vanished, but some still wore rusted armor, held swords in hand, or wore rings on their fingers. One man grinned back at Darik where he’d fallen, an axe buried in his skull.
The landscape was pockmarked with holes filled with brackish water. As soon as it grew light, a scum of tiny flies rose from the ponds and filled the air, swarming about his face. Plants grew here and there, but they were sickly things, huddling low to the ground. A purple, stinking vine climbed the bone wall in places, and as he brushed it, tendrils reached out to wrap around his leg. Darik stepped hastily back.
As he stood trying to figure out what to do, the howling started up again, and as it did, the bones on the ground came to life. Darik shrank back against the wall, no longer concerned about the vines.
Bones reassembled themselves. Tendons and flesh grew on the bones, then organs, skin, and clothing. Rust melted from old swords and armor, and the people jumped to their feet. Houses reformed themselves, fields of wheat and barley sprouted from the dead ground. But everything remained hazy, as if the land itself had been bleached.
The newly risen dead paid him no attention, but set about fighting. As far as he could see, men and women engaged in battle, rape, robbery, and murder, thousands of individual struggles. A man rode by on a horse and impaled a man standing next to Darik with a spear. The man staggered back against Darik, or rather through Darik, who felt nothing, then fell to the ground, blood gushing from his mouth. As soon as he died, the man jumped back to his feet to rejoin the struggle.
Now that he could see, Darik could also hear and smell. Screams, shouts, and curses. Burning houses and fields. And above everything, the howling, as if something ripped apart the earth itself. A child screamed as a man on horseback ran her down, hooves throwing her into the mud.
At last the howling stopped, leaving a near-perfect silence but for the buzzing gnats still swirling around Darik’s head. The combatants collapsed to the ground, returning to bones. Fields and burning homes faded. From one of the stagnant pools came the forlorn croak of a stench toad.
Darik followed the wall, heart pounding. Ahead, stretched nothing, behind, nothing, but he had to move. And the howling started again. Armies reformed themselves and fought. This time it was too much for him. He slumped against the wall, trying to shut his ears against the sound, and clamping his eyes shut. The battle raged.
A scream sounded in the air overhead. A second scream closer, and then claws sank into his shoulder. He flinched, but didn’t open his eyes.
“Darik!”
Darik opened his eyes to see Scree sitting on his shoulder, eyes bright and piercing. The falcon looked back through the battle and Darik followed her gaze.
Whelan strode toward him, sword in hand. It was he who had shouted Darik’s name. Whelan’s blade blazed brighter than anything else on this blasted landscape, and cast everything gray into sharp colors as he passed. Caught in this circle of color, the wights took notice of the man, wailing and dropping their weapons to shield their eyes. Whelan held out his arm and Scree flew
to his wrist.
Darik climbed to his feet and embraced the man, so happy was he to see him. As he drew inside the circle cast by Whelan’s sword, everything changed. He could see the Tothian Way now, not more than a hundred feet behind him. And the battle changed.
The war was no longer in some field, but in Balsalom itself. He saw the Merchants Quarter burning, one of the minarets toppling to the ground. The palace itself blazed with an unnatural green light. Soldiers slaughtered people in the streets, setting fire to buildings and overturned carts. Smoke strangled the air, penetrated only by the smell of death. The bodies of children lay in the streets, and Darik thought for one horrified moment that one of them was his sister Kaya, but the vision faded before he could see for sure. Again, the scene changed.
The flat, blasted plain rippled and shimmered, then turned into water, its edge marked by a flat, rocky beach. A sharp, salty tang filled the air and sea birds wheeled overhead, their shrill cries rising above the sound of the waves. Darik lurched toward the water in amazement, even as he knew it was only an illusion.
“Darik,” Whelan warned, reaching out a hand to stop him.
A woman dragged herself from the surf. In her struggle to gain the land, the waves had pounded her against the rocks, and she bled from numerous cuts. Her clothing hung in tatters.
“No,” Whelan whispered. “Not this. By the brothers, please, not this.”
He staggered past Darik and onto the rocky beach. His sword dropped from his hands as he rushed to help the woman from the water. Scree rose from Whelan’s wrist with a startled squawk. The blade glittered at Darik’s feet. He didn’t know whether to follow the man, or remain. Howls rose from the blasted plain at his back and the smell of death mingled with the smell of the ocean that lay in front of him.
Whelan cradled the woman in his arms. “Oh, Serena. Please, don’t die.”
But the woman was not pleased to see Whelan. “No, Whelan. Don’t. Find him and bring him to me. I am going to die.”
“No, Serena. He’s not here.”
FIERCE: Sixteen Authors of Fantasy Page 288