I ignored him. He cackled. We both knew, we both knew.
“My wings are tired. Tired as your legs. You should just take a seat. I’ll pull up a chair…” he cooed.
From the feathers of his breast sprouted two arms. His back straightened, his claws transmutated into legs like mine. A birdfolk now, a vulturian birdfolk from far away, from forgotten climes and forbidden peaks.
He reached into the sand. I ignored him, kept walking. He pulled a chair from the orange grit, and it fell away like water. He dusted it off and held it out, following along.
“Come now, Bram. Take a seat!” he urged.
His eyes blinked. He cocked his head.
“Take a seat! You’re holding up the party!”
More of the buzzards laughed and laughed and laughed from the sky above, their shadows dancing on my back as they wheeled around and around in perfect circles. I laughed with them but I didn’t want to.
“Ah ha ha!” I laughed painfully. “Ah ha ha!”
I struggled up a dune. It was steep, the sides falling away, sloughing off and into my foot-wraps. I dug deep with my hands, crawling like a beetle up the side. The buzzards cackled and snapped their beaks, landing beside me before leaping away.
“Bram Tan Heth! Bram Tan Heth!” they croaked. “Mad, Mad Bram!”
I huffed and heaved as I reached the crest of the dune. I couldn’t go any further. I sucked in hot hair; it scalded my lips, my tongue, burning like strong liquor down my throat. It filled my lung like a furnace. I was boiling from the inside out. The buzzards were casting lots over my bones.
“Roll the dice, I want the hands!” one cackled.
They danced in the sand. I got back to my feet and struggled on.
“Go away… Go away!” I screamed, but it came out as a whisper.
There was one last explosion of cackles; and then they disappeared. I still felt the shadows passing overhead, drifting in the sand like the wavering image of sharks beneath the water.
The pillars were so close now; these ones stuck out at odd angles, leaning dangerously, tilting toward the horizon, all jumbled like straw in a stack of hay.
So close, so close…
The sand changed shape, melting and swirling. It twisted into kinks. I looked down to my blistered feet; it wasn’t sand at all. I laughed. It was hair, bright red hair, curling and knotting and flowing ever onwards into the distant rim of the horizon.
A great shadow loomed over me. I looked up; it was Majira. She gazed over me, over all, her hair flowing in curls and bunches, spilling out into the distance. She sat in the sand, young and beautiful and as huge as a mountain, as nude as the day she was born, hair falling over her body. She did not smile; her emerald eyes flashed like lightning, her antlers tall as the tallest cedar, reaching to the heavens. The sun nestled in between them like a blazing ornament. The shadow she cast was as long as the day; I shrank down to the size of a grain of sand.
“Majira!” I cried, overcome with her majesty, this goddess before me -
And I laughed and laughed, and I could not stop; the world spun and I shrank and she looked down passively, eyes aglow and green as the ripest grass -
I fell forward.
My hands touched stone, cool, smooth stone. I opened my eyes and looked up; Majira’s mountainous beauty was gone. There was nothing but the sky and the orange rocks.
I had reached the pillars of stone.
If I had tears I would have wept. I had made it.
I collapsed in a heap beneath their blessed shade. Sweat stung my eyelids. Exhausted, I fell asleep.
***
I sat up. My body was next to me.
Which was strange… had I slipped into the dreamscape? Certainly not of my own volition… was I dead?
I looked at my body. My chest was rising slowly, very slowly. I was alive.
I got up and looked beyond the pillars. The sun was low in the sky. I must have slept for a long time. I needed to make up for lost time. I had to keep moving, to close the gap between me and the caravan before nightfall.
“Come on, you lazy bag of meat,” I said, cursing my body. “Up!”
I fell back into my body.
I sat up and gasped again; re-emerging in the waking world was always a shock, always painful. The sudden realization that the body is weak, limited, just a husk; every cell bombarded me with sensation.
The horizon rocked before me, mocking me. I had to keep going, keep going!
I laughed and rose to my feet once more, one more torturous time. I could see the next cluster of pillars shivering beyond the next rise of dunes… I could make it. I could push my scorched and cracking body further. I had to.
I stumbled out. Nothing made sense; there was no up, no down. Just forward. Where the blue sky and the orange sand met – a thin, narrow line that separated this living hell from freedom above. I charged toward it.
My feet were slow, insufferably slow. I was wading through honey; golden yellow, thick and viscous. It held me in place. It attracted the flies. The flies were huge. They cackled above me. They were buzzards. I screamed at them. Damn them, damn the birds! They’ll never take my eyes! Never!
I stooped over and picked up a handful of sand. I threw it at them and kept running, staggering, stumbling forward.
The sun was dipping low in the sky. It was huge and angry and red. It smiled at me; not a good smile, there was no joy there. Its teeth were immense and predatory, its eyes piggish and greedy. And oh how it curled back its lips for me to see; it wanted to eat me. It wanted to swallow me whole. But first it would cook me, out here on the sand, drowning in honey as the flies crowed like buzzards.
“It’s a loooong way down,” echoed the baritone voice of the buzzards. “A long, loooong way down.”
“Bram Tan Heth, the Mad, the Mad,” they cackled in sing-song voices.
The sun grew upon the horizon, swollen and fat. An immense, bloated tongue lolled out of its awful face. The tongue rolled out like a tidal wave of slimy flesh, flopping out into the sand. It panted like a dog and grinned idiotically.
“ B R A M T A N H E T H ! ” it boomed, singing along with the buzzards.
“Ah hahahaha!” I screamed.
It was all I could say. It was all I could do. I laughed and laughed, ran and ran; but I wasn’t running. I was falling. I was tripping and drowning in the honey.
“AH hahAHahAHhaaHaHAah AHaH HaH aHaA
AHaAAHaHaHahahaAHAaHAaaahaAHa AHahahahahahaa
Aahahaha…. Hahaha hah….
ahaha...haha…
HAHAHAHAHAHAHA
aaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAHAHHHAHAHAHAHAH!”
And they all laughed with me.
***
Night, gracious, glorious night, had finally fallen.
A golden moon drifted listlessly above the desert. It floated like a ghost, a specter with a cracked and gilded face. It did not grin; it did not frown. It merely existed.
For it did not have a face. It was just a moon.
The Black Laughter dissipated. I was lying amongst another stand of pillared rock.
I touched my face; the skin hurt. It was chapped and peeling. My eyes felt dry. Blinking was painful. My feet throbbed. Everything hurt.
I closed my eyes. Now was the most vital part.
I went back into the dreamscape. It was all becoming rather tedious. I did not like being mad. It was a lot of work, and I had no choice in the matter.
I travelled through the desert, bumbling along like a honeybee above the dips and curves. I travelled until I saw lights on the horizon; campfires.
I skirted the edge of the camp, wandering lonely as a scorned jackal. I looked into the pitched tents; some folk were asleep. I studied them more closely, now that the scarves were pulled from their faces; they were hobgoblins mostly, a few ur-men amongst them. Most slept peacefully. Others were scattered about the caravan, tending to menial things, standing watch at the outskirts. The troll
was passed out in a heap next to one of the fires.
Wasting no time, I stepped into a small tent at the edge of the camp. A hobgoblin was curled up, head resting on a bunched-up scarf. I bent over him, called out soothingly, trying to coax not his mind but his soul to awaken.
A dual form sat up from the supine body, blinking dolefully. His eyes widened in fright as he saw me. He began to babble; he looked down to his body and leapt up. He probably thought he was dead.
I tried to calm him with soothing gestures. He backed away from me, but did not flee.
It was clear we did not speak the same language; I hadn’t even thought of that. Sound did not travel from the waking world to the dreamscape; but now his soul was asleep, with mine. And only now, trying to communicate with this hobgoblin, did I realize how very foreign this land was.
There was no sense trying to talk. Instead I offered my hand. The hobgoblin stared at it for a while. He glanced back down to his body. I gestured for him to take my hand, trying to smile as benevolently as I could.
At last he took my hand. I led him out of the tent and pointed in the direction we were going to go. He said something that I didn’t understand, so I ignored it.
We walked out into the sand. He was frightened by the speed at which we travelled; every step we took made us glide ten strides. I tried not to go too fast; he needed to know the way, to remember the route back to where my body lay.
Soon we came to the pillars. We stood over my body. I looked him in the eyes and pointed down at my sleeping form.
He looked back and forth between us; clearly he saw my body and soul were the same being. His eyes were wide with wonder and confusion, bright pale orbs against his swarthy face.
I gestured to him, desperately trying to convey my urgency. He nodded slowly, and I hoped he understood. But we were running out of time. I took him by the hand and led him back to his encampment.
Once we were back in his tent I begged him once more, in Urvish, a language I knew he would not understand. Then I pushed him backward. He fell into his body.
I watched as his body, now rejoined with his soul, jolted awake. He sat up suddenly; I waited, watching for what he would do.
The hobgoblin scrambled to his feet. He wrapped his scarf around his face and placed his hat firmly on his head, pulled on his sandals.
I followed him as he walked over to the edge of camp. He stared off into the starry night, looking out at the horizon, towards where my body lay…
33
Daz
I didn’t mind this place. It was very green; the coastline stretched before us on our rocky trail. I had been west of the Bulwark Mountains before, though usually we stuck to the ur-men colonies in the foothills and valleys. I had never been this far west. Neither had The Slave.
With mule in tow we travelled along the winding seaside road. It wasn’t well-kept, but it was well-frequented. I hid my face and head as we passed by other travellers to avoid trouble. I didn’t know if unmen lived in these strange lands. Passer-bys stared at The Slave, but that was no surprise; he was huge. It was hard not to stare. I usually didn’t feel small in the presence of others – but with him I had no choice. It was no wonder we hadn’t yet subdued the uyrguks of the far east; if they were all the size of The Slave, it would be more trouble than it’s worth. I was just glad we had a good buffer of big uyrguks between the Empire and the Witchlands.
The first night was a hard one for me. During the day I was fine; I could focus on the immediate task of travel. But with the sun going down, and dusk spreading gently across the sky, my mind turned to the shipwreck. There was an aching in my chest as I watched the night fade from pastel hues to a sulky purple. I had never been so alone. All my friends were dead, drowned.
I thought about Avna’a. And I thought about Vash-turel. And I thought about how much I had loved the one – and how much I hated the other. I had never hated someone so much. Not that it mattered anymore; she was just as dead as the rest.
I should have used the Soul Slab that night, but I did not. I was having a hard enough time holding back my grief, alone in the dark.
We continued on the next day. The sunrise was just as brilliant as the sunset.
By mid-morning we came upon a town. It sat on the delta of a fast-flowing river; on the banks were sprawling farms, separated in slices, radiating outward. Each plot touched the river; summer grasses swayed in the wind. Wooden bridges spanned from the banks to the delta. Based off the way they divided their land, hugging close to the river banks, I guessed we were on a Vindayan river. Huge, marbled clouds hung on the horizon.
It was a relief to see a town. Although, I had no money; it was all in my saddlebags, which were now on the bottom of the sea. I knew The Slave had some, and I also knew he spoke no Urvish; I could at least struggle my way through a market exchange, so he needed me just as much as I needed him. Languages had never been my strong suit. It wasn’t my job in the myrmidon; I knew only what I had to in that regard.
It was frightening to think about – I was the last one. All these years, and I was the last one. It made me heartsick. We all had our roles, and even if we were often divided, even when we butted heads, we could at least rely on one another when we were on the job. Some could navigate, some could plan, some could fight, some could speak every language on the continent and beyond. And now that I was alone I realized just how woefully inadequate I was. How could I possibly do this alone? In a strange land, headed to a place I had never been?
I tried to shake my insecurities, but they were tenacious. The way ahead would be hard; the distance was vast. I would need every ounce of strength, cunning, and courage to carry on. The Empire needed me to keep going; in Avna’a’s memory, I had to keep going. To escape Gol-Gorom’s looming threat, I had to keep going.
I shuddered. There was no way I would allow myself to be in a harem.
So with that motivation in mind, I prepared to do something I had always hated; barter.
We entered the town, drawing only a few sideways looks. They looked like farmers and tradesfolk for the most part; ur-men and elves. There was a small market; clearly a trade hub for the local vicinity. Not much, but commerce certainly occurred. I was eager to get rid of the two wine barrels we had taken from the looters and use the money for necessities. The sack of provisions we had been given by the kindly elvish family was all but empty.
The Slave and I did a pass of the market, looking for a wine merchant. There was plenty of food; lots of food. Almost entirely food in the open market. None, however, that specifically dealt in drink. So instead we looked for taverns or inns, doing another pass with mule in tow.
Eventually I settled on a large, stone-walled inn. We hitched the mule outside and The Slave stood watch as I walked inside, making sure my cap was covering my shorn head and my scarf was covering my mouth.
With palms sweating I approached the counter. My Urvish was not very good. Almost as bad as my east-uyrk. And I hated, hated, hated bartering. Why couldn’t we just settle on a fair price right away? It was all so ridiculous.
I put my hands on the counter and waited. Eventually a young elvish girl came to speak with me.
“What’ll ya have? Room or meal?”
“Uh – uh, not that… do you buy?” I asked awkwardly.
She pulled a wry face and looked me up and down.
“What do you mean, ‘do we buy?’ Market’s out there, lady. This isn’t an exchanging-house,” she said brusquely, folding her arms.
“No, no… you sell wine, yes?” I asked. “I have wine.”
The elf furrowed her brow. She opened her mouth to speak again but then turned and left me at the counter. I decided to go try another inn.
As I was turning to leave another elf came by. An older he-elf with streaks of grey in his hair and an apron on. He was cleaning his hands with a cloth as he approached the counter, the elvish girl following behind.
“She’s a wine-seller,”
I heard the elvish girl whisper. “Sounds foreign…”
The he-elf leaned heavily on the counter, looking me up and down with the same measured caution as the elvish girl had.
“You’re a wine-seller?” he asked in a low voice. “You from the Guild?”
“Uh, what is ‘Guild’?” I repeated.
“Basin Shipping and Transport Guild,” he said gruffly.
I frowned and shook my head.
The he-elf huffed a short laugh and leaned back to whisper with the elvish girl lingering behind him. Then he came back to face me at the counter.
“Alright. I’ll see what you’ve got. But no sly business, and no promises,” he said.
I led him out front to the mule. The Slave was standing over it. I noticed a few children were watching from across the street, no doubt speculating on what the mountainous stranger’s scars were from. The elves following me hesitated at the sight of him too.
“Here. The wine is in the buckets,” I said, tapping the barrels strapped to the mule.
The elvish girl giggled.
“You mean the barrels,” she said.
“Yeah. Barrels,” I said, correcting myself. “In the barrels.”
The he-elf tucked the cloth into his apron strings and inspected the casks, checking the seals and reading the markings. They were in Unnic script on top and Urvish on the bottom. He nodded, rocked his head back and forth, scratched his chin. Then he whispered a while with the elvish girl, arms still crossed.
Finally he returned to me, hands on his hips.
“You selling both barrels, yeah?”
“Yes. Both.”
“Alright. You’re not from the Basin Shipping and Transport Guild, so I’m assuming you’ve not paid tax on it. Doesn’t seem like you have a writ to sell bulk goods on the riverways, either. Now of course, I see you’re travelling light; I’m willing to buy you out at a decent price,” he said. “I’m willing to give you twenty-four silverling. Total.”
I had no idea what he was saying. The way he was talking almost made it seem like he was doing me a big favour. And I hated, hated, hated bartering. And I didn’t know what a ‘silverling’ was, but it sounded like ‘silver,’ and I was just eager to get rid of the barrels and buy supplies. So I accepted.
Day of the Hunt (The Faun Quartet Book 2) Page 30