by C A Kinnee
The ground lurched and heaved. Around them, the trees swayed violently. The bird song stopped, and the forest creatures stilled, going to ground, hiding in the thick brush.
Kieran awoke to the silence. He looked around the clearing as another tremor rumbled. His eyes snapped downward.
Meara smug in the knowledge she was winning the argument, straightened to her full height. She sniffed. “I am going to look after the egg myself. I don’t believe that it belongs to a dragon. If it does, where is the dragon?”
Kieran didn’t answer. Once again, he was paying no attention to what she said. She opened her mouth to continue.
“Run.”
“What?”
He grabbed her hand and jerked her to a gallop.
“Run. Don’t stop until I tell you.”
Chunks of rock and dirt exploded near where they had been standing, the ground melting in a purulent sauce. Meara stumbled after Kieran, slapping at the putrid muck speckling her face. Overhead, Murkwing shrieked and soared above the tree tops. The air hummed. A prickle of energy crawled over Meara’s skin, stinging like fire ants at a picnic. Blindly clinging to Kieran’s hand, she ran, choking on the stink of rot that filled her nose. Behind them, the ground broke open. Something rumbled towards them.
“Faster,” Kieran yelled. “It’s tunneling.”
The earth, saturated by the heavy rain, dissolved underfoot. Kieran dragged her over the uneven ground. Meara kept a death grip on his hand—if she let go that thing would get her.
At the edge of the glade, a doe bounded from the trees. She stopped. Her long ears twitched as she lifted her delicate muzzle and sniffed the wind. Alarmed, she darted for the shelter of the trees.
Sensing movement, the tunneler shifted, digging faster, heaving dirt skyward as it swung towards the doe. A long black tentacle broke the rim of mud and an eerie calm descended over the glade. The tentacle lifted above the rubble and undulated lazily. It appeared to be studying the retreating doe. Its strike was so lightning fast that Meara had only a glimpse of the doe’s wild staring eyes before the spiky tentacle descended. The doe screamed. Its body arched in agony. The world went quiet as the doe vanished in a curtain of red. Blue-black coils boiled from the boggy ground and engulfed the gutted carcass, dragging what was left of the doe into the hole. The air buzzed like a thousand bees and went still.
Kieran pulled Meara through the bush. Branches slapped her face. Kieran’s words floated back to her as if from a great distance.
“Merdon, a jargon. Stupid. Merdon. How could I?”
The sound of their labored breathing filled Meara’s ears. Kieran hauled her up a rocky ledge, only stopping their headlong rush when he reached the top. Meara shuddered. The stony shelf offered her an all too clear view of the shattered forest floor.
“We’re safe here,” Kieran muttered in a toneless whisper. “They can’t tunnel through rock.”
His color matched the pallor of his drab tunic. His gray eyes were shocked and staring. Did she look the same? Meara’s stomach rolled as she remembered the sight of the blood-soaked earth. An image of the doe’s eyes floated in front of her.
“Kieran!” She grabbed his arm. “What was that thing?”
“A jargon—a worm. It’s my fault. They hunt using sound. You must be silent in the forest. We woke it up.”
“Your fault?” Meara straightened and pushed her soggy hair out of her eyes. “You were the only one yelling?”
“I know better. I almost got us killed.”
Meara rolled her eyes. The egg clucked softly. The forest was returning to life, the brief violence already a memory to its creatures.
“That animal—?”
“A mandagar doe,” he answered
“If it hadn’t appeared one of us might have fallen to the . . . jargon.”
She sank onto the ledge. Her legs would no longer support her. A grinding wave of nausea slammed her, and she leaned over the side retching. Kieran looked as if he might join her.
“It could have been one of us.” She shivered and succumbed to another bout of sickness.
Kieran placed an awkward hand on her shoulder. His other hand clutched his longbow. His fingers were white against the wood. He was watching the forest again—as if searching for another resting spot, another worm.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “Jargons are creatures of the sun and the warmth. They sit near the surface while they wait for prey. When it’s cold and wet, they burrow deep.” He continued speaking softly to himself. “The long winter has changed even their habits.”
Meara pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. A bout of shivering seized her as tears rolled down her cheeks mixing with the dirt and mud.
Kieran dropped his bow and put his other hand on her shoulder, turning her to face him.
“It’s gone now.”
“The jargon killed it.”
He wrapped his arms around her.
“Better it than us. If not for the mandagar it would have been us,” he said.
She didn’t answer. The shivering eased. She closed her eyes and tried to clear her mind, but the sense of evil still lingered. The heat of the egg warmed her. Kieran and Meara sat in silence, their fight of earlier forgotten.
A warm mist of rain covered them, coating their faces and hands, washing away the mud. Kieran straightened and grabbed her arm.
“Do you feel that?” he said, leaning forward.
“What?” She shrank lower, searching the ground as her blood gelled sluggishly. Another jargon?
“Can you smell it?”
His smile changed the watchful stillness of his face. He should smile more, Meara decided.
“We’re near a spring,” he continued. “Come on.” He grabbed her hand and tugged her up, helping her off the rocky ledge. “This way.”
The stony trail cut steeply downward, forming a switch back across the face of the grade. Kieran tried to pick the easiest path, but by the bottom his breathing was as labored as Meara’s. Stumbling over a last loose pile of rock, they reached a small clearing opening onto a rocky pool. A tiny spring bubbled up from the stone and poured down the battered rock fall. The scent of sulfur mixed with the smells of the forest.
“What is it?” Meara wrinkled her nose at the pungent odor.
“It’s a hot spring. You can bathe in it and wash the stovrek dust from your skin and clothes. You’ll get warm.”
She cast a doubtful look at the steaming pool of gray water. Bathe in it? Her chances to bathe were limited. Occasionally, Shay Lann hauled her into the kitchen of the inn after closing and filled the big tub with water. She cast a quick glance at Kieran. He hadn’t needed any prompting. He’d already shed his cloak, pack, and bow and was unlacing the strings on his tunic. Dropping the tunic, he kicked off his boots and stepped into the water wearing his breeches. He sank beneath the surface a blissful smile turning up the corners of his mouth.
Meara hesitated at the edge of the pool. Misty steam clung to the surface of the water. The tantalizing trace of warmth acted like a magnet pulling her in. She kicked off one sandal and dipped her toe in the water. Delicious heat stroked her skin.
“Come in,” he invited.
Carefully, she removed her cloak and set it gently at her feet. The egg may claim to have an invincible shell, but she was still doubtful. She kicked off her other sandal and stopped. She was wearing a long one-piece tunic with a belt at the waist—beneath it—a loose camisole and drawers. The lure of the hot water tempted her, but even a street rat knew it was inappropriate to enter the water with a man, dressed only in those. Being a girl was a trial. Men were freer to do as they wished.
“What? Afraid?”
Kieran’s teasing made her feel foolish.
He ducked beneath the water and resurfaced, shaking the drops from his hair. In wordless understanding, he stood and climbed over the side of the pool. Water streamed off his shoulders.
“You go in. I’ll check our trail. Like
ly, the worm destroyed any signs of our passing, but it’s best to check. Don’t be long. Wash your sandals and the bottom of your cloak. You don’t want to leave a trail of light behind us.”
“What about that thing? Won’t it be waiting?” Meara couldn’t suppress a shiver.
“No. Jargons are loners. They feed slowly and infrequently. They take a long time to . . . digest their prey.” He looked as if the feeding patterns of the worm didn’t sit well with his stomach. “You will be safe.”
Meara looked at him doubtfully. His gray eyes met hers in sympathy.
He pulled his tunic over his head and laced up the opening.
“Don’t forget, wash the stovrek from your cloak and sandals.” He dipped his boots and the bottom half of his cloak into the pool and swished them through the water. Satisfied they were free of powder, he shoved his feet into his boots and wrung his cloak out. He straightened and grabbed his bow. “Don’t forget,” he repeated and disappeared down the trail in the direction they had come.
Meara needed no further urging. She doffed her outer garments and stepped into the pool sighing in delight as the hot water touched her skin. She had never felt anything so wonderful. Stretching out in the steaming water, she closed her eyes and let the warmth embrace her. Oh, such bliss. Peace and freedom—the rain had stopped and danger felt far away. She could stay here forever.
Gradually, the cold leached from her limbs. She didn’t want to move, but Kieran’s warnings returned. She sat up and dunked her hair beneath the surface, raking her scalp with her nails, trying to clean the accumulated dirt and debris from her curls. That done, she lay back and stared up at the canopy of trees. The forest was a wondrous place. Kieran acted as though this hot pool was a common thing—one he found often. Perhaps his world was not so bad. She closed her eyes.
Chapter 17
Danger—be wary.
Wait—watch!
In the darkness
pay heed.
Translated from the Chronicles of the Egg
Kieran slashed a line of creeping skinsore nettles from his path and stopped. His target, a scraggly bush growing in maddening abundance at the edge of the trail, was just out of reach. Meara was getting tired. Her face was thin and drawn—signs that she had lost weight she couldn’t afford. The fibrous yellow meechan berries were rich in sugar. Their energy would augment the bits of dried mandagar he was doling out. Would she eat them? From what he had seen of the townspeople, they ate meaty stews and soups, not fruits and vegetables.
He paused and peered down the steep slope, trying to figure out the best way to work his way to the ragged bushes. The loose gravel guaranteed climbing down would be easy but getting back up would be a challenge. He settled the toe of his boot into the loose rock and tested his weight against the toehold. It held. He edged down the outcropping, surfing the loose slide of sand until his toe caught the edge of a jagged stone. The ground shifted and gave way under his feet. Flailing, he grabbed the trunk of a thick sapling to stop his fall. The effort almost wrenched his arm from its socket.
“Merdon,” he muttered. “Break a leg and you’ll be as useless as a two-legged stool.” He kicked the pointed rock free and watched it tumble to the bottom of the incline, before turning back to search for other hidden hazards.
What he found was a rough spot in the soft mud. His fall down the slope placed the track at eye level. If he hadn’t slipped, he would have missed it. He stared at the track, not wanting to believe what he was looking at.
“No,” he muttered, bending to examine the mark. He touched the edge of the shallow depression, measuring its length and width as he studied the faint smudge. His lips hardened into a straight line. He knew all too well what he was looking at.
Whoever had left the mark had likely slipped down the slope the same way Kieran had, taking one unwary step before returning to stealth. If Kieran had stayed on the trail and ignored the shriveled berries, he would have passed it by, oblivious to the danger. The track was a few hours old. It wasn’t Metreo’s or Rahdon’s. Rahdon wore heeled boots, while the wily big man didn’t leave a trail.
Kieran straightened. One man traveling alone, or more? Kieran’s people wore soft leather boots with low heels. This outline had no heel. Likely a Miandrogas, he decided, and grimaced. The fierce raider tribes were a nasty lot at best. He shifted uneasily and loosened his bow from his shoulder. His other hand dropped to check that his knives were in ready reach. There was nothing left to find here. He had to get back to Meara.
***
Meara sighed and opened her eyes. The heat of the water made sitting up an effort, but Kieran would be back soon with his Let’s go’s and long-suffering sighs. She stretched, enjoying the sensation of warm flexible muscles. The shallow shelf she had found in the pool’s wall cradled her like a hammock. Worn out from the hard walk, she had drifted off to sleep. Now, wakefulness shivered through her, bringing an uneasiness that chased away her fatigue.
Her heart beat faster, and she cursed the carelessness that had let her drop her defenses so thoroughly. Something had woken her. What? She peered around the glade listening for a repeat of the sound. In the treetops, birds called. In the brush, small creatures rustled. There was nothing to blame for her creeping sense of dread. Kieran should be back soon.
All trace of sleepiness vanished. She splashed from the pool and dressed hastily, pulling on her cloak and sandals. The touch of the rain-dampened cloth against her wet skin made her shiver, undoing the work of the hot spring. She gathered the egg against her. He was awake. Did he feel eyes watching from the deepening shadows?
“What is it?” she asked the egg.
“I know not. Something comes. It waits and watches . . .”
Meara’s grip tightened. Where was Kieran? He was always going off and leaving her. She studied the thick foliage and lifted her eyes to the tall trees brushing the sky. There was nothing there. An oppressive stillness settled over her.
Something moved near the trees at the edge of the clearing, a blur of gray on top of the green. Meara spun tracking the motion. A hand descended onto her shoulder, squeezing the bone and muscle hard enough to drop her to her knees. She lashed out with her foot. The kick caught her attacker below the navel. His breath exploded in a barking cough and he dropped at her feet.
Shifting position, Meara searched for a glimpse of the man she’d seen at the edge of the trees. Her knife was in her hand, her fingers clenching the handle so tightly that her fingers cramped. She watched the thick web of trees but she wasn’t fast enough. A hand closed over her long curls and jerked her head back. Biting pain brought a flood of tears to her eyes. She thrust blindly, crying out in pain when a sharp chop to her wrist sent the knife spiraling from her fingers.
“Little girl bring you down. Mighty warrior, hah!” The man’s roar of laughter brought an answering jeer from a black and white bird perched in a nearby tree. The gray man booted his downed companion. Meara stiffened, ready to run but the hand in her hair tightened, turning her face to meet his. Black-rimmed eyes locked on hers. Their gaze was cold and impersonal. It sent a blast of ice through her.
“Hah,” he said again and smiled.
Meara cringed. The man’s breath was worse than the stink of the jargon. The big smile was framed by dull blackened teeth. He shook his head, tossing back the muddy brown hair that hung in clotted mats around his face.
“You go,” he said, jabbing his finger in the direction of the woods. He aimed another kick at his downed friend.
Meara went. She had no other choice. The fingers in her curls were a leash steering her where he wanted her to travel. He gave her hair a vicious tug and she gasped in pain. He smiled. She clenched her teeth against the pain and staggered in the direction he pulled her.
The amulet—fingers trembling, she reached for it. Dare she use it? No, not yet. The trick of invisibility wasn’t a guarantee that he would let her go. She wasn’t moving fast enough. The man released his grip on her hair and shoved her.
Off balance, she fell awkwardly, twisting to avoid landing on the egg. Her head thumped the ground and a dizzying circle of dots danced in front of her eyes. When the kick came, she wasn’t ready for it. It caught her under the rib cage and she curled up in a ball of agony as she tried to suck air into her deflated lungs.
Breathe, she told herself. In and out, forget the pain. She gasped convulsively. Raucous laughter washed over her. The man hauled her to her feet and she swayed under a wave of vertigo. A flash of anger dulled her fear.
“Be wary,” the egg warned. “I sense they are more cunning than they seem.”
Meara studied the dark wiry man in front of her. Though small, he was as tough and immovable as a rock. Whatever she did to escape, she had better do quickly, otherwise they would find the egg. The little bag was her only hope. She reached for it.
“You stop.” Her captor moved fast, grabbing her wrist. With a sharp tug, he broke the frayed leather thong. He held the bag up. His gaze slid over her face and dropped to study her clothing. He frowned.
The other man had picked himself up off the ground. He lurched towards her, snarled and slapped her face. The blow rocked her back on her heels. Tears blurred her vision. She clenched her jaw to stifle her cry of pain. The two men began arguing in a rapid lilting language she didn’t understand. The one holding the bag was berating his companion, waving the bag in the other man’s face.
Meara’s face burned. She tucked her tongue into her cheek and traced the cut inside her mouth. She spat out the coppery taste of blood.
“Where you get this?” The smaller man’s voice was harsh and thick. His tongue tripped over the words.
Meara lifted her chin and glared at him.
“You answer, girl, or you go to Laurana. They like the people of Helligon. They have a hatred for the First.”
The two shared a laugh. The sound chased a shiver down her back. Helligon—the First—she recognized those words. They were Kieran’s people. The men thought that she was one of them. Was that good or bad? She couldn’t tell.