“What are those?”
“Only one creature braves the wrath of the Raven-Eater,” Whisper answered. “A species so full of evil and revenge…vengeance,” she corrected herself, hating the fact that her second-language vocabulary had failed her at such a moment, “…that it lives only to destroy lives. For that, the Raven-Eater allows its presence.”
“What is it? The Giant Cockroach?”
Whisper’s eyes narrowed, and he felt the punch of her glare deep in his gut. “The more you mock my traditions, Mr. Daivya, the less progress we make.”
Ian held out his hands in surrender. “Okay, sorry. So what is it?” He followed his guide as she continued to make her way across the Barren Plains. Not a single sound accompanied their travel, but the silence screamed danger.
“Many moons ago,” Whisper began, her voice seeming out of place among the quiet, “a man loved a woman who despised him. She would not take his hand in marriage, and his love for her consumed him. He could not eat, could not sleep, could not live. He would not live without her.” Braving the consequences, she reached down and grasped a handful of dirt, letting it fall through her slender fingers as she walked on.
“The man went to the Utlav, a creature who greatly desired to be the matchmaker of souls. That night, the Utlav burrowed beneath the woman’s longhouse and stole her heart while she slept.” Whisper’s hand drifted to her chest as she spoke, gently tapping her heart. “The Utlav took her heart to the man and told him to eat it so that she would be his forever. And so the man ate her heart.”
Ian found himself intrigued, and was annoyed by the fact that he wanted to hear the rest of the story. “So what happened then?”
Whisper sighed disappointedly. “The woman awoke with a strange desire to be with the man. She could not resist the feeling, and so she went to the man, and they were married.”
“Happily ever after, huh?”
She heard the sarcasm in his voice, but didn’t address it. She wasn’t finished yet. “The other men at the village were suspicious of the match, because the woman hated her husband. They knew her love was the work of an evil magic, and only one creature lived with the desire to join hearts.”
“The Utlav.”
“Yes.” Whisper was so pleased that Ian actually remembered the name that she didn’t bother correcting his terrible pronunciation. “They found him, and chased him underground, where he stayed for fear of being murdered by the angry villagers. But he continued to steal the hearts of women, out of vengeance and spite, and was never caught because he learned to use the earth as his sanctuary. In the Land of the Dead, the Utlav seeks revenge for his prosecution. He pretends to help, while leading his victims into a trap. And that, we will use to our advantage.”
Ian ran a hand through his dirt and grime-caked hair. He knew where this was going. “So the Utlav…it’s a mole, right?”
“Yes, Mr. Daivya.”
“So…they’re as annoying in the Land of the Dead as they are in real life.” He wanted to kick one of the mounds like a child enjoys knocking over ant hills, but resisted the urge. After seeing the Giant Inchworm, he had no desire to instigate a fight against Mole. “Do you think they know we’re here?” He frowned when Whisper’s eyes took on a strange glint and the corners of her mouth tugged just a hint. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
Then, with dread in his gut, he watched as Whisper drove her fist straight into a loose mound of dirt.
“What…what are you doing?” he asked as she pulled away handfuls of dirt, her fingers stained black, until a small hole opened up in the earth. “Should you be doing that? Why are you just announcing yourself to this thing?”
“Mole already knows we are here, Mr. Daivya. He senses the vibrations of the earth.”
“Then why taunt him? Seriously, why bring him here if the damn thing gets his kicks by ripping out women’s hearts? Whisper, hello? Anyone there?” He waved his hand in front of the woman, who was on her knees in the dirt staring at him like he had just lost his mind.
Ignoring his questions, Whisper lowered herself until her lips were even with the level of the ground. She whispered to the Utlav, commanding his presence, demanding his help. When she was finished, she moved her head slightly to the side, and listened.
“Do you hear anything?” Ian couldn’t help but ask. Her expression was one of anticipation, annoyance, and dread. “Well?” He lowered himself to his knees, keeping a close eye on the strange, enthralling woman. He longed to know what it was she felt, what connection she had to the spirit world, what made her so unique. “What do you hear?”
“I hear your voice in my ear, Mr. Daivya,” Whisper commented, barely moving. Ian took the hint and backed away. A sudden rumble beneath the earth knocked him off his feet, but Whisper hardly noticed. Instead, she leapt back just in time to avoid the piercing claws of the Utlav as he popped up from the earth.
From behind, Ian watched in silent shock as a brown, round creature the size of a football crouched on the ground, then rose to its thick back legs and stared at Whisper with small, beady eyes that were heavily clouded over. Its spindly hair was standing on end, a low growl emerging from deep in its throat as its long, opaque nose sniffed the air.
“Grandfather Mole,” Whisper said so quietly that Ian couldn’t make out the words, “we need your help.”
The Utlav responded only with a slight head movement and twitch of whiskers, but Whisper could hear the messages of deceit that traveled the rays of the creature’s inner sight. We are your humble servants, they said kindly, let us assist you on your journey.
Whisper was not to be fooled by his kindness, but pretended to be pleased by his words. She smiled, and if Ian hadn’t of known she was just as deceitful as the Utlav, he would have thought she looked grateful.
“We seek safe passage through the Fire Mountains,” she whispered, gesturing towards the black distance. “We ask for a guide to protect us from the Raven-Eater.”
As you wish, my Queen. Mole bowed his head, closed his eyes, and disappeared into the earth.
“Where is he going?” Ian asked when the ground stopped shaking, indicating the Utlav’s distance.
Whisper’s eyes narrowed as they followed the trail that led straight into the Fire Mountains. “To inform the Raven-Eater of our presence.”
A ferocious storm tore through the living world, pounding the Smoky Mountains, lifting trees from the ground and raising the river waters past their shores. At the campsite, Julia and her family found refuse in the Bard’s trailer. At Howling Vines, the Elder rested in his hut without worry of the storm’s dangers.
Howling Vines was protected from floods and falling trees by the magic of his ancestors. His father, grandfather, and grandfathers before that were powerful men, each of whom consecrated Howling Vines with chants and charms that fortified the clearing, made it a sanctuary for the ill, the lost, and the frightened. Smoke Speaker’s father had been a healer, his grandfather a medicine man, and his great-grandfather a warrior blessed by the gods. Now it was up to the Elder to maintain his family’s legacy.
He slept fitfully, his dreams consumed by images of Whisper’s death. He saw her walking the Barren Plains, preoccupied by thoughts of the Raven-Eater. He saw that look of distracted concentration in her eyes, the one he had always warned her about. She had lived in her thoughts as a child, oblivious to the world around her. Many times he had to shout at her during their lessons to regain her attention, and more than once he was forced to slap her across the face in order to break her from her thoughts.
That was why he had named her Kanegv. It was a command within a name, ordering her from her thoughts while connecting with her as a person. A command to Speak, to whisper, to break free of the chains of thought and rejoin him in reality. Her intense focus on spirit worlds and battles brought her into an entirely different existence, as though she was able to transcend the living world into a brand new life.
For that reason, he knew she was guided by
Butterfly, Kamama. Kamama was the only creature able to pass from the living to Spirit World, and back again. It was said that Kamama was responsible for the balance of nature, which meant the tiny and colorful beauty carried the weight of the world on its wings.
And so Smoke Speaker also knew his apprentice was born to change the course of the world. She was the embodiment of nature, the epitome of power. And now, she was about to sacrifice her life for her thoughts.
In his dreams, the Elder screamed at the young woman, shouting for her attention. But it was no use. Not even Ian could stop what happened next, the fury of the Raven-Eater, the deceit of Mole, the choking arrival into death.
Smoke Speaker awoke in a fit of sweat and tears. His heart raced, his blood ran cold, his fingers aching from the tight grip they had on the edge of the bed. The images of Whisper’s black, vacant eyes, purple throat, haunted him. Silently he prayed, begging the gods for their mercy, for their protecting hands, as the storm raged on outside.
When a bright flash of lightning lit up Howling Vines, Smoke Speaker rose from the bed and peeked outside. In the pouring rain, fierce winds, and rippling puddles, the fog was gone. When the storm passed, there would only be humidity and rainbows in its place.
At this point in the journey, Smoke Speaker no longer had the strength to hold the fog. He had failed Whisper, and now she was walking straight into her death.
Chapter 22
Whisper and Ian kept to the outskirts of the Barren Plains, where the tracks of the Utlav were less frequent and the light a bit brighter. Ian was always one step behind his guide, looking back over his shoulder, fingers tightly wrapped around the handle of the machete. Whisper’s relaxed walk and stoic expression suggested tranquility, but the hold she had on her knife shouted caution. She was braced for an attack, but wasn’t watching for one with every step she took. She had better things to do.
In the silence, Ian took the time to observe the Fire Tower, which was approaching faster than he would have liked. It was a castle he could have imagined only in his nightmares. Cold black steel twisted and turned to form looming towers that arced up towards the sky. Huge peaks tipped with flaming spikes warned any trespasser of impending danger, while windows barred with soiled slabs of wood prevented any prying eye from looking in, if one could ever get close enough to do so. Eight towers made up the mansion of murder and hate, rising from solid walls that wrapped around what he supposed to be a dry and decaying courtyard of sorts. It was blocked by an enormous gate decorated with dark red stones that glittered in the bare light. The land around the Fire Tower was damp and black, seeming to blend with the steel that was buried deep in the ground for strength against enemy battles. Large rocks surrounded the Fire Tower, further securing the building from unwanted visitors.
Ian wondered where the Raven-Eater found the steel to create such a wide and massive structure, but supposed it didn’t really matter. All that did matter was the fact that each turret, doorway, and eave that made up the Fire Tower was sharp, dangerous, and solid as stone. No one could scale those jagged walls, climb across slanted roofs spiked with metal nails, or sneak up on what he guessed were guard dogs that leapt from the small, dark entryways at every nook and cranny.
Worse, even more so than the jagged walls and looming turrets, was the heat that radiated off the Fire Tower. True to its name, the Tower pumped heat from its every square inch, a heat that was visible in the dark light. It wavered across the Fire Mountains, fingers of it reaching their way through the Barren Plains. Ian could feel touches of heat as they walked closer, reminding him of long, hot days beneath the sun as he labored in a customer’s yard. This heat wasn’t as suffocating, but it was uncomfortable nonetheless. He could only imagine what inside the Fire Tower felt like.
As she led the way towards the Fire Mountains, Whisper thought back to the Elder. She hadn’t received a message from him in awhile, and for that reason, she knew he must be tired, must be wavering in his steadfast ability. Smoke Speaker was an old man, and this journey was too much for his body. As a child, she’d never thought she would see the day that Smoke Speaker lost his strength, his power. He was always a leader, always the majestic teacher, the father she never had.
Whisper barely remembered her parents, her home in the forest of her people. At times she saw them in her dreams, a beautiful mother with lost hope in her eyes, and a menacing father who cared only for gratifying his own desires. Her mother had done her best to shield her daughter from her father’s hate, but Whisper nevertheless had her father’s detestation spread across her back. It was a scar Smoke Speaker had long since covered with the black and red Western Sun that swirled between her shoulder blades, a scar that ached with every passing moment, a scar that told the story of the day her father tried to kill her.
She didn’t remember how Smoke Speaker got her away from the man who could not control his rage, and didn’t care to. All that mattered to her was that she stayed true to the Elder.
“Do you hear that?”
Ian’s voice broke Whisper from her thoughts. She stopped, turning just enough to exchange a glance with her companion. “Hear what, Mr. Daivya?”
A sudden explosion of wind knocked Whisper off her feet, throwing her onto her back. Her throat tightened, and she clawed at the invisible fingers clutched around her neck as all the air disappeared from her lungs.
For five long seconds, Ian watched, dumfounded, as Whisper writhed on the ground, feet kicking, eyes wide with fright and confusion, mouth gasping for air. He had no idea what to do, or what was happening. The woman looked like she was having a seizure, and he was at a loss for both words and actions.
Then the creature appeared, shimmering out of thin air. A ghastly woman, with long, knotted white hair that twisted around gnarled shoulders, full black eyes wide with murderous intent, and a warped body hidden beneath a ragged, flowing cloak that swirled around her like a tornado.
Ian reacted the only way he knew how. He reached out with a solid right hook, and was blown back ten feet by an invisible punch, head connecting solidly with the ground.
Fighting the burning fear in her chest, the dizziness in her head, the panic in her heart, Whisper grasped for the witch. Anger surged through her, mixing with fear. When her foot connected with her adversary’s gut, the hold on her throat loosened just enough to let in a quick, refreshing breath.
Screaming with rage, the witch lifted Whisper from the ground with a strength unknown to human power. As Ian struggled to clear his head and regain full consciousness, Whisper fought the black cloud covering her eyes as she gasped for breath. Her feet kicked the air, eyes squeezing shut as her face darkened to a frightening scarlet shade.
Elder, she prayed silently, searching for his guidance, for his strength, as the witch lifted her higher off the ground, an evil laughter piecing her ears and bringing forth a thin trickle of blood.
This had never happened before. She had never been caught unaware, never been forced to fight so hard for her own life, never felt the incredible pain of her throat constricting as her lungs burned and strange, gargled noises escaped her lips.
In her final effort, Whisper reached up with what might she had left, and plunged the thin blade of her knife into the witch’s wrist.
The night sky erupted with a horrific wail, a furious scream that echoed for miles. The witch reared back, throwing Whisper to the ground, landing on top of her. Black blood spurted across the earth, filling Whisper’s eyes, blinding her. The witch slammed her good hand into Whisper’s face, snarling in a foreign tongue as saliva dripped from cracked lips that hid rotted teeth.
Before she could regain composure, Whisper felt the fingers wrap around her throat again, slippery with blood but tightening nonetheless. She grabbed for her knife, picking up dry dirt instead. Her heart beat wildly as she struggled against the weight of the witch, barely feeling the jabs to her ribs, the lacerations across her neck and shoulders from sharp nails. Her world was fading, her fight losing power. He
r mother’s image flashed behind her eyes, that tormented look of desperation spread across her face.
Then she disappeared into nothingness.
Silently, smoothly, Ian rose from the ground. Dark red blood dripped down his cheeks, anger flashing from his eyes. The whirling tornado of cloth and power had diminished, replaced by a visible fury that vibrated in the air. It was a fury that matched what was pumping through his blood.
In one swift, fluid movement, overcome by a dark rage that pulsed through his veins and dug deep roots into his heart, Ian lifted the machete above his head and swung down hard. The blade split through the witch’s back like a boat through murky waters. Before Ian could even react to what he’d done, she vanished in an explosion of black dust.
For a moment Ian merely stood in place, staring at the cloudy air. He marveled at the sensation of murder, the thrill of triumph, the fear of becoming just like his guide. Then, ignoring the strange bitter taste in his mouth that formed in response to the cloud burst, he dropped to Whisper’s side and frantically searched for signs of life.
“Whisper? Whisper, can you hear me?” She responded only by choking and gasping for air. Ian gently lifted her head, brushing sweat and dirt-caked hair away from her face. He grimaced when he saw the ugly bruises across her throat, the blood dripping from her ears. “Breathe, Whisper, you can do it. Come on.”
Wheezing in a breath and spitting out a mouthful of dirt and dust, Whisper reached up weakly and wiped at her eyes. The witch’s black blood was sticky and thick, and felt like a mix of tar and oil as she struggled to free her vision from the gooey mess. Ian helped, mopping up the blood with the end of his shirt until he could see the whites of her eyes. He pretended not to see the fear, because he knew that would only embarrass her. Instead, he blotted the black smudges on her temples and cheeks and grinned.
“It’s a good look for you,” he commented, helping her rise to a sitting position. “The whole raccoon mask made out of crazy lady blood.”
Despite the searing pain in her throat and the fire in her chest, Whisper nearly grinned. “A witch,” she said in response, her agonizing vocal cords throbbing as she spoke. “A restless spirit…spy…for the…Raven-Eater.”
Beyond the Western Sun Page 18