Dark Heart Part 48

CHAPTER 21.

PATINA PADOUK.

THE STORM BROKE DURING their second week in the jungle. It had been building for days. The humidity grew dire, an enervating dampness in the air that set them sweating and chafing. Layer upon layer of clouds built on the eastern horizon, always closer, always darker, whenever the endless treescape relented enough to give the Amaqi travellers a glimpse of the wider world. The forest itself seemed in no need of a dousing, such was its verdancy. Jungle giants of grey and green, their broad trunks swathed in vines and creepers, let little light into the understoreys below their vast canopies, but myriad plants grew there nonetheless, many directly from the trees themselves, adopting gaudy colours to attract inquisitive insects to their pollen and seeds-and sometimes their mouth-like traps. On the forest floor brightly coloured fungi, in every shape imaginable, competed with ferns and young trees for the remaining s.p.a.ce. An environment more unlike that in which he had grown up was hard for Duon to imagine.

And now the rains had arrived, making the journey north surreal, almost dream-like. Though the forest was dense to the point of being impenetrable, the rain still found a way through, casting a grey haze over everything more than a few paces away. The travellers' view of more distant vistas was completely obscured, which made route-finding extraordinarily difficult.

Or it would have, had they been travelling as three ordinary men and their hired porters.

Duon had no doubt that the mercenary-he persisted in granting him that epithet despite recent revelations-could find his way through the forest in absolute darkness. Since the destruction of Foulwater even a fool would have known Dryman was not what he seemed, and Duon was no fool. He'd suspected the man as soon as he'd first seen him, since he'd first heard his glib explanations. But now he had learned the mercenary was no ordinary man. Duon knew he wasn't even anything as simple as a magician. No, he journeyed with a mad, blood-l.u.s.ty G.o.d-Emperor and his servant.

The words spoken between master and servant had confirmed beyond doubt that Dryman was the Emperor of Elamaq. Though Torve had spoken of his master in the third person, it seemed clear that he was speaking of Dryman, the Emperor-or, at least, the Emperor's body, possessed by the Son.

Duon had been shocked beyond belief at what he'd learned. No wonder the mercenary could speak with confidence of the Emperor's will; no wonder he could command the Omeran's obedience. The magic was explained by the presence of the Son, a second great shock; and the third was the confirmation of his two companions' nocturnal activities. 'Research' into immortality, involving torturing innocents to death. The burden of shame that fell on him at this knowledge was impossible to bear. He felt broken inside. That the truth could have been kept from him for so long! That the Emperor had deliberately engineered the deaths of his own subjects! That he had given himself to the dark heart of a G.o.d intent on breaking the world! Together with that G.o.d, he and his servant were taking lives in the most gruesome manner imaginable. It could not be borne. It could not continue.

But it did continue, despite his resolution-and despite his attempts to break free. After the night of revelation, as Duon thought of it, Dryman had led them to the coast and the port of Sayonae. After a protracted and futile attempt to hire porters for the long journey north through the jungle, Duon had tried to convince the man to take ship, but he refused even to consider it. Duon then tried to find a ship that might take him alone. However, none would risk the autumn mausum, the time of unpredictable sea storms.

The voice cornered him. I wish you to remain with this man, it said. Should you attempt to leave, I will compel you to return. After this there had seemed no point in considering flight.

A group of six men, who turned out to be brothers, approached Dryman just north of the city and offered themselves as porters. 'We could not approach you in the city,' they said, 'for we are not well liked there. But we know the jungle well, and can guide you through the skirts of the deep forest.' Dryman accepted their offer without question.

One of the brothers had died on their second night in the jungle, torn apart by a wild animal; except, of course, he hadn't been killed by an animal, unless that name could be applied to the...the thing that now led them through the rain. As much as anything, it appeared, Dryman saw the porters as a ready source for his research.

Duon's true sympathies lay with the Omeran. The night of revelation had seen a most dreadful fight between Torve and the Emperor. Duon had not caught the gist of it, but he believed Torve had tried to defy his master, perhaps when his master had taken the guise of the Son, but the disobedience had been unsuccessful. Duon had always believed that it was simply physically impossible for Omerans to disobey their masters, but it appeared the truth was more complicated. It must be; what else would explain how Torve was able to mount an attack? He attacked his master in the same way he'd gone for those poor villagers, but hadn't landed a single blow. It almost seemed as though the mercenary had ordered the Omeran to attack him-surely a difficult concept for one brought up to do his master no harm. The mercenary had given his servant a fearful beating, necessitating a two-day delay beside a stream at the border of the great forest to allow the Omeran to recover.

'We'll camp here,' said the oldest of the brothers, breaking in on Duon's thoughts. 'As good a place as any, in this rain.'

He had found a dead banyan tree, the trunk gone and only the roots remaining, shaped like a cage. It would keep away any animals foolish enough to be out in this weather, and, when the oiled tarpaulin was draped over it, would offer at least partial shelter from the cursed rain.

Two nights and a day of rain, and already all previous hardships had faded into dim memories. How could the Had Hills or even Nomansland have been as bad as this constant heat, this incessant chafing, and the smack smack smack of drops gathered by branches far above and flung at them?

The sinister voice in his head had largely been absent in the last fortnight; surprising given what Duon had witnessed. Perhaps the magician knew it already, or maybe he had other matters to attend to. Duon wondered what had happened to the other two who could hear the man's voice: that quietly spoken girl with the haunted eyes and the bookish Falthan priest. If what kept the voice away from Duon was a preoccupation with their affairs, they must indeed be suffering. Perhaps they suffered for the same reason he did.

Did each group travel with a G.o.d? Was it as simple as that?

He tossed the question around in his mind as the porters prepared the meal. Was there a simple symmetry about the three groups-Falthan, Bhrudwan, Amaqi-that no one seemed to have noticed? Had the Father, long believed to have pa.s.sed out of time after his banishment by his children, returned, now to journey with the Falthans? And did the Daughter accompany the Bhrudwans? Three groups, three magician-afflicted messengers, three G.o.ds.

Not for the first time, not for the last, he wished the cosmographer were here. She would know.

Torve stirred in his sleep, then rose to reluctant wakefulness. No doubt, he reflected with deep bitterness, he slept poorly because he was accustomed to being woken during the night. The Emperor-G.o.d had shaken him awake but once on this latest leg of their journey, believing he could risk killing one of the porters, but he'd not chanced a second. Torve had no doubt that as soon as they discovered another town, village or even isolated family, he would be called to witness-no, to take part in-more deaths. A brief respite, then, in the endless killing, but he couldn't sleep through the night.

His bruises had almost faded to match his dark skin, though he was some way from a full recovery. The deepest bruising, though, could not be seen. His master had known, he had known, what Torve had been planning; had been clever enough to goad him into an act of disobedience. Torve had defied the G.o.d, hoping it would be easier than defying the Emperor. But as soon as he had said the word he'd realised it simply didn't work that way: the one he defied was not the one who commanded him. The G.o.d could not compel him with the force of his breeding, but the G.o.d didn't need to. He had other ways of ensuring obedience. So Torve's cry of 'no' had been punished as if it had been disobedience, and he'd submitted, as he had to, to the beating in the knowledge his Defiance had not benefited him.

And as for his Defiance, he would never use it again. He'd made the resolution even as the blows crashed down upon him, and that, at least, was something he had control over.

He could not flee. The Emperor had instructed him to remain by his side. Even if the Son were to explicitly countermand this, it would not have the force necessary. He must remain with his master.

Was there any hope? He could see none. He had nothing but memories. His eyes filled with tears whenever he recalled those days of discovery with Lenares in the House of the G.o.ds, and he wished with his whole heart he could go back to that place, with her, even for one day.

'Up, explorer. A wet day awaits. Onward to the heart of the jungle!'

Duon hated the man's false cheeriness. Everything about him was false. He would almost have preferred the man to reveal himself and control the expedition by force rather than subterfuge. He could not decide whether it was worse to have been gulled unknowingly, or to play along with it now.

'Very well,' he said, and stowed his damp bedroll in his pack.

Speech seldom pa.s.sed between the men as they made their way through the forest. Even the porters said little, which was unusual. Duon had a fair degree of experience with such men, and they generally kept themselves and their clients amused with stories, songs and chatter. This group, however, despite being brothers, walked with their heads down, hoods up and mouths closed. Perhaps it was the weather; but Duon could not remember much, if any, conversation around the campfires or on the trail even before the rains had come.

To his surprise, someone broke the silence.

'There, off to the left, on the far side of the stream.'

The words came from behind him, where the younger brothers walked. An answering grunt floated back from ahead. Duon turned his head, but could see nothing.

'Again.'

This time he caught a flash of movement. Some animal. He found himself unconcerned. What animal had the faintest chance of harming them when they journeyed with a G.o.d?

There were no more announcements of sightings that morning, but gradually Duon realised they were being tracked-even herded-by people carrying spears and dressed in rags.

He had been to Andratan, but had travelled much of the way by ship. This forest and its inhabitants were new to him. But not to the porters, who began to talk in worried whispers.

'Pay the creatures no heed,' Dryman said, as the brothers whispered amongst themselves. 'We will press on.'

'But we must pay them heed,' said the oldest brother. 'This is their land, and they do not allow strangers to traverse it save on the approved routes.'

'Their land? I wandered here before their ancestors rose from the swamps. I am home; why should I give way to latecomers?'

Duon had no idea what the brothers made of this speech, but it told him something. At the very least the man walking with them had lived here for a time, thousands of years ago. Perhaps these trees hid the birthplace of a G.o.d.

They came to another innocuous stream, swollen by the persistent rain but otherwise indistinguishable from hundreds of others they had crossed. On the far side the ground rose, and here the trees seemed taller, darker and more tormented, as though the creepers and vines not only grew in compet.i.tion with the forest giants but also sought to strangle them. His eyes were drawn up: the canopy seemed impossibly high, hundreds of feet above them, lost in the mist. And he could see movement up there. Small animals, monkeys perhaps, running to and fro along vines seemingly strung for the purpose.

'Far enough,' came a voice.

The travellers halted. People had materialised on the stream's far bank, spears and blades in their hands. There were six of them, all tall, brown-skinned and black-haired, their clothing scant but serviceable. Barefoot; an odd lack. How could they walk barefoot on ground littered with the detritus of the forest, Duon wondered. There were reptiles and insects here that would fasten on exposed skin, injecting poison, or would paralyse, secrete muscle-eating venom or even drink the blood of unwary travellers. Or so said the porters. The blood-drinkers, at least, were true: fat slug-like slimers that expanded as they drew blood from their host. Duon found himself constantly brushing them from his neck and hands. He could not imagine how the people on the far bank of the stream survived the forest in near-nakedness.

He laughed at himself. He was making the mistake explorers always made: a.s.suming the inhabitants of an area were more primitive than he simply because they were differently adapted to their environment.

'You may go no further.' No trace of an accent: pure Fisher Coast Bhrudwan, at least to Duon's ears. 'No discussion. You turn around now.' The spears were raised.

Duon had been in situations like this before, had even lost men, but had never faced them with the singular lack of fear he experienced now. This is not my concern, he told himself. He did not expect the mercenary to ask his advice.

'Why do you bar our way?' Dryman asked.

His answer was an arrow from the trees. It hissed through the air and embedded itself in his chest with a thunk like an axe into wood.

The man didn't even blink, he simply smiled. A moment later he turned to the porters. 'Do not move. I am not about to die. If you try to flee I will kill you.'

'This is our land,' the spokesman, the shortest among the six on the bank, said eventually. His voice retained most of its poise; an admirable effort, Duon thought.

'I'm not disputing that,' Dryman said quietly, and the fletching of the arrow moved as he talked. It had to be deep in his lung. 'But we need to travel north. Why would you prevent us making our journey?'

Two arrows this time. Perhaps from a distance it appeared that the first arrow had lodged in hidden armour, although the sound had clearly been stone point on flesh. The same sound-thwack, thwack-rang out clearly as the arrows took the mercenary in the stomach.

No sound from beyond the stream, but two of the porters moaned in fear.

'We will walk around your sacred heart if you wish it,' Dryman offered. 'We have no desire to learn your secrets or steal your land.'

Twenty arrows at least. Most found their target, but a few flew past the mercenary into the jungle behind them, and one took a porter just above the knee. The boy shrieked, and his brothers cried out in consternation. They gathered around him, calling instructions to each other, and one of them threw off his pack and began rummaging through it. Duon was puzzled for a moment at their urgency, then the boy took a fit, his limbs spasming.

Poison-tipped. Perhaps he ought to fear, after all.

A sudden question: why was the mercenary concerned with immortality if he could survive such an a.s.sault? The man looked like a hedgehog, yet was clearly unaffected by a dozen and a half arrows.

'We will make our way along the stream, keeping to this side,' said Dryman. 'If you wish to waste any more arrows, make sure you hit me. Otherwise you'll lose them in the forest.'

No arrows this time, at least. The mercenary stepped forward, one foot in the stream, then turned and addressed the porters.

'Leave him. He's already dead, though it will take some time for his body to stop twitching. You know about the foresters' use of poison, but you clearly do not know enough. Andali poison has no antidote. Line up behind me and say nothing.'

'If you stray we will kill your servants,' said the tribe's spokesman.

'I understand.'

Which was more than could be said for the porters.

'We're not leaving our brother,' the oldest said in a thick voice. 'We will return home with his body.'

'You will not,' said Dryman heavily. 'This is what will happen if you do not do as I say. As soon as I leave this place without you, you will die under their arrows. And even if they stay their hand, you will die from any serious attempt to carry your brother back through the forest. Andali is fatal in minute quant.i.ties. In fact, I suspect at least one of you will perish as a result of the ministration you've already offered your dead brother.'

The remaining brothers cowered away from Dryman, as afraid of the pin-cushioned figure as of the bowmen hidden on the far side of the stream. One of them began to cough, and put a shaking hand to his mouth.

'I'm not a heartless man,' Dryman continued, in the face of all the evidence. 'Take a few moments to a.s.sess your options. But don't touch your brother.'

As they walked, the stream grew before their eyes, swollen by rain that had increased markedly in intensity in the hours since they had begun their guided trek. They were being led by the inhabitants of the forest, it seemed. Though Torve had heard the conversation between his master and the spokesman for the natives, he had not understood it: the language used was one he had never heard. Dryman had seemed to acquiesce to something. Surprising they would make a request of him, given the fearful veneration they now displayed towards him.

Torve was soaked through to his skin, but that did not account for his constant shivering. That was due entirely to the appearance of the man directly in front of him.

'I'm not immortal, Torve,' the Emperor-G.o.d had said. 'The Son has blessed me with unnatural power, that is true, and it grows within me every day. But I can still be slain, and I will eventually die of old age, if nothing else. You must believe your old friend the Emperor exists, and cares for you still.'

Torve had not replied. It was not the Emperor talking. The weight pressed down on all of them-the surviving porters could feel it-and the man's voice had taken on the deep timbre of the Son. There was nothing left of his so-called friend in that arrow-pierced sh.e.l.l. Torve put his head down and concentrated on not stumbling in this world of insanity.

The travellers were escorted across the stream, which, under the influence of the rain, had become a deep, muddy brown torrent stretching a full hundred paces from bank to bank. The three remaining porters stumbled over rocks, then waded into the deeper water, each grasping a rope strung there to aid the crossing. Duon winced at their blank expressions. They were just the latest to wear what he had come to consider the 'mercenary face': the look of shock and loss one experienced after having been in the man's presence for any length of time.

As he grappled with the rope, knowing the swift stream would take him if he lost his grip, something buzzed in his head:...aai ninn see hou. Uee whirr aah see...followed by silence. Not the usual voice. It had sounded like the tongueless language Arathe used, but he'd not heard enough to be sure.

A genuine path wound up the bank on the far side of the stream. The forest people's spokesman invited the mercenary to walk with them, and Duon heard one of the porters breathe a relieved sigh as the man moved well ahead of them. Yes, son, we're all frightened of him.

They walked for perhaps half an hour, in what direction Duon couldn't tell. His well-trained spatial senses were of no use here: the rain hid any evidence of sunlight, and the path had twists and turns enough to defeat him. Running now would ensure either a swift-though not swift enough-death at arrow-point, or a slower death lost in the forest. Of course, he would not be permitted to run.

No such stricture bound the porters, though they must have made the same a.s.sessment as he. There seemed no other reason for them to keep shuffling in the mercenary's wake.

A wall of darkness emerged from the gloom. Some sort of meteorological effect? Another manifestation of the hole in the world? It said everything about his mental state that he suspected a magical before a natural cause. The wall gained solidity as they drew closer, finally resolving into a cliff stretching up out of sight.

By invitation of the forest people, they camped that night at the base of the cliff, their chosen site partially sheltered from the rain. It was only when a bonfire was lit that the rest of the people came out from the trees, at least fifty of them, half with bows and what were likely poisoned arrows in quivers on their backs. Each of them walked up to where the mercenary sat, peered at the arrows lodged in his torso, and then returned to the other side of the fire and found somewhere to sit. The whole process took nearly an hour. Dryman said nothing during this time, impa.s.sively accepting their scrutiny.

Eventually the spokesman came forward and nodded to the mercenary. 'My people are satisfied,' he said. 'We will take you further in, as you request, but you are not to remain there to dwell. We are our own masters.'

Dryman laughed, drawing every eye. 'You've chosen to do as I request? Ah, you always were a stubborn people. Request? Choice?' He laughed again. 'Of course I will not dwell here. I imagine the jungle has destroyed every trace of my former home.'

'It is as you suppose,' the man said carefully. His speech remained cultured, smooth, his manners as one treating with a dangerous beast. Wise man, Duon thought.

'Last time my home was not at the top of a cliff,' said Dryman.

'The land has changed. Warriors regularly approach the site, seeking to test their courage, but none have profaned it. The stories tell of many earthquakes, of the rumbling of the ground, of the creeping movement of the earth over the generations. Nothing remains the same, Keppia.'

The mercenary raised his gaze to the spokesman, who did not flinch. 'Some things do,' he said softly. 'My name, for instance. No one else in the world remembers that name.

'We will arise at dawn,' he continued. 'We will travel whether it rains or not.'

'The mausum will afflict us for weeks yet. Do you not remember the late summer winds from the sea?'

'I remember many things, and, as you say, things I remember may have changed. The forest once received rain all year.'

'Not now, Keppia. The mausum pushes west from the warm sea across the cooling autumn land, and our forest prospers.'

'Yet the fishermen and the farmers eat at it from the south, and I have no doubt those living north of Patina Padouk gnaw the forest edge also.'

The spokesman spat. 'You speak true. We cannot hold them back. I lived in their lands a long time, and returned to tell my brothers why their trees are being taken.'

The mercenary smiled. 'Did they understand?'

'No. And two of them, entranced by my story of cities and powdered women, left the forest. I will not go back there.'

'No, you will not.' The comment sounded more like a prediction than an observation.

'My warriors wonder if they might retrieve their arrows,' the spokesman offered.

'Oh? So they can mount them above their hearths as a boast to their grandchildren? Tell your warriors to wait. I will wear them as a reminder to you of my forbearance. Inform them I will return their arrows on the day I leave your lands. May that day be soon.'

'May that day be soon,' the spokesman echoed, in what sounded like a ritual.

The forest people contented themselves with their own company, remaining on the far side of the fire, directly under the cliff. The three porters took themselves off, faces raw with weeping, no doubt to observe some sad memorial for their lost brothers. The mercenary sat perfectly still: in the time it took for sleep to settle on Duon, two arrows worked their way out of the man's chest and clattered to the ground. The last sounds Duon heard were those of the forest, the chittering, cawing night animals and the patter of the unrelenting rain.

He awoke twice during the night. The first was a brief, half-conscious stirring at the sound of a voice in his mind:...Don't touch them. They'll kill you without even piercing the skin. I told you coming this way was foolish; far better if we had taken ship...The voice of the Falthan priest faded away to nothing, merging with his own anxious, unfathomable dreams.