Whispering Woods

CHAPTER 9

They dug.

Each wagon carried a short-handled spade, and there were two picks and a crowbar. The men were ordered down the slope and into the small hole. They found it bell-shaped, two arm spans across, littered with rocks and branches and leaves damp from rain. Tossing out the debris, they dug.

To begin, all four bodyguards dug as one. When the hole grew too deep to hurl the dirt out, they tied buckets to ropes for hoisting and dumping. Slow work. In a feverish hurry, Towser ordered the dancing girls to help haul. When camp was established a half mile away, near a clear-running stream, the cook's helper and nurse were ordered to help too. Even Knoton the clerk had to dirty his hands and blow on his blisters.

"Whatever's down here," grumbled Gull, "he wants it bad."

Forced to work shoulder-to-shoulder with dangerous tools, Gull and Morven on one side and Kem and Chad on the other formed an unspoken truce. They talked as needed and no more, but neither did they watch their backs for a pickaxe blow.

Gull pointed out, "Towser'd probably turn us into toads if we mucked around belting each other." No one disagreed.

Towser's entourage dug all day, with only breaks for meals and guard duty. Gull was glad of any excuse to stop shifting dirt, and when his turn came, grabbed his longbow and quiver and hurried off.

The new perimeter included both the camp and the crater, a circuit of a mile or more. The blasted forest- withered trees and leaning stumps and new greenery underfoot-let him see a good distance, though some rills and pockets still shut off sight. He crooked an arrow alongside his bow for a quick draw. Tracks showed deer and other beasts were attracted to the tender spring growth.

At one point he heard a sough behind him, and nocked as he whirled.

And almost shot Stiggur, the cook's helper.

"Don't shoot! Don't shoot! I'm sorry!" The boy raised trembling hands.

Despite regular meals, the boy was rail-thin and small. Starved at an early age, Gull assumed, never to grow tall. He wore a plain linen smock, very clean, and hair clipped short to keep lice and dirt out of the food. Felda was hellacious for washing hands, burying wastewater, scrubbing dishes, digging the privy far away. A bout of dysentery or camp fever could wipe out the entourage-and delay Towser's frantic schedule.

"What is it, lad?" Gull snapped. He'd never spoken to the boy much, only to request more food or bid good-morning.

"Uh, I just wanted to walk with you, sir." His voice was warbly, about to break. Gull guessed he was twelve or so-Sparrow Hawk's age, were he still alive.

Gull frowned, puzzled, and the boy backstepped. Realizing it was a compliment, he said, "All right. Stay on my right and behind, clear of the bow. And walk soft. I'm hoping for fresh venison or pork."

"Yes, sir."

Gull resumed walking. "Save the 'sirs' for Towser. I'll be plain Gull."

"Y-yes… Gull."

They walked, clogs and bare feet sinking into the miry loam. Sometimes their passing shook burned bark or branches from trees. Low bushes, recovering, plucked at their ankles. Gull kept his eyes unfocused, to better see movement, and carried his head cocked to hear ahead.

He was startled when the boy spoke. "I admire the way you snap that whip, sir-I mean, Gull."

Annoyed, Gull growled, "Do you?"

Encouraged, he jabbered, "Aye, sir, Gull. It's wonderful you can pop between the mule's ears without hitting. And the way you split Kern's ear-" He stopped, uncertain whether he should criticize another adult.

"Poor Kem's ear must buzz, it gets talked about so." Gull held up a finger for silence as they peered around a tree bole. A brown bear cub underdug a log for grubs.

Stiggur whispered, "You won't shoot it?"

"I could," Gull hissed. "Bear liver's fine eating, especially a tender young one. But I'd have a mother on my back before I could nock again. See there?"

He pointed. Down a slope, a she-bear still shaggy with winter growth rocked an ash tree, trying to dislodge a clinging possum. Gull led the boy in the opposite direction. "Never shoot a brown bear, unless you've a pack of hounds and several lancers."

The boy stared, hanging on every word. Why was it, Gull thought, young boys followed him around? He couldn't walk through White Ridge without tripping over wide-eyed kids.

To stop the staring, he pulled his mulewhip from his back belt. It was oily and heavy and long, more than twelve feet, and always felt alive in his hand, like a snake. "Here. If we can't hunt-because someone's talking-we can practice this."

Sheathing his arrow, he took up the whip. "Hold it loose, then toss it back along the ground. Not alongside, mind, but behind. Straighter the better. Flick it forward, underhand to start. Light, like taking a girl's hand. Hit that bush."

Stiggur took the whip reverently, carefully trailed it out straight. Then he took a huge step, snapped with all his might.

The blacksnake humped, squirmed, slapped him smartly behind the knee. The boy yelped.

Gull nodded. "That's one advantage-if you don't listen, the punishment is automatic. Watch."

Accepting the whip, Gull flicked it easily behind, flicked underhand. Leather sizzled like a dragon's tongue and popped a four-inch branch off a pin oak.

"Wow!" bleated the boy.

Gull handed it back. "That's an easy pull. Your turn."

In four tries, Stiggur tagged his ankle, neck, and rump. But the flail shot pinked a bush. Bounding, the boy showed off the broken twig as if it were a prize swan. Gull laughed.

"A good start. Keep practicing, though. If we drop a deer, we can slice the rawhide and I'll show you how to braid your own whip."

"Really? That would be champion!"

"I said if. If it's ever quiet enough to hunt!" The woodcutter tousled the shorn head, but stopped. The boy reminded him of Sparrow Hawk so much his heart hurt. "Where's your family, Stiggur?"

"Never had one. Felda found me at a pasture gate one morning. That's what me name means: 'Gate.'"

"A foundling without a home, eh? That makes two of us, then." He shoved the boy good-naturedly toward camp. "Come on. My duty's almost over, if I read the sun aright. Digging for me and firewood for you."

Together, they kicked through the greenery.

Four days' digging found undisturbed soil.

Earlier had seen mixed sand, dirt, and clay churned by the impact of the shooting star. Now the hole showed clean, packed sand with only a dirty smudge in the center. Crowding shoulders, they dug with new vigor.

Towser wanted a large iron-and-nickel stone. It would be lumpy and rusty, melted and charred like cinder clinkers. That, he explained, was what stars were made of. It was news to the commoners. Morven speculated stars must be frightfully hot for iron and nickel to burn.

But it wasn't a round iron rock they struck.

Chad hit it first.

They all stopped at the sharp chik, an unfamiliar noise, not a rock. The bodyguard dropped to his knees, held the shovel blade in two hands to scrape gently. Towser had warned them not to chip the star.

A sharp square nose shed dirt.

The men bumped heads peering. Gull sent Stiggur to fetch Towser. Gently, two men scooped sand with their hands. When they had three sides uncovered, they quit.

The box was big as a skull and pink as sunburn. It was grooved, or etched, into regular furrows. Two faces had raised squares like belt buckles, and the other two round buckles. Ridges looked like straps holding the buckles on. Yet it was all of one piece, some porous pink rock.

"Coral," said Morven. "It looks like coral."

"What's that?" growled Chad.

"A stone that grows in shallow seas like trees. Under the waves. Fish swim through it like monkeys. It comes in all colors, but mostly pink. But coral's soft. You can carve it with a knife. This thing's tough, to fall from the heavens and blow open a crater like this, and stay intact."

"It looks like pig guts to me," muttered Kem. "Like you wrapped a box in pig guts like you'd make sausage with. Like something dead."

Gull tapped a fingernail against it. "Sounds solid. But it looks like it opens."

"Aye," said Knoton, the clerk. "Like a strongbox without a lock."

"Think Towser can open it?" asked Gull. "Dare he? It fell from the stars. Who knows what's inside?"

The clerk shrugged. "He brought us across half a forest to dig for days to find it. What do you think?"

Gull rocked back on his hams. "I hope we're elsewhere when he cracks it."

On that, everyone agreed.

The discovery so pleased Towser he gave them the day off.

With a grateful groan, the workers pitched tools out of the hole and trudged back to camp. They shucked their shoes and shirts and scrubbed in the stream. Felda sang as she prepared supper. Everyone was glad the thing was found, for now they could leave this ashy, smelly wasteland. Anywhere else had to be better.

In a rare jolly mood, Towser remained outside to plunk himself on a stump and sip honeyed tea. He toyed with the pink box, turning it, holding it to the sunlight, squinting for cracks or latches or any way to open it.

Gull accepted a plate of pickled herring and dried potatoes and the inevitable pickles, got a mug of ale from Stiggur, then sat against a wheel not far from Towser.

He chewed a while, then asked, casually, "So what is it, Towser?"

The wizard stopped his juggling to glare. "I don't ask you about mule tending. Kindly don't ask me about magicks."

"Fine." Gull shrugged. He watched the wizard play, waited.

Eventually Towser spoke, too thrilled not to chatter. "It's a mana vault!"

Gull looked interested, but stupid.

"It stores magical energy-mana! Magic is everywhere, you know. In the air we breathe, the water, the land. But magic's spread thin. This thing stores mana, the way a purse holds gold! A whole land's worth ready for the magic user who needs it!"

"Really?"

The wizard practically bounced in place, like a child with a new toy. "Yes, yes! If it's full as I think, I can conjure a hundred-a thousand spells using just this! It will speed up my studies tremendously! It's worth its weight in gold! Platinum! But it's worthless to any pawn, any non-magic user," he added hastily.

Gull played dumb. "Of course. No use to us. I'm just glad to stop digging."

Towser laughed at his hired simpleton. He slugged his cold tea, tucked the box under his arm to enter his wagon.

But Greensleeves blocked his path.

Towser frowned. He'd ignored the half-wit girl so far. He treated her like someone's cat, unable to work or take orders. He'd never spoken to her.

Now she barred his way. He made to shove her aside, and Gull rose.

Drawn to the box, like a bee to a daffodil, Greensleeves put out a grubby questing hand. Towser turned away, but she followed.

Gull found that curious. Nothing manufactured had ever interested her before. Bugs, birds, flowers, ferns, leaves, snowflakes: that was all she cared about.

But she wanted the stone box.

"Stop! You're not to touch it!" Towser raised a hand to bat her, but halted when Gull cleared his throat. No one would abuse his sister.

Gently, the brother caught her arm. "Come away, Greenie. It's not for you."

Towser mounted his wagon. Greensleeves strained against Gull's grip, mewing like a hungry kitten, even after the curtain was drawn. He dragged her to the firepit, asked Felda for some sweet, got a daub of honey on a spoon. But the half-wit just dropped it. Gull had to stop her climbing into Towser's wagon.

"Now ain't that curious," murmured the cook. "The little darlin' wants that box. Does she see somethin' we can't?"

Annoyed, Gull shook his head. "It's just the color, probably. It must look like a bunch of flowers, or… I don't know. A piglet…"

But the village elders used to say the "touched" had second sight, could sense things ordinary mortals couldn't. What had Greensleeves seen in that box?

Whatever, it didn't matter. It belonged to Towser, and Greensleeves would just cause trouble if she persisted.

"Come on, Greenie. I have to check hooves. Come. I'll let you pat the mules." He jerked her around. "Come on!"

Him dragging, her mewling, the two crossed the burned loam for the herd.

Tossing and turning, Lily elbowed and kneed Gull a dozen times.

Finally he sat up, ducking under the axles, and prodded her slim shoulder. "Will you sleep or dance?"

The dancing girl thrashed clear of the blankets, combed sweaty hair from her brow. Lily's face showed clearly, for the Mist Moon was up, bathing the night in white light. Skin ashine, she looked more a statue than living soul.

"I'm sorry. It's… bad dreams. There's… something in the air… "

Gull flopped on his back, groaning. "Not you too! First Greensleeves cries for a pink rock, now you ride the night mare."

The girl shivered, curled up against his bare shoulder. "It's this place. It's full of whispers, talking in my head. I'm sorry I woke you, my love."

"Sounds like the Whispering Woods all over again," muttered Gull. "Greensleeves was sensitive to them… What did you call me?"

He got no answer, and propping on one elbow didn't help, because now he couldn't see her face in the dark. "Lily…"

"That slipped out." Lily suddenly wrapped perfumed arms around his neck and clung. Tears tickled his shoulder. "But it wasn't a mistake."

"Lily…" He didn't know how to begin.

A murmur. "You're so sweet. You treat me decently, speak as if I were a lady, not a-"

"Hush!" He clamped her mouth. "I don't like that word. It doesn't fit you."

A sniffle, a sigh. "It's what I am. A whore. I pleasure men for money. I've slept with all of them: Towser, Chad, Oles, Kem, even Morven."

Gull jolted. "Morven?"

"Aye. He was the kindest of the lot, lusty but gentle. He liked me to-"

"I don't want to hear about it!"

More sniffles. "You don't have to love me back."

"It's not that…" He raised his fists against the wagon bottom. He felt like punching the oak boards: words seemed useless. "Look, honey-"

A scream split the night.

Gull rolled from under the wagon, double-bitted axe in hand.

A man screamed. Oles.

In the black night beyond the banked campfire, Gull picked out the man's filthy sheepskin vest. It seemed to flap above the ground like a swan taking flight. The slowpoke ran faster than Gull had ever seen, even faster than at dinner call. He was armed with a sword at his belt and crossbow in hand, but seemed to have forgotten. Running flat out, he screamed all the way, one long keening note without breath.

"What is it?" Gull shouted. He took a fresh grip on his axe. Terror was contagious, especially in the depths of night. "What's after you?"

Then Gull saw.

Marching toward the wagons, in a wavering line, came a line of walking dead.

They looked like nothing less than walking birch stumps, so white and stiff were these creatures, these things long dead.

They shuffled over the uneven soil, bumped one another, bounced off, turned half round, stumbled on. Heads were mostly bald or lacked skin, so dull bone gleamed in the moonlight. Faces had dried to leather, puckered tight at their eyes. Mouths hung open as if decrying the injustice of being wrenched from the grave. They were wrapped in burial shrouds, or rat-torn rags, or nothing at all.

Slowly, clumsily, but resolutely, they staggered toward the circle of wagons, half a hundred or more in the dimness. Most horrible of all, they made no sound except the shuffle and rustle.

Sweating, wild-eyed, Gull tried to think. So slowly did the things move, they posed little threat. They could barely raise their arms. Yet neither could they be easily stopped, for they were already dead. One carried Oles's crossbow quarrel through its chest.

"Gods of Urza!" squeaked Lily. "Zombies of Scathe!"

The woodcutter had no time to wonder where a dancing girl had learned of zombies and whence they came, if Scathe was a place. The camp was roused. People tumbled out of wagons. A dancing girl screamed so piercingly Gull's ears hurt.

"Here we go again!" growled Kem. He wound a crossbow held by a stirrup. "I need a new job!"

"Hide!" shrilled a girl. "Get under cover! Towser will protect us!"

"Towser got us into this!" snapped Chad as he yanked his checked shirt over his head.

"No, you don't, ya lubber!" sounded Morven. He dragged Oles from inside the men's wagon. "Ye're fightin' here with us!"

"Get up, Stiggur!" came the muffled voice of Felda inside the chuck wagon. "Get up, you clot! We're attacked!"

"Build up the fire!" shrieked Knoton from inside the wagon. "Towser orders it!"

Gull had found work. He grabbed chunks of cordwood, split the ends, cast about for some canvas or rags to make torches. Every living thing feared fire, maybe the dead did too.

There was more shrilling and shouting, but before sanity could be imposed, the scream of horses caused them to reel yet again.

As usual, the herd was not far off, hobbled so they could browse the night long. But something was amongst them. Gull heard growls like a wolf's, but deeper, and a coughing like nothing he knew.

Gull reached under the chuck wagon for his bow and quiver, found his hands full of weapons, thrust his axe at Lily, who promptly dropped it. The woodcutter nocked and drew, aiming toward the herd, still without knowing what attacked them.

Chad dashed across the circle, opposite from the approaching zombies, swore, leveled his crossbow across a seat. The bow slammed twangtunk and a bolt sizzled through the air. Shoved by Morven, Oles fumbled into position and shot too. A mule shrilled.

Gull screamed, "Ease up, you fool! Watch where you shoot!" Cursing the gods, himself, and everything in between, he tracked along his arrow for a target.

The earth was black speckled with silver: moonlight on spring greenery. White and piebald horses showed as patchy ghosts, but the darker mules were almost invisible amidst burned black trunks. What was…

There. Something large as the horses, and tawny, leaped among the hobbled beasts. Gull couldn't see what for horseflesh. Then he glimpsed a yellow head with wild hair bob and dip. Then two more without manes. A brown cob broke his hobble and ran. Within three paces, twin tawny shapes flashed alongside, raking the horse's flanks with long claws. Blood flew and the horse sagged.

Big cats, Gull realized. Giant wildcats, all of a sand color. The males with shaggy manes.

Killing his livestock.

All this he glimpsed in seconds, and that a shaggy male was after a white mare, then he aimed behind the cat's shoulder and loosed. The arrow sped off with a slap of linen string against his wrist.

The big male shuddered and loosed its grip on the horse. Far off, the brown cob screamed, and frantically Gull tried to find it.

To trained ears came the pounding of hoofbeats. But from the other direction, out near the zombies.

Horses running in time.

Cavalry.

Throne of Bone, whence came these things? Then he knew. He swore bitterly and hard. "It's another damned wizards' duel!"