Whispering Woods

CHAPTER 4

Despite a roaring bonfire-the remains of a house-the night was long and cold and miserable. The villagers were seared on one side and chilled on the other. No one slept much. Some folks wondered what to do, but they were shushed. "Dawn will bring enough evil," intoned Catclaw.

Gull pondered what he might do, but the enormity was overwhelming. He had to find Greensleeves and Sparrow Hawk. He had to bury his dead, and tend the not-dead, the comatose ones. He had to… but he ceased to think, and sank into a dull, wet, pain-fogged funk.

Dawn's watery sun raised steam like fog. A squabbling first roused Gull. Vultures had come to eat the dead. Their cousins, ravens and crows, awaited their turn or fought over lesser spoils.

That woke him, and the resounding CLUMP CLUMP CLUMP KABUMP squeakcrunchgrind CLUMP CLUMP… of the clockwork beast. The poor creature, or construct, still circled the valley. It had limped on three legs all the night long, like a mill out of kilter that would not seize up.

Another sound came to him: the scuttling of rats. Gull lobbed a stone at a small hunched silhouette, grunted when he knocked it off a heap of rubble. But the sounds continued. All night rats had circled the fire and dug in rubbish. The earthquake must have brought them out, he thought, collapsed their dens. Though he'd never have believed this many rats in their village. Nor were these healthy, grain-fed rats, but skinny scabby things.

Enough moping, Gull thought. His father, who lay dead not a dozen feet off, had always said, "A busy man has no time to brood." Gull could honor his memory by following his advice. He rose and crouched-aching in every joint, bruised and muscle-sore-cast about what was left of the village in the eerie dawn light, then slowly poked up the fire, rousing others out of their stupor.

Awed, speaking quietly, as if the disaster might return any moment, the survivors pooled their knowledge and divvied up tasks. Snowblossom and Hedgehog and others would try to dig up the root cellars. Seal and his sons and daughters would hunt stray goats and cattle. Old Wolftooth got help to drag bodies into a pile for burning: there were too many to bury. Gull offered to butcher a horse he saw yonder, but he'd need someone…

As if reading his mind, Cowslip offered, "I'll watch for Greensleeves and Sparrow Hawk, and tend the fallen ones."

Just before last light, they'd lugged the stricken together, close to the fire to fend off the rats, but there was little hope they'd live long. That mysterious life-drain had felled in equal numbers: killed a third of the survivors outright, stolen the soul but not the life from a third, and left the rest palsied and weak.

Gull smiled weakly at Cowslip. She'd spent the night close by his side, and they'd tried to keep each other warm.

With simple tasks to perform, people got moving, but they shuffled like walking dead, hollow-eyed and clumsy. The destruction of their homeland had destroyed them inside, too. They'd be a long time healing.

Hefting his axe, heavy as an anvil, leaving his bow and arrows behind, and sighing, Gull tottered across the misty morning rubble.

The woodcutter had to skirt uprooted thorns, smashed houses, cracks in the earth, the wreckage of a goblin bladder-flyer, rat-gnawed corpses of blue barbarians and red soldiers, dead dogs, and White Ridgers too.

He passed a firepit littered with long charred bones. The pit was marked by tiny footprints. Nudging his tired brain, Gull reconstructed the scene. Yesterday the goblins had hauled away something he'd thought was a body. Now he knew differently. They'd dragged off the giant's sundered arm. And roasted it.

He kept his eye on his goal.

Across a former meadow, toward the Whispering Woods, lay a dead brown horse. Bleary-eyed, Gull steered around the dead giant.

Yet the woodcutter jumped in shock when he beheld the giant moving.

Or rather, something on the giant moving.

Between the two heads lay a long, pulsing… plucked chicken?

Chicken skin-colored, certainly, and naked, but tall as Gull. It was half-buried between the two heads. The woodcutter could see skinny buttocks stitched with blue veins under transparent skin. What…?

The horror compounded itself. The giant groaned, raised a cold white arm thick as a tree trunk, pawed weakly at his neck.

Gull froze. The gesture was so pathetic, and so human, like a baby trying to brush off a gorging mosquito. The woodcutter's heart went out to the giant. Though as a mercenary he deserved no sympathy…

The giant moaned, shifted a huge dirty bare foot, kicked so that Gull jumped back. Despite his stupor, the giant suffered. His arm stump showed white bone and red meat rotten with dirt and pus. When it banged the ground, the giant moaned anew.

The plucked chicken picked up its head, and Gull gasped.

A long head, no hair, tall pointed ears, a lacework of blue veins, a mouth full of fangs. And red blood on thin lips.

Vampire, thought Gull.

The fiend reached out almost gently with a clawed hand, pressed a filthy fingernail against the giant's eye, jabbed. The giant recoiled, and the vampire yanked up his earlobe, sank his teeth in the flesh below. Gull, who had slaughtered animals, knew a rich vein pulsed under the ear.

But he wasn't thinking of that as he attacked.

Howling, the woodcutter snagged the hem of the giant's patched sailcloth smock, hoisted himself up, clambered across the heaving round belly. Gull acted on pure instinct. Something dead leeched off something alive. Compared to this ghoul, Gull and the giant were brothers.

The vampire whirled at the battle cry. Gull saw webbing between the fingers and under its arms, like a flying squirrel. The skin was so translucent, spider-webbed with blue veins, that wan sunlight shone through. Through belly skin, Gull saw a patch of red-fresh blood in its stomach. Gull fought to keep his own stomach, and his balance, as he hefted the axe above his shoulder.

With one blow, he'd slice the vampire from helm to crotch, and kick the pieces to the crushed meadow for the crows.

But the vampire gave a tiny leap, barely pushing off with its long toes, and was gone.

Surprised, Gull swung halfway, then fully around, searching. Where had it gone?

A weight like a dead deer's crashed on his back.

Gull fumbled his axe and watched it slide away down hilly flesh. The woodcutter slammed face first onto filthy cloth that smelled of sweat and salt.

There was another smell too. A fetid slaughterhouse odor.

A hand cold as death mashed his head, lit fires in the many rock bruises and scratches, ripped his long hair aside to expose his neck.

Better to stare death in the face than take it in the back, he remembered his-dead-father saying.

With a mighty kick, Gull tried to roll over. His bad knee rang with pain. He heard the giant grunt from two mouths.

The vampire grappled him tight, though, and sank claws into his face. Fingers gouged flesh from his forehead. One hooked and grazed his eyeball. Gull couldn't decide if he were angry or frightened. A giant leech slurping his blood terrified him. But this attack-after how many in two days?-set his blood boiling.

He snapped his head and bit at the hand, kicked at nothing, swung a clenched fist. Strong the vampire was, strong as a mule, but its thin arm let go when the brawny woodcutter slammed its elbow. The vampire snarled and lunged for his throat with long white teeth stained red.

Arms tangled, the woodcutter kicked again, banged the vampire's legs with his own -and knocked the two of them headlong off the giant's heaving body.

Sky, dead skin, salt-streaked cloth, mud-all flashed by, then Gull slammed on his aching shoulder in trampled meadow grass.

But the human leech still clung.

Gull felt a searing pain on his biceps. The vampire bit him to the bone. The man yelped, hammered the hairless head with his elbow. The skull felt like rock, and he only drove the wicked teeth deeper into his own flesh. Gull kicked, but one leg was hung up. The hill of a giant loomed on the other side like a cliff. Gull's head was half-buried in weeds.

Gull's anger evaporated as fear rushed in. He was helpless. He'd die here, drained of blood.

And who would find Greensleeves? And Sparrow Hawk?

Frantic, the axeman slammed his elbow against the unyielding head. He couldn't bend his arm to reach around.

Above the pain and burning itch, he heard slurping.

His blood, disappearing down an undead gullet.

Gull screamed -a thudding and thumping sounded close at hand -the sky went dark -and a feathered lance pierced the vampire to the ground. Black blood sprayed Gull and the giant. The woodcutter saw the spear point was wider than his hand, cut with flutings, crudely forged but sharp.

Then he was rocked by the death throes of the vampire as it thrashed like a pickerel on a hook. An elbow clipped his chin, teeth ripped free of his arm. Black blood spattered his lips, rank as ditch water. The vampire clawed at the lance shaft. It would not surrender its un-life easily.

Yet the lance wielder, mounted high on his horse, twisted the shaft to tear the fiend's vitals. Little by little, it died, fading to skin and bone, then a layer of sticks and slime.

Disgusted, the woodcutter swept off the gore, wiped his eyes, struggled to rise. The high horseman snagged his wrist and jerked him to his feet.

"Ugh. My thanks, good sir. I was trapped… and… couldn't…"

Silhouetted against the gray sky, he saw the horse and rider were one.

Staring down from deep brown eyes under a visored war helm, was a centaur.

"You are lucky," came a gruff but curiously whinnying voice. "Spit of Sengir Vampire is like medicine to keep blood from clot. No corruption."

"What…?" Gull could only clutch his bleeding biceps and stare.

The being seemed incredibly tall. The helmet made it taller, for it sported a plume made of, of all things, a red-dyed horsetail. The face was obscured by the enclosed helm. It and the breastplate were etched with sworls, then painted or enameled. The being wore wide armbands, and had been warpainted yesterday with handprints and runes, though now the paint was runny and smudged. The back half was roan, reddish brown, and shoulders and arms sported equally red, though sparser hair. War harness and packs were slung across the back. The deadly lance was longer than the creature's body. Feathers tied to the lance with rawhide were dyed purple and white, and tattered. The lance had seen hard use.

The centaur grunted as it jiggled slime off the lance, made a human pout of disgust. "Sengir Vampire like elf. Just as bad. Travel alone, though. Fly into battlefields always. Have you seen my mate, Holleb? I am Helki."

Now Gull understood why the voice sounded high. "You're a-woman!"

"Yes." The helmet bobbled. "And you are man. So?"

So why are you so hairy? Gull wanted to ask, but didn't. The lance hung in the air like a thunderbolt. He tested his arm and found it had quit bleeding. He'd won more scars from two days of adventuring than some men gained in a lifetime.

"So… I haven't seen your mate. I'm searching for folk myself-" With a rush, memories of dead and missing crashed around Gull like surf, threatened to wash him away. "I… we… our village is ruined."

Oddly, the centaur nodded in sympathy. "And our lives, I think. We should work together. Would be good."

Anger stabbed Gull to his toe tips. Work with these, who'd helped destroy his home?

"But perhaps," the centaur interrupted, "neither of us have problem now." She whinnied pure delight. Circling on dancing back legs, she flashed away around the hill of giant, paint-daubed tail flicking. Gull heard her call, "You search a two-leg looks like you? Girl?"

"What?" Gull felt stupid and thick. Like him…?

Then he got it. Snatching his axe, he ran.

"Greensleeves!"

"'The gods watch over drunks, children, and fools,'" Gull quoted.

Trotting across the meadow, dancing around craters and cracks, came the other centaur. This one was bigger and hairier, and undeniably male, to judge by the war club slung between its legs. This must be the mate, Holleb.

Seated on the centaur's back was Greensleeves.

She looked fine, with chaff in her hair, briars in her gown and shawl, dirt on her small feet. Light as a bird, she slid off the centaur's back, chattering. The centaur nodded absently. Probably he thought it some foreign language, not her own animal gibberish.

The centaur embraced his mate, breastplate to breastplate, then slid alongside to bang flanks. Both rattled in their own tongue, and Gull could tell it was love talk, for it floated like song.

He hugged his own sister, asked, "Where were you?"

She chittered like a squirrel, then squeaked, pulled away, and went to the giant's side.

The monster-man had slumped again. One head lay in a puddle, lips white with pain. The other stared glass-eyed at the sky. The nearer head turned vaguely as Greensleeves touched a massive shoulder, caressed the bald creased head. She cooed in a way Gull recognized: soothing sounds his mother had made to a hurt child.

But his mother was dead. And it was partly this giant's fault.

Roughly, Gull jerked his sister away. Anger made his voice harsh. "Leave him! Let him die!"

A patter of thumps sounded behind. He confronted the looming centaurs with their three-yard lances. Gull tucked Greensleeves behind him, balanced his axe.

The mare-woman nodded at the giant. "We should help. He is a thinking being, in pain."

Gull wanted to spit, he felt so bitter at himself and them. But like lancing a boil, he might as well get it over with.

"No. Better the sick die. And you that can leave, leave."

The horse-folk shifted their feet. The female demanded, "This is how two-legs show thank-yous?"

Words almost choking him, Gull rapped, "I grant we owe you. You saved my life. He rescued my sister. But that scarce makes up for destroying our valley as your trade. A mercenary expects not thanks but blood money. So collect it and begone!"

The centaurs danced backward, as if to gain swinging room. The male barked at the female, snorting, whinnying, and she chirped back. Then she whirled on Gull, who raised his axe.

"Know you, two-leg rat-man," she sneered, "we are no merc-mercenaries who take money to fighting. We are forced labor, slaves to wizards, made to fight without our will. Would we could return home and stay, but no. But you know all, and not listen!"

With that pronouncement, they whirled in place. Tails flying like flags, they cantered off across the meadow for the woods.

Gull was left to ponder her words. Slaves to wizards?

That must be a lie. No one could be forced to war against their will, could they?

Yet he felt regretful as they pranced into the woods, ducking branches and parting brush with their lances. If it were true…

Greensleeves gurgled like a badger, plucked at his sleeve, dragging him toward the giant.

Gull protested. "No, Greenie, no. I can't help him. Half a hundred of our own folk need help. And he's just a mercenary…"

It was no use. Despite having twice her weight, he was towed along. The giant's shorn stump stank of corruption. Probably he-or they-would die shortly anyway.

The giant's left head focused. Greensleeves patted the nose, long as Gull's forearm. Wracked with doubts, the woodcutter ventured, "Can you speak?"

"Speak?" Big eyes blinked slowly. They were slanted, almond eyes. The skin had a yellow caste, too, Gull noted. The giant must come from far away-he'd heard there were men of different colors in the Domains. Judging from the wrinkles around eyes and mouth, this giant was also very old.

And slow. He finally answered. "Yes. I talk. I hurt."

Gull pressed. "Did you come of your own free will to fight for the wizard?"

"Wi-zard?" More thinking. Having a giant brain should make one a genius, Gull thought, but this giant was thick as a child. "Wi-zard make me come here, make me fight."

"Does she pay you? Feed you?" Gull was feeling increasingly stupid. And guilty.

"Feed? I hunger."

"Are you a slave to the wizard?" Gull insisted.

"Slave?" A long pause. "I must do… as she asks." "Oh, my," sighed the woodcutter. "Greensleeves, I'm the simpleton."

Not long after, Cowslip and Greensleeves had cleansed the giant's wound, found fresh manure (but where were the cattle?) and packed on a poultice. Gull had butchered the dead horse, and lacking bandages, had sliced raw horsehide to wrap around the giant's stump. The giant sat up and ate every scrap of horse-liver and lights and guts-but he was used to raw fish, he explained slowly.

Cowslip asked the giant questions, and slowly they learned that he lived by the sea, fished, had fashioned his patchwork smock from the sails of shipwrecks, and was named Liko. (The single name, they guessed, meant one identity, not two. One brain in two skulls, with a wide gap between.) The left head answered questions while the right stared into space, daydreaming.

Gradually, throughout the long day, the villagers picked up. It gave them little time to mourn, though they were quiet. Everywhere Gull looked was some reminder of a life lost forever. A tree in which his brothers and sisters had built a hut, a stone where his grandmother had basked in the sun and told her stories, a stone wall he'd rebuilt with his father.

Only Greensleeves seemed not to mourn. Perhaps she didn't understand what had happened. Cooing, she puttered as always, tended people and the giant, mixed water with dandelion and burdock roots and fennel leaves for a poultice, brought comfort with her touch.

Some survivors had propped up an intact roof and cleared out underneath, and under this pitiful shelter they laid the comatose villagers on bare earth. Some had stopped breathing, and were buried in a far-off cellar hole. They had to set a girl with a switch to shoo rats away, for the pests scuttled everywhere. Cowslip showed Gull a nasty bite on the wrist: she'd shooed rats off a wounded child. The bite flamed red. She'd also picked up fleas from the creature, and had to scrub them off with mud in the swimming hole. Lightheaded, she stayed game, and returned to tending the sick.

But at one point she asked, "What shall we do, Gull?"

"Do?" He paused at digging. They were trying to free a root cellar under a house, one containing winter turnips. He moved slowly because his head still ached from yesterday's stone rain. He felt light-headed too, probably from losing blood to the vampire. "I-I don't know, 'Slip. Rebuild, I guess. What else can we do?"

The girl looked around the valley, brushed back her corn yellow hair. "It will be like building on a graveyard."

Gull shrugged, winced. Questions about life and death and afterlife had never concerned him. "The only other choice is to leave, and where would we go? My mother claimed the ghosts of our ancestors stayed with us, watching and protecting. Now there are a few more. But in fifty years, this tragedy will be just a story to tell children."

The girl laid a brown hand on his forearm. "Whose children, Gull?"

Gull studied her face. Despite dirt and fatigue, she looked beautiful. With his maimed left hand, he trailed hair away from her cheek. "Our children. Because we are going to stay-"

Suddenly she was in his arms, hugging his chest and sobbing. He patted her soft hair with his callused, crippled, scabby hands and cooed, "There, there. Don't cry. We'll protect each other, Cowslip." She turned her face up, and he kissed her.

Yet Gull's father had often said, "When the gods decide to punish a man, they do it all the way." Gull remembered that before the sun set.

All afternoon, he'd hunted cattle and goats in the woods. He'd found nothing except traces of goblins, goat horns, and hooves. This bad news he decided to keep to himself.

He felt forgiving anyway. As in any crisis, his emotions had sunk and risen overnight, soared from despair to hope in a day.

Maybe he wasn't thinking too clearly, but he didn't care. He was in love. Holding Cowslip had been the finest thing he'd ever felt, and he almost skipped through the forest. Cowslip would make a fine wife, and he a good husband, he hoped. They would rebuild a home, replant the gardens, dam the stream and bring it back, help neighbors rebuild, see White Ridge grow many generations yet. Another of his father's axioms: A man is only beaten when he quits.

He whistled as he left the woods. Far off, the makeshift village continued to grow from the old center.

But running toward him came Cowslip's brother, Gray Shoat. The boy's cry sent a shock of cold fear.

"Gull! Cowslip's sick!"