Children of the Nameless, page 13
“The thing that lived in the Bog is gone,” he said. “And has been for years.”
“What?” Tacenda said from beside him.
“Part of it is inside of you,” Davriel said. “The Entity of the Bog resided here for centuries, infusing everything in the area with its scent. It seeped into your souls—like poison getting into bodies through the groundwater—and tied your people to it. So whoever has that power is controlling the geists.”
This is bad, the Entity said within him. I was not expecting to face a host who is trained in the power, using it to magnify their talents. We can still win, but it will be dangerous.
“They left me alone,” Tacenda said. “Because...”
“Because the geists can sense the power of the Bog inside you,” Davriel said. “They likely mistook you for their master. I would have thought you could control them, but for some reason your song doesn’t do so.”
Davriel frowned as Miss Highwater approached, rustling the underbrush. “So where does that leave us?” she asked.
“Worried,” Davriel said. “Why would the Entity leave the Bog?”
“It was afraid,” Tacenda whispered as she knelt beside the waters, her eyes looking glassy.
“Afraid?” Davriel said. “What could cause something so powerful to be afraid?”
“Faith,” she whispered.
“What—”
“Cane!” Crunchgnar shouted.
Davriel spun back toward the carriage, where Crunchgnar had pulled out his sword. He thrust the weapon toward the roadway. “We have a problem! Get over here!”
Davriel scrambled to the carriage, trailed by Miss Highwater. Crunchgnar’s lantern light didn’t reach far into the night, but it didn’t need to, for the geists approaching along the road gave off a sickly green illumination. There were hundreds of them, their jaws drooping, their faces distorted and inhuman. They flowed through trees and brush, advancing with a steady gait.
One disjointed figure near the front lifted its finger, pointing toward Davriel, and its mouth further extended in a silent screech.
Dozens of dead eyes locked on him. Then their mouths twisted in turn as—one by one—they recognized him.
Chapter Sixteen: Tacenda
Tacenda knelt near the Bog. Davriel had to be wrong. She’d believed in the Bog all her life. It couldn’t really just be empty, could it?
Tacenda... The whispered voice had the sound of rustling leaves. She stared into the glassy waters, and found—reflected back at her—the face of her mother. As if submerged in the inky depths.
Tacenda extended her hand, fingertips touching the top of the Bog’s surface. The water was unexpectedly warm, like blood.
A hand seized her by the shoulder. Miss Highwater—her grip shockingly firm—pulled Tacenda to her feet, then yanked her toward the carriage. What—
Geists. They flowed through the forest. Terrible, twisted creatures only vaguely shaped like people. And on the wind, she heard their terrible whispers. Tacenda gaped, freezing in place, but Miss Highwater stuffed her into the carriage. Davriel was already inside, banging on the roof and shouting for Crunchgnar to get them moving.
The carriage lurched into motion as the horses bolted. Trees became a blur of darkness outside the window. Tacenda felt every dip and rock in the road, the carriage rattling something terrible at this speed.
“Miss Highwater,” Davriel shouted, “which peasant is in charge of grading this roadway? Should we happen to survive, I would like to have them flogged.”
“Well,” Miss Highwater said. “You remember that meeting we had about tax revenue allocations for maintenance of infrastructure?”
“No, but it sounds boring.”
“You—”
“Let’s just compromise,” Davriel said, “and agree it’s Crunchgnar’s fault.”
Tacenda stuck her head out the other window and looked back along the roadway. Wind blew at her hair, whipping it.
The Whisperers gave chase. Their phantom light rolled over tree trunks and undergrowth—obstructions that the spirits ignored. They coursed after the carriage at a remarkable speed, and even over the rattling of the carriage, she heard their voices. Hushed whispers, overlapping one another.
Those are the people of my village, she thought, trembling. Taken by some force and made into geists. Was her sister’s soul among them, then? Twisted beyond recognition? Had Willia come with the others and claimed the living of Verlasen while Tacenda played her fingers raw?
“Miss Verlasen!” Davriel said.
Tacenda pulled her head back into the carriage as Davriel picked up her viol and handed it to her.
“Perhaps a song might be in order?” he asked.
“It doesn’t work on the Whisperers!” she said, taking the viol in limp hands. “That’s the problem that started all of this!”
“They are constructs of the power you hold,” Davriel shouted back. “There is an Entity inside you that powers your songs. That strength should be able to control them somehow!”
“You said yourself that I have only a part of the power! Something stronger than me is behind this!”
He gritted his teeth, bracing himself as they turned a somewhat sharp corner. “Earlier,” he shouted to her, “you told me that you knew what had frightened the Entity of the Bog—you said the word ‘faith.’ Why?”
“I don’t know!” she said. “It just felt right!”
“That is not an acceptable answer!” He braced himself again on the side of the carriage as they took a corner. This time it was an even sharper turn, and Tacenda was smashed into the wood, grunting. A moment later they turned the other direction, and she slid across the seat and smashed into Miss Highwater.
“That fool is going to run us into a tree at this speed,” Miss Highwater said.
A green light shone out the window. Tacenda spotted ghostly visages in the woods, making pace with the carriage. They were fast. Crunchgnar didn’t have much choice—either he took the winding turns of this forest path at dangerous speeds, or he let the geists catch them. Indeed, he’d have to speed up, as the Whisperers were—
Tacenda slammed into the wall as they took another corner.
Davriel growled and gripped the door handle. “Too sharp!” he said. “We’re going to—”
Something snapped underneath the carriage. The vehicle tipped.
At that very moment, Davriel flung open the door. Tacenda lost track of him as she felt a stomach-churning sensation, then a sudden jolt as the vehicle tipped onto its side.
Tacenda tumbled in the carriage, frantically trying to protect her viol. Miss Highwater slid down on top of her with a grunt. The vehicle ground against the roadway, dragged briefly on its side, dirt and underbrush spraying through the window across Tacenda.
At last, the carriage slid to a halt. Tacenda groaned, trying to untangle herself from Miss Highwater, who was cursing softly under her breath. Outside, the horses whinnied and snorted in anxiety, and she thought she heard Crunchgnar trying to calm them.
Miss Highwater managed to stand, then she grabbed the doorway above them. Since the carriage had come to rest on its side, one door was down beneath them, the other above. There was no sign of Davriel, though Tacenda thought she had glimpsed him leaping out of the vehicle mid-tip.
Tacenda groaned and checked her viol. Remarkably, the instrument was in one piece. She cradled the viol as she climbed up on the sideways seat, then—with effort—pulled herself out onto what was now the top of the carriage. She was covered in dirt, her hair a tangled mess, and Miss Highwater looked little better.
Davriel had landed without apparent injury. He stood in the center of the roadway and—with a flourish—pulled on his long cloak. He looked remarkably self-possessed as he turned around, regarding the approaching Whisperers. His eyes bled to a pure white, his lips drawn as if in pain, and a flash of power exploded from him.
The bright flash almost blinded her in the night, and it made the Whisperers slow their approach. They circled the fallen carriage, twisted faces murmuring in an agitated way. They seemed to be wary of Davriel all of a sudden.
“The prioress’s power,” Miss Highwater said from beside Tacenda, both of them still crouched on top of the fallen carriage. “He can anchor those geists, force them to be corporeal.”
Ridiculous though the emotion was at a time like this, Tacenda found herself angry at the lord. It was distinctly unfair that he had been able to escape without getting tangled up or covered in dirt. How was it that this man managed to appear so composed all the time, despite being so useless?
“Miss Highwater,” Davriel said, turning around as the Whisperers started to draw closer, “unhook the horses and try to control them. Crunchgnar, your sword will likely be required.”
The large demon grunted and stepped over to Davriel, eyeing the spirits. Judging from the fresh scrapes on his arm, Crunchgnar had fallen when the carriage crashed.
Miss Highwater did as commanded, leaping down from the carriage and making calming noises toward the horses, which were tangled in their twisted bridles. Tacenda stayed in place atop the carriage, which seemed the safest spot for her.
At first, the Whisperers left a ring of about twenty feet between themselves and the carriage—then one tested forward. This act seemed to give the others permission, as they broke toward Davriel in a mass. Those terrible whispers accompanied them, a maddening sound, so close to being understandable.
She searched those twisted faces for signs of something she recognized. If these really were her friends and neighbors, shouldn’t she be able to tell? Unfortunately, the faces were so distorted, they were barely recognizable as human.
Crunchgnar began swinging about him like a drummer, slamming the sword down into spirit after spirit. Davriel’s spell had made them physical, and the weapon disrupted them—making their bodies puff and dissolve to green smoke that pooled at the ground, rather than evaporating away. Tacenda felt a hint of worry—these were the souls of people she loved. Would these attacks hurt them, permanently? Hopefully, the fact that the smoke pooled on the ground and lingered indicated that they weren’t being destroyed completely.
Miss Highwater frantically cut the horses free of their tangled harnesses. Davriel held his hand to the side to summon a weapon.
The viol disappeared from Tacenda’s hands. She yelped in surprise as it re-formed in Davriel’s outstretched hand, which he then thrust toward a spirit. Halfway through the maneuver, he seemed to realize he wasn’t holding a sword. He froze, then shot Tacenda a withering look, as if it were somehow her fault that he’d touched her viol earlier.
He tossed the viol aside, causing her to cry out atop the carriage. But then, she gasped as Davriel was surrounded by glowing green figures. They clawed at him, but instead of marring his skin, their fingers sank into his face. He went rigid, others holding his arms and his cloak.
Horrified, Tacenda watched as a green light began to bleed from Davriel’s face. They’re trying to pull his soul from his body!
For a moment she was back in the village, screaming into the second darkness and the terrible whispering. Listening as the people she loved were taken one at a time. Listening as—
No!
Tacenda threw herself off the top of the carriage and landed on the soft earth beside the road. She had no weapon other than her voice, so she started belting out the Warding Song. Crunchgnar roared in pain, but the Whisperers—as always—ignored it. Frustrated, she stopped singing and instead seized a sharp stone from the ground. She used it as a bludgeon, slamming it into the back of a glowing green figure, trying frantically to fight her way to Davriel.
She had little effect. The spirits didn’t even seem to notice her there.
Not him too! she thought. He’s the only hope I have!
She felled the spirit in front of her, its form melting away to dark green smoke, but others pressed in and the whispers surrounded her. She thrashed, trying to fight through—and again she felt helpless.
The spirits didn’t attack her, but they would take everyone around her. Everyone she’d ever loved, or even come to know. Leaving her alone in the infinite, pure blackness.
A blast of light washed over her, a blue wall of force, dissolving spirits in a ring. She stumbled to a stop, rock clutched in her fingers, to find Davriel crouching at the center. He stood up, blue smoke coloring his eyes. As another spirit came in—its head at a crooked angle, its gaping mouth as long as its forearm—Davriel raised his hand and released a blast of blue light.
“How?” Tacenda said. “I saw them taking your soul!”
“The ward I took from your mind acted as a shield for my soul, once I activated it,” he said. Though his voice was calm, his face had gone pale and he was shaking. “That done, it was a simple matter to use the dismissal spell I’d taken from those hunters.” He wiped his brow with a trembling hand. “You were worried for me? Foolish child. I was, of course, never in any danger...”
He glanced down toward the flowing green smoke. A head stretched from it, with a twisted, too-wide mouth. Hands reached up, re-forming.
“Hellfire,” he said, sending out a ring of blue light as he dismissed the spirits again. This flash seemed smaller than his previous uses, and the geists almost immediately started re-forming from the ground.
“Useless, idiot hunters,” Davriel cursed. “I’ve seen devils with more efficient magic. Go! Get to the horses.”
He shoved Tacenda toward the carriage, and she moved up beside the vehicle, pressing her back to it as Davriel sent a blast of light to aid Crunchgnar. The tall demon had no soul to lose—and the spirits weren’t pulling green light from him—but they were clawing at him, scratching his arms and trying to force him down to the ground.
Davriel’s blasts incapacitated many of the Whisperers, though stragglers were floating in from the forest. Tacenda started, realizing that a few of these had stopped at the edge of the roadway where they were looking at her. Too-long heads twisted in strange angles on their shoulders as they regarded her, then one raised its hand, pointing.
She felt a tremor inside. These newcomers were able to see her? What had changed?
“Davriel!” she shouted, backing along the fallen carriage, near the wheels. “Miss Highwater!” She held out her rock in a threatening manner.
The geists stopped in place. They...they were frightened of her rock?
No. It was the necklace she’d wrapped around her wrist earlier. The geists stared at it. While three just stood there, the last one changed, the eyes shrinking toward more normal human sizes. Its quivering form stabilized, and the face almost became human, recognizable.
It backed away, putting its hands to its face.
Miss Highwater leaped between Tacenda and the geists, slamming her knife into the side of a spirit’s head, causing it to stumble and start to disintegrate. She pulled Tacenda toward a skittish horse with a simple bridle, cut from the carriage harnesses.
“On!” Miss Highwater said. “You can ride?”
“Yes. My father taught me, in the evenings after—”
“Less storytelling. More getting the hell out of here. Dav! We’re ready!”
He emerged from the other side of the fallen carriage, looking somewhat haggard as he blasted the pair of geists who had been looking at Tacenda. The one whose face had momentarily started to re-form wasn’t among those. It had trailed away into the forest; she could pick out its green light moving among the trees.
Crunchgnar—bleeding from cuts along his arms—heaved himself onto a horse’s back and kicked the poor thing forward. The animal held him, barely. Miss Highwater held the reins of another horse for Davriel as he prepared to climb onto its back.
“Davriel,” Tacenda said, leaving her horse and grabbing his arm. “Something is odd about one of those spirits!”
“Which one?” he said immediately, scanning the area. His spell and Crunchgnar’s swords had left most of the Whisperers formless, but the coating of green smoke on the ground trembled, hands and faces re-forming.
Tacenda pointed out into the forest. “A group of them came after me—the only ones who have ever tried to attack me. But when they saw the symbol of the Nameless Angel, they stopped. One ran out into the forest!”
Davriel frowned. “Miss Highwater, keep the horses ready. I’ll return shortly.” He then strode out into the forest.
Tacenda hesitated, then ran after him.
“What?” Miss Highwater screamed after them. “Are you insane?”
Moving through the forest at night was difficult. There always seemed to be some unseen branch clawing at her dress, or some pitfall where the ground was a foot below where she expected it. The first darkness soon surrounded them, but Davriel summoned a light in the form of a small flame from his finger—the last remaining bit of his pyromancy.
She kept up with him, chasing down the glowing green light, which had stopped moving. They came upon the geist, who knelt beside a tree, head bowed. It had started to fuzz again, its shape distorting.
“The symbol,” Davriel said, waving his free hand toward Tacenda.
She unwrapped Willia’s necklace from her wrist and handed it to him. Davriel stepped around the geist and presented it. The thing looked up, fixating on the symbol—the shape of spreading wings.
“Is it the power of the church?” Tacenda asked.
“No,” Davriel said. “It’s the power of familiarity. Remember what I told you? Spirits such as these can sometimes be recovered through a reminder of something they knew in life.”
The geist reached out reverent fingers and touched the symbol of the Nameless Angel. The face faded from monstrous to human. Agonized human. Though it could shed no tears, this thing was weeping.
It...it was Rom.
