The Emerald Storm (26 page)

“You realize there’s only about a week’s worth of rations below, right?” Wyatt mentioned. “You might want to eat sparingly.”

A worried look crossed Banner’s face. “You’re gonna hurry back, right?”

Wesley led them off the ship and into the city, setting a brisk pace and keeping a sharp eye on the line of men. The old man, Antun Bulard, was the only straggler, but this had more to do with his age than his wounds, which had turned out to be only superficial cuts.

Loud-colored tents and awnings lined the roads of Dagastan from the harbor to the square. Throngs filled the paved pathways as merchants shouted to the crowds, waving banners with unrecognizable symbols. Old men smoked pipes beneath the shelter of striped canopies as scantily dressed women with veiled faces stood provocatively on raised platforms, gyrating slowly to the beat of a dozen drummers, bell ringers, and cymbal players. There was too much happening to focus on any single thing. Everywhere one looked there was dazzling color, tantalizing movement, intoxicating scents, and exciting music. The city taunted the senses, bewildered the mind, and blurred the eye. Overwhelmed, the little parade of sailors marched in step with Mister Wesley, as he led them to their promised guide. He and his team were waiting along a paved avenue not far from the city’s Grand Bazaar.

Dilladrum looked like an overweight beggar. His coat and dark britches were faded and poorly patched. Long, dirty hair burst out from under a formless felt hat as if in protest. His beard, equally mismanaged, showed bits of grass nested in its folds. His face was dusky, his teeth yellow, but his eyes sparkled in the afternoon sun. He stood on the roadside before a train of curious beasts. They appeared to be shrunken, shaggy horses. The animals were loaded with bundles and linked together by leads from one to the next. Six short, half-naked men helped Dilladrum keep the train under control. They wore only breechcloths of loose linen, and clattering necklaces of colored stones. Like Dilladrum, they grinned brightly at the sailor’s approach.

“Welcome, welcome, gentlemen,” he warmly addressed them. “I am Dilladrum, your guide. Before we leave our fair city perhaps you would like some time to peruse our fine shops? As per previous arrangements, I and my Vintu friends will be providing you with food, water, and shelter, but we will be many days afield and as such, some comforts as could be obtained in the bazaar could make your trek more pleasant. Consider our fine wines, liquors, or perhaps an attractive slave girl to make the camps more enjoyable.”

A few eyes turned appraisingly toward the shops where dozens of colorful signboards advertised in a foreign tongue. Music played—strange twanging strings and warbling pipes. Hadrian could smell lamb spiced with curry, a popular dish as he recalled.

“We will leave immediately,” Wesley replied, louder than was necessary for merely Dilladrum to hear him.

“Suit yourself, good sir.” The guide shrugged sadly. He made a gesture to his Vintu workers and the little men used long switches and yelping cries to urge the animals of the caravan forward.

As they did, atterspotted Hadrian and paused in his work. His brows furrowed as he stared intently until a shout from Dilladrum sent him back to herding.

“What was that all about?” Royce asked. Hadrian shrugged, but Royce looked unconvinced. “You were here for what—five years? Anything happen? Anything you want to share?”

“Sure,” he replied, with a sarcastic grin. “Right after you fill me in on how you escaped from Manzant Prison and why you never killed Ambrose Moor.”

“Sorry I asked.”

“I was young and stupid,” Hadrian offered. “But I can tell you that Wesley is right about the jungle being dangerous. We will want to watch ourselves around Gile.”

“You met him?”

Hadrian nodded. “I’ve met most of the warlords of the Gur Em, but I’m sure everyone’s forgotten me by now.”

As if overhearing, the train worker glanced over his shoulder at Hadrian once more.

“Everywhere landward from Dagastan is uphill,” Dilladrum was saying as the troop walked along the narrow dirt path through farmlands dotted by domed grass huts. “That is the way of the world everywhere, is it not? From the sea, we always need to go up. It makes the leaving that much harder, but the returning that much more welcome.”

They walked two abreast, with Wesley and Dilladrum, Wyatt and Poe, Royce and Hadrian, in front, while Thranic’s group followed behind the Vintu and the beasts. It was disconcerting to have Thranic and his crew behind them, but it was better than having to walk with them. Dilladrum set a brisk pace for a portly little man, stepping lively and thrusting his bleached walking stick out with practiced skill. He bent the brim down on his otherwise shapeless hat to block the sun making him look comical even while Hadrian wished he had a silly looking hat of his own.

“Mister Dilladrum, what exactly are your instructions concerning us?” Wesley inquired.

“I am contracted to safely deliver officers, cargo, and crew of the
Emerald Storm
to the Palace of the Four Winds in Dur Guron.”

“Is that the residence of Erandabon Gile?”

“Ah yes, the fortress of The Panther of Dur Guron.”

“Panther?” Wyatt asked.

Dilladrum chuckled. “It is what the Vintu call the warlord. They are a very simple folk, but very hard workers as you can see. The Panther is a legend among them.”

“A hero?” Wesley offered.

“A panther is not a hero to anyone. A panther is a great cat that hides himself in the jungle. He is a ghost to those who seek him, deadly to those he hunts, but to those he doesn’t, he is merely a creature deserving of respect. The Panther does not concern himself with the Vintu, but stories of his valor, cruelty and cunning reach them.”

“You are not Vintu?”

“No. I am Erbonese. It is a region to the northwest, not far from Mandalin.”

“And the Tenkin?” Wesley asked. “Is the warlord one of them?”

Dilladrum’s expression turned dark. “Yes, yes. The Tenkin are everywhere in these jungles.” He pointed to the horizon ahead of them. “Some tribes are friendly, others are not. Not to worry, my Vintu and I know a good route. We will pass through one Tenkin village, but they are friendly and familiar to us, like the one you call Staul, yes? We will make it safely.”

As they climbed higher, they entered a great plain of tall grass that swayed enchantingly with the breeze. Climbing a large rock, they could see for miles in all directions except ahead where a tall, forested ridge rose up several hundred feet. They made camp just before sundown. Hardly a word passed between Dilladrum and the Vintu, but they immediately set to work setting up decorative tents embroidered with geometric designs and neatly bordered canopies. Cots and small stools were set out for each, along with sheets and pillows.

Cooked in large pots over an open fire, the evening meal was strong and spicy enough to make Hadrian’s eyes water. It was tasty and satisfying after weeks eating the same tired pork stew. The Vintu took turns entertaining. Some played stringed instruments similar to a lute, others danced, and a few sang lilting ballads. The words Hadrian could not understand, but the melody was beautiful. Animal calls filled the night. Screeches, cries, and growls threatened in the darkness, always too loud and too close.

On their third day out, the landscape began to change. The level plains tilted upward and trees appeared more frequently. The forests that had lined the distance were upon them and soon they were trudging under a canopy of tall trees whose massive roots spread out across the forest floor like the fingers of old men. At first it was good to be out of the sun, but then the path became rocky, steep, and hard to navigate. It did not last long, as they soon crested a ridge and began a sharp descent. On the far side of the ridge, they could see a distinct change in the flora. The undergrowth thickened, turning deeper green. Larger leaves, vines, thickets of creepers, and needle-shaped blades encroached on the track, causing the Vintu to occasionally move ahead to chop a path.

The next day it began to rain. While at times it poured, at others it would only mist, but it never ceased.

“They always seem content, don’t they?” Hadrian mentioned to Royce as they sat under the canopy of their tent watching the Vintu preparing the evening meal. “It could be blazingly hot or raining like now and they don’t seem to care one way or the other.”

“Are you now saying we should become Vintu?” Royce asked. “I don’t think you can just apply for membership into their tribe. I think you need to be born into it.”

“What’s that?” Wyatt asked, coming out of the tent the three shared, wiping his freshly shaved face with a cloth.

“Just thinking about the Vintu and living a simple existence of quiet pleasures,” Hadrian explained.

“What makes you think they’re content?” Royce asked. “I’ve found that when people smile all the time they’re hiding something. These Vintu are probably miserable—economically forced into relative slavery, catering to wealthy foreigners. I’m sure they would smile just as much while slitting our throats to save themselves another day of hauling Dilladrum’s packs.”

“I think you’ve been away from Gwen too long. You’re starting to sound like the
old Royce
again.”

Across the camp, they spotted Staul, Thranic, and Defoe. Staul waved in their direction and grinned.

“See, big grin,” Royce mentioned.

“Fun group aren’t they,” Hadrian muttered.

“Yeah, they are a group aren’t they,” Royce considered. “Why would a sentinel, a Tenkin warrior, a physician, a thief, and…whatever the heck Bulard is, go into the jungles of Calis to visit a Tenkin warlord? And what is Bulard’s deal?”

Wyatt and Hadrian shrugged in unison.

“Isn’t that a bit odd? We were all on the same ship together for weeks and we don’t know anything about the man beyond the fact that he doesn’t look like he’s seen the sun in a decade. Perhaps if we found out, it would provide the common connection between the others and this Erandabon fellow.”

“Defoe and Bulard share a tent,” Hadrian pointed out.

“Who’s Defoe?” Wyatt asked.

“That’s Royce’s pet name for Bernie,” Hadrian quipped.

“Hadrian, why don’t you go chat with Bulard,” Royce said. “I’ll distract Defoe.”

“What about me?” Wyatt asked.

“Talk with Derning and Grady. They don’t seem as connected to the others as I first thought. Find out why they volunteered.”

The Vintu handed out dinner, which the
Storm’s
crew ate sitting on stools the Vintu provided. Dinner consisted mostly of what appeared to be shredded pork and an array of unusual vegetables i ifick, hot sauce that needled the tongue.

After the meal, darkness descended on the camp and most retired to their tents. Antun Bulard was already in his, just like he always stayed in his cabin aboard ship. The light in Bulard and Defoe’s tent flickered and the silhouettes of their heads bobbed about, magnified on the canvas walls. A few hours after dark, Defoe stepped out. An instant later, Royce swooped in.

“How you been,
Bernie
,” Royce greeted Defoe who flinched noticeably. “Going for a walk?”

“Actually, I was about to find a place to relieve myself.”

“Good, I’ll go with you.”

“Go with me?” he asked nervously.

“I’ve been known to help people relieve themselves of a great many things.” Royce put an arm around Defoe’s shoulder as he urged him away from the tents. Once more Defoe flinched. “A little jumpy, aren’t we?”

“Don’t you think I have good reason?”

Royce smiled and nodded, “You have me there. I honestly still can’t figure out what you were thinking.”

The two were outside the circle of tents, well beyond the glow of the campfire, and still Royce urged him farther away.

“It wasn’t my idea. I was just following orders. Don’t you think I’d know better than to—”

“Whose idea was it?”

Defoe only hesitated a moment, “Thranic,” he said, then hastily added, “but he just wanted you bloodied. Not dead, just cut.”

“Why?”

“Honestly, I don’t know.”

They stopped in a dark circle of trees. Night frogs croaked hesitantly, concerned by their presence. The camp was only a distant glow.

“Care to tell me what all of you are doing here?”

Defoe frowned. “You know I won’t, even to save my life. It wouldn’t be worth it.”

“But you told me about Thranic.”

“I don’t like Thranic.”

“So, he’s not the one you’re afraid of. Is it Merrick?”

“Merrick?” Defoe looked genuinely puzzled. “Listen, I never faulted you for Jade’s death or the war you waged on the Diamond. Merrick should have never betrayed you like that, not without first hearing your side of it.”

Royce took a step forward. In the darkness of the canopy, he was certain Defoe could barely see him. Royce, on the other hand, could make out every line on Defoe’s face. “What’s Merrick’s plan?”

“I haven’t seen Merrick in years.”

Royce drew out his dagger and purposely allowed it to make a metal scraping sound as it came free of its scabbard. “So, you haven’t seen him. Fine. But you’re working for him, or someone else who’s working for him. I want to know where he is and what he’s up to, and you’re going to tell me.”

Defoe shook his head. “I—I really don’t know anything about Marius or what he’s doing nowadays.”

Royce paused. Every line of Defoe’s face revealed he was telling the truth.

“What have we here?” Thranic asked. “A private meeting? You’ve strayed a bit far from camp, dear boys.”

Royce turned to see Thranic and Staul. Staul held a torch, Thranic carried a crossbow.

“It’s not safe to venture too far away from your friends, or didn’t you think about that, Royce?” Thranic told him and fired the crossbow at Royce’s heart.

“Antun Bulard, isn’t it?” Hadrian asked sticking his head in the tent.

“Hmm?” Antun looked up. He was lying on his stomach, writing with a featherless quill worn to only a few inches in length. He had on a pair of spectacles, which he looked over the top of. “Why, yes I am.”