The only strange or disturbing event that occurred for some time concerned Warran. During the relative gloom of one night Kiska got up to relieve her bladder and in doing so she passed behind the priest where he sat cross-legged facing the Whorl.
For an instant it seemed to Kiska that she could see the brilliance of the stars and the rippling banners of energy through the body of the priest. As if he were translucent, or wasn’t really there at all. She blinked, pausing, and stared again, but the impression was gone and the man was glaring over his shoulder.
‘I’m trying to meditate — if you don’t mind!’
And she’d retreated, apologizing. But the vision would not leave her and she found herself watching him much more closely than she had before.
Then, after an unknowable passage of time, a sandstorm blew in upon them. It came from ahead, the direction of the Whorl, a great wall of obscuring sand or dust boiling over the land towards them. First, the ravens, which had been hopping amid the rocks — searching for insects, Kiska wondered — let out great warning caws and swept up into the air. Jheval pointed to a clump of boulders and they ran to hunch in its lee. Kiska yelped as something latched itself on to her, but it was their guide, returned to wriggle under her cloak.
Warran straightened then, his brows rising in amazement. ‘This is no storm.’
‘Of course it is,’ Jheval snapped from behind his scarf. ‘Now get down!’
The priest raised a warning hand to Jheval. ‘No. This is something much worse. Do not move.’ And he stepped out into the open.
‘Fool! Come back!’ Jheval moved to follow but Kiska stopped him.
‘Wait. Perhaps he knows what he’s doing.’ She had time for one glance around for the hound — had it found cover? — before the cloud engulfed them. The diffuse light of the day darkened beyond the murkiness of night. The noise was almost too loud to hear: it hammered her ears with its reverberation. Something bit her hand — a sharp nip — and she looked down to see some sort of fly feeding upon her. She squashed it. Jheval pressed his head to hers, shouting: ‘Bloodflies! Flesh-eating flies! They’ll flense the meat from our bones! Do something!’
But Kiska flinched away. She cuffed at her head where they crawled in her hair. She thumped her armour where they’d wormed their way beneath. The bites were an agony; they dotted her hands like a pox. When a nip lanced far within her ear she screamed, her howl inaudible even to her, and fell curling into a fetal ball.
She didn’t think she’d passed out but slowly she became aware that the ocean of pain was diminishing, fading to a lingering searing agony that no longer threatened to push her into unconsciousness. She rose and wiped her face, feeling a warm smear — her forearm was sheathed in fresh wet blood. Peering around through narrowed eyes she saw that the cloud of flies had receded. It circled them now at a distance: a churning wall of a million ravenous mouths.
The priest was there and he passed her a cloth. She took it to dab at her face and arms, wincing as the weave rubbed the raw wounds. Jheval rose, hissing and groaning. If she looked anything like him right now she was a mess: his face ran with blood, as did his hands and forearms.
She saw that not one wound scarred Warran. ‘You’re not bitten!’ Damn the man! How was it he escaped? ‘What’s going on?’
‘We had something of a negotiation, he and I.’
‘He?’
Warran held up his opened hands. ‘Well… it.’
‘What is… it?’
‘It is D’ivers. It appears to have haunted these shores of Chaos for some time. It has grown quite powerful, as you see.’
‘Negotiation, you said?’ asked Jheval, his voice clenched with pain.
‘It flees the Whorl,’ Warran explained. Raising his voice, he called: ‘Is that not so?’
As the horde circled, hissing and thrumming, the massed whisperings of the millions of wings changed timbre. The tone rose and fell and incredibly Kiska found she could understand:
The Hole hungers more than I…
‘What name should I call you?’ Warran asked.
We do not remember such things. We are many. No one name can encompass us.
‘Been here too long…’ Jheval muttered.
Kiska stepped forward. ‘We are travelling to solve the mysteries of this Whorl.’
So this Cloaked One with you claims. Beware, then. Many are gathered on its verge, intent upon capturing its power. Dangerous beings. Ones even I choose not to consume.
‘Our thanks.’
It is nothing. This Whorl troubles me. Remember, all you meet need not be hostile. But beware the Army of Light.
The cloud peeled away, churning and spinning, rising like smoke. It drifted off the way it had been flying — away from the blot of the Whorl. The three watched it go. Kiska jumped then as the twig- and cloth-guide stirred to life under her cloak and leapt high into the eerie non-sky.
Jheval was dabbing at his face. ‘That thing is fleeing exactly what we are headed for.’
‘It can’t eat a hole,’ said Warran.
Kiska eyed the priest. ‘What is this Army of Light?’
Warran cocked his head, indifferent. ‘I assure you I have no idea.’
Jheval muttered something sour. They continued walking. The Seven Cities warrior paced along next to Kiska. ‘I don’t know why you try,’ he said.
‘Try what?’
He jerked his head at the priest. ‘Him. Asking him questions. He’s done nothing but lie to us. He’s hiding something, I’m sure of it. Did you hear what that thing called him? “Cloaked”? He’s a scorpion disguising himself with us.’
‘You have not been so forthcoming yourself,’ the priest called loudly from where he walked some distance off, and Jheval growled his anger. ‘Who is not hiding things, hey, Jheval? Why is it, I wonder, that it is always those with the most to hide who accuse others? Why do you think that is… Jheval?’
Kiska cocked a brow to the Seven Cities native, who glowered, jaws clenched, saying nothing. There was no more talk that day and as the dimness of night gathered they found another of the small pools where pale transparent fish lazed. She and Jheval took turns washing and treating their wounds. Returning from the pool, Jheval was clean of his blood, but the angry red dots of the countless bites on his face and hands made him look like the victim of a particularly virulent pox. She supposed she looked no better.
Lying down on her spread cloak, her rolled gear under her head, she thought of the words of the D’ivers creature. Powerful beings had gathered to the Whorl. Beings even it chose not to attack.
And it had chosen not to attack them. Or rather, perhaps she should say that it had chosen not to attack Warran. There it was again. Cloaked. She agreed with Jheval, of course. Yet maddeningly there was nothing she, or he, could do about it.
The next day they continued on after breaking fast on the raw flesh of the fish. Oddly enough, it was Jheval and she who did all the catching — Warran wouldn’t go near them. Their usual walking order was she and Jheval leading, Warran bringing up the rear. This was how they were when, from beneath disguising layers of sand, armoured figures leapt up to bar their way.
There were more than twenty of them: some sort of patrol or guard, similarly clad in pale enamelled armour of cuirasses with scaled sleeves and leggings and white enamelled helmets. They carried pale shields, cracked and yellowed now, and the blades of their bared curved swords gleamed yellow.
Warran came up to stop beside Kiska. ‘The Army of Light,’ he announced.
Thank you very much.
One called something in a language Kiska did not know. The man tried several more until finally speaking in Talian. ‘Drop your weapons.’
‘Who are you to threaten us?’ Kiska shouted back.
‘Your companion also,’ the man answered.
‘We can take them,’ Jheval murmured, hardly moving his lips.
‘You do not really think this is all of them, do you?’ Warran said. ‘Best comply. Let’s not make a scene.’