“Well, there’s more to the story.” The kender shifted on her perch. “But I’ll save that for another time.”
Shaon laughed. “So what’s your real name?”
“Vera-Jay Nimblefingers.”
“Know what? I like Blister better.”
The kender heartily agreed and as the miles passed, she continued to regale the sea barbarian with tales of her exploits in Balifor and Kendermore. Dhamon and Feril rode in silence, listening also, until the outskirts of Dolor came into view.
It was shortly past noon, and the day showed no promise of cooling off. Feril brushed the sweat off her forehead, squinted, and looked at the collection of clay-domed houses and wooden buildings erected against the sides of some low hills. There was no sign of people. It was just as the barbarians in the tavern had said it would be.
The Kagonesti inhaled deeply, then coughed. The air was tinged with the musky rot of death. A shiver raced down her spine, and she cast her gaze about, looking for the corpses she knew must be near.
“I feel like we’re being watched,” Shaon whispered. “I wonder if there are any ghosts about....”
25
The Death of Dolor
Feril dismounted and headed toward the village, the horse following her. The mare whinnied softly.
“I know it smells bad,” Feril hushed. “Stay here.”
Metal cooking pots sat by cold firepits outside many of the earthen, dome-shaped homes. She idly wondered if Orok’s Clay was patterned to be like Dolor, or if this village was the later of the two and had borrowed Orok’s building techniques, and improved on them. Some of the domes looked more elaborate, and decorations were etched into the sides of some—plants, animals, circular and zigzag patterns.
A loom that held a partially finished ocher and black blanket sat just beyond the doorway of the closest structure.
Inside another she saw clean clothes folded on a high shelf and dirty plates on a table. One home had an empty child’s bed in view, a red wooden ball and some other toys underneath it. Behind a small dome was a pen filled with pigs. They huddled in the scant shade thrown from the building and showed only mild curiosity at her presence.
The scent of death remained heavy, but the Kagonesti still didn’t spot any bodies. She saw that a section of the pen’s fence was broken and guessed they were probably coming and going, foraging for food. She doubted the pigs ate the dead, however. There would be some bones scattered about, and there were none that she could see.
She followed a curving path that cut through the center of the village, and she passed by a larger pen, for horses or cattle, she guessed. It was empty.
Dhamon and Shaon came closer, but as their horses passed by the first few homes, the Kagonesti held up her hand, silently warning them to keep their distance. She didn’t want any noise or scents to interfere and confuse her.
She heard a shuffling ahead. Someone moving? Something? She peered to her left and saw a canvas sheet over a doorway, rustling in the slight breeze. She relaxed, creeping forward.
She passed the middle of the village, where the path turned and the crude homes were the largest. She spotted what she believed was the central lodge. From here, she could better see the far end of the village—and a fresh row of graves at the edge of a graveyard.
There were more than a dozen recent graves. Who dug them? Who buried the people? Feril continued slowly down the path. She stopped a few feet from the new graves and dropped to her knees. Her hands touched the ground at the mounds’ edges, and she started sketching, her fingers digging into the soft, dry earth.
Dhamon and Shaon rode in as far as the central lodge, watching her.
“What’s she doing?” Blister whispered.. The kender’s question went unanswered.
Dhamon slid from his horse and edged ahead. The sun was high and behind him. His shadow stretched in a line toward the elf. It looked as though she was sifting dirt through her fingers and tracing a pattern in the ground. Through the still air, he heard her softly humming.
Blister nudged Shaon, and the sea barbarian jumped from her horse and plucked the kender from the saddle. She handled Blister gingerly, as if she were a porcelain doll that might brake. Shaon didn’t want the kender’s fingers to bump against anything.
“What’s she doing?” the kender asked again.
Feril counted fifteen new graves, all small, as if Dolor’s recently deceased residents had been dwarves or kender—although the homes’ doorways were obviously tall enough to accommodate humans. A few of the graves had been freshly dug, she could tell by the looseness and color of the dirt on top of them. From the dome to her right drifted the odor of rotting bodies. There were some dead that were not yet buried.
No one left to put them in the ground? the elf wondered. Was a plague to blame? She couldn’t pick up the scent of anyone living, not even of any of her companions. The smell of decay was too potent.
She continued to draw in the dirt, tracing twin patterns to a simple spell that would permit her to see through the soil, learn what it knew, see who was buried here and what had happened to them. She hummed louder, the enchantment nearing its completion. Then suddenly she cried out as an arrow struck the dirt in front of her. A second one followed swiftly, lodging itself deep in her arm.
Dhamon ran forward, dirt showering the air behind him. He drew his sword, running toward the far building on the Kagonesti’s right. He saw arrows coming from the doorway.
“Get down, Feril!” he hollered as he darted inside.
The Kagonesti dove forward, as two arrows cut through the air where her head had been just a heartbeat before. She lay between the mounds of two graves. Turning to her left, she stretched her hand across her chest, bit her lip, and tugged the arrow free.
Now I know what a hunted deer feels like, she thought. Only a deer doesn’t have hands to get the arrow out. Warm blood spilled from the wound, darkening the sleeve of her soft leather tunic.
She heard a thud behind her. Dhamon? Risking a glance, she poked her head above the mound and saw Shaon and Blister racing down the center path. There was no sign of Dhamon, though she heard another thud from inside the hut.
“Why did you shoot her?” she heard Dhamon shout.
Shaon drew her sword and crouched just beyond the door, then her eyes opened in surprise and she stepped back. In that instant a boy was pushed outside. The force of Dhamon’s shove knocked him down. Caught off-balance, his head slammed back and hit the ground. He groaned and struggled to get up, but Dhamon followed and planted a foot on his stomach. Shaon dashed forward and held her blade at his neck.
Feril stood and slowly walked toward them. She cradled her arm against her chest. The wound throbbed as blood poured from it, but she thrust the pain to the back of her mind and concentrated on the boy. She guessed he was nine or ten. His chest was bare and slick with sweat, and he smelled of death. His lips were cracked and bleeding where Dhamon had punched him in the mouth.
“I’m all right,” the Kagonesti offered. She glanced around at the doorways to the other homes, watching to see if anyone would come to the youngster’s defense.
Dhamon backed away from the boy and was at Feril’s side in two steps. Behind him, Shaon kept her sword leveled threateningly.
“Why’d you shoot her?” Blister asked. “She didn’t do anything to you.”
“Answer us!” Shaon spat. “Give me a reason why I shouldn’t run you through!”
“She must die! She meant to disturb the graves!” he cursed. “Defilers!”
“So he does have a tongue,” Dhamon muttered. He sheathed his sword and pulled a small knife, from his belt and started to cut at Feril’s sleeve, “At least he also has bad aim.”
“Where are the others?” Shaon kept the sword inches from his throat.
“There are no others,” the boy responded. “They’re all dead, just like you’ll soon be. The sky monsters will carry you away, kill you!”