The Dirt Eaters Page 20

  “I fed you for almost a month, and that’s the thanks I get?”

  “Don’t worry, Lumpy, she’s okay,” Roan informs his friend. He wraps his arms around him. “Thanks for bringing me here...and for waiting.” Roan lifts Lumpy into the air, both of them startled and pleased by the spontaneous display of affection.

  “Guess you’ve recovered!”

  “Not quite,” explains Alandra. “Another few days in the arm mold before we set him free. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Not so long as you keep bringing me those berry cakes.”

  Alandra holds out a stuffed-full satchel for him. “There are more for you in here, plus some tools you might find useful.”

  Lumpy digs through the bag and pulls out a jar. Opening it, he sniffs, and his eyes open wide. “Salve.”

  “I’m working on something to heal your skin, but at the moment, this is the best I can offer. Let’s put some on you now,” Alandra offers.

  “You’re one of the healers the Forgotten told me about,” Lumpy says, his face filled with respect. Alandra nods and begins to rub the cream on his arms, neck, and face. Lumpy takes off his shirt and pulls up his pant legs, and Roan applies the salve to his friend’s back and legs. While they finish, Lumpy hugs Alandra gratefully.

  “So is this where you sleep?” asks Roan.

  “No, just one of many hiding holes.” Lumpy leads them to some rocks set on mossy ground. “Here’s home,” he says, slipping his fingers under the moss. Lifting it like a blanket, he reveals a hollowed-out area below.

  “It may look rough, but believe me, I’m happy to have it. These woods are scary.”

  “Marauders?” Roan asks. “I don’t suppose robber bands could resist a place like Fairview.”

  “Fairview is under the protection of the Friends,” says Alandra.

  Roan and Lumpy exchange a nervous look.

  “I haven’t seen a Friend,” reports Lumpy, “but I have seen plenty of Blood Drinkers. Mainly they lurk around at night, scouting. When I hear them coming, I raft out onto the lake.”

  “You made a raft?” Alandra asks excitedly.

  “That water’ll burn most things it touches, but the stick trees are impervious to it. And they float. So I wove some together. When I’m out on the raft, the Blood Drinkers can’t sniff me out. That stink’d mask anything. And even if they could, they wouldn’t dare step in the water. So it’s pretty good cover.”

  “The smell must be hard to take.”

  “Breathe it in deep a couple of times and you get used to it quick.”

  “How long would it take you to make three rafts, each big enough to hold four or five children and one or two of us?” Alandra asks.

  “Are you serious? What’s this about?”

  “An escape. How does a week sound?”

  “I might be able to do it if those Blood Drinkers weren’t lurking around.”

  “Then you’ll need some help.” Alandra whistles, and from behind rustle of branches, a smiling figure emerges.

  “Lelbit!” yells Lumpy, rushing over to her. She takes his hand and puts it on her heart. Roan looks questioningly at Alandra.

  “She was sent by the Forgotten to watch over you.”

  “It was you who pulled us out of the poison forest. You built the harness!” Lumpy exclaims.

  Lelbit shrugs humbly.

  “Why didn’t you let me know you were there?” Lumpy asks.

  “Her ability to protect you would have been compromised if her presence was known,” says Alandra. “But our plans have changed. Those rafts need to be made before the truck comes for the children.”

  While Roan collects the herbs that are their cover for having left Fairview, Alandra explains the situation. Time is short, but with Lumpy and Lelbit’s help, success now seems possible.

  In the burgeoning heat of mid-spring, Roan and Alandra prepare for the escape. If they are discovered, they know the offense will reap a terrible punishment. They fill large water sacks, stitch child-sized rucksacks and pack them with bedding and food. Roan creates a map based on the terrain he saw in the flying dream. Together, he and Alandra estimate the distance they need to cover. Roan’s tension builds with every passing day. An innocent knock on the door fills him with apprehension. A simple question from a shopkeeper makes his adrenaline surge. If they’re found out, Lona and the rest of the children will die. They cannot fail.

  This is not the only burden weighing on Roan. He finally feels he knows Alandra well enough to ask for an answer. “Why, from the time I first started dreaming, have you, Sari, and the others kept my sister from me?”

  Alandra sighs. “The Masters of the City have Stowe. Some Dirt Eaters control her. The Turned, we call them. Collaborators with the City during the wars. It was the Turned who discovered Longlight, then revealed the location to their masters. The City sent Saint to capture both you and Stowe. He betrayed them by keeping you. Now they’re using Stowe to find you. The power each of you possesses is formidable, but you and Stowe together would be unstoppable.”

  “Isn’t there some way to get her out?”

  “Even if you did manage to find her without the City knowing, she’d expose you. Then they’d do the same thing to you as they’re doing to her. Roan, your sister has changed. Right now, she’s one of them.”

  “What have they...”

  “They’ve awakened her to her adult power. When that’s done to a child, a terrible negative force is unleashed. The person becomes a distortion of who they are, of what they might have become.”

  “Can she be turned back?”

  “That may be possible one day, but for now, no. We would compromise everything we’ve struggled for. But maybe you’re ready to see where she is. It might help you understand. Come,” says Alandra.

  ROAN IS IN A CREVICE. HIGH WALLS ON EITHER SIDE, ABOVE HIM SKY. THE WIDE ROAD HE STANDS ON IS CONCRETE, MUCH OF IT BROKEN AND TURNED UP IN HUGE SLABS. IN FRONT OF HIM SITS THE BROWN RAT.

  “IF YOU REVEAL YOURSELF TO HER, IT WILL BE THE END OF YOU, OF HER, AND OF EVERYTHING THAT LONGLIGHT HOPED FOR,” THE RAT SAYS TO ROAN.

  “WHO ARE YOU?” ROAN ASKS.

  “I AM MANY AND FEW.” THE RAT LOOKS AT THE GOAT-WOMAN. “ALANDRA. QUICKLY. BE CIRCUMSPECT.”

  THE OLD GOAT-WOMAN NODS TO ROAN. ATOP A METAL LADDER, ROAN GAPES AT THE SIGHT BEFORE HIM. A HUGE METROPOLIS, BUILDINGS TOWERING INTO THE SKY, CONSUMES THE HORIZON.

  “THE AURA,” SHE SAYS. “WE’LL NEED IT TO DISGUISE OURSELVES.”

  THIS TIME, ROAN ACHIEVES THE LUMINESCENCE EFFORTLESSLY.

  “WATCH,” SAYS ALANDRA AS SHE DRAWS HER GREEN AURA BACK INTO HER SKIN, MAKING HER INDISTINGUISHABLE FROM HER SURROUNDINGS. “TAKE MY HAND.”

  ROAN’S CHARGED WITH SENSATION. “I SMELL DIFFERENT.”

  “BLEND WITH ME, WE ARE EARTH NOW. CAN YOU SEE THE BRIDGE INTO THE CITY?”

  “YES.”

  “IMAGINE YOURSELF THERE.”

  THE AIR AROUND ROAN CONSTRICTS HIS CLAY BODY. BETWEEN HIM AND THE ENDLESS SKYSCRAPERS, THE DENSE AIR SWIRLS AND EDDIES INTO PATTERNS THAT APPEAR SO SOLID THAT ROAN REACHES OUT A HAND TO TOUCH THEM.

  “WE ARE AT THE EDGE OF THE DREAMFIELD,” ALANDRA EXPLAINS. “HERE WE CAN SEE THROUGH IT AND GET GLIMPSES OF THE ACTUAL CITY.”

  “ROAN! ROAN!”

  ALANDRA NUDGES ROAN. “SHHH!” SHE HISSES.

  HE HEARS HIS NAME AGAIN AND AGAIN, COMING FROM DIFFERENT DIRECTIONS.

  ALANDRA POINTS. “SHE DOESN’T KNOW YOU’RE HERE.”

  ON TOP OF BULGING LAMPPOSTS ARE SHINING SILVER SPEAKERS. AND FROM EACH ONE THE SOUND OF STOWE’S VOICE CALLS ROAN’S NAME. A STRANGE YELLOW LIGHT PROJECTS FROM BEHIND SOME TOWERS A FEW BLOCKS AHEAD. ALANDRA EXTENDS HER HAND AND SHE AND ROAN ARE DRAWN TO ITS SOURCE.

  THEY ARE PRE
SSED AGAINST THE GLASS OF AN ENORMOUS DOME. AT FIRST THE LIGHT IS BLINDING. BUT SOON WHAT’S INSIDE BECOMES VISIBLE. IN A VAST CONCRETE MORGUE LIE THE BODIES OF DOZENS OF CHILDREN. HOVERING OVER THEM, SURGEONS LACERATE AND EVISCERATE. HERE, A LITTLE GIRL, HER ABDOMEN EXPOSED, HER LIVER EXTRACTED. THERE, A BOY, SKULL OPEN, HIS BRAIN PROBED.

  ROAN STURGGLES TO CONTROL HIS RAGE AND GRIEF. HE QUIETS HIS BREATH WHILE ALANDRA CRIES SILENTLY.

  THEN HE SEES HER. HIS SISTER, STOWE, HER HANDS DRIPPING WITH BLOOD, HER GAZE FEROCIOUSLY ENERGIZED. A TALL, THIN-NOSED MAN LOOMS OVER HER, LONG FINGERS STROKING HER HAIR.

  ROAN WATCHES, DISTURBED. “WHO’S THAT WITH HER?”

  “A TURNED ONE.”

  AT THAT MOMENT, THE MAN SNAPS HIS HEAD SKYWARD.

  “PULL BACK!” ALANDRA CRIES, AND THEY ROLL JUST AS A HIDEOUS VULTURE-LIKE BIRD, RED BULBOUS SKIN HANGING OVER ITS BEAK, CASTS AN OMINOUS SHADOW OVER THEM. ALANDRA AND ROAN REMAIN PERFECTLY STILL.

  “THIS WAY,” SAYS THE RAT. AS THE DREAMFIELD COMPRESSES, ROAN FEELS HIS BODY COLLAPSE DOWN TO A MICROSCOPIC LEVEL AND DART BETWEEN MOLECULES IN THE EARTH. LOST IN THIS EERIE TIMELESSNESS HE IS UNCERTAIN OF HOW MUCH, IF ANY, TIME HAS PASSED. HE ONLY KNOWS THAT IN ONE MOMENT HE IS OF HUMUS AND WATER-SOAKED EARTH, AND IN THE NEXT HE EMERGES INTO DAYLIGHT.

  FAR UP IN THE SKY, NOW JUST A SMALL STAIN AGAINST THE BLUE CLOUDS, HE CAN SEE THE SILHOUETTE OF THE GIANT BIRD.

  “WE ARE SAFE NOW,” SAYS THE RAT. “BUT IT WOULD BE WISE FOR YOU TO WAKE.”

  Alandra reaches across to Roan, anticipating his grief.

  “Maybe one day, when you’ve fully come into your powers, it might be possible—”

  But the clanging of alarm bells interrupts her, deflecting their concerns outward.

  “Blood Drinkers are attacking the gates,” Alandra informs Roan.

  At the wall, the town guards are in position, loading their crossbows. Governor Brack’s on the ground shouting orders. Leaving Alandra behind, Roan runs up the steep steps of the wall, hoping to get a better look at the enemy. He reaches the top and peeks over the rampart. On the ground below is an army of Blood Drinkers. Roan’s heart sinks at the sight of the vile creatures. They are moving toward the wall in groups of three, each group carrying a ladder. He knows what they’ll do to the people here, to the children, if they get past the walls. And he knows that he’ll fight to protect them, even if it means exposing himself.

  The guards aim their crossbows and fire, wounding several of the Drinkers. But this only seems to galvanize the predators. Seemingly oblivious to the pain, the Drinkers simply break off the arrows that strike them and continue their charge. The first ladder is placed up against the wall. Three Blood Drinkers begin climbing, one after the other, brandishing menacing knives that glint in the light. Roan leans over the wall, grabs the ladder, and pushes it backward. An angry hiss escapes the Blood Drinkers as they fall to the hard-packed ground below.

  “Stand away!” orders Brack, who has climbed up beside Roan and holds a bottle on a stick. He places the stickend into a holder on the deck. “Move back!” he commands his troops, as he lights the end of the bottle. Sparks flare as the bottle rises to a great height, then explodes, releasing a huge cloud of yellow smoke into the sky.

  Roan stares at the spectacle. He’s heard of fireworks and rockets, and though the effect is exceptional, he wonders at its purpose. The Blood Drinkers certainly seem undeterred.

  “Hold the vermin off another half-hour. That’s all we’ll need,” Brack orders.

  There is no time for Roan to figure out the meaning of Brack’s words as more ladders strike the walls. The first are easily toppled, but in short order a dozen more are shoved against the walls.

  Roan feels a clammy hand on his shoulder. A Blood Drinker, its sharpened teeth gaping, raises a knife. Roan dodges, kicking his attacker in the stomach. The Blood Drinker flies at him, but Roan shifts his weight and sends the predator sailing back over the wall, where it crashes into a ladder, smashing three of its comrades to the ground.

  Many townspeople are helping with the fight, but they’re hopelessly outnumbered by the pale monsters. It won’t be long before the walls are breached and the massacre begins.

  Then out of the stick-tree forest bursts a band of raiders, some forty strong. Their ears and lips are pierced with shards of rock, their bodies painted and armored. Brandishing battle-axes and spears, the raiders break the ladders, and hack, spear, or trample the Blood Drinkers with terrifying precision. In less than an hour, the slaughter is over.

  The warriors scramble like beetles, collecting anything of value from the dead. The bloodied remains are dragged the whole distance to the lake, and the corpses are rolled unceremoniously into its acrid waters.

  Roan watches the victors return through the gates. Staying low behind the battlement, he examines their faces closely. He’s never seen any of them, but that doesn’t guarantee they won’t recognize him. If they’re allies of the Friends, chances are they know his description; they may start asking questions. Observing Alandra leaving the area, Roan runs to catch up with her.

  “Complicates things, doesn’t it?” he asks her.

  “It depends how long the raiders stay.”

  Suddenly the governor’s upon them. “Alandra! There are wounded. Could you tend to them?”

  “I’m on my way,” she replies without stopping.

  “I see you’re a warrior,” comments Brack, cutting in front of Roan so there’s no escaping him. “Much more to you than meets the eye.”

  “Another week of assisting Alandra, and my account with her will be settled.”

  “So soon?” says the Governor. “Well, I’m sorry to hear that, Korr. You were a true asset in the battle.”

  “I only do what’s required. Your town has been good to me, Governor Brack, and I regret that I must move on.”

  “I’m holding a banquet tonight to honor our champions, and you will be my special guest,” says Brack. “No, no, don’t protest, you were valiant today. So surprising. The ambassador himself will be attending. You must meet him.”

  “It’s just...I’m not much good at such occasions,” says Roan, hoping to beg off.

  But it’s clear the governor won’t take no for an answer. “I insist,” says Brack imperiously. “I’ll see you at eight.”

  Roan worries as he watches the governor swagger off. If he doesn’t go to the banquet, it will raise suspicion. If he does, he risks being identified. He can only hope Alandra knows how to navigate these dangerous waters.

  THE AMBASSADOR’S GIFT

  ON THE NIGHT THE BIRDS DISAPPEARED FOREVER FROM THE CITY, ALL THE CHILDREN WOKE SCREAMING. AND THEY WOULD NOT BE COMFORTED.

  —THE BOOK OF LONGLIGHT

  “I BOUGHT THIS FOR YOU to wear to the banquet,” says Alandra.

  Roan eyes the proffered package with trepidation. “Are you certain I should go?”

  “Brack has reminded me twice to bring you. You revealed too much in that battle.”

  “Should I have done nothing?”

  Alandra shrugs, conceding the point. “I’ve arranged an inconspicuous seat for you, well out of the raiders’ view. Once the meal’s over you can slip away.” And she leaves him to change.

  Roan opens the package. The suit inside is black and of a fabric so light and soft he’s amazed it has any substance at all. Both the people of Longlight and the Forgotten fashioned beautiful clothes, but they had to be functional. These are something other, sensuous and unfamiliar. He doesn’t trust them.

  When Alandra emerges from her room, she is dressed in a flowing gown, her hair in braids and ringlets. Her lips are glazed with red. Roan stares at her dubiously.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks.

  “You don’t look like you.”

  She shrugs. “There’s no choice. This is how the women of Fairv
iew dress for these events.”

  Alandra guides Roan along Fairview’s main street to the banquet hall. Roan feels awkward and unsure in his new clothes, but he blends in handily with the throng that meanders among the opulent marble pillars and gilded moldings.

  “This building is Governor Brack’s pride and joy,” Alandra says in a low voice. “It’s a monument to his resurrection of Fairview. He loves nothing more than to honor the high and mighty here.”

  There are about a hundred people in the hall. The most prominent citizens of Fairview, all dressed in their best, have come to express their gratitude to the raiders. The mercenaries themselves are washed and shaven, and Roan notes they’ve shucked their body armor for the occasion. It’s clear they are welcome here.

  Alandra escorts Roan to his spot. As promised, she has managed to seat him at a table far off to the side. “I told the governor your condition was still delicate and required it,” she murmurs. Once Roan is settled, she goes off to her own place, next to Brack at the head table.

  A puffed-up fellow in garish red and yellow silks monopolizes the attention of everyone at Roan’s table. He clearly fancies himself a gourmet, predicting, from the appetizing scents that fill the room, what the great chef Yasmin has prepared. “No doubt,” he postulates as he sniffs, “rack of lamb, and when it comes, smell it first! The meat will have been steeped in her ten-herb marinade. It’s like nothing you’ve ever tasted. Glazed yams and potatoes, eight-succulent-vegetables-in-savory-sauce, and ah yes, seasoned breads.” Though he cannot yet smell the desserts, he assures everyone that the most indescribably luscious pastries are certain to follow.

  The man’s pregnant wife is silent beside him, making no attempt to disguise that she’s decidedly bored with her husband, the menu, and the event. She nods at Roan with feigned interest and he bows low, hoping to minimize his exposure.

  Roan is happy to see the raiders are already deep into the wine, making toasts and singing bawdy songs. The more preoccupied they are with their revelry, the less chance there is one of them will cast eyes on him.