DEVIL

Surveying the Land

BD Wilson

 

“Fifty-five meters by forty of high-grade cropland,” the surveyor said, and Robanni recorded the measurement on the partially covered sheet of parchment. He had six almost identical but completed sheets back at the village office. The Plains of Aslinea hadn’t changed in the six years of his apprenticeship, and he didn’t expect them to change in the last two remaining on his service debt.

Not that it mattered to Jekaar. The surveyor would have him record the same information this year and the next. And then he would buy some other poor nomad child to keep track of the eight years following that.

“High-grade cropland,” Robanni repeated as he finished writing the words.

“Such waste,” Jekaar said as he stood, brushing wet soil off his hands. “Crown land, of great value, just sitting here, rotting.”

Robanni looked at the low grass of the plains around them. The ground could be seen through the scattered patches of earth-saving growth. It was dark and healthy, and the grass was the light green of spring leaves. The area was level enough that he could see across the wide fields to the fences of the surrounding farms and holdings. He searched for signs of rot—it would be something different after all—but there were none.

“It seems just as healthy as last year,” he said, “and the year before.”

“Large packets, undistributed, undeveloped,” his master continued without acknowledging the words. “It’s an affront to business, to progress.”

“And yet, it’s respectful to nature.” To nature, and the secrets the world still held. There were reasons the crown would do nothing with these lands. There were stories and warnings that kept even the nomads from resting here when they passed between the farms.

Robanni raised the hand with the quill and caught one of his two braids. His fingernail stroked over the black bound hair, running between the beaded charms and feathers worked into the strands. The movements made a whisper of sound that stood in for words he was no longer allowed to speak, and only half remembered.

Ashaantali d’annan, spirits of life, otalidiel savon. Bless those who bless you. Istel.

“Look around you!” Jekaar stood in the middle of the cropland sector and spread his arms wide. “Just look around you.”

Instead, Robanni read back over the notes he’d already made so far, and compared them to the mental copy he had of the previous year. His handwriting had improved.

Jekaar’s words picked up speed as he pointed far to the south. “Farmland, profitable and useful, feeding the people of the kingdom, bringing in revenue.” He spun to face the west, the light of the sun hitting his bronze skin, emphasizing the age lines on his face. “Pastureland, filling the stomachs of the finest wool-producing flock in the kingdom.”

Robanni’s own stomach growled. They’d been out here all day, and Jekaar’s obsession prevented them from stopping for lunch. They’d be out all night without dinner, too, if they didn’t start moving again.

“Sire, we’ll lose the light,” Robanni interrupted as Jekaar spun to the north. This, at least, was heard.

“Quite right. Onward.” He marched in the direction he’d been pointing, his gaze focused on the ground before him.

Robanni rolled his eyes, adjusted his satchel of supplies, and then followed the measured steps. From the previous year’s records, they should hit the change right about —

“Ah ha! From cropland to pastureland again, just like the surrounding areas. Mark these co-ordinates.” Jekaar scowled at the almost imperceptible line between the grades of quality. “She’ll listen this year. She has to listen. No more of this superstitious nonsense getting in the way of development.”

Robanni tuned out the willfully ignorant rant, shaking his head over the familiar obsession. The king wouldn’t listen this year any more than she had the year before. There were laws even she had to uphold, after all. With good reason.

Jekaar started moving again, still muttering to himself. “Protected territory. Nonsense. Such a waste. Eh? What’s this?”

Looking up from the parchment, Robanni frowned. They should have been able to walk to the edge of the Plains uninterrupted now. They should have been able to finish this ridiculous waste of time, abandon their trespass of the land, and return to the office. He should not be staring at his master’s bald head as Jekaar crawled around, face lowered like a bloodhound.

For the first time in almost six years of employment, Robanni had no idea what the normally predictable man was doing. His hand twitched, causing an errant mark on the clean onion-colored surface of the parchment. He stopped writing, taking his braid in hand again. The quiet rasping noise helped stop his rising nerves, calming him.

Keethanval who guards the mind, otalidiel risan. Let mind find an answer. Natef istel.

“Sire?” he said, watching the man on the ground. “Is something wrong?”

“Look at this,” Jekaar answered. “Come here and look at this. Tell me what I’m seeing.”

Robanni rubbed the braid one more time before letting it go and then tucked the sheet of parchment and the quill safely into his satchel. He knelt on the ground next to his master. For a few moments he saw nothing, and then he blinked.

“Is that—?”

“Yes, yes?” Jekaar prompted.

He took a breath. “Is the ground glowing, Sire?”

“Yes!” Jekaar sat up. “Hand me my kit,” he ordered, holding one hand out.

Robanni looked up from the glowing ground, glanced at the outstretched palm, and then at his mater’s satchel. “It’s in your pack, Sire.”

“What? Oh, right.” He shuffled back and opened the satchel, pulling out balls of twine, stakes of various lengths, strips of colored cloth, and finally, a small leather box. Jekaar left the other items scattered across the ground, and opened the box to reveal securely packaged vials of potions.

Robanni looked down and sighed at the scattered mess. He was going to have to clean those up.

He frowned. The light glow on the ground had increased to a sparkle, like the sun on frost in winter. The sight was at once familiar, and completely alien to the warm weather.

“Now then,” Jekaar said, “let’s see what this is.” He knelt on the ground, opened one of the vials, and dipped an eyedropper into the liquid it contained.

“Sire, are you certain this is wise?” Robanni asked, aware of his master’s movements, but still focused on the playful light of the soil.

“Of course it is.” The answer was snapped, terse, but sounded so very far away. “Something has happened to the land. It is our duty to determine what it is.”

“Our duty,” Robanni repeated. The sparkles seemed to be spinning. His hand caught his braid again, as his mind pulled back the stories he’d heard as a child, sitting around the cooking fires with his mother as her mother spoke to them in a voice withered by age, warning them of the dangers in the wild. He tried to focus on the quiet sound his scratching made, but the lights called to him, tricked his voice into joining the whisper.

“Lotali en’iva,” entrancing sprites, “otalidiel vitomali. Free me from your spell.” Kisamidi istel.

Over the sound of his prayer he could hear a hiss and sizzle as Jekaar let a drop of the liquid fall to the ground, but he still couldn’t tear his eyes away.

“I should be taking notes.”

“Of course you should.”

Had Jekaar moved? Walked away, farther into the field? Robanni couldn’t tell. The pinprick lights were brighter. They were sharp little stars, playing on fallen sky before him, dancing in the darkness.

“What are you—Who are you?” Jekaar’s tone was outrage tinged with fear.

Robanni frowned, trying to make sense of the words. The darkness behind the lights grew deeper, started to move forward, creeping around and over the lights toward him.

“This is crown land. You can’t be here! Do you hear me? You can’t—”

Jekaar’s scream seemed even farther away than his words. Robanni felt his eyes roll, his hand releasing his hair as his legs gave way. The darkness swallowed the last of the lights, and him along with them.

A sound woke him. By the time his mind registered consciousness, it had stopped, but it left behind a shiver-touch of panic that raced through his heavy limbs. He fought the need to move, to open his eyes. Instead, he strained his ears, trying to find the sound again. All he could hear was the pleasant crackle-snap of a nearby fire. Once his attention was drawn to it, he could feel the brush of heat on his cheeks, and around his body.

It was thick and heavy as a blanket, like standing beside the blacksmith’s forge. He drew in a breath, but he didn’t smell smoke. Instead, the air brought with it the scents of dust, hay, and horse dung. Over all of that was a tangy, metallic smell he almost recognized, but it was buried underneath the overwhelming stench of bitter sweat that surrounded his head, forced its way into his nostrils with every breath. He gasped, trying to draw air while escaping the smell, and heard a rustle of movement.

The sound came again. This time he was awake enough to recognize the blubbering whimper for the plea it was. His body reacted, goose bumps breaking out over his skin despite the heat of the fire. Jekaar’s scream came back to him, loud enough in his memory that it might have come from the same room. Though he tried again to fight them, his eyes won this time and snapped open.

Orange and yellow. The entire area seemed to shine with the colors of the fire in its centre. Through the dancing flames he could see light reflecting off bronze skin and a slumped bald head. Jekaar was hanging down from the ceiling, wrists pulled above his head. Thin, dark, dribbles curved down from the too-tight bindings to the awkward twists of his shoulders. His bared skin was streaked with dirt and rust-tinged blood. There were small scratches, long gashes, pokes, punctures, all of them fresh and still bleeding out. He was sweating in the heat of the fire, rivulets running down his body into the many injuries, forcing them ever open and oozing. His eyes were wide, color pushed away by black irises, and when his gaze meant Robanni’s, he moaned. Before Robanni could move, a shadow figure approached the bound man.

“Shh, now,” a voice beyond the fire whisper-hissed, and Robanni felt a chill shiver down his back. A bright dagger shone yellow in the firelight as the figure tilted it one way and then another. Its back was to Robanni, but he could still see the thoughtful angle of its head.

He tore his eyes away from Jekaar’s and looked around himself, eyes darting from point to point. There were wooden beams, and piles of hay at not-entirely safe distances from the roaring fire. A bridle hung down from a hook on the ceiling to his left, and to his right he thought he could see sky through the open door of the barn. It seemed very far away, out of reach through the fire.

“No, no, no,” Jekaar whined, “no more.” Despite himself, Robanni felt his gaze pulled back to his master, just in time to see the dark form beside him shift.

“There’s always more,” the strange voice said again. After a few moments of consideration, it brought the dagger to the skin just under Jekaar’s right armpit and pressed it in. “Even when you think you can’t take anymore, you can. It’s quite remarkable, really.”

Jekaar shrieked as a new torrent of viscous liquid poured from the incision, splattering the closest walls. “Spirits, stop.” The wailed words were ignored, and the figure drew the dagger down. It reached forward with its other hand to catch the top of the thin strip of skin it peeled off the man. The metal scent grew stronger as the strip grew longer and Jekaar’s cries louder. The slice continued until the dagger reached his hip, and then with a quick flick, separated the skin from the body. Holding the strip up to eye level, the figure nodded, and then turned to lay the flesh out on a sawhorse as though it were laundry left to dry.

When the strip was positioned, the figure turned and reached toward the fire. Robanni froze, eyes wide open. Though the thing now faced the flames, none of the warm light penetrated the hood of the cloak it wore, giving the impression there was no face within its shadows. Drawing its arm back, the figure pulled a poker from the embers. The tip of the metal glowed orange, almost pulsing now that it had been removed from its heat source. The figure turned back to Jekaar, its head once more at that considering angle.

“No, please. Let me go,” Jekaar’s words were slurred. When he managed to raise his head, Robanni could see his split and swollen lips. “Please.”

The figure moved the poker, placing the top lengthwise across the gaping, bleeding patch of raw flesh. Jekaar’s mouth opened, his lips torn anew, but only thin blood poured forth, no sound. The figure pulled the poker away, leaving behind a rough black line between the mushy fields of red. Taking the poker, it adjusted the position, and pressed the hot metal against Jekaar’s side again, one end touching the tip of the first line, the other just slightly off.

Line after line, until it had forced the silent scream into shrieking sound, the figure continued to press the metal against Jekaar’s flayed skin. When it finally stepped back to consider the results, Robanni could see in the injury a fan of oozing meat spread out over charred spokes. He felt bile rising acidic in the back of his throat, but couldn’t bring himself to move. As he waited, frozen in place, the scent of the Jekaar’s burnt flesh reached him. Though he knew the source to be his master, it was still the smell of well-cooked meat, and his treacherous empty stomach growled.

The figure spun. With the masking shadows, Robanni couldn’t see eyes, but he could feel its gaze land on him. For a moment he froze, pinned by that oppressive force, and then the figure moved. Robanni cried out and scrambled backwards, clawing his way to the end of the stall. It was only when his back slammed against dusty wood that he realized the poker was in the fire again and the figure still stood beside it.

“You are excitable, aren’t you?” Its voice carried a note of amusement, and he felt his cheeks flush with shame. Then it did come closer, stepping around the fire and walking with deliberate steps to the mouth of the stall, and Robanni’s fear returned.

The light still could not penetrate the cloak, which now fluttered around the figure like burning parchment, blocking his view of Jekaar, and the fire cast a bright halo around its dark shape. Robanni pressed himself against the wall, feeling splinters digging into his skin. He whimpered.

“Shh,” the figure said, drifting closer, “it’s far too soon for that.”

Robanni wanted to move, to keep away from the shifting fabric, but his body would not listen to his commands. The figure raised its hand, and the strength went out of his arms. He felt himself flop against the wall. The muscles under his skin shivered and twitched.

The figure’s hands drew back in a gesture that would have been a clap had it made any sound. “Oh, wonderful. You will be fun.”

Robanni stared, feeling his jaw drop. He moved it a few times, unable to make a sound. He didn’t know what sound would have come out, anyway.

“You’re all so different, you see.” It tilted its head in a contemplative manner, and then let its arms fall limply to its sides. “I’m trying to learn.”

Still nothing came from his mouth. He tried, and a thin reedy whimper crossed the space between them. The figure sighed.

“Stop being so impatient.” It looked back over its shoulder at Jekaar. “I don’t expect him to last very long, after all. Some of you expire sooner than others.”

Jekaar began to blubber, a snotty, dripping sound thicker than the smoke in the air around them. Robanni shuddered, feeling the cry drip down his skin with the sweat. It froze on his skin when the shadow turned back.

“We’ll play when he’s done, all right?”

Robanni’s head tossed back and forth.

“No? Well, we can play now if you like.”

Robanni’s hand grasped his braid as the figure stepped closer. He heard the familiar scratching rasp as he traced from beads to feathers, the sound low and rough as a cat’s tongue.

“Oh,” the figure breathed, as even the cloak ceased its dancing movements, settling into perfect stillness. “Do that again.”

Robanni’s mind blanked, body refused. Then his finger spasmed, twitching as nervous tension sent it scratching across the surface of his hair. The nail dug down into the centre of the bound strands before pulling back out and starting over. He felt the tight braid begin to loosen, but continued.

The figure leaned forward, raised a hand and brushed it over Robanni’s head before taking his other braid and rubbing the surface. It was so close now, close enough to see the shadows were no illusion. There was no face within the hood, and the stories loomed within his mind again, chastising him for walking on the lands of the Plains for so long. As a prayer formed in Robanni’s mind, the figure pulled the braid, just hard enough to hurt, and startled the words out of him.

“Tishaani annaval—”

“What is that?” the figure asked, with the curious head tilt, and Robanni’s frozen mind spoke the next line as his answer.

“Night’s mischief maker.” He caught his words, and then stammered, “You.”

Otalidiel vitomali. Please don’t hurt me. Kisamidi istel. Istel.

For a moment there was no answer, and then the figure sat back and laughed. The sound was sparkling cool water in the heat of the barn. It floated around Robanni, light and bright as the sparkles on the earth of the Plains.

His hand dropped, shocked, into his lap. The figure leaned forward, stroking his braid one more time. “So I am. Wonderful.”

Robanni stared as it looked between him and Jekaar. When it stopped on him again, the contemplative tilt was back.

“For naming me, I think you deserve a reward, don’t you?” It stood, stepping back far enough for him to see poor Jekaar. “I have two to offer, but you may only have one. You must choose.”

Blinking, Robanni looked up, mouth gaping once again. “W— What?”

“Reward the first: I let him go now, and you stay. Your night will be long, and so very painful.” Its tone was light as sun-sparkles on snow. “You’ll never be the same, but you’ll be alive, and so will he.”

Jekaar struggled against the ropes, thick blood clawing out fresh from his wrists. His eyes met Robanni’s, pupils still wide enough to swallow the color.

“Reward the second: I let you go now, and he stays. You’ll be free and clear and whole. But he’ll play, and then he’ll die.”

Bubbles of spittle burbled over Jekaar’s lips. Sounds flew out with the spit, but they didn’t form any words Robanni could understand. He pulled his eyes away from the other man, only to have them land on the figure instead.

“Choose.” Its hands were raised to its hood, almost in prayer position. It waited.

Robanni turned back to Jekaar. His master’s eyes were wild, tinged with madness, pleading. He was trying to speak again, the bubbles on his lips popping. Spittle flew in tiny globs, vanishing in the light of the fire. Whatever words were to have accompanied them disappeared into squeaked gibberish. Robanni’s gaze skimmed the bruises, cuts, and seeping gashes which now marked Jekaar’s skin. The fan seeped blood out over the constraints of the cut, dribbling down the surveyor’s leg. The acid taste returned, and Robanni choked. He bucked forward, gagging as his empty stomach tried to force its natural juices out in lieu of food. His throat burned. His vision began to shimmer and fade as air refused to enter his lungs. His eyes stung, water taking what remained of his sight.

The figure giggled. The sound skipped around the room, from Jekaar around the fire to Robanni, and back again. When it stopped, even the gibbering noises from the other man were silenced. Robanni forced one breath in, and then another. When he could see again, he looked up, avoiding Jekaar this time, looking instead at the cold shadow of the mischief maker.

“Well,” it prompted, “have you made your choice?”

“The second,” Robanni coughed the words. “I choose the second.”

A low moan began in the Jekaar’s throat, rising in pitch and tone until it stabbed Robanni’s ears. The figure made the clap motion with its hands again, and the cloak rippled. It skipped forward, moving in a blink. It knelt on the ground beside him, and leaned forward to whisper in his ear.

“Run. Now.”

Robanni jerked back. His eyes shifted from the floor to the figure to his master. Jekaar’s head was slumped again, and he hung limp from the bindings. Robanni stood, felt his legs tremble. He forced them to take one step, and then another, and another. His steps rang on the floorboards before he hit the muffling dirt outside. Cool fresh air soothed his cheeks, filled his aching lungs with the scent of farmland and night dew. Each step away from the barn came faster than the last until he found himself running across the edge of the cursed land.

The screaming began behind him as he turned his feet away from the Plains of Aslinea and toward the village. His hands trembled too much to grasp his hair, denying him the comfort of the sound. His breath whistled in his ears, and he focused on it instead, concentrating until he managed to block out the suffering of the man he’d left behind.

Zhandaan loval, who measures the scales, otalidiel savon. Forgive me. Forgive me. Istel.