-19-
Doppelgänger
Whik opened his eyes to the cloudless sky. It hung over the cliff side like an expansive canvas, waiting for a brush of clouds or splatter of birds to dirty the background. For a moment he thought he was tucked safe and sound in his cabin, beneath a pile of pillows and furs, until the uneven surface of weathered rock stuck into his back.
I just want to be home. He ran his fingers along pebbles tucked into the rock's crevices. I want Charlotte to yell from the other room, telling me to bring more wood. I want to burn my hands on the stew pot that's full of delicious things I may never try again. I want to walk to the stable and see Lana, with her hooves beating against the dirt, angry with me for not coming sooner. He could almost smell her.
"He's awake!" John's oafish head loomed over Whik. "You look like shit."
Whik was still too groggy to reply, but when the haze of sleep lifted one thing was on his mind: Frankford's note. He stood from the cot and stretched his aching joints. His bandage was soiled through, so he carefully pried the cloth from his skin to examine the wound. His skin hurt to touch and his muscles felt stiff and sore.
"Malachi," Whik said. The wind barreled through the cliff side as if in response.
John lifted a finger and rubbed it along his beard. "Now how did I know that'd be the first thing out of your mouth? Why does his name come up all of the sudden?"
Whik wasn't sure how much trust he could put in the two companions he had just met. Frankford was clear in his message: tell no one. Yet could he have figured out that their destination lay across the valley without John's help? Perhaps Frankford put too much faith in me.
"Listen," John said, "Pelk and I are simple people. I haven't wandered away from my lonely cabin in weeks. Your business is your own. But when you bring up Malachi, the name of Hemonstalia's most infamous murderer, it arouses interest. That's all."
Whik pursed his lips. "That note was from an old friend, a teacher. Frankford Millstone of Tannuchi. He thinks the Lark invasion has something to do with Malachi. He thinks that Malachi wants to find an object, something that's here on the island." Whik thought back to the day he found the item in Frankford's basement, and how the circles and intricate designs begged to be touched. No wonder Malachi seeks it.
Pelk and John looked at Whik, their squinted eyes laced with curiosity. Whik grabbed the satchel from the ground. "He told me we had to go to the place you pointed at, the Tidesdale Pass. But he didn't just outright say it. He hinted at it in a poem I had to memorize as a child. He was always coming up with riddles and puzzles for me. But that means he only wanted me to know, and not easily at that. I think that's all I want to tell you for now."
John nodded. "Fair enough."
Now that John had received an answer, it was time for Whik to get his. "What do you know about Malachi?"
John leaned back and took a deep breath. "Back in Hemonstalia, more than a decade ago, there was a series of trials after the murder of seven people. This is news to no one. Most of the people were rumored to be members of a secret sect of thinkers, politicians, inventors, if you will." He squinted into the sun. "I wouldn't be surprised if this Frankford man you speak of was a member as well.
"They thrived on bringing in teachers with outlandish philosophies on all sorts of questions. What happens when we die? What happened before we were born? What is up there?" John pointed to the sky. "This is all hearsay of course, gathered only by rumors passed through the cities. You know Hemonstalians had a knack for talking, and teaching. Malachi was put on trial after someone found him over the corpse of a scientist. They said the victims had been tortured. That they had some information they were keeping secret."
Information on the Maker. "But he escaped?"
Pelk sat silent, legs wrapped around each other like a twisted pretzel. He picked at tiny pebbles and flicked them over the edge, then leaned forward and watched their descent. Whik turned back to John.
"Someone freed him. They never caught the one who set him free, but I've heard that Malachi had dozens of spies working for him."
"John!" Pelk jerked his head back from the ledge and grabbed Whik's ankle. It was only when Whik saw the mass of black himself that the panic set in. A dark horde of Larks sprinted through the valley, axes drawn and banners waving. Pelk was about to stand before John grabbed the back of his shirt, pulling him to the rock ledge below.
"Stay down," John whispered.
Whik moved to the side of the cliff and peered over the edge. The horde of Larks must have been somewhere around two dozen, but even in their small numbers, their bulky frames made them appear more like the stampedes of handleback boars that plagued the north of the island. Whik scanned ahead of them to see where they were running.
John pointed to the opposite mountainside. "Look, militia coming out of the forest."
Whik squinted to see the peasants running down the gradient. The sun shimmered off their swords as if their blades breathed fire. "From Ridgewood?"
"Must be," John said. "Looks like they outnumber the Larks two to one."
Whik's eyes grew to the size of berries. He counted the group of men armed with more pitchforks than swords and then jumped up from his crouched position.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm going to help them," Whik told John. "We can't sit here and be a silent witness to this."
Whik picked up the satchel and draped it across his chest. He jumped down to a ledge below and began his descent to the valley floor. The sound of Pelk's nimble footsteps followed.
Whik's feet felt uneasy against the rocks as he slid, leapt, and maneuvered over them. He used whatever he saw as he descended, grabbing at undependable roots and shallow fissures. The satchel bounced from his side as he leapt and it hit his wound, sending a shrill pain down his side. He grimaced and pushed on.
When the terrain flattened and grass took over the fallen rocks, Whik crouched behind a tree. Pelk was behind him in no time, and John's heavy breaths joined them shortly after.
John leaned on the tree, one hand resting on his leg. "I'm getting too old for this shit," he muttered. "And what is the genius plan? Run in there waving our hands?"
John and Whik were without weapons. Pelk had a bow strapped across his back, but the arrows looked dull and next to useless. The soldiers and Larks had already collided, and now the muffled clangs of metal friction grew louder.
John placed a hand on Whik's shoulder. "Remember, Whik, if you really are meant to find this object, dying won't help your case." John smiled. His brows lifted and suddenly Whik felt uneasy. "I, on the other hand, have flirted with death numerous times, and she always flirts back."
John reached down and grabbed a rock from beneath the tree. He took off into the valley, his fatty bulges flinging from side to side.
Pelk's lips were lopsided and he cocked his head to the side. "What is he doing?" He reached back and fastened an arrow onto the bow.
A wave of anger set over Whik. He gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. "And he thinks I'm just going to sit here and watch?"
As he ran from beneath the tree, he thought of Charlotte's dead body laying somewhere in the forest. He thought of Frankford choking on the smoke of Tannuchi's ruins and Torra Grimley floating along Sebolt's shores. He thought of Halloh Baker in the outpost and Margarie Govney proudly pouring a pint and he thought of that brown-haired girl he had seen just once weaving baskets. He might never see her again.
Whik's legs ached as he ran faster. The thickets of grasses on the valley floor nearly sent him flying through the air. As he neared the raging chaos that had shifted farther down the valley, Whik almost wished the grass was successful in its attempts to trip him. He was reaching the point of no return.
Charlotte's words echoed in his head. You could have killed that monster. It isn't the same thing. It wasn't Tully. He squeezed the rock as he ran until the joints of his fingers begged him to stop. He looked ahead and saw John beside two swordsmen, all three pulling a Lark from its horse. The horse reared and the Lark fell into the thickets. All Whik could see was John's fist clenching the rock. Up and down it went until the rock was coated in red.
The screams and yelps of dying men and Larks filled his ears. Axes and bodies and horses whipped past him, sending steel and flesh to the ground. He lunged for a sword in the grass but then jumped backwards when a horse stampeded past him.
He reached for the sword again and stood, lifting the blade in the air. He whipped around. The figures flew past him like dancing ghouls. An arrow sped by his right ear and pierced one of the horses in the neck. The steed shrieked and reared backwards, struggling for balance on its hind legs. The Lark fell from the mount and hit the grass.
Whik charged towards the Lark. The creature's eyes were pits of black within his leather helm and his lips parted to reveal jagged teeth. Whik grabbed the sword with both hands and heaved it upwards, but the Lark lifted a boot and thrust it into Whik's stomach.
The clouds seemed to whirl together as Whik's stomach rose in his throat. He fell backwards. His head hit the bony limb of a fallen swordsman. When he lifted his neck to find the Lark who had kicked him, he was relieved to see Pelk standing over the creature, an arrow protruding out of its snout. Pelk walked towards him and offered a hand, hauling him off of the militiaman's corpse.
There were still two men fighting a Lark in the distance when Whik stood and caught his breath. The Lark grabbed one of the militiamen by the tunic and thrust his forehead into the man's face. Whik was glad he couldn't see the broken bones and bloody flesh of the man from Ridgewood from his vantage point. The other militiaman pulled a dagger from his side and jumped onto the Lark's neck, thrusting the blade into the gap between the Lark's tunic and helm. The Lark stumbled to the side before falling into a lifeless heap in the grasses.
Groans and grunts flew from the grass like locusts. The sounds of death were everywhere. Whik heard John's shouts before they saw him. Approaching, John said, "Whose idea was it to run from that nice mountain ledge like a bunch of village idiots?" John was grinning when he staggered next to them, bending over and placing his arms on his knees. He looked up to Whik. "And I expected fire bolts to shoot out of your hands."
Whik breathed heavily, the adrenaline still pumping through his veins causing his heart to skip a beat. Once Pelk let out a howl of a laugh, Whik joined him.
"I guess it wasn't the smartest," Whik said. "You're the one who ran from the tree."
John spat. "You need a little adventure when you get to my age. A battle once a year keeps you young. Glad you lads are alright."
"Appreciate the help," a man said, extending a hand to John. His face was young, but his eyes seemed to have decades of life in them. They were swirled around the iris like paint in a whirlpool. "Where'd y'all come from?"
"Deadman's Overlook," John said, pointing up to the cliff side. "Camped there last night. We needed to figure out how bad the situation was before we blindly trekked to Eckrondale. I'm assuming you all saw the columns of smoke?"
"Never heard it called Deadman's Overlook, but we're grateful nonetheless. We spotted that smoke from the ridge. Name's Sean."
Whik stood only feet away, listening to the conversation as he recovered from the shock of the skirmish. Sean looked calm. Blood was spattered across his face, dripping from dark brown strands.
John placed his hands on his hips and looked around the valley. "Well, Sean, what in the world happened?"
"We were on our way to Eckrondale. Had to pass through them mountains from Ridgewood. Spotted the Lark bastards on the descent. I'm guessin' they spotted us 'bout the same time. We didn't have a choice. It was kill or be killed."
"Never knew the farmers from Ridgewood could fight," John teased.
"Ha, weavin' baskets and pickin' corn ain't the only thing our people can do. Nothing to do up here but practice fighting and twiddle our thumbs. Where ya'll headed?"
John looked towards Whik, who shook his head and grabbed his lower lip with his teeth. They were from Ridgewood, sure, but Whik had already told too many people about their true destination.
"We didn't want to have to dodge the Larks' camps," John told him, "so we're headed north to the Tidesdale Pass."
"The Tidesdale Pass? Ya'll must be crazy. Tryna kill yourselves?"
"We're good climbers," Whik said, struggling for words.
Creases crept across Sean's forehead. "You'd have to be dumber than a horsefly to journey that far into the mountains."
Whik looked back up to the rock formations miles ahead of them. They didn't look too intimidating from afar, but looks could be deceiving.
"Just givin' ya'll a hard time," said Sean. "You're all free to join us. We ain't headed as far as the northern mountains, but we're gonna cross the river and approach Eckrondale from above, if it's not rubble already."
John adjusted his trousers. "Let's hope for the sake of us all that it's not rubble already."
Ridgewood's militia was now scattered across the valley. Some soldiers rested on grass clumps and others leaned against the hilts of their swords. One of the militia picked up his sword and drove it into the abdomen of an already deceased Lark.
Sean jolted his head in the direction of the man. "Fenwick, have some damned respect."
The man placed a foot on the Lark's abdomen and pulled his sword from the body. "Respect for these monsters? You tell my dead wife and daughter that."
The silence that followed seemed to seal their conversation, and John outstretched his hand once more. "I appreciate the invite, but we have to stop somewhere before we head to Eckrondale. Be safe. Hopefully we'll meet again within the walls of the city."
"Suit yourselves. Careful up there. That mountain is unforgivin'. See ya'll in this life or the next."
John picked up his sword and turned towards Pelk and Whik. "Well you two, arm yourselves. Long journey ahead."
Whik picked up the closest sword, rubbing traces of blood onto the underbrush. The three then began their trek around the bend in the valley. Whik felt nauseous. He lifted his shirt and examined his chest, which bore no signs of a Lark's boot. The uneasy feeling started in his stomach and rose to his head.
There's no way. The nauseous sensations he felt as a child had ended years ago, but still the claws on his temples and dizziness in his head felt too familiar.
John stopped and stared. "You alright?"
Whik nodded and plodded onward, attempting to shake the sick feeling from his body. He dragged his sword behind him. He was glad his blade hadn't met the face of a Lark, but he couldn't forget Charlotte's words. Tully's death was an accident. At some point you have to forgive yourself. We're not getting through this by reasoning with those monsters. It's either their lives or ours. He shuddered.
"Whik," John said, prying him from the memory, "you did good back there. I know of few men who would've ran off to help when they'd be better off sitting it out. You've got courage, kid."
Courage. He liked the sound of that, but somehow he felt like he had more courage as a kid, chasing down imaginary ghosts and rock eaters. Perhaps courage only exists in some.
The valley turned into a hill. A stream curved through the basin. Soon the overgrown grasses of the valley gave way to a thick wall of pine trees. Whik looked up, straining his neck to see the top of the towering rock formations. The prospect of climbing again teased the painful pulses that traveled up his side. With each step his head throbbed even more.
The green grass blended into a thick layer of reddish pine needles. Some got stuck in the seam of Whik's sandals. The trees were spaced far enough apart so that Whik could see past the trunks and far into the distance. The fan of the lower branches created a ceiling above their heads.
Whik spotted the odd change in the uniformity of the tree trunks. Ahead in the distance, a small figure was propped up against a tree, partially covered by dunes of pine needles.
"Look," Whik said, pointing to his right.
John grunted. "What is it?"
"I'm not sure." Whik closed his eyes for a moment to counter the pain of his headache. "An animal, maybe."
Soon Whik realized he was utterly wrong when the trio stood over the corpse of a child. He wasn't sure whether touching the decaying body would be a sign of disrespect. Charlotte's map. I guess the soldiers never made the trek to bury him. Whik grew dizzy but battled through it and outstretched his foot, uncovering the lower section of the boy.
"Poor fella," John said. "What's he doing all the way up here anyway?"
The acidic sensation of vomit rose through Whik's esophagus, and the light-headed sensation returned, this time stronger than ever. His cranium pulsated in rhythmic thumps. He struggled to speak. His jaw felt as though it was locking in place.
"Whik, what is it?"
Whik leaned against the tree. He could barely breathe. His body felt cold. He turned and looked to his comrades, who stood by his side with their arms on his shoulders.
The fraying edge of the boy's red cape had been unearthed by Whik's foot. The similarity was absurd. He bent down and touched the cape, running his fingers along the hem to the gold emblem that his mother had sewed on when he was little.
John crouched down and placed a hand on the small of Whik's back. "You know this child?"
All Whik could do was nod his head repeatedly in response to John's question and stare in disbelief. "I do," he told them. "It's me."