The Emerald Storm (The Riyria Revelations #4)

“Everywhere landward from Dagastan is uphill,” Dilladrum was saying as the troop walked along the narrow dirt path through farmlands dotted by domed grass huts. “That is the way of the world everywhere, is it not? From the sea, we always need to go up. It makes the leaving that much harder, but the returning that much more welcome.”

They walked two abreast, with Wesley and Dilladrum, Wyatt and Poe, Royce and Hadrian, in front, while Thranic’s group followed behind the Vintu and the beasts. It was disconcerting to have Thranic and his crew behind them, but it was better than having to walk with them. Dilladrum set a brisk pace for a portly little man, stepping lively and thrusting his bleached walking stick out with practiced skill. He bent the brim down on his otherwise shapeless hat to block the sun making him look comical even while Hadrian wished he had a silly looking hat of his own.

“Mister Dilladrum, what exactly are your instructions concerning us?” Wesley inquired.

“I am contracted to safely deliver officers, cargo, and crew of the Emerald Storm to the Palace of the Four Winds in Dur Guron.”

“Is that the residence of Erandabon Gile?”

“Ah yes, the fortress of The Panther of Dur Guron.”

“Panther?” Wyatt asked.

Dilladrum chuckled. “It is what the Vintu call the warlord. They are a very simple folk, but very hard workers as you can see. The Panther is a legend among them.”

“A hero?” Wesley offered.

“A panther is not a hero to anyone. A panther is a great cat that hides himself in the jungle. He is a ghost to those who seek him, deadly to those he hunts, but to those he doesn’t, he is merely a creature deserving of respect. The Panther does not concern himself with the Vintu, but stories of his valor, cruelty and cunning reach them.”

“You are not Vintu?”

“No. I am Erbonese. It is a region to the northwest, not far from Mandalin.”

“And the Tenkin?” Wesley asked. “Is the warlord one of them?”

Dilladrum’s expression turned dark. “Yes, yes. The Tenkin are everywhere in these jungles.” He pointed to the horizon ahead of them. “Some tribes are friendly, others are not. Not to worry, my Vintu and I know a good route. We will pass through one Tenkin village, but they are friendly and familiar to us, like the one you call Staul, yes? We will make it safely.”

As they climbed higher, they entered a great plain of tall grass that swayed enchantingly with the breeze. Climbing a large rock, they could see for miles in all directions except ahead where a tall, forested ridge rose up several hundred feet. They made camp just before sundown. Hardly a word passed between Dilladrum and the Vintu, but they immediately set to work setting up decorative tents embroidered with geometric designs and neatly bordered canopies. Cots and small stools were set out for each, along with sheets and pillows.

Cooked in large pots over an open fire, the evening meal was strong and spicy enough to make Hadrian’s eyes water. It was tasty and satisfying after weeks eating the same tired pork stew. The Vintu took turns entertaining. Some played stringed instruments similar to a lute, others danced, and a few sang lilting ballads. The words Hadrian could not understand, but the melody was beautiful. Animal calls filled the night. Screeches, cries, and growls threatened in the darkness, always too loud and too close.





***




On their third day out, the landscape began to change. The level plains tilted upward and trees appeared more frequently. The forests that had lined the distance were upon them and soon they were trudging under a canopy of tall trees whose massive roots spread out across the forest floor like the fingers of old men. At first it was good to be out of the sun, but then the path became rocky, steep, and hard to navigate. It did not last long, as they soon crested a ridge and began a sharp descent. On the far side of the ridge, they could see a distinct change in the flora. The undergrowth thickened, turning deeper green. Larger leaves, vines, thickets of creepers, and needle-shaped blades encroached on the track, causing the Vintu to occasionally move ahead to chop a path.

The next day it began to rain. While at times it poured, at others it would only mist, but it never ceased.

“They always seem content, don’t they?” Hadrian mentioned to Royce as they sat under the canopy of their tent watching the Vintu preparing the evening meal. “It could be blazingly hot or raining like now and they don’t seem to care one way or the other.”

“Are you now saying we should become Vintu?” Royce asked. “I don’t think you can just apply for membership into their tribe. I think you need to be born into it.”

“What’s that?” Wyatt asked, coming out of the tent the three shared, wiping his freshly shaved face with a cloth.

“Just thinking about the Vintu and living a simple existence of quiet pleasures,” Hadrian explained.

“What makes you think they’re content?” Royce asked. “I’ve found that when people smile all the time they’re hiding something. These Vintu are probably miserable—economically forced into relative slavery, catering to wealthy foreigners. I’m sure they would smile just as much while slitting our throats to save themselves another day of hauling Dilladrum’s packs.”

“I think you’ve been away from Gwen too long. You’re starting to sound like the old Royce again.”

Across the camp, they spotted Staul, Thranic, and Defoe. Staul waved in their direction and grinned.

“See, big grin,” Royce mentioned.

“Fun group aren’t they,” Hadrian muttered.

“Yeah, they are a group aren’t they,” Royce considered. “Why would a sentinel, a Tenkin warrior, a physician, a thief, and…whatever the heck Bulard is, go into the jungles of Calis to visit a Tenkin warlord? And what is Bulard’s deal?”

Wyatt and Hadrian shrugged in unison.

“Isn’t that a bit odd? We were all on the same ship together for weeks and we don’t know anything about the man beyond the fact that he doesn’t look like he’s seen the sun in a decade. Perhaps if we found out, it would provide the common connection between the others and this Erandabon fellow.”

“Defoe and Bulard share a tent,” Hadrian pointed out.

“Who’s Defoe?” Wyatt asked.

“That’s Royce’s pet name for Bernie,” Hadrian quipped.

“Hadrian, why don’t you go chat with Bulard,” Royce said. “I’ll distract Defoe.”

“What about me?” Wyatt asked.

“Talk with Derning and Grady. They don’t seem as connected to the others as I first thought. Find out why they volunteered.”