Chapter 8 #2
“I wish I could ask our friend where they’re from.” Edmund raised his voice. “Are you from the Vagrant Hills, by chance?”
Tak-tak-tak?
“Is that an ‘I don’t know’?”
Tak.
“Our friend’s probably never heard of the Vagrant Hills,” said the Dervish wearily. “I certainly haven’t.”
“Really?” The Dervish didn’t need light, he could picture Edmund’s exact expression, just from his tone.
Eyes a little wide, face intent, the edge of a smile because he’s just so excited to be telling someone a new fact.
“They’re a series of hills to the southeast of here, although the exact location changes. They wander around a bit.”
“Wander?” said the Dervish.
Tak-tak-tak? said Our Friend.
“They’re very odd. The usual laws about distance don’t really seem to apply?
You can go into them and come out a lot farther away than you should be.
And there’s very weird things in there.” Edmund paused, then added reluctantly, as if it might seem like bragging, “I’ve been in there.
It’s very unsettling. Though they do have an intact wonder engine. ”
Tak-tak-TAK!?
“Right?” Edmund said, while the Dervish wondered what the hell a wonder engine was.
“I couldn’t figure out what it did, unfortunately, and no one else has been able to find it yet.
Expeditions into the Vagrant Hills tend to end badly, or at least confusingly.
If we could speak with the rune, I suspect it would go better.
At any rate”—the Dervish could picture him shaking himself, like a bird settling his feathers—“that’s neither here nor there.
We can assume you’re not from the Vagrant Hills or you’d probably know you were. ”
Tak.
“Hmm … okay, let’s start with directions. Tap when I get it. North, northwest, west…”
The Dervish stared into the darkness while Edmund and Our Friend worked out geography, and wondered what they’d see when the sun finally began to rise.
Hours passed. The Dervish got bored waiting for Our Friend to spring at them and took a nap, or tried to.
It was cold and he really wasn’t dressed for it.
The blanket he’d been using as a makeshift cloak could only do so much.
He would have cheerfully huddled for warmth with Edmund—the man had gotten them into this, he could at least give some body heat to the cause—but the scholar had moved on to reciting the alphabet and having Our Friend tap at the appropriate letter to form words, and was pacing excitedly.
The Dervish leaned against the wall and closed his eyes.
It wasn’t exactly sleep, but it was a little like it. He woke not at all refreshed, but with a sensation of time having passed, anyway.
It was still night, but the snow had acquired the blue-edged glow of moonlight. Directly under the hole, it was bright enough to read by.
“Look,” whispered Edmund, as the Dervish pushed himself hastily to his feet.
At the edge of the light, a giant shadow moved uncertainly, accompanied by the skittering sound of legs.
“It’s all right,” said Edmund. “We won’t hurt you.”
Please, not a centipede, the Dervish thought one last time, and then Our Friend stepped forward into the moonlight.
For a horrible moment, all the Dervish saw was segmented legs and he thought it really was a centipede.
His stomach turned over and he recoiled instinctively.
But there were only six legs—only—and they were held tight against the creature’s chest. Then Our Friend took another skittering step forward, and the Dervish saw it clearly.
It was a giant pillbug.
The insect stood about five feet tall, though it looked as if it had only partially mastered the art of walking upright.
Half its body was still belly-down to the ground, and its upper half leaned back at an awkward angle.
Thick bands of shell framed its upper body, rising in a semicircular cowl over its head.
It had enormous black eyes the size of the Dervish’s hand, and a set of long, segmented antennae that hung down like a drooping mustache.
The Dervish looked for biting jaws or other aggressive hardware, but it appeared that Our Friend’s mouth was a discreet vertical slit, nearly hidden under the antennae.
Which doesn’t mean it won’t suddenly open up into a maw full of teeth.
Or whatever bugs have instead of teeth. Pincers.
Mandibles. Something like that. Edmund probably knows what they’re called.
He considered asking, but that ran the risk of actually learning the answer.
Our Friend tapped its shell, producing the hollow tak!
they had heard so many times during the night.
The edges of its carapace, the Dervish saw, were punched through with multiple rings in various sizes, although they looked less like adornment and more like what you’d see on saddlebags to hold equipment.
Maybe that’s what they’re for. Those upper legs …
or arms, I suppose … don’t look as if they’d be great for carrying much.
The largest of the pillbug’s arms was no thicker than the Dervish’s wrist. The smallest set, at the top, were as delicate as needles.
The creature tapped out another tak! and looked—hopefully? hungrily? anxiously?—at the two humans.
“Many-Armed God preserve us,” breathed Edmund, moving toward it. He raised one hand cautiously. “May I…?”
It cocked its head, black eyes unblinking. Tak.
The Dervish’s nerves shrilled and he took an involuntary step forward. Just because I can’t see mandibles doesn’t mean they aren’t there. What if it suddenly unfolds a set and bites his head off?
Well, if it did, it was unlikely that the Dervish could stop it happening. He’d do his best to beat the thing to death with a rock afterward, and then either it would die or he would die. Either way, he’d get a new wielder. Probably one of the Sleeveless.
Unless it was intelligent and somehow managed to draw the sword …
Ancestors, please don’t let it bite his head off. “Edmund, are you sure about this?”
“About what?” asked Edmund, not taking his eyes off Our Friend.
“About … um…” The Dervish trailed off. There were too many ways to finish the sentence, and most of them would probably insult the giant insect, which seemed unwise. Anyway, of course he’s sure. Look at his face, he’s thrilled to bits.
It was true. Even by moonlight, he could see a spark in the scholar’s eyes like a small boy who has just been handed the biggest, fluffiest puppy in the litter. The Dervish sighed.
Edmund laid a hand on Our Friend’s shell, at shoulder height.
The giant pillbug stood still while the dedicate ran his fingertips over the edges where they slid together, then very slowly, it lifted one of its upper legs.
The end came to a tapered point. It tapped the leg against its own shell, lower down. Tak?
“Are you asking if you may touch?”
Tak.
“You may.”
Our Friend’s long antenna reached out and pressed lightly against Edmund’s shoulder.
The Dervish waited for it to lash around the scholar’s neck like a garrote, but it didn’t.
Instead Our Friend moved the tip cautiously over the top of Edmund’s head, as if feeling the texture of his hair, then slid down his arm to his hand.
Tak-tak-tak-tak-tak.
“Five fingers, yes.”
Tak.
The Dervish was about to ask if Our Friend had never seen humans before, when silver fire blossomed out of nowhere, wrapped around him, and yanked him away.