The Land of Broken Roads

Looking at the minds of the fleeing men, they didn’t think Socks was just a big scary wolf, or Dirt was a mysterious boy. Hè un diu! they shouted in their thoughts. He’s a god, Dirt assumed. Or it’s a god, something like that.

The images that accompanied those thoughts were of Dirt commanding Socks to attack, and much more besides. Torture and painful death, of wicked beasts that could not keep their shapes but changed with each lurching step. Of great rents in the earth out of which enormous spiders crawled; of strikes of lightning that deposited screaming human skeletons that walked and bit the living, all driven by some great and terrible thing just over the horizon. A god.

One man fled toward a barn somewhere, hoping to protect his sheep. Another struggled to regain control of his horse and rode for the walls, thinking only of his mate, who smiled beneath a halo of candle-lit reddish hair in his memory.

What a mess. So where to start? Socks was already walking toward the fortress, sauntering with an amused air about him. He was planning on peeking over the wall and seeing what was in there and what everyone was doing.

Dirt looked back at the girl, though, still standing silently where she’d been. She gazed forward unseeing, her thoughts so conflicted she couldn’t think what to do. Her mind and emotions were the most tangled jumble Dirt had ever seen.

He stepped over and gave her a hug, patting her sincerely on the back. She raised her arms and returned it limply, her mind elsewhere. Nowhere, really. Lost.

Well, that wasn’t going to work. He stepped away and waved his hand in front of her eyes to get her attention. It took several tries. Then he pointed at the fleeing man who’d tried to stab her and said, “That’s your father? Babbu? Papa? Pare?” Dirt hadn’t even gotten a good look at him, with little to see other than his warm fur clothing.

“Sì, hè u mo babbu,” she said. “Ùn duverebbe micca purtatumi quì.”

“Okay, well, wait here for a moment. I’ll go get him and you can talk,” said Dirt. He patted her arm and gave his best reassuring smile. She looked more miserable than reassured.

Dirt filled himself with mana and charged after the man, running right through the snow like a horse. He tackled him from behind, nearly missing because he wasn’t very quiet about it and the babbu stepped to the side to dodge. But Dirt still got one arm around the man’s waist and was able to spin him to the ground. After that, Dirt caught one of his fists and pushed it awkwardly against his chest so he couldn’t go for a second punch.

The babbu squirmed and fought with such terrified abandon that Dirt couldn’t help but laugh in sympathy, but a mana-infused Dirt was too strong for him. “Good human! Nice human,” he said, putting on his most beatific half-smile. “It’s okay. Calm down. Calm down. There you go. Good human. Good babbu.”

Either there was a word or two in there that the man understood, or he got the point some other way. His mind still contained despair, and below that, a fiery revulsion for Biandina. But he stopped struggling and gazed up at Dirt, his darting brown eyes only half-lucid, as if merely watching for an opening, not truly seeing anything.

“Better. Okay. Are you going to behave yourself? Good babbu?” asked Dirt.

“Bonu… babbu,” said the man. He wasn’t sure what Dirt was getting at with that. His thoughts grew a bit more coherent, but that didn’t help much. Instead it resulted in a steady stream of words that Dirt couldn’t understand. Biandina’s face flashed in his memory, but without context.

Dirt pointed at himself and said, “Dirt. My name is Dirt. Dirt.”

“Nomen… nome? Dirt?”

“Dirt. Nome Dirt,” said Dirt, nodding in approval. Then he pointed at Socks, who had changed his mind and turned around to watch, and said, “Nome Socks.”

The man nodded. “Socks.” More than anything, he seemed surprised to still be alive, and hearing human speech from the terrifying little monster.

Dirt pointed at the girl and said, “Nome Biandina?” He accentuated the question in his voice.

“E… Etiam, id est Biandina,” said the man, “figliola mia.”

“She’s my friend,” said Dirt, in his language.

“Amica… amicu? U vostru amicu?” said the father.

Dirt was pleased to discover more and more words that were similar to his language, although it was strange that it was all different ones from the language of the Camayans. “Yes, she’s my friend.”

He let go of the man’s arm and gently got off him, then held out a hand to pull him up. The father rolled and jumped to his feet, expecting to sprint toward the fortress now that he had an opening.

Except he didn’t. No sooner had he turned around than he nearly bumped into Socks’ snout. The pup gave a low growl. Just the hint of one. The barest hint, but it was enough.

Dirt took the man’s cold, rough hand and led him over to Biandina, who hadn’t moved from that spot.

“Your daughter,” he said. “My friend. Although I really don’t know her very well, since we speak two different languages. But I guess that doesn’t matter, does it? Daughter. Friend,” said Dirt, pointing, just to make sure the father understood.

She spoke, her voice timid and resigned. “Aghju purtatu un diu, Babbu. Mi dispiace.”

“No,” said Dirt sternly. “I’m not a god. Not a diu! A boy. I’m a boy, and my name is Dirt.”

Two of the other horsemen had gotten their beasts under control by now and were watching from a distance. They expected to have to charge in to save their human but didn’t want to make the first move.

“Avete da vultà à a tomba. Ùn ci perseguite micca, figliola,” said the father, his voice containing not fear, but revulsion and despair.

“Ùn sò micca mortu. U picculu diu m'hà salvatu. Ùn sò micca mortu, ma ùn sò micca perchè,” she said, almost a whisper. Her eyes were wide now, fearful as her father was.

Mortu? That sounded like his word for death. So that’s what the father had in mind. It made sense, now that Dirt understood it. The revulsion was because he thought this was a walking corpse.

Dirt sighed and lifted her ragged, bloody shirt to show the healing wounds in her abdomen, still red and sore but no longer open and oozing. “Look, see? She got hurt by that bird, but she’ll get better now. She won’t die.”

He pointed at the talon-holes in her pants, then at her shoulder, showing all the places she’d been injured.

Socks decided he’d had enough and spoke with his mind, loud and clearly for them all to hear. The image he sent was of Biandina dying and limp in the great bird’s talons, then Socks licking her wounds, then her wounds healing and her recovering. At the end, he showed his cute little Dirt patting her head, making very clear that Dirt was his pet, and not anything but a human.

The babbu was stunned but recovered his wits quickly. He only needed a glance at Socks to figure out what had happened, and Socks hadn’t exactly made it difficult. The bundle of thought was very clear about whom it belonged to. And just like that, everything changed in his mental world. No longer was Dirt a god here to destroy them, but he was a stray human that a wolf was keeping as a pet.

His relief was obvious, but not complete. His body seemed to deflate as he relaxed and breathed out a heavy sigh. He retained a hint of ice in his eyes, his mind considering far-off implications more serious than a curious wolf, but he waved to the others to come nearer.

Biandina muttered, “Mi salvavanu senza sapè ciò chì passava.”

Babbu nodded and bowed his head, closing his eyes. He thought very, very loudly, which got a little grin from Dirt. He knew at once why the man did it—closing his eyes and thinking loudly made it easy to tell who was talking. He couldn’t exactly indicate with his own scent like the wolves did.

He did his best to think only in images and emotions, but didn’t quite pull it off. He pictured Biandina wandering off, going a separate direction from Socks. He added some explanation in a hasty stream of sentences that neither boy nor wolf understood, but the general meaning was clear. Please get rid of her.

Socks growled and the man went pale and froze. The horses stepped back and their riders had to pat them on the necks to keep them calm. The pup sent an image of putting Biandina in her sire’s arms as a gift, and the man spurning it by tossing her into the snow.

“Maledetta,” said the man softly, struggling to think how to explain without words.

“Oh, maledicta?” said Dirt. The word was almost the same as his: cursed. They were saying she was cursed. He felt a whiff of disgust. Sorcery. Nonsense. Wasn’t it? That was a lingering opinion from old Avitus.

“Iè, hè maledetta! Hà datu un sacrifiziu è pricava à un diu,” said the babbu, his voice pleading.

Socks huffed in amusement. -These humans are silly,- he told Dirt. -Why are they worried about something like a curse, when nothing here is trying to kill them?-

“I’m starting to think silliness is a hallmark of my species,” replied Dirt. “Are curses even real?”

-I don’t know, but Mother never told us about them, if they are,- said Socks. Then he sent another mental image, loud enough that everyone in the fortress probably heard it. It showed Socks and Dirt wandering around looking for something to do, then spotting her being carried, then fighting and killing the birds. Then finding her alive, and himself licking Biandina’s near-fatal wounds. Then Dirt giving her water, and her recovery. The message was similar to his last one, but the meaning was different. He was saying, “She is incredibly lucky for someone who is cursed.”

Babbu and Biandina had the same reaction, as did the men nearby: None of them wanted to argue with Socks, but they still thought she was cursed. All of them resolved simultaneously to make the pup happy and give him what he wanted until he left. After that, Biandina would leave again, and hope it wasn’t too late.

-My siblings must visit every now and then, for these humans to know what I am and how to talk to me,- said Socks. -It makes me wonder if this is their territory and they are letting the humans live here, or if they leave their territory every now and then when they want to go see new things.-

“I hope they aren’t farming the people to eat,” said Dirt.

-I doubt it. Humans take too long to grow up, and you don’t have enough meat to make good livestock,- said Socks, which was honestly one of the more reassuring things he’d ever said.

Now the men were considering their stocks of food, wondering if they had enough to feed the wolf, and Biandina was trying to think whether she even dared enter the fortress and face the people inside. Her mother was there, and her siblings and friends, and an old man who was probably the Father of the group. Or their Duke.

Socks’ belly was still full after glutting himself on bird meat yesterday, but he sent them a mental image of giving Dirt a piece of bread to eat, and of Dirt greeting other children.

“Pensu chì avete a fame,” said the father to Dirt and Biandina. He waved for them to follow and politely stepped around Socks to make his way back to the fortress.

Socks figured out which horse-mind belonged to the man’s horse and told it to come back, which it did, to the surprise of the other riders. Babbu took it by the reins, choosing to walk instead.

Only Biandina hadn’t moved. She was trying to keep her face blank, but it wasn’t working. The conflict in her heart was plain to see, even without knowing her thoughts, which Dirt mostly did.

And so did her father, apparently, because he said, “Vultà à mezu à noi, figliola. Sembra chì ùn semu micca scappà di u nostru destinu, tuttu ciò chì pò esse.”

She nodded, but hesitated, so Dirt grabbed her hand and pulled her forward. The jolt caused little twinges of pain up and down her body, since she wasn’t completely healed yet.

-I’ll carry you,- said Socks. -Your little legs can’t handle this snow.- He lifted Dirt and Biandina onto his back and led the way, growing impatient. Dirt saw in his mind that he was getting whiffs of things he wanted to examine from inside the outpost walls.

The girl glanced down at her father, hoping in her mind that he wouldn’t be frightened to see it, but he was past being surprised by anything at this point. He mounted his horse and called to one of the other riders, “Ti piacè cavalcà avanti è avvisà à l'altri?” That one rode ahead at full speed, probably to warn everyone they were coming.

The party was somber and joyless as they made their way back into the fortress, which wasn’t what Dirt had envisioned at all. He’d expected mostly terror, since Socks was here, or joy, since they’d brought Biandina back. But neither was the case. Just brooding quiet. Unease.

Hardly anyone had been outside the walls since the snowstorm, as evinced by the lack of trails through the deep snow. Socks kicked a nice trail for them to follow, cleaner and easier than the one left by the horses a few moments before, and they rode single file to the outpost, then around it until they found the gate.

A large door of criss-crossing iron bars swung outward, and a thick wooden one swung inward to grant access. The opening was about the size of the doorway to the Duke’s palace, only just big enough to let a wagon through. It was nothing like the gates of Ogena, which were wide enough to let an army march out.

To Dirt’s surprise, the inside was shadowy and dim, despite the unbroken sunlight overhead. It was not until Socks ducked down and shimmied through that they saw the reason why—the entire outpost had been covered with a mesh netting. It currently sagged precariously beneath the weight of melting snow, but low fires of embers below were helping melt it, and the shape of the ceiling-cloth directed most of the water to drip in the same places, into wooden basins.

Regularly-spaced poles held it all up, and those spots had holes to let smoke out. There were no other holes. The cloth’s weave was thin enough to let some light through, but not when it had snow on it. They might as well be underground every time it snowed, and the last storm had been so heavy that the melting was still well under way.

As his eyes adjusted, he quickly found the people. Men, women, and children, all with curious expressions and suntanned faces. They were seated on the ground so close together that it was somewhat warm, and none of them needed those big fur coats. They wore clothing reminiscent of the Camayans, but with more wool than linen. They favored zig-zag patterns for decoration, some dyed and some woven.

There were no roads. The outpost wasn’t large enough to need any. Instead, narrow pathways wove between the tangled mess of shacks and tents covering every square inch of ground, from what Dirt could see. The smell of the place was as strong as an Ogena market square at midday, with so many bodies living in such close proximity.

As with Ogena, the light of so many minds made it difficult to tell them apart. But unlike Ogena, if he dimmed his own thoughts as if to hide them, he could tell them apart and see them, at least the close ones. Mostly, they contained a mixture of curiosity and awe, but Socks could smell plenty of acidic fear in the air. Dirt sniffed and wondered if he could smell it too, or if he was imagining things.

-This place is too crowded. There is nowhere for me to lie down without crushing a human or a little house,- complained Socks.

The big pup wasn’t wrong. There was hardly any room at all, anywhere, at least not by the gate. Dirt stood and stepped up onto Sock’s head and could touch the low parts of the ceiling-cloth. But from up here, he saw an open area about a hundred paces farther in. That would do. Socks headed in that direction, stepping carefully as he went.

Even when the pup’s giant claws landed only a foot or two away, no one made a sound. The crowd stayed seated and quiet, except for a few babies and toddlers that screamed, or a young child who asked questions only to be quickly hushed by a parent. Dirt found it truly unsettling, as if the archers attacking them in Ogena had been more welcoming than this. What was everyone doing?

-They are making sure not to annoy or startle me. Wolves do not like it where there is too much sound or commotion, unless we’re making it. I am an exception because I am used to you, but if a different wolf were here, this would be smart,- explained Socks.

He eventually made his way past the crowd and into an open area in front of the Principia, still standing after so long. Any façade or decoration it once bore was gone and many of the stones had been replaced by much shoddier brick, but the shape was right. It was the only proper building in the place, the only thing not assembled from whatever spare wood and cloth the locals could stick haphazardly together.

The granary that should be next to it was missing, as was the commander’s quarters, which served to remind Dirt that his empire was still gone. This was the corpse of a place inhabited by people who didn’t understand it, not an island of old culture that had endured.

There was enough open space in front of the Principia for Socks to sit down, so he finally did, slumping down to rest with tiredness that was purely emotional. Dirt slid off and helped Biandina down, and once her feet were both on the ground, she practically hid behind Dirt in a way that reminded him of how Màxim had managed to always stand behind Èlia, until he’d gotten familiar with Socks. Dirt smiled softly at that. Would Èlia and Biandina ever meet, he wondered?

The crowd near the gate were shuffling into the area and sitting again, all quietly so as not to give offense. It made Dirt feel like he was at a funeral, the boring part of one. Which was a curious thought. What happened at a funeral?

Biandina’s father rode past, taking his horse to a nearby stables, leaving her and Dirt to stand there blankly and stare at the crowd.

Dirt looked with his mind-sight and took it all in, trying to gather the general mood of the people and see what he could learn. Very little, beyond what he could tell with his eyes. Curiosity, nervousness, and so on.

But there was one mind that stood out among the rest. Not because it was brighter, but something about its shape or contents grabbed his attention. He focused on it, wondering what it was, and recognized an unnatural emptiness. A familiar one, belonging only to the most wretched of things.

“Hey, Socks,” said Dirt in his mind, “One of these people is dead.”