The Land of Broken Roads

-There’s a dead person here? Half dead, like the things the big eye makes? Or all the way dead, like Prisca?- said Socks, and then he had to find it himself. He did almost immediately, but after that he seemed upset that he hadn’t noticed it first. -Half dead. What do you want to do about it?-

Dirt looked at all the people staring at him and grew self-aware and went about straightening his shirt and smacking stray dust from his pants, even though there wasn’t any. “I don’t know. Let’s see what they want to do with us first. I’m not sure it’d be a good idea to rip one of their people in half right away. They probably don’t know, since it’s not attacking anyone.”

-But we are going to rip it in half, right?-

“Oh, of course.”

-Good.-

The half-corpse mind had no thoughts in it, no reasoning of any kind, but the living part of its face still functioned. Its eyes took in light so it could see, and its ears still heard. Right now, it was somewhere near the back of the crowd, watching Socks. The end of the pup’s tail twitched, eager to go destroy it. Soon enough.

Shortly after, an older man emerged from the Principia, which pleased Dirt; at least they were using the building somewhat correctly. The Duke or Father or whatever they called him belonged there. He approached carrying two slices of dried meat the size of his forearm on a handsome ceramic platter with patterns in blue glaze.

If that was all he was bringing out for something the size of Socks, food must be scarce, even this early in the winter. Why they were short on supplies, Dirt didn’t need to guess. Perhaps the giant birds, or local goblins, or those big wolfy creatures, but it didn’t really matter. That was just the fate of humans.

The old man had a spry step, though, and a vigor that didn’t match his wrinkly, spotted old face or head with more bare skin than hair. His simple, gray woolen shirt did little to distinguish him, but the way people moved out of the way and lifted their palms for him made it clear he was in charge. That palm lifting was a strange gesture, but Dirt figured it symbolized upholding his leadership, or his health, or some such thing.

His age showed when he winced as he bent down to place the ceramic platter on the ground before Socks. He had a sore back, like so many of the aged men of Ogena. Socks and Dirt were able to pick out his mind in the crowd when he thought very loudly that Socks should eat. Mostly in pictures, but a few words snuck in. Per piacè, manghja. ‘Per piacè’ was ‘please,’ so manghja must be ‘eat.’

Socks replied with an image of himself glutting on bird flesh, enjoying the blood that got all over his nose and the fur of his face, and the feeling of his stomach getting full to bursting. Even now he felt full. But his little human and their new friend had gotten no breakfast. Socks ended it with Dirt and Biandina tearing away some dried meat and taking a bite.

Dirt had no interest in waiting around and hopped over to grab some. Biandina didn’t follow, so Dirt tore off a strip for her as well, then grabbed her cheeks like he was going to force-feed her, unable to suppress a giggle. She got upset and considered smacking him, which made it even funnier, but chose to eat instead, shyly looking at anything but the crowd while she wolfed it down.

It wasn’t bad. It was fine, just not good enough to share his sense of taste with Socks. Nothing delicious about it, just meat and almost enough salt. They probably saved the good stuff for creatures with more discerning palates than Socks and his kind.

Still, it was food, and Dirt couldn’t go for a week on a full belly like Socks. He had a much smaller belly and it emptied out in less than a day, no matter the size of the meal.

So he smiled and repeated the palm-up gesture at the old Father and said, “Thank you. Can I keep the rest of this?”

The old man gave Socks an inquisitive glance, hoping for an explanation, and Socks replied with an image of Dirt putting the leftover meat in a harness pocket to eat later. The old man smiled and nodded, then picked up the leftovers and reached up to drop them into the pocket himself. Then he patted the pocket and stepped back.

After that, no one was quite sure what to do. It quickly became apparent that they were hoping Socks would either tell them what he wanted, or leave.

-What should I tell them? And even better, how?- Socks asked Dirt. A mild sensation of frustration accompanied his thoughts.

“You’re overthinking it. Just talk like a wolf. Tell them like you’d tell Brother and let them figure it out. Knowing how to talk in my language is making it seem harder than it is,” said Dirt.

-Fine,- said Socks, visibly relieved. He shifted his weight and settled in, then crossed his front paws and rested his chin on them. It was a restful position, but not a sleepy one, and Socks’ eyes were still high enough to keep watch on the surroundings.

When he spoke again, his thoughts filled the gathering like the scent of incense in a temple, calming an already quiet crowd of curious humans. He spoke calmly, without any of the harshness or pressure that Father or Mother or Big Brother had. Like when the pups spoke amongst each other, scent and impression conveyed more than images or sounds did.

He began by introducing himself, sharing his own scent that revealed his sex and age, still a pup on the verge of getting his adult fur and coloring. He showed Mother, stronger than the roots of the earth, his nurturer and teacher and judge, sending him to explore, and how he found Dirt on one of his very first forays into the wilds away from the den.

Socks skipped a lot of details that Dirt thought were important, like the order things happened in, but instead he focused on the things he thought were interesting. Sights and smells, interesting places. Bugs and birds and all manner of prey, the flavor of blood of a dozen creatures.

Human places they’d found and explored. Goblins they’d fought. Those digger creatures in the mountains, the tentacle beast. Socks hid as much as he revealed, always keeping Dirt’s role in the background.

He showed them the white tower of Llovella stained with soot, and the empty town around it. To Socks, it was a place of startling variety, more things than he could take in everywhere he looked. Smells in a wild, heady confusion; old wood and paint and cloth and rotting grain; new plants growing, traces of passing animals, much more. Always some fascinating thing to spot in a window, or Dirt showing him some new artifice intended to make up for natural human inadequacy.

After that, Socks showed the walled city of Ogena and all its bustling little humans crammed in together, some wearing metal and others cloth, and now his little Dirt felt like he should be dressed much of the time. Socks found it all very fascinating and communicated it with how the materials smelled and how humans smelled while wearing them, with only flashes of images as if what it looked like didn’t matter.

The humans in the crowd paid rapt attention, even the infants and small children. Dirt had an easier time picking their minds out, since they were both simple and full of light. The little ones took in what Socks was telling them and processed it at a primal level, more completely than any of the adults. The older a human was, the more he had to struggle to figure out what it all meant.

A woman just as old as the city’s Father came out of the Principia wearing a thick woolen dress that went down to her ankles and looked pleasantly warm. She had a big pot of water over one shoulder, which seemed more than she should be able to carry. She set it down in front of Socks and handed Dirt a ladle to drink out of, then Biandina. Finally, she gestured for Socks to finish off the rest. His tongue was too wide to fit into the opening, so he lifted it with his mind and emptied it into his mouth in one splash. It might be plenty of water for a human, but it was no more than a gulp or two for Socks.

Dirt wondered if they were bringing out only small amounts on purpose, intending to give the pup the idea that they were not a reliable source of food, but by the time Dirt picked out her mind amongst all the lights in the crowd, it was too late to tell.

After that, Socks went back to when they first met Ignasi and Marina and Hèctor and how frightened they’d been because they couldn’t recognize Dirt for what he obviously was: a normal little human.

He skipped to watching Dirt learn to dance and being thoroughly confused, since the rhythm and sounds of music didn’t have the effect on Socks that it did on humans. Socks’ best guess was that it made up for having incredibly dull senses of smell and hearing and losing all the pleasure that came with them. But Dirt liked it, so Socks could appreciate it by proxy.

After that, Socks showed the ruins of Ocriculum, and Dirt being sad about losing his human civilization. Dirt, despite being tiny, had exuded more of the scent of misery than Socks had thought possible for a living creature, standing alone in a half-collapsed room howling at the sky while his eyes leaked water. His own heart had ached in sympathy, and they’d become even closer because of it.

Dirt, aside from being adorable, was a wellspring of novelty. Each time Socks thought he was beginning to fully grasp human behavior, something new happened.

From there the story wandered as they explored over the rest of the summer and much of the autumn, of plants and games and the scents found only on the tops of mountains. Of hunting with Father and his siblings, of the bracing vigor that came with the cold weather, and how it energized him.

Socks left out the magical device that transported them here, preferring to leave it vague, but showed how they spotted Biandina being carried by the bird and rescued her. He showed the fight, mixing in the scents of terror and pain from the birds, and sharing information Dirt hadn’t noticed—three of the birds were old, and two were young, but they weren’t parents and children to each other. That meant there must be lots more of them around.

The pup’s tale ended with what would happen if the humans harmed Biandina or cast her out again: Dirt would be sad, and that would make Socks angry. And just to make the point, he raised his head again to give Dirt a little lick on the side of his face, then glared possessively at the crowd before resting his head again.

It seemed half the crowd didn’t know what had happened with the girl and were confused, and the half that knew got rather uncomfortable. All at once, dozens of children asked their mothers what Socks meant and who Biandina was. In reply came just as many hushed responses, short ones that probably didn’t explain much.

The tribe’s Father seemed nonplussed and wiped his hand across his head as if he still had hair to straighten. Biandina’s Babbu approached and muttered something in the old man’s ear that Dirt didn’t quite catch.

The old man then leaned down to repeat it into his mate’s ear, and the old woman’s face smoothed immediately into a gentle smile. So she was like the Duchess, after all.

She leaned down slightly toward Dirt, just enough to give him her full attention but not seem condescending, and said, slowly and clearly, “Tù è u lupu pudete capiscenu, nò?”

‘Tu’ and ‘lupu’ were close enough to Dirt’s words to tell she was asking about him and Socks, but the rest was obscure. She saw his hesitancy on his face and mimicked puppets with her hands, one talking to the other.

Dirt grinned and said, “Perfectly.”

His word for that must been close to hers, because she gave him a friendly nod and pointed at his eyes, then turned her hand outward, gesturing for him to come see something. Then the puppet hands talking again. Come see this, then tell the wolf.

Dirt nodded and took the staff he'd made from Socks’ halter, then reached for her hand. She took it and gave a polite little bow to Socks.

-Don’t let her trick you. Put mana in your skin now, just in case,- said Socks.

“They don’t know I’m dangerous, but there’s no doubt that you are. They wouldn’t dare. Want to share our sight?” replied Dirt.

-Yes.-

So they did. Dirt opened his mind to Socks and that portion slid together, easily as ever. There was a moment of disorientation before Socks closed his eyes, but the pup had to give one last glare at the woman just to make sure she didn’t get any ideas. The pup rested his head on his paws again afterward, but his ears kept flicking to listen to everything, indicating he was still awake.

The woman led him through the crowd, which only parted enough to let them walk past. The old man followed, and behind him, Biandina’s babbu and the girl herself, shyly trying to keep out of sight. As they snaked through the people, Dirt did as Socks instructed and inhaled enough mana to toughen his skin from head to toe. If anyone tried to hurt him, they’d be in for a surprise.

They walked right to the Principia, which was the thing Dirt most wanted to see anyway. The door was long gone, leaving just an empty frame that Socks might not be able to fit through if he tried. Dirt’s missing memories twitched as they entered the Great Hall, and for just an instant he expected to find hanging banners and flags, spear and swords and shields decorating the walls. Bright lamps and colorful decoration.

But there was none of that, and it confused him until his eyes adjusted to the dimmer light. Even with the snow dimming the area outside, they burned no lamps or candles during the day here, and it was as dark as a cave. The old woman led him very slowly, keeping him from stepping on anything, and it wasn’t long before he could make out his new surroundings.

The Great Hall was missing nearly everything that should have defined it. Instead, the huge room was merely filled with tents and shacks of slightly better construction than outside. At least there were weapons stacked along the near wall, mostly long wooden spears, but clearly not as decoration. He had to suppress the scowl his face wanted, but Dirt reminded himself that this was not a place of his people anymore.

His eyes were drawn to the door across the way, straight opposite the entrance. That was the part of the Principia he most wanted to see, even while he was certain he’d regret it. Something drew him, a sense of familiarity and duty. That was the place he’d always gone first, he knew, back when he was Avitus. Through that door, and into… something.

Before they could enter, though, the men had to move a heavy wooden frame they’d set there to block the way. It didn’t quite go all the way up, as anyone could see by the light shining over, and Dirt could have climbed up and squeezed through if he wanted. And he found it encouraging—if no one went in there, maybe it would be untouched after all these years.

The room was much brighter inside, due to a big hole in the roof through which the snow had fallen. It lay in a big round clump, spotless. The sunlight reflecting on it was so bright that Dirt had to squint to see anything else, but then he saw an outline and rushed in, to the dismay of the old woman who couldn’t quite keep a hold on his hand.

In the center of the room, under the pinnacle of the arched roof, was a statue of Melodia, the Mistress of Song, Watcher over Travellers. An unusual god for an army outpost to worship, but not unheard of, especially if troops were regularly moving in and out.

And just like every other image of the gods that Dirt had seen, she was injured and suffering. A gash ripped her open from one shoulder to the opposite thigh. Blood of carved marble ran down her leg and pooled around her feet, then dripped from the plinth and gathered in a small pool on the floor. Her dress hung ragged and one hand tried to hold her guts in, though they bulged around it. The other arm was broken at the elbow, turning the wrong way and dangling uselessly, and one foot was turned and lame. Her face bore such a miserable pain that Dirt felt sick to his stomach.

The old woman noticed Dirt’s dismay and placed a comforting hand on his back. But there was little comfort in her voice as she explained, “Biandina hà fattu un sacrifiziu à stu dea. Hè per quessa ch'ella hè maledetta è perchè deve lascià.” Dirt caught the words for sacrifice, goddess, and curse, but it wasn’t quite clear what she meant.

Seeing the lack of understanding, the woman pointed at a carved stone rabbit in part of the decoration along the faux pillars lining the walls. Dirt nodded and made rabbit ears with his fingers to show he understood.

She mimicked holding up the animal by its ears and carrying it toward the statue, then ending its life with the slash of a blade. She pointed at a dark stain on the plinth, which Dirt realized must be the animal’s blood. “She sacrificed a rabbit?” Dirt asked.

First off, she’d done it wrong. The blood was supposed to go on the altar, and there wasn’t one here. And second… did Melodia accept rabbits? He didn’t know. It might be written down somewhere. But more importantly than that, who cared? What could a god that looked like that do, for good or evil? And besides that, were there even still gods in the world? It didn’t seem that way to Dirt. Either they were helpless, or they were gone.

Thinking about it made the old guilt resurface. He was responsible for this, he knew. He was a living sacrilege himself, so why should he be upset about Biandina doing something useless?

Dirt stepped forward, blinking away a burning in his eyes that he hoped they didn’t notice, or thought was a reaction to the cold air coming in from the hole in the roof. He traced a finger along the dried blood. “I really do keep coming back to this, don’t I? Someday I’m going to have to answer for what I did. I’m sorry, Melodia. I don’t know what I did or why, but I’m sorry.”

He placed his hand on her good foot, palm resting on her tightly curled toes, and bowed his head for a moment. There was something he should be doing or saying, something he had done a thousand times, but he couldn’t remember what. He had lost it forever.

The other humans were dismayed by his behavior, and Dirt glanced at their minds to find out why. To them, it looked like Dirt was familiar with the gods, and that seemed such a blasphemy that they were wondering if they should somehow warn the wolf, or if the wolf was part of it.

Biandina’s babbu’s heart was pained and unsettled, and he was strongly considering killing Dirt and his daughter right here, then trying to talk their way out of it. He wasn’t a fool, though; it was simply a matter of which bad outcome would be worse. The attention of that god—the embodiment of suffering and evil—or the ire of the wolf.

Dirt stepped back and sighed, shrugging. He looked at the old woman with a look on his face as if to say, what now?

“Cumu cunnosce u so nome? Cumu cunnosce u nome di a dea?” asked the old woman.

Dirt heard the word for ‘name’ and ‘goddess.’ “Oh, what’s her name? That’s Melodia. Melodia,” he said.

Well, that was the wrong thing to say. The old woman recoiled and the old man let out a quiet hiss. Biandina’s babbu saw their reaction and considered trying to stab Dirt, but remembered what Dirt had done to his spear.

“What’s wrong? What did I say?” he asked.

But before he could get an answer, Socks severed their shared sight. The pup had heard something and wanted to see what it was, and soon told him, -Watch out, Dirt. That half dead human just snuck in the doorway. I think he’s coming to you. I only caught a glimpse but he looks like this.-

The pup sent an image of a man from behind, wide-shouldered and hood down, revealing a head of short, curly hair and a pale neck. -Need me to come?-

“Not yet. Let me see if I can smooth this out first. Otherwise we may have to leave in a hurry,” said Dirt.

He raised his hands apologetically, trying to look chagrined. He pointed at himself, then mimicked sacrificing a rabbit just as the old woman had done, then emphatically waved his hands in an X shape, hoping to communicate that it was something he’d never do. He gestured twice, just to make the point.

A pair of eyes flashed deep inside the doorway, back in the dark of the Great Hall. Dirt looked at the minds and found the half-corpse. It was hiding there, silently and thoughtlessly watching him.

Dirt pointed and said, “Who’s that?”

The others looked just as it crept backward to hide. The old man had seen motion, though, and stepped back into the Great Hall to see who it was. Dirt heard him conversing with someone else, a gruff male voice with a gravelly quality. Then the old man and the half-dead corpse walked in, both squinting in the sunlight.

He looked perfectly normal. Even his mannerisms seemed average. He had a short, dark beard to match his dark hair and wore the same woolen clothing everyone else had on. If anything distinguished him at all, it was his skin, just a shade paler than average.

The man-shaped monster gave Dirt a polite wave. With a hint of apology in his voice, he said, “Eru solu curiosu di ciò chì facia. Ùn vulia dì micca male.”

Dirt assessed him carefully, looking for anything he could accuse the man with. Dirt would prefer to kill him before he realized he was in danger, but he didn’t want to fight half the tribe on his way out.

The old woman said, “Ùn ci hè micca assai per vede. Pensu chì u zitellu ùn hà micca capitu ciò chì ci vulia à dì.”

The man smiled, flashing his teeth in a way that made Dirt think of hunger. “Dopu tuttu, ùn hè chè un zitellu.”

Dirt smiled back at him, then reached forward to offer him a handshake. The man accepted, and his hand was cold and strong, barely moving. Dirt suddenly tugged the man’s shirt up with his mind, hoping perhaps there was something hidden under there. There was no way all of him looked normal.

The man’s clothing went tight, but surprisingly, his shirt was sewn to his pants to prevent exactly this.

“Got you now,” said Dirt with a predatory grin of his own. Strengthening both his arms, he dropped his staff and caught the other man’s wrists to hold him in place. Then with his mind, he yanked the knife out of its sheath and sliced a circle around the man’s shirt.

It fell open and revealed a mass of pulsing gray flesh covering two thirds of his torso. Under his armpit was a woman’s face from the nose down, chin jutting two inches out from where the rib cage should be. Dirt held him there for long enough for the others to see it, then swung the knife back around for a stab.

The monstrous human gave Dirt a brutal kick in the stomach that lifted both feet off the floor. It was so vicious that a tiny bit of pain made it through Dirt’s mana protection.

Finally, the others realized what they were seeing and screamed. Biandina’s babbu reacted first and stabbed the half-corpse right through his gray, pulsating chest, spearpoint coming a handspan out his front.

It didn’t affect him in the slightest. The only reaction was that the monstrosity quit pretending to have human emotions and let his face go slack. The woman’s face under his right arm jawed its mouth as if trying to take a bite.

Dirt inhaled mana again, just to make sure, and threw the dagger straight into the monster’s forehead. He braced his feet and pushed it deeper. Then he yanked it out with a wet smacking sound and went for the neck.

At the same time, some of the twisting flesh on the man’s torso unwound and became a long arm with three joints and a single clawed finger on the end. It stabbed over and over at Dirt, hard enough to sound a solid thump in his chest, but Dirt’s mana didn’t let it puncture him.

Dirt kept his hold on the man’s arms, strengthening his fingers to iron. He stabbed over and over with the knife, yanking sideways each time to leave huge gashes, only some of which bled. The man fell apart, losing an arm, then a leg, then his head, and then finally dying all the way. Rotting black blood pooled on the floor and raised an incredible stench, but all was still.

Into the shocked silence that followed came a scratch, scratch, scratch, gentle and rhythmic, from under the stone floor.