The Gates of Winter - Mark Anthony [273]
“Drink,” he whispered, shutting his eyes, sending out the call. “Drink, and do my bidding.”
He felt them come a moment later; distance meant nothing. They buzzed through the village like a swarm of hornets or a vortex of sand, accompanied by a sound just beyond hearing. The men looked around with fearful eyes. The blind woman gnashed her teeth and swatted at the air. The dervish lowered his arm, letting blood drip from his wound.
The fluid vanished before it struck the ground.
He clenched his jaw. The flow of his blood quickened as if the hot air gobbled it.
“Water,” the dervish murmured. “Show me the water you said was here.”
A moment ago they had been furious in their hunger. Now they were sated by blood, their will easy to bend to his own. He sensed them plunge downward, deep into the ground. Soil, rock—these were as air to them. He felt it seconds later: a tremor beneath his boots. There was a gurgling noise, then a jet of water shot up from the center of the mud patch. The fountain glittered in the sun, spinning off drops as clear and precious as diamonds.
The village elder gaped, while the young men dashed forward, letting the water spill into their hands, drinking greedily.
“It is cool and sweet,” one of them said, laughing.
“It is a trick!” the blind woman cried. “You must not drink, lest it cast you under his spell.”
However, the young men ignored her. They continued to drink, and the man in the white robe joined them. Others appeared now, stealing from the huts, moving tentatively toward the spring, the fear on the sun-darkened faces giving way to wonder.
The blind woman stamped her feet. “It is a deception, I tell you! If you drink, he will poison us all!”
The village folk pushed past her and she fell into the mud, her robe tangling around her so that she could not get up. The people held out their hands toward the splashing water.
Quickly the dervish bound his wound with a rag, stanching the flow of blood lest the bodiless ones come to partake of more. Morndari, the spirits were called. Those Who Hunger. They had no form, no substance, but their thirst for blood was unquenchable. Once, he had come upon a young sorcerer who had thought too highly of his own power, and who had called many of the morndari to him. His body had been no more than a dry husk, a look of horror on his mummified face.
The flow of the fountain continued. Water pooled at the dervish's feet. He bent to drink, but he was weak from hunger and thirst, and from loss of blood. The sky reeled above him, and he fell.
Strong hands caught him: the young swordsmen's.
“Take him into my hut,” said a voice he recognized as the village elder's.
Were they going to murder him then? He should call the morndari again, only he could not reach his knife, and he was already too weak. The spirits would drain his body dry of blood, just like the ill-fated young sorcerer he had once found.
The hands bore him to a dim, cool space, protected from the sun by thick mud walls. He was laid upon cushions, and a wooden cup pressed to his lips. Water spilled into his mouth, clean and wholesome. He coughed, then drank deeply, draining the cup. Leaning back, he opened his eyes and saw the bearded man above him.
“How long will it flow?” the old man asked.
The dervish licked blistered lips. “For many lives of men, the spirits say. I do not doubt them.”
The old man nodded. “All the tales I know tell that a dervish brings only evil and suffering. Yet you have saved us all.”
The dervish laughed, a chilling sound. “Would that were so. But I fear your seeress was right. Evil does come, on dark wings. To Hadassa, and to all of Moringarth.”
The other made a warding sign with his hand. “Gods help us. What must we do?”
“You must send word that I am here. You must send a message to the Mournish. Do you know where they can be found?”
The old man stroked his beard. “I know some who know. Word can be sent to the Wandering Folk. But surely you cannot mean what you say.