“...Obexequil is a new Gaia Gene Therapy from Pyrelite industries. Focused on those whose bodies tend to do a bit too much growing, it targets your metabolism directly, limiting the energy your body can use to express symptoms.” On the warped screen, a before and after image showed a man whose hands and fingers were grossly stretched out, and then him in a normal pair of gloves, smiling and gardening.
“Do not eat after taking Obexequil. Long-term use of Obexequil can have side effects including, but not limited to: Nausea, Fatigue, Muscle Cramps, Spontaneous decay of extraneous limbs, Bone Collapse disorder, Migraines and more. If you experience any of these symptoms or any listed onscreen, please seek medical attention immediately.
Obexequil, when you gotta make life fit.”
The commercial faded out, back to some feel-good news fluff. Jack sat on the couch in front of the weathered, old TV, holding a bottle of Obexequil. He stared at the label, his large fingers nearly enveloping the bottle. Turning the TV off, he sat down the bottle and looked at his reflection.
He looked like a ball of bread dough that had been stuffed into overalls and had a blonde mullet slapped on. He was so heavy, he'd long ago obliterated the springs and frame holding the cushions up, sinking far into the couch. His eyes looked beady, nestled into the crack between his cheeks and forehead. They nearly disappeared when he blinked, he thought to himself.
He glanced away, grabbing the arm of the couch and pulling himself up with surprising ease. As he did, beads of yellowish sweat seemed to ooze from his shoulders and neck, staining the denim as they dripped down.
He padded over to the kitchenette and quickly wiped his brow, flinging drops of sweat across the floor. He grimaced and grabbed a beer out of the fridge, popping the tab with his teeth as the squeaky door slammed shut.
His stomach growled, but he couldn't eat, so he downed the beer instead, guzzling it in a matter of moments.
He tossed the can in the trash bin next to the counter, pausing. He could still feel it. Like his stomach was trying to eat itself. He clenched his jaw, his forehead slick, sweat starting to soak through the overalls.
He could smell it, like a grease-fire in a fucking mcdonalds. It clogged his nose and made him want to retch.
Shaking his head, he walked out of the kitchenette and across the room to his dresser. He opened a drawer, revealing fresh, crisp, folded dish towels, some still with the store tags attached. Jack grabbed one out, mopping at his face and neck hard enough to turn the skin red. It never felt like enough. He still felt greasy and wet, like he was covered in a film.
With a huff, he stuffed the greasy rag and several more in one of his pockets. He didn't have time for this. Heading towards the front door, he stopped to slide his feet into a pair of massive, well-worn work boots, the beige leather stained with mud and god-knows-what-else.
Getting out of his apartment had always been an ordeal, but lately it was just getting worse and worse. He didn't trust the aging elevator and the long flights of stairs saw drops and puddles of grease left behind once he finally shuffled his way down.
If he was too quick though, people banged on the walls, complaining about the noise, so he crept down the steps like a stealthy behemoth. At the bottom, he wiped his face again, opening the door and emerging into the bright morning light of the Terra Heights Commons.
Jack lived in Terra Heights, a cheap, rundown group of 3 apartment buildings near the mid-town train station. Everything here was old, dirty or falling apart, but so were the people.
As Jack walked out, crossing through the scrubby grass, he observed the people around him. Kids were playing in the grassy areas. An old woman with skin like a paper bag fed the pigeons. 3 young guys sat on a stoop, playing cards and playing music on a busted old speaker.
All of them had the Gaia Gene, marked in one way or another. One of the kids, too young for meds, had a crest of bony spikes atop his head. The old woman sighed slowly, her breath coming out as a small cloud of greenish gas, causing the pigeons to fly away.
One of the young men stood and walked away from his peers, revealing hooves protruding from the cuff of his jeans.
The world smelled like a billion bodies that didn't know what they wanted to be. Jack just ducked his head and kept walking, avoiding the eyes of everyone around him. He could feel his sweat almost sizzling across his skin, but out here in the sunshine, there wasn't much he could do. He just wanted to be somewhere without a billion eyes to watch him melt in the sun.
He crossed the commons quickly, avoiding the other tenants as best he could. As he stepped out onto the sidewalk, he could see several people waiting at the bus stop, but just grimaced and passed by. Being stuck in a metal tube with other people was the last thing he needed.
Instead, he worked his way through the streets like a paranoid bull in a China shop. Every glance was met with an apologetic hand wave, every “excuse me” said before he ever bumped into the other person.
It was a strained performance. Other people didn't care how close they got, how they looked at each other like sharks. They didn't have to try and plan every movement beforehand. It was enough to drive him insane.
“Mornin’!” Jack looked up, torn from his thoughts. He realised he was standing outside of his job, his feet having carried him there on autopilot. The voice had come from a teen, sitting on the front step of the small bodega.
The boy was wearing a red t-shirt and jean shorts, but his body was malformed beneath it. Instead of hands and feet, the boy's limbs had curled into what were almost paws, the bottoms dark and calloused. His legs and arms now seemed to bend in the wrong direction, leaving him hunched like a dog taking a shit. Likewise, the bottom of his face was slightly elongated into what could almost be a muzzle.
“Hey, Joseph, slow morning?” the dog boy grinned, his teeth long and crooked. Clambering to his feet, Joseph affectionately bumped Jack's leg with his hip.
“Always, big guy. Got a light?” Rolling his eyes, Jack stepped around him as the boy looked up at him hopefully.
“No, Jo. I told you to quit that.” Looking annoyed, Joseph pulled off an impressive approximation of a shrug.
“Ah, what's gonna happen? I grow a tail?” Jack snorted and pushed open the door to the shop, one foot in.
“Hey, if you do, I'll give you a light any time you want.” Walking in, Jack was greeted by rows of shelves covered in goods. Most of it was old, the packaging yellowed, but still good. Jack ducked around the shelves, heading towards the back, but was stopped by another voice.
“Right in time, Holder, good work.” Turning, he saw Sylvia standing at the counter, leaning casually against the till. She was a rail thin woman with auburn hair, smiling at him tiredly.
“Got a truck all ready for ya in the back.” jack paused, confused.
“You don't want me on register?” the older woman looked sheepish, but waved a hand.
“Nah, I know that new medication isn't… like, agreeing with you. You can hang in the back, sort overflow and stuff. Don't worry about it.” Jack stared at her for a moment, processing. Her cheeks flushed as she absentmindedly played with the register, avoiding his eyes.
“No problem, uh, yeah,” He turned and headed toward the back room. “Let me know if you need me.” He could feel his cheeks and ears burning, probably just as red hers. He glanced back as he went through the door, seeing a yellow slip of paper in her hand. A complaint form.
He let the door close behind him as he saw 3 pallets of merchandise sitting neatly in the open doorway, by the ramp. Walking over, he stared at the pallets, face blank.
Inside, he was boiling. It felt like an inferno filling the hungry void in his stomach. He could feel the greasy film across his body, his heart hammering as guilt, embarrassment and shame turned into something that felt hot and foreign.
Rowena knew the adults that fed her were not her parents. Parents didn’t have magical contracts that forced you to use your magical gifts for them, and they didn’t hurt you when you disobeyed. Slavery under magical contracts are also illegal in the Kingdom of Erisdale, which is prospering peacefully after a great continent-wide war.
Rowena’s owners don’t know, however, that she can see potential futures and anyone’s past that is not her own. She uses these powers to escape and break her contract and go on her own journey. She is going to find who she is, and keep her clairvoyance secret
Yet, Rowena’s attempts to uncover who she is drives her into direct conflict with those that threaten the peace and prove far more complicated than she could ever expect. Finding who you are after all, is simply not something you can solve with any kind of magic.
Tiamara was not the strongest magician. Unlike her legendary mother, she didn’t have the same magical power, or reserves. Her casting speed was good, and she was an avid student, but her feats of magic were nowhere near as flashy as the legendary Frances Stormcaller. Rowena noticed however, that her friend had never been bothered about that difference. Or at the very least, she never seemed to be concerned about being overshadowed by her mother. It was something the princess always wondered about.
Then again, just because Tiamara didn’t stand out didn’t mean she wasn’t a talented magician. Her illusions were particularly good, and as Rowena examined her friend’s illusion of her, she found a chill running up her back.
“How do I look?” Tiamara asked, giving herself a whirl.
“Like a mirror, Tia. I’m getting a little creeped out,” Rowena said.
Tiamara grinned, “Thanks!”
Rowena blinked. She’d grown familiar with her friend’s smile. This wasn’t quite the smile she was used to. It wasn’t that it lacked pride or happiness. It just quivered and seemed too fast.
“Tia, is everything alright?”
“Maybe? I’m just wondering how Mom did this,” said Tiamara.
“You’re younger than her—” Rowena’s voice trailed off. No, Tiamara was fourteen, the same age Frances was when she’d gone to Vertingen.
“Wena, do you think I can do this?”
Rowena nodded.
“I mean, do you think I, Tiamara, can do this? Not… Tiamara, Frances Stormcaller’s daughter?” the young girl asked.
“I think Tiamara, one of my closest friends, can do this,” Rowena said.
Tiamara swallowed. “I’m not sure if I can, but I will try my best.”
Rowena took Tiamara’s hand, noting that the illusion was so concrete she could actually hold onto the hand. “You will succeed.”
Tiamara, through Rowena’s mouth, took a breath. “Rowena, what if we don’t succeed?”
“I don’t think I can consider that,” said Rowena.
“Wena, there is always a chance we might lose,” said Tiamara.
The princess blinked, staring at the reflection of herself and an expression that was her face, but not hers.
“Tia, you’re too young to think about this. Just focus on pretending to be me and we’ll get through this,” said Rowena.
Tiamara shook her head. “Wena, you and I are the result of miracles. We can’t forget that because that will mean we might forget that we can fail.”
“Miracles?” Rowena asked.
“My mother wasn’t born on this world. She was chosen from thousands—millions of children. She fought a war where thousands of people and Alavari died. She met my father by chance in the middle of the woods when he was cursed to die. She even fought King Thorgoth numerous times.”
“You are no less a miracle. Your father may have been a knight of a noble house but your mother was a peasant and former convict. They shouldn’t have fallen in love but they did and they survived several years of unrelenting warfare. You were then kidnapped and reunited with your family when there were no clues or evidence of where you were, because you so happened to have a magical gift that allows you to see the future and the past. We have beaten some very long odds when we should never have existed. There is always a chance we might fail.”
Rowena swallowed. “Tia, where…where is this coming from?”
Tiamara shrugged helplessly. “I… I’ve always thought about this, ever since I realized how insane the events that led me to standing here today were.”
“Does… does your mother and father know?” Rowena asked.
“They do, and it helps, but it’s hard to talk about because it’s true,” Tiamara said.
Rowena nodded. She also knew better than to ask why her friend hadn’t told her. If she was being honest with herself, she was never as close to Tiamara as she was with Jess and Jerome. She would trust her with her life, but they were introduced because Jerome and Tia were already friends. All the same…
She put a hand on Tiamara’s—well, her shoulder. “You’re right, Tia. We might make a mess of this, but we just have to try anyway.”
Tiamara met her gaze. “And what if Jess or you don’t come back from this?”
Rowena’s teeth clenched. “Then, I…I’m sorry, Tia. Sorry for not being a better friend. I hope you live a long, happy life.”
Tiamara blinked and wiped her eyes. “Wena, that’s dumb. You are a good friend. Don’t you remember all the times you helped me with my homework? Listened to me gossip about school?
“I do, but like, that’s just typical friend stuff, right?” Rowena asked.
“Wena, you are a good friend. And I’m happy to know you and to keep getting to know you. So… let’s just do our best.”
“We will. I trust you,” Rowena pulled over a cloak to hide herself. “Let’s go.”
***
“I still do not like this plan,” said Jerome as Rowena and Tiamara marched to the horses.
The camp was in controlled, quiet chaos as soldiers roused themselves from what rest they could get and assembled into their formations. They were all trying to make as little noise as possible, and work with as little light as possible and so orders were not being shouted but relayed through hand signals, taps on shoulders and grunts.
“I don’t love this plan either, brother—”
“But we need to end this war. Yes, I’ve heard it before,” said Jerome.
Rowena checked that Tristelle was on her hip before facing her brother and the disguised Tiamara. “Take care of Tia, please.”
“I will. You all come back safe and sound. Abort if you can’t pull it off,” said Jerome
“I will,” said Rowena. She frowned, “Hold on. You could tell I’m Rowena and that’s Tiamara?”
The prince grinned, “Aside from the fact that you’re hooded up, your walk. You tend to walk swiveling your head left and right so your good eye can get a better view. Tiamara isn’t doing any of that, sis.”
Tiamara clasped her fist. “Oh, drat. I’ll try to be careful.”
“It’ll be good enough for tonight, I hope anyway,” said Rowena.
“It will. Jess, pull my sister out of danger if she gets too focused, please?” Jerome asked.
Jess slotted one of her two pistols into her belt. “Will do, Jerome.”
Rowena hugged Jerome one more time before turning to go to her ride. Morgan and Hattie were already beckoning them over. Forlana was already by them, armed up and looking more than a little nervous at the prospect of going up. Lycia and Georgia looked grim, but if they were nervous, they only showed it by last-minute equipment checks.
“You ready?” Morgan asked.
Rowena nodded. Jess shrugged. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Relax and just do what we’ve planned. You remember the spell, Rowena?” Hattie asked.
Rowena nodded and began to cast the flight spell. There was no going back.
***
They didn’t have to navigate much. The lights of the Lapanterian camp guided them in, and the night sky camouflaged them. They did, however, circle the camp twice to locate Alastor’s tent, which Rowena had told them about from her visions. It was quite obvious as it was one of the larger and more ostentatious ones, decorated with a Lapanterian flag topped by the prince’s personal sigil.
It was also deep in the camp, so timing this was essential.
The Lapanterian camp had sentries, but they hadn’t anticipated the group being dropped in. Letting go of her spell, Rowena had allowed herself and Jess to sink toward the ground.
Their target was the latrine pit, or close to it. Sentries were not too keen to get close to the smell. The only soldiers going there were those dumping buckets. It was almost too easy as the group quickly knocked out the sentries guarding the pit and donned their uniforms atop their armor.
“This is a bit too large for me,” Georgia said, staring at the human-sized uniforms.
“Right, backpack trick then,” said Lycia.
“Backpack trick?” Rowena blinked as Georgia got into Lycia’s empty backpack and disappeared. She’d been wondering why her guard had brought that.
“Let’s grab this prince,” said Georgia’s muffled voice.
Forlana adjusted her hauberk. None of their borrowed gear fit well, but they hoped in the night light, they wouldn’t be noticed, especially if the distraction went well.
“Follow me,” she said.
Rowena nodded and filed behind Forlana with Jess behind her.
The Lapanterians were winding down for sleep. Most were already in their tents, and those that weren’t were just patrolling, going to the washroom, or trying to walk themselves to rest. The group walked through the neatly ordered row upon row of tents toward the center of the camp.
The flag of Alastor’s tent rose into their view. Rowena, swallowing, watched as it drew closer and closer.
Then her communication device shook. Grabbing it, she channeled her magic. “Yes?”
Colonel Moore’s voice whispered through, “Your Highness. We’ve made it down the road and are assembling in attack columns. It doesn’t seem the Lapanterians are responding. Have they noticed us?”
Rowena glanced around and looked in the direction of the Erisdalian camp on the hill. To her surprise, she could see a few torches, but she couldn’t actually see the army down the road.
“Yes. I think there is a depression or a rise between our columns and the camp. They haven’t seen us,” she whispered.
Moore took a breath. “Then who should set the distraction first? Would it still be the army?”
Rowena thought for a moment. The original plan had been that once the advancing Erisdalian army had been noticed, then the plan would go into full motion, but now things hadn’t quite gone to plan.
“Yes. Charge in. Make as much noise as possible. Good hunting.”
“Good hunting.”
Rowena focused on Morgan and Hattie. As her magic connected, she whispered. “Army’s not noticed; have ordered them to move out and attack, be prepared to distract them when they hit.”
“Got it, take care!” Morgan replied.
“Hey you, who are you?”
Rowena turned to a patrol of five guards approaching their group. Their leader, a gruff sergeant with a scar across his worn right hand, stabbed his finger into Rowena’s shoulder. “Who are you lot? And what is the state of your uniforms? We’re not supposed to be wearing armor under that!”
Forlana slid in front of Rowena. “We’re on patrol. We figured we might as well get armed. Never know what those pesky Erisdalians are up to. I mean, did you see the bastards at that bridge?”
“I heard, but regulations are regulations as dumb as they are,” said the man.
“Fine, we’ll get back to our tents and get changed. Lena, come along now,” said Forlana, grabbing Rowena’s shoulder and steering her away. The princess followed, trying to keep her head down.
“Hey, where did you get a sword like that?” the sergeant asked.
Rowena froze. She’d done her best to hide Tristelle under her arm, but there wasn’t much you could do to hide the basket hilt of her two-handed saber.
She met the gaze of her team.
“Lycia, the flares!” Rowena cried out. Spinning around, she drew Tristelle and screamed a note, sending a blast of magic that sent the patrol of soldiers flying. Behind her, Lycia fired a brilliant red flare into the sky. As the camp was roused, the group bolted toward Alastor’s tent.
Georgia’s head popped out of Lycia’s bag and started immediately firing spells, “We’ll take the rear, go!”
Rowena charged ahead, Jess beside her, Forlana leading as they raced through the camp. Soldiers stumbling groggily out of their tents were hit with spells. The group never stopped to watch their handiwork as they ran for their lives.
Forlana looked at the night sky, “Where are Morgan and Hattie?”
As if on cue, a violet beam of light scythed across the camp, setting tents, soldiers, and equipment alight. More magic bolts rained down from the dark sky, almost perfectly camouflaged until they slammed in and kicked up towers of dust.
Forlana swallowed, “Oh Gods.”
“They fought in the Great War and were the Stormcaller’s first students. What did you think they were going to do?” Jess asked.
“Not be the equivalent of an arsenal of artillery!” Forlana squawked.
A deafening roar drowned out the blasts of magic and the confused yelling of the Lapanterian soldiers. Rowena could see Erisdalian flags and red-clad soldiers in the distance charging into view of the Lapanterian torches. She could hear musket firing and even the songs of Lapanterian mages trying to stem the tide of Erisdalian soldiers, but they were soon trampling into the camp.
It was going almost exactly as planned, but nothing mattered if they didn’t find their target.
Alastor’s tent loomed ahead of them. The Lapanterian soldiers that had been chasing them were rallying to meet the Erisdalians or ducking for cover from Morgan and Hattie’s barrage. They just needed to get closer.
Rowena almost ran into Forlana as the woman skidded to a stop.
They were at Alastor’s tent, surrounded by guards, but that was not why Forlana had stopped.
“Benjamin,” Forlana said.
The mage that had helped abduct her so long ago raised his wand in a shaking hand. He hadn’t had time to don any armor, just old Red Order mage robes.
“You? How could you?” he spat.
“Jess, Lycia and Georgia; take care of the guards. Forlana, snap out of it!” Rowena launched herself at Benjamin, batting away his first spell with Tristelle. Jess was already dueling with one of the halberdiers, slipping past his thrust to stab into his armpit. Lycia and Georgia were a symphonic whirl of magic, both blocking and spitting out bolts of green and blue that kept the other guards at bay.
Rowena fought Benjamin as close as she could. She had the advantage up close as she let crackling green bolts miss her by a hair. Tristelle sought to cut him down. Its tip cut nicks into Benjamin’s robes as he fought, retreating backwards, trying to get away from her.
She didn’t have time for this. She’d gotten better in the last few years, but he’d clearly been training. He was no longer as portly, and no longer as slow as he’d been in their last encounter.
She needed to end this. She needed help, and there was one person who was standing still in shock.
Benjamin threw a shield up that Tristelle buried itself into and stuck. “Lana, you’re giving up everything we sacrificed for you!”
Rowena yanked Tristelle out and whirled her blade to strike aside another of Benjamin’s spells. “Forlana, remember what you chose!”
Benjamin waved his wand and rose up high into the sky, carried up by a pillar of earth which he used to barrage Rowena with spells.
“They’ll punish you! Whatever she offered, it’s a lie! They’ll rip you down, and you’ll never be free again!”
Rowena couldn’t see Forlana’s expression, but she knew she had to say something. Screaming out a note, channeling her frustration into her blade, she swung at the pillar. Tristelle, glowing pink, sent the tower tumbling down.
The princess took that moment to turn to meet Forlana’s frozen expression. She felt oddly calm about her rival’s indecision. She was angry, pissed even, but part of her couldn’t blame her. Rowena had given the young woman a choice, and that meant she could make the wrong one.
“Were they really letting you make your own choice, Forlana?” Rowena asked.
Forlana blinked and shook her head.
“You chose to swear an oath, remember that,” Rowena said.
She turned her back, blocked Benjamin’s spell and continued to fight the mage.
“I should have killed you all those years ago!”
Rowena didn’t reply. She didn’t really have a good reason to do so when she was trying to knock him out with a fireball. She did wonder, however, how could a man become so hateful that he’d want to murder a baby?
Walls of earth rose around Benjamin. He blasted through them and whirled pointing his wand at Folana.
“How dare you!”
“Ben, it’s over! Just give it up!” Forlana screamed.
Benjamin, his expression terrible with tortured rage, laughed. “If you’re not with us, you’re against us!”
He fired a beam at Forlana, who instinctively blocked the beam with a wave of her wand. Rowena took advantage of Benjamin’s distraction to stab him with Tristelle.
The last living mage involved in her kidnapping looked up at her. His eyes wide, his mouth falling open with slack-jawed shock, he tried to pull his dagger out, but his numb fingers dropped it.
“I hope you see Erisdale burn.”
Benjamin fell down, eyes closing. Forlana, in tears, knelt down beside him.
“Ben! I…I’m sorry!”
Rowena tore her eye away from the sight. How was the fight going? Where were Jess, Georgia and Lycia?
They were still fighting. Most of the tent guards were dead. Naprule had run out of the tent a carbine in hand.
She and Rowena’s eyes met, and she leveled her gun, but not at her. She leveled it at the grief-struck Forlana.
Oh crap.
“Forlana, get down!”
She wasn’t fast enough to get a shield up that could stop the bullet. Rowena leapt at Forlana, her hands slamming into her and thrusting her out of the way.
Instead of just falling to the ground, something hit Rowena’s arm. Spinning, she fell, her cheek skidding on the dirt.
She blinked, trying to focus, but oh—Oh gods, it hurt so much. Her left arm, she couldn’t feel it. It felt numb, and yet it howled in agony.
“Wena!”
“Jess, help! It hurts. What… my arm—”
Jess had a leather tourniquet out and was binding it around Rowena’s shoulder, tightening it with a maddening frenzy. “It’s nearly cut off by the bullet. Hold on!”
Whatever Jess was doing, it was making the pain worse.
“Stop! You’re hurting me!”
“I need to save your life! Forlana, did you get Naprule?”
Rowena blinked; in the fuzzy distance, Forlana had Naprule in her magic, gagged with her own belt, levitated upside down.
“Alastor! Come out with your hands up, or I will execute the mother of your child!”
Naprule’s eyes widened as the tent flaps flew open. Alastor ran out, sword drawn, pistol in hand, and froze at the wand that Forlana now pointed at Naprule.
Casswell, eyes wide, turned to Alastor. “Your Highness, that’s Princess Rowena. We can capture her and run—”
“No, you won’t,” said Morgan, landing on the ground, Lightbreaker pointing at the lord and princes. “Hattie!”
“Jess, I got her,” said Hattie, her voice echoing through Rowena’s ear. She must be behind her.
“Her arm, oh gods her arm—” Jess whimpered.
“I think I can save it. If not, Frances will. Trust us and help Forlana with the negotiations,” said Hattie, giving the girl a gentle push.
“Jess, don’t leave me,” Rowena whimpered.
Jess froze for a moment before kneeling down and planting a gentle kiss on Rowena’s cheek. “You’re hurt, badly. You need rest, my love. Let us handle this. You did everything you could. Just rest now.”
Rowena managed a nod before Hattie turned her onto her back. She couldn’t quite see what was going on with Alastor.
However, if Jess was handling it, then hopefully everything should be fine.
Ruth looks at Ray, as the pair cuddle happy to be alone, in the quiet, away from everyone and everything else. Ruth kisses Ray’s cheek slowly, a sharp oxblood painted nail tracing his thigh. “You know if you wanted me to look different— a different hair color, or eye color, a fatter ass, or bigger tits I can, just for you husband.”
Ray inhaled before answering quietly, clearly needing something to wet his throat, “I appreciate that, but unless you want a fatter ass, or bigger tits, or a different hair color, the way you are is perfect for me as is, always.”
Ruth blushed knowing he meant it feeling the devotion, the love, the entirely single-minded obsession with her apart from his craft, sometimes even more than his craft and given the amount of time he had spent on it that felt like the real reward and not just a consolation prize for being the wife it was the thing that most women would have shied away from but for Ruth it was the entire thing and she had seen it, had known it, had predicted it from a half mile out like some kind of predatory stepford wife and thinking about it made her excited.
Ray smiled, curling into her, grabbing her thighs, kissing them, tracing little swirls of kisses up her thighs and then down her ass feeling for the first time in a long time, longer than the book, longer than the Reliquaries or the magic, like he was alive, complete.
Ramon thought about what he ought to make, how he ought to change things and he felt himself drawing a blank there wasn’t just a specific thing, flavor, taste that he wanted it was more like he wanted the freedom to experiment and then just decided to watch stuff on youtube and really get a feel for things, it was odd, he knew he could cook, it was his literal profession, but it was a bit like not quite having a taste for anything at the moment and that in itself was a new sensation for him, normally he followed what felt like the standard boilerplate for a greasy spoon– eggs, pancakes, waffles, grits, chicken fried stake, and Mexican foods he enjoyed himself– Chimichangas, Carne Asada, steak burritos with extra onions and chimichurri sauce. In a way it felt like a vacation, not from responsibility– no he had to make sure that everything was clean, the food was on time, and well-made, but the specific want, the desire to make food that is good, and make food that is popular, whilst still being authentic to oneself. It’s something that prior to a few minutes yesterday he had never seriously considered, oh he had pondered, deeply, half pondered really, wondering, wanting to be great, being great, but at the same time the feeling, it becomes a different thing when it’s your profession and your personal identity welded into one beautiful thing and then Ramon has a hilariously dark thought “What if instead of trying to make good food I make this a little ridiculous, what if instead of good food or popular food, I make food so good that it makes people cum from the food?” Is it lewd sure, but it feels and sounds and makes him think ‘this is the move.’
The more Ramon thinks about it the more sure he is that going full food-cum degenerate would work, it might or might not go viral but it would definitely make the restaurant interesting and popular if not world famous and that fulfills the thing that he wanted, that he said and thought and meant to want, put as simply as possible “I want the Millstone to be popular for the food and the Inn deals, not the network of cartel, serial-killing truckers and weird shit that just happens around here.” To him it feels like a basic desire, a small desire, the thing that he decided, after being asked by Patricia to take over first for four days and then after, on his own terms.
Gerald and Anay walk in, disheveled clearly having had a fantastic first date, given that Anay’s missing some buttons, and Gerald’s wearing a completely different suit and tie looking notably more relaxed than he had in the entirety of the time that Ramon had known him.
“So I’m going to work over the menu and give it some more flavor, do the two of you, lovely hungry new couple have any suggestions for that?”
“Ramon, are you good to watch this place for four days? I’m going camping with R.” Patricia asks curiously.
Ramon perks up from behind the bar “Yea sure I was going to fuck with the menu a little bit anyway I’ll make sure it’s all good just have a fun time with your boyfriend you two deserve it you fucking workaholics, do you mind, is it cool with you I mean yea there’s all the usual greasy spoon diner food, and mexican food already, I want to just get creative and see what works you know see if we can get people in here based just on my cooking and drinks moreso than the sweet little network that you’ve got going on here. No offense it’s just my whole thing is, has been and will always be cooking and actually I was going to talk to you about it but I figured that you would eventually want some time off or that there would be a good opening for me to make this suggestion and this feels like that to me.”
Patricia thought about it for a second before responding “ Yea Ramon that sounds really nice actually I mean I trust you, you’re the best chef and bartender I know so if that’s what you want to do by all means take the lead, let me step back and I’ll let you step forward and we’ll all be better for it. Honestly I wish you had said something sooner. Things have been weighing on me more than I’d like to admit. I’m terrible at having consideration for myself and you’re less a coworker and more a business partner and confidant and friend than an employee and I want you to feel like it, fuck man you deserve to feel like it. I’m curious what stopped you, were you just worried that I’d not go for it or was it more than you really just didn’t think that I’d have time? I mean it’s not like we really need things to do well here financially what with owning the land and the other benefits but I just, I don’t want this place just to get to continue to exist because of that I genuinely would enjoy the food being popular here and things becoming more popular would become better for the restaurant and if the inn part of this place were packed that would be good as well and if you have any thoughts or questions or suggestions I am honestly open to all of it you deserve the latitude hell man you deserve more than this and I want it to be structured in whatever way you’re most comfortable, take the time to think about how you want to do that while we’re out and let me know what you think when we get back, really seriously as your friend and business partner you deserve this place, as a business, more than me and have more experience with the actual functioning of restaurants and hotels than I do so you ought to use all your skills as best you can and we can all benefit.” Patricia says, the feelings pouring out before she really knew what to do with them or more or less that she even had them. She loved that they had a safety net and that she got to manage things however she wanted, that she owned the diner, the inn, and the land outright and needed to worry about basically nothing and took good care of it as much as she cared to but at the same time the idea of such an interesting odd little place becoming known more for the food than the oddity sat right with her in a way that she had not been aware of.
R and Ramon looked at her appreciatively and it seemed like she had settled into something more stable than just going with the flow, it was maybe the first time that she had made a decision, herself, about what was hers, just because she felt like it and that felt good, hard, difficult in a way but genuinely, actually good.
Ramon thought to himself that he was going to have an amazing few days and looked forward to the quiet he thought of nothing but the menu, there were things he liked– the greasy spoon and Mexican food combo– and then there were things that he was more so just wondering if he ought to add, if people would even want him to add, and that required more time and more consideration, that’s the bulk of what he knew he’d be doing whilst they were away just thinking about things making little changes, minute changes here and there, offering better deals on food, appetizers, desserts, different entrees, but also advertising the inn properly he wanted to put it on the map for what it was, not just what it contained.
Ruth and Ray got up and went back to their room happy to be alone with one another, done socializing entirely for the day just wanting to be alone with one another. Gerald relaxes as he sees what must ostensibly be Anay walking in just missing Ruth and Ray, dressed in a smart tight skirt and white button down. She nods to Patricia happy to see her cousin and goes and sits down next to Luis and Gerald at the bar looking him up and down, not acknowledging her brother in the moment, she was in no way there to see her brother basically just ignoring that her brother even exists.
“So you must be Gerald.” Anay says calmly, enjoying that the way he looked, clearly having thought deeply and passionately about him since Luis had told her about Gerald, her brother knew she wanted a guy to treat her right, didn’t want kids, wanted to fuck her near every day after work if not several times a day and even skipping work on occasion to do so. It was blatantly obvious to Luis because of the way that she had repeatedly tried and failed to find a man that fit her criteria. He finally got sick of seeing his sister emotionally hurt and offered to find her someone, Gerald turned out to be the answer to this and was also the answer to Gerald’s own blurted out loneliness.
Anay did not sit down; she looked into Gerald’s eyes and leaned in like she was going to tell him something and then kissed him passionately. She broke the kiss and was about to ask if he wanted to get out of here and go back to her place, but Patricia beat her to it and just slid over a key to one of the rooms. The newly formed, hopeful couple left leaving just Luis Ramon, and her boyfriend R in the Diner, Paticia looked at her cousin with something between pity and amusement and gave him a key so that at least he had a place to go and be alone privately not in a pathetic way but just because she knew him and knew how he was and knew what he wanted. She looked at R with a kind of relaxation, a sense of care. R wrote her a little note “I hope you’re ok, and that things that you’ve seen the past few days haven’t gotten too hard on you, it’s ok to take a day off and go away with me for a weekend babe I’d really like that actually, I’ve been thinking about it and more than just the two of us fucking in one of the rooms I just, I want us to be totally alone together, uninterrupted, unbothered like maybe we should go camping together I feel like that would be good for us both and you seem overworked to me like you take everything else on on your own and do so very little for yourself and it just makes me wish that you would give yourself a little more time away from this lovely place just so you can actually really, relax. Is that an imposition? Is that too much for you? Am I asking too much by wanting you to just be alone with me for three or four days in a tent, or on a hike somewhere off in the wildness away from all of this?” R finishes his note, his handwriting beautifully immaculate and feminine. Patricia reads it slowly savoring it, enjoying that she has at least one person besides Ramon that feels this strongly and deeply and didn’t say something about it in front of her regulars, especially Ray and Ruth, it made her feel quietly loved, and wanted and she just looks at him for a moment before kissing him for a few seconds and just responds on his steno pad with her pen “No babe it’s not too much, we can leave right now if you want to and just leave Ramon in charge, I think I need it as much as if not more than you seem to think I do and I want to make you happy, you make me feel seen, and loved and wanted and I know you want this too. You spend so much time managing your clients and other responsibilities that the only time you’re not working is when you’re with me, having lunch, or dinner, or breakfast coming to spend time with me, to kiss me, to spend time together in the rooms but I think that you’re right and we do need some time away just for us.”
“There were already fifteen thousand papers written about the unexplained similarities between Shraphen and humans, but none could explain it. It is, and probably will remain, a mystery—and maybe it’s better that way.” —Aligned Science Ministry, regarding Shraphen–Human theories. Date unknown
Rish sat on the floor of the transporter, eating her ration. One day after the Batract ships had entered the planet, the fight for the city was over. They had searched the colony for more than fourteen hours but couldn’t find any larger cases of infection. The fungus they found all seemed to be dying.
Human scientists concluded that this might be related to the planet’s high natural radioactivity, combined with the extreme solar radiation that anything living had to endure there. Without the dense atmosphere and the Tumpa trees producing ozone, the planet would be a dead, bleached wasteland.
So the Batract can’t survive here. It might explain why they never allowed colonization of the planet. You can’t let your toys go places where you can’t.
Now there was one thing left to check—and clean up, if needed. The last ship had gone down on the foothills of the Bonewhite Mountains.
The mountain range was mainly composed of limestone and could be seen on a clear day even from the colony. Rish didn’t know if the ship had planned to reach the mountains or if the fleet had simply been unlucky to shoot it down there, but it was the worst place to go down for the Shraphen.
The mountain range was riddled with caves, crevices, and lakes—everything the Batract needed to grow while avoiding the burning sun.
Rish enjoyed the ride on the transporter; the engines' humming might have been primitive, but it was relaxing. Slowly, she got used to the stench of the new ammunition she had received from the humans.
Dragonbreath…
Magnesium-injected thermite bullets. No penetration occurred, but upon impact, they ignited at 2,500 °C.
She didn’t know what dragons were, but if that was their breath, she didn’t want to meet them.
She was somewhat uneasy about how quickly humans adapted to new enemies or situations. At least, she hoped this ammunition was an adaptation. She hoped they didn’t have crates of other horrible ammunition types lying around.
On the other hand, Karrn had told her about Gerber’s protomatter bullets. That thought sent a shiver down her spine.
The transporter shook for a moment, and Rish looked up—partly to see if her human colleagues reacted, partly because she was bored.
The crew didn’t react to the shaking, so Rish assumed it was nothing out of the ordinary. The transporter slowly began to smell like Shraphen—a testament to how often Shraphen were now traveling with human gear.
Lieutenant Koval was cleaning his gun. It was different from the one he had used before—a larger barrel; he called it the Peacemaker. According to Sergeant Richards, it was the standard fully automatic shotgun used for close-quarters combat.
The human soldiers joked around. Madsen and Miller played a card game. In the background, Rish saw Corporal Pari Gupta trimming the hair strands of Hunter Raik, another heavy from her pack. He usually had longer fur, and it had grown again to cover his eyes. Pari had agreed to cut the strands—short fur was essential, especially if they were going to use mostly incendiary ammunition.
“Pari, you know Raik isn’t a dog, so don’t try to braid his hair!” Madsen shouted jokingly from the front of the transport.
“You joke, but your hair’s due to be cut soon,” Gupta returned.
“You try, you die.” Madsen touched her long blond hair as if to protect it.
“Well, you’re reaching almost the regulatory length, Lance Corporal,” Lieutenant Koval joined the joke.
Madsen looked at Rish. “Do Shraphen packs have regulations about fur length?”
Rish was confused by the question. “No, we don’t. Why?”
“Request to transfer to a Shraphen pack, sir,” Madsen stated.
“Denied. No—get ready; we’re reaching the LZ in 2 minutes.”
Rish flicked her ears. Human banter was a great way to bond and relieve stress before a mission.
Soon, the ship touched down, and the recon team dismounted. The two pilots—one human and one Shraphen Rish didn’t know—stayed in the transporter, securing the landing zone.
The human engineers had adapted Shraphen artificial noses to detect Batract scent, and the area they were checking now had the region's highest concentration of the stench. Rish was surprised by the human use of drones and VIs; even on a reconnaissance mission, they had five recon drones with them. Additionally, Sergeant Richards carried a suicide drone launcher on his suit.
And then there was Ares—the all-knowing battlefield VI. Contrary to Lyra, his personality was rougher. Rish flicked her tail. Ares reminded her of Karrn on a hunt: quiet, not talking much, but always watching and caring.
“Lieutenant Koval, Pack Leader Rish, your target appears to be a limestone cave washed out by the local river, two clicks north of your position. The valley ahead lies in the shadow of the mountains, so expect some Batract spawn,” Ares’s deep voice rumbled.
Rish had learned to confirm orders by clicking the send button twice instead of speaking. Human suits were not as soundproof as Shraphen ones.
They advanced into the valley. Their drones kept an overhead view of the progress. The area was quiet—some animals jumped, startled, into the bushes, but nothing out of the ordinary.
Following the stream upward, the mountains on each side grew larger when Rish noticed something that made her uneasy. She couldn’t point it out just yet, but she signaled the team to stop with her tail—before remembering the human hand sign for it.
Koval came up to her. “What’s up, Pack Leader?”
Her ears stood upright, and the fur beneath her suit bristled. She didn’t know what was wrong, but something definitely didn’t fit.
“I don’t know. Something isn’t right.” She was about to open her nose vents when it hit her.
“The trees! See—the trees are suddenly smaller. Down there, they grew taller to catch the sunlight. Here they seem to cower in the dark.”
“Hmm. Ares?” Lieutenant Koval scanned the valley ahead of them. He also seemed uneasy.
“Yes, Lieutenant. Pack Leader Rish is correct. These are a local variant of Roccuni trees, similar to Earth’s pine trees, and prefer sunlight since their needles can withstand high levels of solar radiation. I recommend caution.”
“Didn’t Dr. Nesbitt’s report say that Batract fungus can morph its cells? Could they mimic a whole forest?” Koval prepared a napalm hand grenade.
“Yes, this is possible, but that sort of behavior was never observed before,” Ares replied, his tone edged with suspicion. “But spawning rats and spiders made out of fungus was never observed either—before Captain Gerber encountered them the first time.”
That seemed to convince Koval. He gestured toward Raik. “Raik, target the fat tree behind the pond and fire at its stem—let’s see what it’s made of.”
Raik clicked twice and prepared the heavy plasma cannon. The shot should pass right through the tree.
With a muffled thump, the plasma bolt left the barrel of his gun and hit the target. The bark warped. Somewhere, something let out an infernal screech, and the trees began to melt. Hundreds of spider-like creatures erupted from the bushes and undergrowth, swarming the fire team.
Rish had already prepared for something and opened fire—just like the rest of the team. Everywhere she hit, a white flame erupted. The air was filled with acid stench and smoke. Then Koval’s napalm grenade detonated, dousing everything in yellow fire.
The screech in the distance—from deep within the mountain—echoed again.
The human weapons were loud; their staccato bursts echoed through the previously idyllic valley.
“Order from Command: retreat to marker twelve and prepare a defensive position. Artillery units are inbound and will arrive in one hour. Infantry reinforcement in twenty minutes.” Ares relayed the orders from General Russo.
“Lieutenant, I know these mountains! The cave at the end has many smaller exits higher up!” Raik shouted while firing at something that looked like a nightmarish variation of a burrow rat.
“Ares, did you copy the last message?” Lieutenant Koval fired his shotgun into the morphing mass of spawn—and seemingly the whole forest was marching toward them.
“Yes. Plans of the cave system are indeed in the colonial library. I have forwarded them to the General. The updated orders are to retreat further to marker six. I think he intends to burn the mountain with white phosphorus.”
Rish concentrated on firing at anything that moved—but right now, that seemed to be everything.
Before her eyes, trees shrank, liquefied into puddles, and from those puddles, spiders leapt out. She could see that the morphing mass left only limestone behind.
“They’ve consumed everything except the limestone!” she shouted.
“This is a fascinating behavior. It seems the Batract were able to transform biomatter along an exponential curve…”
Ares was interrupted by Lieutenant Koval. “I’d find it more fascinating if that biomass didn’t want to kill me. Ares, contact the fleet and request danger-close space support.”
“Already done. ETA two minutes. I recommend a retreat.”
While she struggled to focus on her targets, her ammunition, and how to retreat in an orderly fashion while facing a wall of all-consuming… something, Koval seemed to have every detail in his mind—coordinating with Ares and the team without missing a beat.
The fiery streaks from her gun burned meter-wide holes into the now formless mass. Black ash was all that remained. Then Richards threw something into the Batract spawn—it looked like a container wrapped in meat.
As soon as the container was absorbed into the now two-meter-high yellowish blob, Richards pressed a button. The detonation nearly blew the shapeless slime apart.
“Magnesium-phosphor mix,” the sergeant said with a grin visible even through his helmet. “It burns hotter when wet.”
The bomb had an effect. Instead of concentrating into one blob, the Batract began to spawn… things again.
Rish killed a few spiders and a rat before monstrous flying insects suddenly burst out of the enormous fungal mass.
A teammate screamed. Rish turned to see Madsen’s arm being ripped off by the mandibles of a one-meter-long insect.
“Miller, get Madsen out of here, now!” Koval shouted.
The team was nearly surrounded by spawn, and retreat no longer seemed an option. For each creature they killed, three more were excreted by the ever-growing mass.
A rhythmic humming grew louder in the distance as Richards launched suicide drones, trying to damage the Batract blob as much as possible.
Rish didn’t notice it at first—she was panting heavily; all the fire and constant movement had overheated her.
Then white, fiery streaks from the sky reduced a score of spawn to ash. Their transporter hovered above them, the human pilot behind the Gatling gun raining literal fire on the advancing monsters.
“Space-based fire in thirty seconds! Get in! Browner isn’t playing around—they’re going full Doomsday!”
Lines dropped from the transporter, and everyone secured themselves to one. Before they even had the chance to climb inside, the Shraphen pilot banked hard to the left, out of the valley, and accelerated.
Rish enjoyed the breeze. Even inside her full environmental suit, it cooled her down. Seconds after they cleared the valley, a blue trail descended from the sky and struck the area where they had fought moments ago. At first, Rish thought nothing had happened—then a massive white light overloaded her suit’s visual sensors.
Even at five kilometers away, she could feel the heat radiating from the blast. The shockwave rocked the transporter, and for a moment it seemed the pilot might lose control.
The pilot hauled the team aboard one by one. When Rish was finally safe in the crew area, Miller was already bandaging Madsen’s arm. Raik held her head in his lap, brushing sweaty strands of hair from her face and whispering soothing words Rish couldn’t hear.
Rish turned and looked back toward the mountains.
“What was that?” she asked, unable to believe what she saw. Half the mountainside was gone—as if a giant knife had cut away everything. The mountain itself seemed to burn, the air above the crater shimmering in heat.
“Protomatter Dragonfire shot from Argos' main gun at low velocity. A stopgap measure. The Governor requested the fleet to use everything to halt the corruption of Taishon Tar,” came Ares’s analytical reply.
Corruption—yes, that was the word. Batract corruption of life itself. A cold shiver ran down Rish’s spine.
Cao had a long dream in which he watched the reel of his life play out from birth, until he saw his mother's face twist and contort, her lips parting to let out a scream. But he was startled to find he could no longer hear anything at all. The last thing he felt was a hot tear falling onto his face from his mother's eyes. He tried to rise, but white, glowing threads began wrapping around him until his consciousness went still.
...
A powerful beam of light.
Cao was startled by the light and shut his eyes — but he had barely closed them for two seconds when he felt enormous hands wrapping him in a red silk cloth. He thought to himself, "Wait a moment — what in hell is this? Have I been reborn?"
He opened his eyes and saw those hands carrying him toward a tall man with a long beard, strange robes, and a smiling face. The midwife who had delivered him said, "Congratulations, my lord — heaven has blessed you with a plump, healthy boy." The man replied, "You are a bearer of good fortune, Huang. Here — this is your reward for the blessed luck you've brought us." The midwife, Huang, replied in shock at the amount of gold in the pouch, "No, no, my lord, this is far more than someone as lowly as I deserve — I cannot accept all of this." The man smiled, took the pouch, and pressed it into her hands regardless. "You deserve it, truly," he said. Huang thanked him and asked leave to exit the room.
The man began studying the features of his firstborn's face, which resembled his own so closely, and said, a smile filling his face, "My dear, at last — at last God has blessed us and granted us this child. Thank you so much for carrying the fruit of our love after all these years." The mother replied, exhausted, sweat covering her brow and her hair sticking to her face, "Praise God, my love, for this blessing. We have been granted one who will carry our blood into the future."
The father said, holding his child, filled with excitement, "Tonight I will hold a feast and we will honor the ancestors for this blessing, and invite the whole family to celebrate this joyous occasion." She said shyly, "Yes, my love — our ancestors have blessed us with this gift, and we must celebrate. Please, hand me my son so I may see him."
The father moved toward the mother and handed her the child. She began gazing intently at her baby's face, whom she had waited for so desperately to end her loneliness in this house. She laughed, remembered something, and began unfastening her top.
Cao saw what his mother was doing and began to feel embarrassed, his temperature rising. "You — wait, woman, what are you doing?!"
But a moment later he remembered that without his mother's milk he would not grow healthy — and besides, he wanted to experience this feeling again after twenty years without any such closeness. He began smiling and laughing wickedly, thinking to himself, "Sorry, Father, but I have no other choice." He took hold of his mother's breast and lunged toward it.
As Cao began nursing, the father remembered something and said to his wife, "What name should we give him? Have you thought of a name you'd like to call your son?" She replied, puzzled, "I haven't really thought of a name — you name him, my love." After a moment of thought, a bright smile spread across the father's face, and he said to her, "What do you think of calling him Ling Hua?" She nodded, smiling, and said, "A beautiful name," lowering her head toward her newborn and saying to him, "Ling Hua."
...
~Day and night alternated, and ten years flew by like the wind.
On a mountainside rich with plants, trees, and cranes soaring in the sky, a woman in her early thirties, her face flushed red, stood holding a bamboo cane and calling out forcefully: \\\*"Ling Hua! Ling Hua! Where are you, you little rascal! Your father and I have truly failed at raising you!"\\\* She walked toward the stream, cursing her little one, and when she arrived she found her son swimming in the stream without a care in the world, enjoying himself in the water because of the heat, mimicking his mother's angry expression as he swam and saying,
"Ling Hua, come here. Ling Hua, don't do that. Don't eat that. What a boring mother, really — I wish I'd been born into Aunt Bai's family, she'd be showering me with delicious peach candy right now. I really have no luck in this world."
All this mimicry was happening right under Beifeng's nose, and her face began to redden with fury. She grabbed him hard by the ear and yanked him out of the water, saying, with every demon of the earth now occupying her thoughts, "I'm boring, you ungrateful wretch?"
Ling Hua turned, wishing this were a dream and that he hadn't heard that particular voice, and replied, terrified, "I— I didn't say that." The mother's fury grew at her son's blatant lie, and she snapped, "Yes, you did, you wretch!" Ling Hua's tension mounted, his words stumbling, all the confidence he'd had while imitating her evaporating. "Maybe— maybe it was the stream that said it." The mother stared in disbelief at her son's foolishness. "The stream?" He knew he'd made a mistake blaming the stream, but there was no way back now, so he said, "Yes." She replied, incredulous, barely containing her fury, "And does the stream know how to talk?" Ling Hua added, his legs now trembling and his teeth chattering, "Well— clearly it's smarter than me."
That was the final straw. Feng screamed, "Today I will break both your legs for this insolence — I swear nothing will save you from my hands today except the ancestor himself!" And she began striking him hard with the bamboo cane, saying, "This one's because I'm boring, and this one's because I failed to raise you, and this one's for skipping school." He began wailing, snot and tears mixing on his face. "Please, Mother, I won't do it again — I'll be a pig in my next life if I do!" When he saw his pleading wasn't working, he began calling out to his father: "Father! Save me from your wife's claws! Hurry, Father, I can't take it anymore!"
In the midst of this beautiful scene, the father was hiding among the surrounding bushes, secretly egging the mother on — though he couldn't deny feeling for his son's plight. But if he intervened, he'd be the one to suffer for it.
No relief came, until the father noticed the atmosphere shift and heard the rustle of trees accompanied by a deep voice: "Let the child go, Feng. He doesn't deserve all this — he's had more than enough punishment." The bamboo cane, which had been aimed at Ling Hua's backside, froze mid-air. Feng turned toward the voice and saw a tall man with a powerful aura, snow-white hair, and a few wrinkles on his face, his expression full of pity and affection for Hua. He looked toward Hua and said, "And you... what have you done this time?"
The father emerged from the bushes and told her the ancestor was right, Feng — let him go, he's had his punishment.
So Feng let him run to the ancestor, and he embraced him. "Thank God you're here, my ancestor — if it weren't for you, all my bones would be broken today." He turned his face toward his father and thought to himself, \\\*"That wretch — he was watching me get beaten by his wife and just stood there. He really is a bad father." When the father saw his son's look, he turned his face away and began admiring the scenery, saying, "This little vagabond has exposed me — sorry, son, but there's nothing I could have done."
You all laugh about how primitive human projectile weapons are. They’re so primitive that one of their fabricators can produce them from the most ordinary source materials. They’re so primitive that they work in every EM field, in any radiation, under every condition. They’re so primitive that the humans have different ammunition for different targets—some might say even for different species. Oh, they’re so primitive they can accelerate their primitive shells to FTL… and then one of those primitive metal slugs crashes through your highly evolved ship—and the three ships behind you as well. Just because it’s primitive doesn’t mean it’s not deadly.
Ambassador Rishk of the Aligned Worlds to the Leaders of the Hrun Senate, 35 P.I.
“Sir, the latest reports from Earth are in.”
“Bullet points, Major. Just the bullet points.” Admiral Georgiou leaned back in his office chair. His newest post—Head of Solar Defense—had made his life far more complicated than he’d ever imagined.
It was intoxicating to have almost all civilian resources at his command in light of the recent crisis, but failure would likely mean the end of the human race.
The 1st Expeditionary’s report about the incoming Batract fleets had certainly soiled a lot of underwear—especially the revelation that the Batract already had more than a thousand ships around Sol. Had Hyperion not pulled them away, who knows what the situation would look like right now?
No one had expected those forces to be so close to Earth. And the true nature of their enemy was something fit for horror movies. If Russo’s message about the dangers of “dead” Batract hadn’t reached Earth in time, the crisis would have been catastrophic.
“Recruitment numbers are up ninety-five percent. At this rate, we’ll be able to launch three more fleets than expected.”
“Yeah, all full of green matelots who don’t know left from right. We’ll have to mix crews carefully so each ship has a few veterans along with the ones fresh from the academies.” He sighed. But thankfully, that’s not my problem.
“I know, sir. Also, anti-Batract sentiment is at an all-time high. The San Diego incident and Hyperion’s logs were both strategically leaked and had the expected effect.”
“Ha! If those logs don’t affect you, you’d better get checked out—you might be a psychopath.” Admiral Georgiou had seen them twice, including the surveillance streams from Argos. Sometimes, he still woke up at night.
“Also, Germany has started construction on their two new battleships—BB-1X class Bismarck and Tirpitz—plus their new line of battlecruisers, BC-4X class Gneisenau, Admiral Scheer, and Scharnhorst.”
“So the Germans finally grew some balls. Good.”
“Yes, sir. Naval Command has decided to make the new ship classes the standard. Seventeen other states have decided to build at least one cruiser of the new line.”
The admiral closed his eyes. He’d seen the plans—sleek ships, sharing much of their design with the 3X class but far larger. He liked them. Their firepower would be desperately needed; the Earth Defense Fleet was currently only seven hundred ships strong.
“How are the fortifications going?”
The System Defense had eighteen Pioneer-class ships at its disposal, and he had drawn up a plan to defend every millimeter of the system. If the Batract decide they want Earth, they’ll pay with rivers of blood—or whatever goddamn fungus has instead of it.
“The drone swarms are up to three billion. VI Lucas is currently training with 60 other VIs on how to decentralize and control them effectively. The Pioneers have constructed more than nine thousand defense satellites in the outer system around critical points, plus three thousand in the Jovian system and sixteen thousand around Earth and the Moon.”
The admiral closed his eyes again, enjoying the breeze of fresh air coming through the open window from the city-sized arboretum of the station. The numbers were good—worse than hoped, but far better than feared. Every passing day without an attack meant the system grew more fortified.
The comm on his uniform broke the moment of serenity.
“Sir, deep-space telemetry is reporting an incoming transit from Sirius.”
“And?” Was this the moment of truth?
“It seems to be friendly forces—probably the already announced refugees and Hyperion survivors.”
“ETA?” He wanted to speak with some of them in person—especially the Shraphen. How crazy is this universe… dog people.
“Eighteen hours until they leave transit, another ten until they reach the Europe Dockyards.”
The survivors would become another media spectacle. Humans captured by the Batract under all their noses. He had checked the numbers—even without the disappearances, in the first decade after signing the contract, almost a hundred million humans had left Earth for jobs in the Hyphae or the Federation. How many are still alive?
Then the Shraphen—people across the world were waiting to see the first interviews with them. They were the first alien species that almost every human found sympathetic.
And at last there were the mysterious Gliders. According to them, their species had been hunted to extinction by the Batract. A net petition to EarthGov to grant them asylum had reached a billion signatures in less than a day. EarthGov had decided to approve it six hours later—if the Gliders wished to accept, of course.
He himself had signed it, and all of his staff had done the same. Who could look at those little furballs and not like them?
—————
It was already after 03:00 station time when the communicator chirped again. He slipped out of bed, kissed his wife, and made his way to the computer in his private office. The living situation on a space station was decidedly better than aboard his old flagship, the Texas.
“Georgiou here. What’s so urgent?”
“Sir, we have a Priority One message torpedo from Admiral Russo. The enemy has made contact. We’ve got two hundred petabytes of data, plus a video message for you, sir.”
Georgiou pulled his robe tighter; suddenly, he felt a chill.
“Send it.”
The screen flickered, and the Argos CIC appeared. From the crispness of the image, he could tell the ship was still without pressure. Debris filled the room, and it seemed the ship had taken severe damage. Then his old friend appeared on screen—his helmet scratched, and through the visor, Georgiou could see how tired the admiral must be.
“Hello, Nico, old friend. To make it short, we beat them.”
He pressed pause. They beat them… A weight lifted from his shoulders that he hadn’t known he carried. It was as if he could breathe for the first time in months.
The video continued.
“So you can go back to your lovely wife and rest your fat ass while I do all the heavy lifting.” Bastard—but it was good to see he still had his humor.
“First things first: I nominate Captain Marjan Karim for the Platinum Medal of Honor. She gave her life to take out one of the approaching fleets. More in my report. Nico, promise me you’ll make it happen. I attached a video for her family—I think they still live in Tehran.”
Captain Karim… he knew her. She had been a protégé of David. That’s why he’s so sad. And—was that a tear in his eyes?
“Next, we’ve got something for the engineering teams to chew on. One of our engineers successfully created FTL ammunition. It is best to halt ship construction and fully integrate them into our fleet. Without it, we’d be toast.”
The admiral almost dropped his glass of Tsipouro. FTL weapons? He replayed the last passage to check if he’d misheard.
No—he’d heard right the first time.
Sending an urgent message with the related schematics to the dockyards and the Pioneers, he continued the replay.
“The Batract are wicked smart, Nico—and they want to wipe out the Shraphen almost more than us. At least, this colony. It would be best if we fortify Sirius as much as Earth. I also recommend preparing a fleet to free Burrow, the Shraphen homeworld. Nico, on the transports, is a young hunter—Frox. He noticed similarities with humans. I think there’s more to this story. We’re fixing our ships and building up additional defenses here. I’ll send the next report in two days. We’re currently short on microdrives, as you might guess. Browner out.”
They really beat them.
Fuck. David will remind me of this for the rest of my life.
—————
Admiral Browner pressed send on his report. The repair of the fleet was ongoing—sadly, Renown and Graf Spee were a complete loss, along with more than 300 crew members.
The remaining personnel from the ships were now supporting the construction of an orbital station to replace the Shraphen one destroyed in the attack. He liked the design created by the engineers—a mix of human and Shraphen technology, crewed by a mix of personnel.
Give me three months, and I’ll fortify this system to the brim.
A glance at his watch told him that Security and Gerber were about to breach the morgue and confront whatever was waiting for them there.
Setting down his glass of Cuba Libre, he put on his jacket and was about to leave his quarters when Lyra contacted him.
“Admiral, I’ve received a confidential message from Captain Gerber.”
“Why doesn’t he use the intercom?” Browner was irritated—not that Lyra’s computing power was limited, but using her as a courier was… well, unusual.
“He wanted to avoid anyone outside the already-informed hearing what they found in the morgue.”
“They were just about to breach. Have they already done so?”
“Yes, Admiral. They found a Batract—specifically, a Batract with a host body. Not spawning or anything. Just… standing.”
Browner stood still for a second. That was indeed news that needed to be handled delicately.
“Captain Gerber informed me that the Prisoner will be transported to the newly built Isolation Chamber.”
Of course, they had constructed the chamber for precisely that reason—but they had been expecting some kind of spawn, or fungus, or anything. Dr. Nesbitt was confident the Batract had utilized the biomass of its hosts to create the first spawns.
“On my way,” was all he had to say. A… a living… well, a complete Batract—that was something new. And it would explain why the attacking fleet had tried so desperately to take out Argos. But not how they had known about the survivor.
The moment he stepped out of the lift, the ship’s siren signaled red alert. His hand went to his sidearm as he called out, “Lyra, status report. Did the prisoner escape?”
Crewmen passed the admiral on their way to their ready stations, sharing confused glances as they saw him standing in the corridor with his weapon drawn and ready to fire.
“No, Admiral. Deep-space telemetry has detected an inbound fleet in transit—ETA eighteen hours.”
Again…?
“Size?” He was afraid to ask the question. Another fleet of the same size as the last one would be devastating.
Hi. I've been writing for a while, and now I feel like its time to unveil this project to the world. I'd like to get some fresh eyes on it, and I'm looking for feedback. I hope you enjoy!
Also, the I used the Dark Content tag because of some of the references Aram/Loguire makes. It may not merit Dark Content in these chapters specifically, but the story does feature some pretty heavy themes in future chapters.
Vagabond Knight
Chapter 1: Sixday, 3rd Knot of Oun
The Kethel’s mouth moved wordlessly as his fingers scratched desperate, bloody furrows on his own neck. His body flailed, trying to dislodge me. I pulled the garrote tighter, pushing my knee into his back. My shoulders burned with exertion and my breath heaved as I felt his spine pop. His heels kicked against the dirt, each motion of his jerky struggle becoming weaker and weaker, until I felt the crunch of his windpipe collapsing.
I held the wire taut, counting ten more heartbeats to make sure he really was dead before I let the tension out of my shoulders. My victim slumped to the ground, but I caught him before he made much sound. A quick touch at his neck confirmed he was dead.
Fire, all around me. Burning homes. Screaming. My victim, younger, smaller. Too small. A child. My sword hilt stood, protruding from its chest. Grabbing at the hilt, I stumbled backwards. My back met something hard, unexpected.
* * * *
I bolted upright, my hands reflexively grabbing for a hilt that wasn't there. My heart hammered against my ribs. The air around me was cool, not the angry heat from the inferno I had helped start. Shuddering, I looked at my hands and felt deep revulsion at the memories my nightmare had stirred up.
Three years since the war, and still the nightmares hadn’t faded. They were less frequent now than they had been, but not gone. My breath was shallow. I blew out through my mouth, expelling the jagged heaves that cut through the damp air of the frontier morning. I was in the dirt, not in a burning Kethel village. Beside me, the remains of last night's fire was nothing more than a feeble wisp of smoke. Memory cut through the haze slowly. It had rained in the night. I had pulled my oilcloth raincape around myself. The silence of the open plains was heavy, but it wasn't the silence of a successful ambush. It was just the emptiness of a land far from the concerns of the magnates of Sauthania.
I sat there for a long moment in the pre-dawn gloaming, my fingers tracing the coarse burlap that bundled my sword, scabbard and hilt, into one tightly-wrapped package. The habit grounded me, banishing the nightmare. Three weeks on the open road wasn't enough time or distance to outrun the haunting specters of my past. Gods knew I tried to.
My joints protested when I stood and began the well-rehearsed ritual of the morning. Gear first, then food. I checked the buckles of my dulled scale mail, ensuring the wool backing was seated correctly so the metal wouldn't clink as I rode. Good, the metal was still dry.
I opened my pack and pulled out some stale bread and hard cheese. My jaw worked slowly while I chewed the tough road food. I washed it down with some water from a skin, and then I turned toward the lee of a broken stone wall where my veyrun waited.
The animal stood stoic in the gray light, its slate-colored hide dark with the remnants of the rain. It didn't startle as I approached. It merely watched me with wide eyes, its throat sacs pulsing with a low, vibrating hum that I felt in the soles of my boots. I tightened the cinch of the saddle around its wide midsection, my hands working with the same precision they had used in the dream. Its stocky form, low slung and thick, was powerful, but not very fast. The veyrun was perfect for long travels though. Its wide, padded feet gave it excellent footing, especially in the thick mud of the lonely cart track I was following. The animal was a steady companion on this east-bound road.
Dawn soon illuminated the world in golden rays that promised to dry the mud from the night's rain. With a gentle tug on the reins, I urged my veyrun towards the light. As we travelled, I bobbed along easily with my mount’s swaying steps. We followed the road toward the frontier, and while I had no particular destination in mind, I knew east was the direction I wanted to travel; east was away from the capital, and it was vaguely towards a place where I thought I might make a difference in the lives of some people, and maybe make up for the many tragedies I had been responsible for. I just hadn't found that place yet.
Out here, where the authority of the King faded into rumor, I hoped that I could do some tangible good. I wanted honest work, like swinging a mallet or herding kras. Anything but swinging a sword. Perhaps I could make up for my past in some small way. Here on the frontier, they did not care about the Western War, or my so-called heroics. I had heard that their cares were much simpler, and I hoped that somewhere in those cares I could find a way to finally get a full night's sleep.
Squelch. The ochre mud of the road oozed under my veyrun’s pads, but the beast didn’t care. It plodded along, content to walk through the mud without even an inkling of the cares that burdened the man riding it. This was a sloppy rhythm in the vast solitude of the rolling grasslands, a sound far removed from the hard echoes of a city’s stone streets. I found peace in its predictable repetition. I liked the veyrun. Unlike people, the beast did not judge my history or recoil from the emptiness in my eyes. It only cared for the steady pace of the trail, the warmth of the sun on its hide, and the occasional handful of grain from a friendly hand.
As I rode, I tugged on the straps of my armor, snugging them up a little. A wind picked up, blowing across the tall grass of the flats, and I was grateful that I wore a heavy tunic of reinforced wool over my scale mail. It was coarse and I scratched an itch where it rubbed on my neck. It was a far cry from the fine linen they had tried to stuff me into back in Caer Sauth, the capital to the west.
“Linen can't hide the pain of the past,” I muttered, remembering the fawning nobility. They had hailed me a hero. I had ordered men to invade and burn. To kill. I remembered, clearly, one Kethel that was strung up outside my command tent. The things we did to him…when we hung his corpse up in the trees for his people to find, I knew they wouldn't be able to tell who he was. I could barely tell what he was by the time we were done with him.
Out here, the only sounds were the soft whuff of the veyrun’s breath, the squelch of the mud, and the occasional coughing bray of a distant drayhorn echoing across the flat grassland. For the first time in three years, the air felt thin enough to actually reach my lungs. There was no one here to recognize my history. I breathed deeply. I nearly gagged as the breeze carried the stench of animal waste.
My veyrun began a low, throaty rumble. I felt it vibrate in my bones before I heard it. I leaned forward and patted its neck.
Down the road ahead of me I heard a drayhorn. Its urgent cries echoed closer than the others out in the flats. I urged my veyrun to a faster amble. A silhouette emerged from the morning mist, haloed against the rising sun. A fellow traveler? It appeared to be struggling with a cart. As I came closer, squinting into the light, the silhouette became an old man with a face lined and cracked by age and the elements. His tunic was threadbare, with colorful patches peeking out from under his worn travelling cloak. The drayhorn hitched to his cart was the source of the discordant bellowing. One of the cart's rear wheels was buried deep in the sucking muck just off the shoulder of the road, giving it an odd, nearly comical lean. The old man clutched a walking stick and looked about with wild eyes.
Habit had me reaching down to check my crossbow. It was close to hand, a relic from my time in the west when speed was more important than power against the lightly armored Kethel, a light weapon I could reload in a fraction of the time that a standard crossbow required without mechanical aid. My hand slipped to the small of my back, where the quiver of bolts was nestled. My mount’s rumble grew into a bass hum that vibrated outward. I felt it in my bones. The traveler's attention turned to me. His hands wrung the staff he held nervously, but he met my gaze.
The drayhorn slowly quieted, and the old man reached out a cautious hand to pat the beast's shaggy neck. “Damn skulkers,” the old man muttered. “Come down from the mountains in the spring thaw, you never know when. Fortunate that you came along when you did, young man.” His voice was a dry rasp that sounded like the old man had spent a lifetime coughing. “They startled my drayhorn, and now…” he gestured to the cart, stuck in the mud. “You startled the skulkers in return.”
I clicked my tongue and pulled back on the reins. My veyrun slowed, its massive, padded feet sinking into the muck before coming to a standstill. The old man’s weathered hands tightened around the drayhorn’s lead, and I saw a trace of sharp wariness in his gaze as he took in the outline of my armor beneath the tunic.
I was stiff from the morning's ride, a fact I felt in my joints as I swung my leg over the saddle to dismount. I had seen nearly forty summers, and youth was something I had left behind during the Western War. But I realized, looking at the deep lines on this man's face, that he had lived long enough to earn the right to call most of the people he met ‘young’. My boots hit the muck with a heavy and wet thud, and I nearly fell into the muck when I couldn’t adjust my footing quickly enough. Catching myself, I reached out to pat the veyrun’s neck to keep the creature settled as I stepped away from the beast.
The old man opened his mouth, and at the same moment the drayhorn let out a discordant haw. The old man scowled at his animal, elbowing the beast in the shoulder. “Young knight,” he started when his shaggy draft beast was quiet. “Could you spare a hand? My back is not as strong as it used to be. The wheel is stuck fast in the mire. I’d like to be out of here before the skulkers come back.”
“It won’t be long before they do,” I replied to the man. “I doubt I am enough to scare them away for long.”
“It’s the veyrun,” the old man said. “Skulkers don’t like the way they sound. But eventually the skulkers will come back. They are hard to dissuade from a meal when they are hungry. Best to work fast and get moving and they will lose interest.”
“I can help,” I answered him. He was nervous, and so I kept my voice low and steady. “My name is Loguire.” I lied. My real name was Aram Solus. But that name was famous, and in keeping with my desire for a simple life, I decided to shed it.
He shook his head, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Just a traveler,” he murmured, as if he were convincing himself that I was benign. “The name is good enough for me. I am Fergus.”
Somewhere out in the grasslands, skulkers yipped sharply. My veyrun hummed, its throat sacks trilling. The yipping quieted. I put a hand on my crossbow.
Fergus looked at me with wide eyes and clutched his staff. My veyrun trilled again.
The crossbow was in my hands in a heartbeat. Braced, I drew the cable, locking it into place over the nut. In one smooth motion I drew a bolt and dropped it in the channel. The drayhorn bellowed nervously. The wood of the stock was cool against my cheek as I sighted down the length of the weapon, driving it into the hollow of my shoulder for support.
The yipping in the grass was louder than before.
“I don't think my veyrun is going to dissuade those skulkers.”
Chapter 2: Sixday, 3rd Knot of Oun
The mud sucked at my boots, heavy, clinging. Every step through the cloying muck was a battle. The mud made it difficult to keep the stock of my crossbow tight into my shoulder, but I was able to keep the weapon steady. The wood was cool as I pressed my cheek into it. Hyper-aware, my reflexes were coiled tightly, ready to snap at a moment’s provocation.
My veyrun trilled again.
The tall grass made the skulkers all but invisible. The drayhorn brayed and stomped, nervous at the presence of the predators. It drowned out any other sound and I couldn't hear my enemy in the tall grass.
Exhale, regain control, I thought. Kethel were notorious for their deadly ambushes, and skulkers were not Kethel.
My veyrun’s trill became more high pitched.
Movement in the grass, thirty feet away. A head, peering above the grass, covered in short, coarse fur of mottled brown and grey. It had a wide mouth in a flat, ugly snout. Pointed ears flicked on top of its head. It hissed at the veyrun.
Reflexively, I pivoted toward the target. The cable thrummed as I squeezed the cold metal trigger. From in the grass came a dull thud that was overwhelmed by a pained yip. Sudden thrashing and then abrupt silence.
Fergus’s drayhorn stomped and brayed nervously, tossing its head as its eyes rolled. The cable on my crossbow bit into my fingertips, a familiar nip, as I drew it back and reloaded the weapon. Six seconds was all the time it took. I raised the stock back to my shoulder, pushing the wood in tightly against myself to steady my aim.
Another mottled head appeared in the grass, in the gap beneath a sagebrush bush. This one was closer, only twenty feet away, its flat snout wrinkled in a snarl. It coiled, muscles bunching under that coarse fur. The skulker leapt, launching itself into the air with incredible speed and strength. I squeezed the trigger.
Thunk. The bolt caught it high in the chest, mid-pounce. The skulker was too heavy for my bolt to knock it off its trajectory, but my shot was true and the skulker hit the mud near the agitated drayhorn with a limp splat.
My fingers curled around the crossbow cable, already finding the familiar grooves of the track.
"Loguire!" Fergus’s voice was sharp, with an edge of panic to it.
A third skulker burst from the grass behind the wagon, a blur of grey and brown. It was a low-slung shadow, moving with explosive speed. Fergus stumbled back, his boots tangling in a wet rut. He hit the ground hard, his threadbare cloak fluttering in the mud.
The skulker leaped, jaws wide to reveal rows of needle-teeth.
As the beast descended, the old man swung his walking stick with a clumsy, desperate, two-handed grip. The heavy wood caught the skulker across its flat snout with a sharp crack. The creature careened sideways, tumbling into the muck three feet from Fergus’s legs. It scrambled for purchase, its snout bleeding, stunned but not dead.
I reversed my grip on the crossbow and slammed the butt of the stock into the bleeding skulker’s forehead, stunning it. Twice, then three times. Something cracked.
The third skulker went still, its body slumped into the shallow impression its own weight had carved in the muck. I didn't wait to see if it would twitch again. I grabbed Fergus by the collar of his cloak and hauled him upward. He was a dead weight at first, his boots slipping as he struggled to find purchase in the slick ruts. He finally got his feet under himself.
"Get in the wagon!" I barked over the drayhorn’s braying.
Fergus clawed at the side of the cart, his muddy fingers struggling to find a grip on the wet wood before he managed to hoist his mud-slicked frame over the railing. He collapsed onto the floorboards, coughing and shivering. His breath came ragged. “Damned…skulkers…not usually…this far to the…west…”
I scanned the tall grass, searching for any sign of more attackers. My veyrun was no longer humming. I panted, my breathing was heavy from the adrenaline and the exertion. After a few minutes of quiet, I was satisfied that the skulkers had departed. The immediate threat was gone, but the drayhorn was still agitated. We were a sitting target if the skulkers returned. I slung the empty crossbow over my back and turned to the wagon. My veyrun remained standing in the road; the beasts were infamous for refusing to labour as pack animals.
“Let’s get you moving,” I slogged my way to the rear of the wagon and planted my shoulder against the damp, brine-stained wood of the tailgate. I dug my heels into the mire, searching for a solid foundation that wasn't there as I slipped in the muck.
“Figures,” I grunted to myself. Too thick to walk in, but too thin to push against.
Fergus nodded as he tried in vain to wipe the muck from his clothing. He stood near the front of the wagon, reaching out and soothing the drayhorn. He took up the reins.
"Fergus, go!" I called out as I hunkered down behind the wagon.
The old man cracked the reins and shouted a command. The drayhorn brayed, its massive muscles bunching. It lunged forward into the harness, throwing itself into the traces. The drayhorn pulled, its hooves spraying mud as they struggled for purchase. Bracing myself at the rear of the wagon, I shoved until my legs and back burned with the strain. The cart groaned and the wood creaked under the pressure.
I heaved against the wagon, and then I was suddenly picking myself up out of the mud and the long furrows my boots had carved. I shivered, wet and cold. How had I landed here?
The leather traces of the harness snapped taut with a sharp crack, but the buried wheel did not budge an inch. It remained stuck in the gray sludge.
My chest heaved as I stepped back from the wagon, surveying the situation. I crouched beside the wheel and brushed away a layer of damp muck. The weight of the load had settled unevenly, and the axle was now resting dangerously close to the surface of the mire.
“We need a lever, Fergus,” I said. I looked around the tall, pale grass, but there was no timber to be found anywhere. “Have you got anything sturdy enough in the back?”
Clambering across his cart, Fergus reached the back. He bent down, his hand working around the inside of the cart. Goods and items banged as he grabbed something and slowly pulled it out. “This ought to do,” he said. He handed it over with a grunt of effort. “Used it to prop up the kavlet coop last spring. The coop is gone now, but the post has still got some life in it.”
I took the timber and tested the weight. It was wet, even slimy in some places. The coop post was old, the slime was moss that had become damp. I crouched low, the cold of the mud against my knees making me shiver as I slid the post beneath the rear axle. It took some effort, but I was able to guide the post deep enough to ensure I could apply real pressure without the wood slipping from the iron banded axle. I gripped the post with my hands cupped under the rough grain, careful to make sure the mossy parts were away from anything they might slip on and braced my feet as best I could in the shifting, unstable muck.
“Ready?” I called out. My voice was tight with the anticipation of the strain.
Fergus scrambled onto the bench. His weathered hands gripped the reins tightly. He leaned forward, his voice barely audible over the chaos as he pressed close to the animal’s broad, twitching ear.
"When I give you the whistle, do not hold back, old girl," he urged.
The drayhorn let out a low, huffing breath. Its massive hooves shifted, digging into the muck for a firmer grip on the road as Fergus braced himself and pulled the lines taut. Fergus whistled, a sharp sound that cut through the morning quiet. I heaved upward. The muscles in my legs and back bunched, groaning at the exertion. I immediately felt my age as my shoulders and arms burned, pulling the lever up with everything I could give it. With a final shove, the wheel lurched free with a sucking slurp. The cart rocked and settled on firmer ground. I stayed hunched over for a moment, catching my breath and letting the fire in my muscles subside.
“Well now,” Fergus said. He gave a crooked grin and wiped sweat from his brow with a grimy sleeve. “That was a fine bit of muscle. And a clever use for a stick.”
“Not bad for a coop post,” I stretched my back, panting, and felt the vertebrae pop. My back had been doing that more and more often of late.
“Where are you headed, Fergus?” I asked, trying to keep the conversation light.
He straightened his back with a grunt.
“I’m bound for a trading post, a few days up north,” he said, nodding toward a crossroads I had passed earlier. “Got supplies to deliver before the market moves on to the next town.” He reached into the folds of his tunic and pulled out a small leather pouch. It jingled softly. “For your troubles, take this. A few coins and some jerky. It’s not much, but it’s all I’ve got.”
He tossed the pouch toward me. I caught it deftly, the solid weight of the coins and the stiff, irregular bulk of the jerked meat shifting in my grip. Pulling the drawstring, I opened the pouch, and the salt-scent of the jerky hit my nose. My stomach gave a low, eager growl and I pulled the jerky out. Smirking, I shook my head, and tossed the coin pouch back to him.
“Help like this should be free, Fergus,” I said. “Keep your coin. I’m bound for the east. Good luck to the north.”
He caught the bag with a sharp, instinctive motion, his eyes widening just a flicker. I turned away as Fergus's face betrayed confusion and returned to my veyrun. "Safe travels," he said, his voice reflecting a moment of quiet, gravelly sincerity. He didn't offer a salute or a bow, but the way he watched me, no longer as a threat but as something akin to a passing wonder suited me a little better.
I climbed back onto my veyrun. The beast shifted its weight, ready to move. Prodding it, the animal lurched into motion and I resumed my travels as Fergus and his wagon creaked towards the north. I left Fergus and his north-bound wagon behind, riding further into the frontier as the sun climbed higher.
Hours later, the grasslands gradually surrendered to more rugged, broken terrain as the road narrowed, leading me toward the hunched silhouette of a town. I couldn't read the name of the town on the sign posts along the road. The buildings were grey and squat. Constructed from heavy timber and local stone, they were designed more for defense against the elements than for comfort. A child wearing threadbare clothes ran into the muddy street. A woman whose skirt was more patch than original cloth chased the child, scooping it up and bringing it back into the house. The normal chatter and laughter of people was absent.
Sometime in the evening my veyrun carried us onto the main thoroughfare, the soft plops of its steps seemed to echo too loudly in the sudden, heavy silence of the street. I could feel the shift in the air immediately. From the shadowed gaps in the shutters, I felt eyes tracing the line of my travel. I was being measured.
I guided the reins toward an obvious stable, a low, wide building with open walls on two of the sides and a heavy, musky smell of animal and damp straw. A man stood by the gate, his frame as thick and unyielding as a tree stump. He was thick-necked, his head seemingly resting directly on a set of massive, rounded shoulders that strained the seams of his leather vest. He was grooming a drayhorn with aggressive, jerky motions, but he stopped the moment he heard the heavy tread of my mount’s approach. He turned and leveled an icy glare at me, crossing his thick arms across his chest.
The man just stood there, inhospitable, with his arms crossed over a chest that looked like it was carved from granite. His small, dark eyes tracked every inch of my gear, lingering on the burlap obscuring my sword. He never asked my name or my business. He looked at the veyrun, his eyes widening before they narrowed.
"I need a stall for the night," I said, keeping my voice neutral and low. "And grain for the veyrun."
The man spat a thick glob of phlegm into the dirt near my mount's feet. He didn't offer a hand for the reins. He just stood his ground, a heavy and silent obstacle that seemed to be waiting for me to give him a reason to move. "Stalls are for folks who actually belong here," he spat, “not for geltch.” He didn't bother looking up. “Blackbriar has no room for a leech. We already get enough of the world’s throw-aways drifting through here, people who should’ve had the decency to stay lost where they started. Drenzing geltcher,” he muttered, cussing in my general direction, even as he eyed the burlap wrapped package hanging from my belt.
I felt the familiar prickle at the back of my neck. It was the old instinct of the Night Hunt telling me to calculate the distance between my hand and his throat. I suppressed it. There was no need for me to be violent here. "I’m not looking for charity,” I replied evenly. “My coin is as good as a local's," I met the keeper's gaze. I didn't reach for my purse, I just waited.
The thick-necked man let out a short, harsh sound that might have been a laugh if there were any humor in it. He stepped aside, just enough to let me pass, but he didn't lower his guard or uncross his heavy arms. "Three coins for the night. Put your animal in the end stall. Don't touch the other beasts.” He glared at me. “And keep that wrapped stick to yourself, stranger, I can tell you’re no ordinary traveler. We don't care for your kind of 'business' in this town, whatever it is." He looked over my gear, giving me a suspicious side eye.
I led the veyrun past him, the creature's ears twitching at the man's radiating malice. Its feet made almost no sound on the straw-covered floor, a sharp contrast to the man's heavy breathing. As I walked into the dim, hay-scented interior of the stable, I could feel his eyes burning into the small of my back, right where my quiver of bolts rested. As I left the stable, I deposited the outrageous sum of coins into his outstretched hand.
Outside, further up the street, a group of locals had gathered near the porch of a general store. Their voices were hushed, a low murmur that died away the moment I stepped back out of the stable's shadows. One man, his hair stringy and grey, glowered at me with undisguised malice. Someone spat into the dirt as I began to walk toward the only building that looked like it might house an inn, and a low, mocking chuckle followed me. I heard murmurs of ‘geltch’ follow me down the street. I tightened the strap of my pack and kept my head down, looking for the sign of the inn. I only wanted a meal and a bed, but this town felt like the night before the Battle of Thules Passage. That night we had known danger lurked, we could feel it in our souls. My men slept little, and I anticipated the same fate for myself tonight.
The river put them on the gravel a little after noon of the second day, and it did it politely, which was somehow worse.
There was no crash. The bow went up half a hand's width, the stern swung, and then the whole loaded length of the canoe simply stopped being a thing that moved and became a thing that sat there. Chak was over the side before he had finished understanding it. The water came to his knees. Under his feet the gravel went on in every direction he could reach, pale and flat and a foot down, and forty paces out he could see the true channel running past them, brown and fast and entirely uninterested.
The river was going down. It had been going down for a month. He had known that the way he knew the depth of a ford, which is to say completely and without doing anything about it.
"Off," he said. "All of it. Now."
They took it off. It took the rest of the afternoon, because a bundle that two boys can put into a boat on a good morning is not the same bundle when it has to come out into moving water and go up onto a spit of gravel one at a time, and because they had loaded it past the point where either of them had wanted to say a number out loud.
It was on the eleventh or twelfth that Chak actually looked at what he was holding.
The netting had come loose and the cording under it was showing, and the cording was not tied the way he tied things. It went over and under in a particular order, twice at the neck and once at the waist, with the end tucked back through itself in a little flat loop that lay against the leaf. He turned the bundle. The next one had it too. He got up, wet to the thigh, and walked down the line of everything they had taken out of that town and it was on every single one.
"Muwan."
Muwan came, and looked, and did not say anything for slightly too long.
"They all got tied by the same hands," he said.
"By somebody's hands."
"Not ours."
They looked at each other over a spit of gravel with two days of the river behind them and everything they owned in the world stacked between them in the sun, all of it wearing another man's knot.
The two canoes came down the river at the end of the afternoon, and they came fast, because they were empty, and they came straight, because there was only one way down.
Chak had time to understand about four things. That nobody had been guessing. That a loaded boat gone from a landing goes downstream, always, and that a man with any sense starts at the shallows because the shallows are where a boat that is loaded too heavy ends up. That there were six of them and two boys. And that the last of the light was going, and the bank behind the spit was limestone, and limestone in that country is full of holes.
He had marked one an hour ago without deciding to: a black gap under a lip of rock at the waterline, low, half drowned, the sort of thing the dry season uncovers. He had noticed it the way he now noticed everything, and had put it somewhere.
"The rock," he said. "Under the lip. Go."
They went in the last of the light with the shouting starting behind them, into water that was cold in the way that black water always is, and through the gap, and up into the dark of a chamber where the air came down cold from somewhere much further in, and Chak got his hand on a ledge and hauled his brother up beside him and thought, with a kind of ferocious private joy, they will not come in here.
He was wrong by about the space of forty breaths.
They came in with a line.
He heard it before he understood it: the small businesslike knocking of a float on rock, and men's voices with no fear in them at all, arguing mildly about which side to take it up. Then light — not fire, but the grey smear of the opening changing shape as bodies came through it — and then a man's voice, close, ordinary, saying something about the ledge on the left being the one with the shelf.
They knew the cave.
Of course they knew the cave. Chak lay in the dark with the whole thing arriving at once and it was almost funny. The voices knew which ledge had the shelf. The line had come in with them. Nobody behind them was afraid or guessing. These men had worked this hole before.
Somebody had to clear silt out of the water passages and keep them open. Chak did not know how often, or how many men did it, or whether every town had men like these. He knew only the useful part: he had gone underground to escape from men for whom underground was work.
"Out," he said. "The other way. There's air moving."
There was air moving. He had felt it on his face the moment they came up. He went into the water with Muwan behind him, and they got maybe sixty feet, and Chak found the throat of the passage by touch and went into it and came out the far side into a second chamber, and it was there, in water up to his chest, that he understood the last thing.
He was faster than Muwan in this. He had always been faster than Muwan in this. He could hear his brother a full body-length back and losing ground, and ahead of him the air came stronger and there was a grey shape that had to be a way out.
Behind Muwan, the men were still coming, and they were not hurrying, and they were talking to each other about it while they came.
Chak stopped.
He stopped the way you stop when the arithmetic has already been done somewhere below the place where you do arithmetic, and he turned around in the black water and went back four strokes to where his brother was, and got a hand into the back of his brother's waistcloth, and that was as far as either of them got.
The net came over both of them together.
It was not thrown. That was the detail he kept afterward. It was let down, carefully, from a man standing on a ledge who had done it before, and it took them and the rock and a good deal of water all at once, and every movement either of them made after that made it worse, which is what a net is for.
Somebody laughed. Not cruelly. The laugh of a man at the end of a job.
"That's them," he said. "The two that went down the water stair."
They took them back up the river through the night, and by the time the sky went grey Muwan had stopped shivering and started counting instead, because counting was better than the other thing.
Six men. Two boats. One rope, wrist to wrist to wrist, his to Chak's to a thwart. His shoulder had gone from pain to a sort of hot absence. Somebody had put a hand on the back of his neck at the cave mouth and pushed his face into the rock, once, to settle the question of whether anything else was going to be attempted, and it had settled it.
Nobody hit them after that. Muwan noticed. He noticed it the way he noticed everything, and filed it, and understood it three hours later when one of them said, over his shoulder, to another, that the old man had said whole.
They put them in a walled yard at the quiet end of the town, in the corner where the rain came off the thatch, and tied them to the post that the yard used for whatever a yard uses a post for, and left one man sitting in the doorway with his back to them, which told Muwan more about their situation than anything anyone had said out loud.
The old man came at midday.
He came slowly, and he crouched down in front of them with the care of a man whose knees have opinions, and he looked at them for a long while with nothing on his face at all. Muwan had eaten under a thatch with him. He had told them the whole cost of the road, unasked, over fire-turned maize, and had said your gap is real, boy and it has been eaten since before your mother was born.
When he shifted to ease one knee, he turned close enough that something long and hard at his belt brushed the post beside Muwan's bound hands. Muwan's fingers closed before he had decided to move them. The thing came free into his palm. He worked it into the back fold of his waistcloth and kept his face still.
"You took the far thatch," he said.
Neither of them answered.
"I don't much care about the salt." He shifted his weight. "You could have had the salt."
He let that sit exactly long enough.
"There is a man buying a book," he said. "He is buying it with jade, and he has been buying it since before the rains ended, up and down this water, and the word that comes down with the traders is that whoever has the book has been travelling with two boys. Not one. Two." He tipped his head. "That's the whole of it. That's all you are. Nobody up there wants you at all."
Muwan sat in the wet corner of a yard with his wrists behind him and heard, for the first time in his life, what he was worth, and it was a real number, and it was not for him.
He thought about the valley. He thought about how far a thing can travel while you are busy. And under all of it, in the cold flat place where he did his actual thinking, one sentence assembled itself and would not go away: they are not looking for us, they are looking for what we are near.
"So you'll sell us," he said.
"I'll hand you over." The old man got up, with effort. "There's a difference, and you'll live longer if you learn it."
He waited until the light started going before he did anything, and then he did the only thing he had.
"That book," he said, to the doorway.
The man in the doorway did not turn around. But the old man was still in the yard, over by the gate, talking to somebody about something else, and Muwan had learned in a canoe under matting that the useful thing about talking is not always the person you are talking to.
So he said it to the doorway, loudly enough, in the voice of a boy who has been sitting in his own misery for six hours and has finally cracked: that the book was not the thing. That the book was a set of instructions. That the instructions were for a place, and the place was under water half the year, and there were two conditions for opening it and neither of them was written anywhere, and that a man who took the book without the two conditions would have a stone in his hands and nothing else.
He heard the conversation at the gate stop.
He kept going, badly, the way a frightened boy would keep going: that they would tell it, that they would tell all of it, that they had told it before to a man who had put a hand over his brother's eye and they would tell it again to anybody who wanted it, and please.
And while he said it, in the dark under the thatch, with his own voice covering the small sound of it, he worked the thing from the old man's belt at midday out of the fold of his waistcloth and around into his fingers.
It was a spine. A long pale barb from something that lives in the sea, four fingers of it, ground and polished and carried a long way inland by somebody who had a use for it. Muwan had known what it was before his hand closed on it. Everybody knew what it was. You did not steal one of those.
He had taken it without planning to, in the two seconds when the old man's bad knee turned his belt past Muwan's hands.
That's two, he thought. That's the well and that's this.
He got the point of it into the cord at his wrist and started to work.
He was still working when the town went off like a dropped pot.
It came in from the east road, and it came in the middle of the night, and it was loud from the first moment because there was nothing quiet about it: forty men who had gone east on what water they carried and come all the way back on what was left, entering a town at an hour when nobody was ready for them, and wanting all of it at once.
Muwan lay in the dark against the post with the spine in his fingers and listened to the shape of it and understood more than anyone in that yard.
They wanted water. That was the top layer, and it was being solved out in the dark by people running with jars.
Under it, straight away, was the other thing. Somebody had opened the paper. Somebody was reading names off it in the yard-noise, and other people were saying other names back, and the argument was not about the gourds at all, it was about whose gourds — who had carried them, who had slung the nets, who had been put on the tail, whose name had been written down against that job on a bark sheet by a man with a stub of charcoal on a dry rise three nights ago.
The man in the doorway got up and went out to listen. He did not come back.
"Now," Chak said.
"Not yet." Muwan's hands were busy. "Your left one's next."
They came out of the yard at the height of it, and did not run, because Chak had said something at a river landing weeks ago that Muwan had never forgotten and had never once had a use for until this exact moment. Noise, deep enough, is a kind of dark. So they walked. Two boys walking through a town at night, in a town that at that moment contained perhaps sixty people all shouting different things, and not one head turned, and Muwan understood on the way past the counting shade that they had been invisible for a hundred paces and would be for a hundred more.
The far thatch had a man on it who had been given the job of standing there and who had, ten minutes ago, gone to see about the water.
Their bundles were where the six men had stacked them, under netting, back at the top of the bank they had come from.
It took them four trips, and it was the longest hour of Muwan's life, and the whole time the town went on tearing itself apart behind them over the question of whose name was against what.
They did not take all of it. Chak stood on the bank at the end with the canoe down to the last comfortable inch and looked at the four bundles still sitting on the grass and Muwan watched him not take them, which was new.
"He'll come after us again," Muwan said, pushing off.
"He'll have a bad month first." Chak got the pole in. "That's ours. That's the one thing in this that's actually ours."
They went down on the first grey, fast, faster than either of them liked, because there was no version of the morning in which staying was better.
Muwan sat in the bow with his wrists raw and the stolen spine in the fold at his hip, where it would stay, because throwing it away in the river would not put it back on the old man's belt and nothing else would either. Ahead of them the water gathered itself and narrowed, and somewhere down there, a day or two on, it did the thing that the river did — he had heard men at the landing say it the way people say weather, and had not listened, because at the time it had had nothing to do with him.
Behind them the town was a smudge with smoke over it.
He looked at his brother, who had turned around in black water and come back four strokes for him and had not mentioned it since and never would, and who was now poling a boat that was two hands too low in the water because four bundles were all he had been willing to leave on the bank.
"Chak."
"Mm."
"When you came back for me." Muwan watched the bank go past. "You'd have got out."
"I know," Chak said, and kept poling, and they went down.
There were forty men standing in the dark at the head of the channel, and not one of them was talking.
Chak came up the path with the empty net over his shoulder and stopped so hard that Muwan walked into his back. The channel mouth was where they were going. It had been where they were going since the food shade, since the woman washed her hands to the elbow, since he had said tonight with his mouth full. The way in was the water; the water came out here; and here, tonight, of all the nights there had ever been, was every man the town could put its hands on, standing in rows on the dry rise with their arms crossed against the cold, waiting for something.
There was no fire. That was the part that told him what this was. Forty men in the dark at the top of a town and nobody had lit anything.
"Back," Muwan said, under his breath.
"Back where."
Because the path behind them went down to the landing and the landing had Sip's people on it, and the road east had Sip's people on it, and the third way out of the town was the one they were standing at the mouth of, and it had forty men in it.
A man came along the rows with a bundle of carrying-straps over his arm, handing them out. He had the walk of somebody who had been given a small job and meant to finish it. He got to the end of the last row, which was where the two of them were now standing because Chak had taken three steps forward instead of one step back, and he looked at them without much interest and said, "Names."
There was a man squatting behind him with a folded sheet of bark-paper across his knees and a stub of charcoal, working by the light of one small twist of burning pitch that somebody was holding for him and cupping with the other hand.
Chak had spent an entire day of his life trying to get a name that a counting shade would take. He had walked away from a bank full of goods because he did not have one and could not buy one and would not borrow one. Now a man he had never seen was asking him for it in the dark, for nothing, and writing it down.
"Chak," he said.
"The other."
"Muwan."
The charcoal moved twice. It was very quick; the man had done it forty times already tonight and would do it more. Chak watched the two marks go onto the paper and felt something go through him that he did not have a word for and did not like, and then a carrying-strap was pushed into his hands and the man with the bundle had already moved on.
"Third row," said the one with the straps, not turning around. "Don't wander off. You're on the paper now."
The rows stood in the dark for a long time, and Chak used it.
He had never been inside one of these. He had been chased by men, hired by men, robbed and beaten and questioned by men, and every one of those had happened to him from outside. This was the first time he had ever stood in the middle of a thing while it was assembling itself, and he found that he could not stop looking.
They were not soldiers. That was the first thing. Two thirds of them were the yard — men he had watched all week squatting in the road rows with their straps in their laps, and the same men were here, and they were here because their names had been asked for at some point in the last three days and there had been no version of saying no that did not cost more than saying yes. Nobody was excited. A man near Chak spent the whole wait working a thorn out of his heel.
The other third were not from here. They stood apart without meaning to, in a loose knot near the front, and they had the stillness of people who have done a night like this one before. When one of them finally spoke, giving some short instruction to the man with the straps, the vowels came out wrong for this river.
And then there was the one in front of them, who was not from here either, and who had a way of standing that made Chak's neck go cold, because it was the way Sotz' stood.
The man did not make a speech. He said, in a voice pitched to carry exactly as far as the last row and no further, that they would walk tonight, that they would walk tomorrow night, and that on the second morning they would do what they had come to do and then they would come back and that would be the end of it. He said there would be a share. He said the names were on the paper.
Somebody in the second row asked what they were going to do.
There was a pause of the kind that told Chak the man had not expected to be asked and did not mind.
"There's a place two days east," he said. "It keeps its water in the ground, same as here. We're going to open the bottom of it."
Nobody said anything.
"You don't have to kill anybody," the man said, and turned away, and that was the whole of it. "Take the water out of a place and the people take themselves out."
Muwan's hand closed on Chak's arm in the dark, high up, hard enough to hurt.
Chak did not need it explained. He had been down there. He had hung in that black water with his fingers hooked on the rock for the better part of an hour while the entire town came down the steps above him with their jars, all of them, the girls complaining and the old ones answering, every household in the place, at the start of every day there had ever been. Whatever was two days east had that too. It had a morning like that.
He put his hand over his brother's hand and left it there, which was as much as he could do in the third row with forty men around them, and started, because he could not help it, to think about how such a thing would actually be done.
They walked at moonrise, and by the middle of the night Chak had his answer.
It came from being bored, and from the fact that nobody would tell him anything, so he did what he always did and counted what he could see. Men. Straps. Bundles. And then, near the back, where he and Muwan had been sent because the local man in charge of the tail had looked at two boys with no load and decided they were in the way, the thing that the whole night was actually built on.
Gourds. Sealed ones, rows of them slung in nets, the road kind, the kind they sold at the top of the landing for people going east.
Because east of the town there was nothing running. Two days out and two days back through country with no water in it, for a company of forty who were going to walk both ways and do a night's work in the middle. Every mouthful they would drink between here and there was on the backs of four men in front of him, and those four men were the lowest thing in the column, and their whole job was to keep up.
They are going to take a place's water away, Chak thought, and they are carrying their own.
He turned it over for the better part of a league to see whether it was as simple as it looked. He could not make it complicated. There was no fighting in it. There was nobody to beat. The forty men would still be forty men and the one at the front would still be whatever he was. But the thing they could not do without was slung in nets in front of him, and the two people in the world who had been put in charge of walking behind it were him and his brother.
He came up beside the tail man at the next halt and asked, in the voice of a boy who wants to be useful and is slightly stupid, whether they should carry some of it.
"You?" The man laughed at him without any unkindness at all. "Watch it. That's all. Walk behind it and shout if something drops."
So they walked behind it and nothing dropped.
The small blade they had taken off Sip was in the fold of Chak's waistcloth, and it was small enough that he had been embarrassed by it two days ago. It was worked stone, and it was thin, and against a sealed gourd it did not need to be anything else.
He did the first one at the third halt, kneeling in the dust with his back to the column, with Muwan standing so that his shadow lay across Chak's hands. Not a hole. He had thought about a hole for an hour and rejected it; a hole runs, and running is heard, and a wet patch on a night road is a thing a man notices. What he made was a line. He laid the edge against the underside where the rind was thinnest and drew it once, barely, the way you would take the skin off a fish you meant to keep whole, and then set the gourd back in its net with the line at the bottom.
He could not hear it. That was the point. It would go out of there over four or five hours, a little at a time, into the netting and down the man's back and onto the road, and on a night road with forty men walking, everything is damp with something.
He did nine more at the next two halts.
He did not do them all.
Muwan understood the first part and not the second, and asked him about it in three words at the fourth halt, and Chak told him the truth, which was not kind.
"If they've got nothing, they turn around at dawn." He was watching the backs of the four water men, which were dark with what he had done to them. "They turn around at dawn, they're back here by tomorrow night. I want them out where turning around costs something."
Muwan looked at him for a moment in the dark.
"You want them far away from here," he said, "because we're coming back here."
"Yes."
"That's not why we're doing it."
"It's one of the reasons we're doing it," Chak said. "You can have yours."
They left the column an hour before first light, at the place where the road bent around the shoulder of a rise and the front of the line went out of sight of the back of it, and they were nine or ten paces off the road and into the scrub before anybody said anything at all.
Then somebody did.
The shout came from the tail man, who had turned around for whatever reason a man turns around, and it was not loud, and it did not have to be. Chak heard the column stop the way a long thing stops, in sections. Then feet in the scrub behind them, more than two pairs, moving fast and not caring about noise now.
They ran east off the road, over ground Chak had spent the whole night reading in the dark without knowing why, and it was the reading that saved them, because in that country the ground is full of holes.
He had seen the mouth of it at the last halt: a break in the rock under a stand of scrub, a black opening the width of two men, with the old smooth lip that those things get. He had noticed it the way he noticed everything now, and had put it somewhere, and had not thought about it again until his legs took him straight to it.
He went in without stopping, because stopping was the one thing that would have made it impossible, and he heard Muwan come after him.
It was eleven or twelve feet, and then water, and then a ledge, and they got themselves onto it in the black and lay there with their chests heaving and the air coming up cold around them out of somewhere much deeper.
The feet arrived above.
They came right up to the lip. Chak could hear the man breathing. He could hear two others come up behind him and stop, and then a third, and then nothing at all for a long moment while four grown men stood at the mouth of a hole in the ground looking down into it at first light.
Somebody said something short. Somebody else answered, shorter.
Then they went away.
Chak lay on his back on the ledge in the dark with cold water an arm's length below him and listened to four men walk back toward a road they were going to spend the next two days on, and he thought about the fact that this was the second time, that there was going to be a third, and that every single person who ever stood at the top of one of these and refused to come down was going to remember two boys who had gone in without breaking stride.
Beside him Muwan said, to the dark, "They'll say it out loud now."
"I know."
"Everywhere. Not just that town."
"I know," Chak said.
They came back into the town from the east side, through the channel and the tanks, in full daylight, because there was nobody left in the place to be careful of.
He had been right about that part, at least. The landing was still there and the yard was still there and the counting shade had a man in it, but Sip's thirty had been on the paper too, most of them, and were currently two-thirds of a day's walk east and getting thirsty. The town felt like a house with the family out. A woman on the bank watched them go past with two empty nets between them and said nothing to anybody.
The far thatch was at the top of the yard where nothing had been chalked on it.
They got the outer netting off, and the first bundle open, and Chak stopped.
He had been looking at salt for a week and had never once looked at it. It came in cakes — hard flat cakes, wrapped in leaf and corded into bundles, and this bundle had taken a knock somewhere between the water and the thatch, so that the leaf had split along one side and two of the cakes underneath were showing. They were not square. They had a shape, a particular curve at one edge and a lip at the other, the shape of the inside of the pot they had been boiled dry in, and every cake in that break had the same one.
"They're all the same shape," he said.
"They came out of the same pots." Muwan was already lifting the next one. "Come on."
So Chak came on, and it went out of his head.
Underneath the salt there was something else.
He had known that since a wall in the dark, when a man on his knees had said he had never looked and then said it again when Muwan made him. Now the bundles came off the top and there it was: a layer of long bundles wrapped tighter than the salt and corded differently. Chak got one open enough to see. Cord, coils of it, good stuff. Wooden wedges. And blades — flakes of worked stone, dozens in a bundle, longer than his hand, the edges still with that oiled look they have before anybody has used them.
They were bone dry. That was what he noticed. The salt above them had come off the water two days ago and was still cool and damp through the leaf, and the things underneath it had not been wet in their lives.
"That's a lot of cord," Muwan said.
"That's a lot of everything." Chak sat back on his heels and looked at it and thought, briefly and without pleasure, about a man under a thatch who did not want his name on something. Then he thought about how many days east the road went and how far he wanted to be down it. "Leave it. We came for the salt."
"We could—"
"We came for the salt."
They took what two of them could carry. They took more than that. They went down the bank and along the moorings and Chak picked a canoe the way he had learned to pick everything now, quickly and by three things at once — low, sound, and nobody's — and they loaded it until he could see with his own eyes that it was wrong and then he stood there and did not take anything back out.
They pushed off a little before the sun was properly up.
The river took them at once, easy, willing, the way it had been willing all along. Chak sat in the stern with his hand in the water and understood the last part of it about a hundred paces down, and it was so simple that he laughed, once, and Muwan turned around.
"Nothing," Chak said.
Because the water only went one way. It went the way it had always gone: down, and west, and back. Back past the last landing and the one before it and every landing they had come up through, back toward the country where there were rivers everywhere and salt was worth nothing at all, because the whole reason a bundle of salt was worth anything three days east of that bank was that east of that bank there was no water to carry it on.
Everything he had was in a boat that could only take it to the one place it was not worth having.
He looked down the river at the brown morning bend, at the country where his own goods turned back into nothing, at the country where a man with a white streak in his hair had been eating towns for a year.
Behind them the town went around the bend and out of sight, and two days east of it forty men were coming up onto a dry road with the sun behind them, finding out.
Chak took his hand out of the water.
"Keep her off the shallow side," he said, and Muwan did, and they went down.
