by Deck Davis
He took one of the littered pigskins and sliced it open a little more so it served as a bowl. He put two handfuls of dirt inside and sloshed a little water and made a paste from it, and he spread this charcoal mess over his hands, face, and neck. He was no alchemist, but hopefully it’d protect him from the sun a little.
As a final act of luxury, he drank some water and paste at the same time and rubbed his teeth with it and swished it around his mouth and then spat a spray of watery black onto the ground, and then he wrapped the pigskin tight and climbed back onto Olin.
“Trail’s this way,” he said to Olin. “Let’s hope it’s the trail they left by, and not the one they made when they came here.” Then he spoke to the ground where his Lusk waited, knowing that a mental command was enough but wanting to hear his voice just to reassure himself he still had one.
“Lenny, keep following. Don’t breach until I tell you.”
The trail was an untrustworthy guide, often lying to him, Olin, and Lenny as they followed it through Toil for days.
Sometimes wagon tracks ran true, and a few times he even saw clear hoof imprints dug into the dirt. Other times he’d follow what he thought was tracks, only to realize that hid eyes were deceiving him, and the wind had parted the sand in a way that made it look like lines left by wagons.
The Sun Toil wind really was a bastard.
After three days, twelve jarfuls of water, a dozen stops to use the water stone to find the stuff, and more grain and beans than he ever thought he’d have to eat in his life, Jakub saw the slavers.
They were in the distance, just dark shapes set against the horizon from so far away, but there was no doubting that they weren’t part of the landscape. Seeing them filled him with trepidation. He hadn’t had to think about this when he’d been following their tracks, but seeing the slaver caravan made it real.
He was going to have to actually do something. Killing and reanimating Lenny had been hard enough, and that was only the start.
Now he was going to have to save Gunar and the rest from their fate.
CHAPTER 37
York the hunter, Gunar Helketoil, Bear
York stumbled once and lurched forward, only finding his balance at the last second. Another step and he lost it again, this time falling to the ground. He put his hands out, the jolt firing pain through his old wrists.
He lay there for a full two minutes, cheek against the ground, tasting the dust on his lips and feeling it fill the fault lines in his dehydrated skin. The pain was just an echo, because he’d long-since lost the ability to feel it properly.
Since he’d lost Kolja he’d waked for days, compass out and needle pointing to the bear and the person, and at first he wondered which he’d meet first, and soon he stopped wondering that and instead his mind fixated on water, vegetation, any sign of something that would sustain him.
It was no good. The sun never tired. Sure, it rested in the evenings but it always came back stronger than before, and the pitch black of night brought little relief because the winds were bitter and spiteful, and York had only his clothes and a blanket to shield himself from them.
He was wise enough to the fact he was dying. A man couldn’t see six decades and then drag his tired body to the harshest place in the queendom, and then let it dry in the sun without sustaining it.
A young man might survive a few days more, but York was almost gone. The carrion eaters would find him in death and they’d strip the flesh from his bones, and if anyone came across the skeleton that he left behind they’d have no idea who it belonged to. His grandchildren would never know what became of their grandpa, if they cared. The hunters’ guild would mourn him and have a service, after a time, but only if York’s old pals were of sound mind enough to realize he’d not been heard from in years. Suddenly, York wished with all his heart that he hadn’t shut himself away since his retirement. That he’d stayed near the guild and that he’d spent his days in the guildhall with a mug of warm ale and basking in the chatter from the stubble-faced apprentices and the growing journeymen and the weary but good-natured masters.
It was this thought that sparked enough energy in him to get up. He put one hand out. Then the other. He leaned into them, he pushed himself to his feet. Then he walked.
And walked.
And walked.
The sun was fading by the time York finally saw something in the distance. Three jagged rocks sticking up from the ground, like fingers of dirt giving the sky his favorite three-finger curse. But there was something else, too. Something that York couldn’t believe he was seeing. Didn’t want to let himself believe, in fact. It could be a hallucination, and breaking it would see his hope go completely.
The closer he got, the more real it became until finally York reached the rocks and he saw what was there.
He wept. Hardly any water was left in his body to supply the tears, and just two drops ran down his face. York caught them with his finger and he licked them and he wept some more, sinking to his knees and shouting thanks to all manner of gods, none of which he believed in.
It was when he’d wept so much his stomach had cramped that he finally took stock of what he’d found. There was a piece of canvas draped over the rocks. Under it, shielded from the harsh sky, was a horse.
Dark brown with splotches of black like an overcooked sausage, with a wide mouth full of crooked but endearing teeth. It was the most beautiful animal that York had ever seen, and he couldn’t stop himself from hugging it tightly as though it was a long-lost child. The horse, its body warm and soft, bore his hugs without much trouble.
By its head was an opened sack of grain a quarter full, and two pigskins of water, both half-full.
“I hope you don’t mind an old man sharing with you,” said York, and he bent by a pigskin and he lapped at the water.
He went carefully, knowing what excessive water could do to a dehydrated stomach. It took willpower he’d thought he’d abandoned many miles ago but he just drank a little and then waited an hour, and then he drank more and waited, and finally, he drank until his stomach was full.
After that he ate some of the grain, crunching it in his mouth and then loosening it with a swig of water so he could swallow it easier.
Then he slept. It was dark by now, and he knew there was an owner of these things who might return, but York was beyond caring. He curled up next to the horse and felt its warmth radiate on him, and he slept like a child in a warm room in wintertime.
He woke up fed and hydrated, and this brought his senses back to him. His inner caution made him draw his crossbow, and he loaded a bolt and placed it on the ground so he could pick it up if needed.
“Where’s your owner?” he asked the horse.
No answer came, so York searched through the things under the canvas but only found a few smaller sacks of beans and another pigskin of water. Then he did a tour of the surrounding desert, finally finding horse tracks leading away from the area, rather than to it.
York took the piece of black cloth from his pocket and held it against the compass. The needle swung left, right, then landed in the direction of the trail. Then he tapped his bear claw against it, and the direction was almost the same, save a few degrees of difference.
Wandering back to the horse, he felt sad. “They left you here, didn’t they?” he said to the horse. “I lost my friend some ways back. Fancy traveling together?”
He took the curling of the horse’s lips as a yes, even though it was trying to purge a rogue seed from between its teeth.
York spent the hottest part of the day drinking more water and eating grain and beans and sleeping some, and by the time the winds came back he welcomed them.
He tied what was left of the water pigskins and grain bags to the horse’s saddle and he slung his crossbow around his shoulder and made sure the remaining bolt wand was in the loop on his belt.
Then he set off, following the way of the compass and feeling deep in his bones that not many miles were left to him.
/> “I don’t like this,” said Gunar.
Helena looked up at the sky. “Not long now, love.”
She held his index and middle finger with her hand, and she rubbed the nub where he’d lost most of his ring finger years ago. Ever since Gunar had told her his plan, she’d started to look him in the eye again. Call him love and Guny, a name that he used to get irritated when she said in public, but now sounded like the sweetest sound that lips could ever make.
Gunar stared not at the sky but out of the wagon, between the wooden bars that imprisoned them. “Something isn’t right.”
“It’s okay to be scared, Guny. Everyone is. There are more puckered up arseholes here than in a Dispolis interrogation cell. But we’re together, and we can do it. When night falls and they leave a few on guard, we rush this side of the wagon as one. The bars look weaker, and they won’t hold all of us pushing at them together. You were right, this was our best chance.”
“It’s not that. It’s him.”
Helena stared across camp now. “Oh.”
Way across the camp, Hips Maguire was standing outside his own wagon. He was talking to a man who was only as tall as his chest. This was a man who, even from across camp, gave off a pungent waft of smugness, and even a week of Toil heat and sparse rations hadn’t done anything to his waistline.
It was the bastard storm oracle.
Helena hadn’t wanted him to come, but Gunar insisted. He wanted to be safe. He could almost laugh at the futility now. The first time they’d brought a storm oracle with them, and they’d ridden into two storms at once.
“The pinecone-looking son of a bitch is up to something.”
“He’s going to make water,” said Helena. “You heard him ask.”
“They make the rest of us men piss out of the bars. Something isn’t right. We might have to do this now, Helena.”
“They’re all awake.”
“I can feel something stabbing in my gut. That rain cloud bastard is up to something.”
“They’re coming this way.”
The slave master strutted toward them, every step exaggerated, leaping over logs around the fire, pirouetting around those of his men who were getting into their sleeping bags. It was as though he lived life to music nobody else could hear. In any other circumstance, Gunar would have laughed at him.
The oracle followed him, waddling across camp with a look on his face that Gunar found hard to place. Relief? Smugness? Or was it just his normal disposition? Whatever the answer, he gripped the wooden bars and hoped squeezing them would displace some of his growing anger and keep him calm.
Hips stood in front of them, feet apart like he was about to do the splits, arms on his waist where twin daggers rested in sheaths.
“Which one of you lovelies is Gunar Helpetoy?”
The oracle coughed into his sleeve. “Hmm. Helketoil.”
“Sorry, Helketoil. C’mon. Which one of you is it?”
Gunar went to rise when he felt Helena dig her nails into his calf. “He never asked our names before,” she whispered. He stayed still.
Hips smiled wide, the fire not far behind casting a glow on one part of his face and making him look like he was wearing a half-mask. “I see, I see. None of you will own up to being Gundog Helpetoy, so I suppose I’ll just drop the matter and go back to my wagon and sleep,” he said. “Night-night, everyone. Don’t let the Toil-lusks bite.”
Hips spun on his heels and took two exaggerated steps back across camp, lifting his legs to chest height. Then he turned again, spinning and stopping and placing his hands on his waist. “Except, I wasn’t born when the sun rose.” He pointed at Gunar, who battled his hardest not to shrink under Hips’ gaze, as though the accusation of his identity was something to fear.
But then Hips moved his finger again, pointing from face to face.
“I could ask my oracle here to identify you, but I don’t like to do that. Knowing your names makes my job harder. If you make my job harder…let’s say that there are many miles left until we leave Toil. Time enough for bruises to fade, wounds to heal. Punishment now might not necessarily lower your value.”
Helena gripped Gunar harder now. Some of the caravaners cast wary stares his way, but none looked ready to give him up.
That did it for him. He wouldn’t repay their loyalty like that. He stood up. “I’m Gunar Helketoil.”
“Gunthrap Holpeall, aye,” said Hips. “I know you are. I wanted to see if you had the plums to tell me that, and it seems you do. Tell me, plummy, do you know this little fella?” he said, patting the storm oracle’ shoulder. The oracle squirmed away. “This little bastard with a face like a mule’s arse after being bitten by a rat. You know him?”
“Of course I do. We paid him to find us a path through the storms.”
“And that went well, didn’t it?”
“He led us into two storms at once.”
“Aye,” said hips, “Storms that I paid him to cast. See, he’s not a storm oracle; he’s a storm caster. I didn’t know he needed to travel with you to cast them, though. You can imagine my surprise when I reached the marker he set and found you all, and his slapped-arse-of-a-face was looking back at me like a puppy who just got caught shitting on the carpet.”
Gunar felt acid bubble in his stomach. It was rage, fear, and betrayal; a concoction of toxins that left his belly and made his throat burn. He felt weak now. He hadn’t just led his people into accidental disaster; he’d led them into a trap.
He stared at the oracle with a hate he’d never, ever felt in his life. He could gladly choke the man to death. Put his thumbs in his eyes and press until he felt them pop and the liquid run down his hand.
Maybe it was the hopelessness of it all that burned him so much. Their irons had been thrown into the forge before they’d even rolled into Toil. It was a trap. He just didn’t know if the oracle had told the slavers about the opportunity after Gunar approached him, or if the slavers and oracle had conspired for Gunar and the oracle to meet.
He racked his brains now and just couldn’t remember who had introduced themselves first, him or the oracle? It didn’t matter now, because Hips as curling a ring-adorned finger at him.
“You, Mr. Helketoil,” he said. “Come here. Jones? Let the man out.”
Helena gripped his thigh now as if she could stop him going. “Guny…”
“You heard the man. He knows who I am,” said Gunar. “That bastard of an oracle told him.”
“Come on, I don’t bite much,” said Hips. “Not unless you’re a slender-bodied whore with golden hair. Even then I just lightly nibble.”
A lanky slaver with a goatee beard and scars on his forehead unlocked the cage. Gunar climbed down and almost lost his balance, feeling surprised at just how weak sitting in the wagon had made him.
The glow of the fire shone on the faces of all the watching slavers and slaves, making masks of them all, yellow and orange and red ones that looked like shadows of a demon. The moon watched, full and rounder than Gunar had ever seen it.
They were silent then. Slavers and slaves alike, their lips closed by the fingers of tension.
“First, I’d like to show you all that loyalty is rewarded,” said Hips, patting the oracle on the shoulder.
He drew his right dagger and slit the man’s throat.
The oracle fell to the ground, smashing into it nose-first, rolling and choking and gripping his neck with both stubby hands as blood flowed like champagne into a nobleman’s glass.
The caravaners gasped from their wagon. A boy cried and buried his face in his father’s chest. A couple of slavers laughed, while the others looked at the oracle who was flopping like a beached fish.
“Unfortunately, this man was not loyal. He betrayed you all to pad his purse, and I hope I have avenged that for you.”
Then he nodded to the scar-forehead slaver, who approached the oracle, batted his hands away, and opened his robe before pulling out a bulging coin purse. He tossed this to Hips, who spun in
a circle and then caught it, before holding the purse aloft like a magician revealing the end of a trick.
“Since the coins were mine, in the beginning, I’ll take them back. Though, some of these will belong to you, Gunar. After all, you paid the man to guide you through the storms he knew he was going to create, yes?”
What game was this man playing? The tension between the caravaners and slavers crackled almost as loud as the fire, yet Hips was smiling.
“How much did you pay him?” said Hips.
“Five gold.”
“Five gold! He charged half that to create the very storms he promised to keep you safe from. A pathetic bastard, I’m sure you will agree. Five golds! My gods…”
Hips opened the coin purse and he took a gold coin and flicked it to Gunar. It landed by his feet, and the fire cast an orange glow over the queen’s silhouette printed on it.
He did this five times, counting in the Gertch language of his ancestors as he did. “Ons, zi, tri, vor, fif.” By the end, five queens stared at Gunar from the ground.
“Your matter with the oracle is settled,” said Hips. “And there’s no more bad blood. Apart from his, of course. His blood was rotten to its essence, and it will poison the toil ground. But from a consumerist standpoint, your issues are settled. Any lawmaker in the land would agree. Now, My Helketoil, we move onto my problem.”
“What do you want?” shouted Helena. “We’ll pay anything.”
Hips stared only at Gunar. “You see, Mr. Helketoil, let’s say I have ten cows, and one of those lovely heifers is corrupting the others. It’s ill, and it is threatening to spoil the rest. If that happens, I couldn’t sell the meat, could I?”
“There are families in that wagon. Children,” said Gunar, bile rising in his stomach and making him feel sick.
“And you’re a bad cow. The oracle told me what you were planning, Mr. Helketoil. I can’t have the rest of my stock corrupted.” Hips nodded to someone behind Gunar.
Pain flared on the back of his thighs. His legs buckled and he fell onto his knee caps. Then agony sprang in his skull and his vision flickered, and he heard a squealing sound in his ears.