Marooned

by Travis Smith

  The pair both scrambled to their feet, and Gremly seized his vassal by the tattered smock and hurled him again across the room. Fallon crumpled to the floor and dragged himself toward the splintered wooden leg of the table while Gremly thundered about the room, spitting and swearing.

  “Insolent bastard swine!” he shouted. “Ye’ll be strung from the parapets by yer dick fer this!”

  Gremly rushed into the den and snatched his automatic-firing rifle from the corner. By the time he turned back to point it at Fallon, the winded wretch had already approached him from behind. Fallon swung the heavy hunk of wood in a downward arc across Gremly’s face, sending him sprawling onto his back. He blinked hard, blood streaming from a fresh slice across his cheek, and struggled to sit back upright. But Fallon was too frantic. He brought the wooden club down again and again upon Gremly’s head until the man stopped stirring between blows. When he’d nearly satisfied his pent-up rage, he turned the bit of wood around and drove the sharp, splintered end straight downward through Gremly’s chest.

  When the dust settled surrounding his outburst, Fallon stumbled numbly backward and backed into the wall of Gremly’s cottage. He’d been driven from his home, driven from his craft; the only thing he had left was Anda. He’d been robbed of his life and his prosperity, and so had she. He gazed at the grisly sight before him and wondered only remotely what he had done. Had his humanity snapped under the weight of the injustices that had been raining down upon his world? As the blood slowed from pulsating gushes to a steady stream from Gremly’s still chest, he decided rather dispassionately that it had.

  A wave of sick washed over Fallon, and he forced himself to tear his eyes away from what he’d done. His chest heaved, his hand throbbed, and his head swam. The world seemed to be spiraling out of control all around him. A whirlwind of emotions brought his brain to a screeching halt. Panic entered his mind but melted into an ineffectual puddle like an iceberg in the face of a fire-breathing punisher.

  For the first time, he took stock of the dim-lit dwelling. Gremly had clearly lived the life of a sluggard, for mess and clutter were strewn about and had been even before the fatal scuffle. Fallon blinked with the flicker of lamplight and attempted to take stock of the room and to decide how to proceed. Just as he resolved to steal away into the night without a second glance back, something caught his eye.

  A glimmer of light reflected back from the corner in the glow of the candle’s flame. A spilled satchel of coins lay in the floor. It must have been atop the table when Gremly hurled it across the room. He felt his mental disquiet fade into a sensation of serendipity as he looked upon the solution to all of his current problems. He shuffled over to the corner and scooped the spilled coins into a pile, which he then separated into smaller piles of ten. When he’d counted out fifty, he gathered them up and put them into his smock pocket.

  Fallon made it to the door before he stopped and turned back to the remaining coins. There had to be hundreds of them still lying there. After a moment’s dark consideration, he hurried back to the spilled satchel and snatched up the rest of the paga.

  7

  Fallon rushed back to Anda under the cover of night. He made sure that no one saw him exit the cabin, and he did his best not to encounter anyone else on his way. When he arrived at the old butcher’s shop, however, his friend Corin turned to greet him with a look of concerned dread. The man had been kneeling over Anda’s motionless body.

  “Fallon,” he said, “her state is grave.”

  “Why do you say such?” Fallon asked, a heavy unease settling in his gut.

  “She scarcely stirs at all,” Corin said.

  “Give her to me,” Fallon said, pushing his friend out of the way. He dropped the sack of paga onto the ground and hoisted his daughter into his arms, again feeling sick at how weightless she’d grown.

  Corin knelt and pulled open the drawstring on the satchel of coins cautiously. “What is this?” he asked with concern.

  Fallon made no response. He stood and turned to set off toward Luka’s cottage.

  “How came you upon these?” Corin demanded.

  “I am taking Anda to the healer,” Fallon called back, dismissing his friend’s concerns. “Help yourself to a handful.”

  8

  Luka shared similar concerns with Corin.

  “How did you procure this coin?” the healer asked as Fallon emptied his pocket onto the man’s doorstep.

  “You have been a friend to me for much of our lives, Luka,” Fallon replied. “Will you help my daughter, or will you not?”

  “I cannot have The Baron’s men coming down on me for stolen paga!” Luka said, shaking a hand as the man tried to hand over his sick daughter.

  “You said fifty paga, and now you have it. Would you like me to count?” Fallon’s voice wavered dangerously. “If you will not provide your services for paga and you will not provide your services for your good nature, then what will you do?” he demanded.

  Luka peered into the unfamiliar eyes of a man he’d known for the better part of his life. Something inside his old friend had changed. Even since the previous night.

  “All right,” he agreed at last. “I will help her.”

  With that, he took Anda into his arms and into his cottage, but not before first scooping the pile of paga inside.

  Fallon returned to his nest outside the butcher’s shop feeling both heavier and lighter than he had since this whole ordeal had started. He walked slowly by moonlight until he reached the dark alley behind the shop. The nook that he and Anda now occupied appeared strange and empty without her inside. The satchel he’d taken from Gremly’s cottage also looked different. He approached the sack and picked it up to find it utterly empty. Unfazed, he tossed it into a corner and lay down to allow himself to slip into the deepest slumber he’d enjoyed for quite a time.

  The next morning, he was awaked by a nearby scuffle.

  “Where is it?” someone shouted.

  Fallon stirred and looked around while someone else murmured quietly.

  “I heard him say that they were here!”

  Another shuffling sound ensued, and an unfamiliar man burst around the corner toward Fallon. Corin rushed behind the man and attempted to wrap his arms around him to subdue.

  “Give me the coins,” the man shouted at Fallon from within Corin’s grasp. “I need them now.”

  Fallon indicated toward the empty satchel in the corner. “You’ve missed your fortune,” he said casually. “Someone has already taken them all.”

  The man slumped visibly in Corin’s arms. “Where did you get them?” he asked.

  Fallon’s eyes connected with his old friend’s, but he made no reply.

  Corin loosened his grip on the crazed stranger and looked at his friend. “Where did you get them?” he asked as well, appearing more concerned than he had the previous evening.

  Fallon rolled his eyes and made to stand up, still making no reply.

  The strange man broke free from Corin and charged toward Fallon, pushing and pinning him against the wall of the butcher’s shop. “Where did you get the coins?” he screamed. “I demand an answer!”

  Fallon pushed the thin man away from himself. “Keep your madness in check, lest you wish to catch the wrath of a bullet!”

  The man fell to his knees and pounded a weak fist against Fallon’s thigh. His face contorted as his rage melted into despondency, and he broke into bitter, desperate tears.

  Fallon merely stared at the wretch before him, but Corin approached and lay a hand on his shoulder.

  “If I get enough coin, I can buy my son’s freedom,” he sobbed. “They work him until his hands are cracked and bloody.”

  Corin looked to Fallon and awaited his response.

  “I am sorry,” he said at last. “I have no solution for you.”

  The man sobbed again and buried his face against Fallon’s stomach. “He’s but a boy!” he managed through sobs.

  Corin stepped forth and again placed
a comforting hand on the man. He used enough force to pull the sniveling wretch off Fallon and allow him to slump down against the wall. He then pulled his friend aside and spoke to him in a low voice. “You have brought great upheaval to our people.”

  “I have brought uproar?” Fallon demanded in a tone he’d never before used to a fellow man or woman.

  “Your paga has instilled conflict amongst the masses,” Corin whispered harshly.

  “I hold no dominion over the masses,” Fallon replied. “The masses grovel to the whims of Bernard’s men.”

  “You say his name with such familiarity,” Corin said with a slight accusatory tone. “What has changed in you? How came you to possess such an amount of coins?”

  “You think me a crony? That is how you view your lifelong friend?”

  “I know not how to view you anymore, Fallon. Your circumstances have grown dire, and your soul has changed overnight.”

  Fallon shook his head and pushed his friend aside. “I have no time for this. I have work to do.”

  9

  For the majority of the morning, Fallon struggled to remain focused on finishing his work with the deer he’d left on the previous day. His mind wandered to troublesome places, and his sense of calm and complacency had long since faded. He glanced around nervously whenever he heard footsteps approaching.

  By mid-morning he looked up to see a guard storming toward him, coming from the direction of Gremly’s cottage. He stood, battling with a surge of adrenaline and racing to decide whether to flee or to stay and play dumb.

  “What?” he called to the approaching guard.

  The man made no response but to swing his rifle off his back and point it at Fallon.

  “What!” he called, raising his hands before his face in futile defense. “Please allow me to finish my work.”

  “What did ye do to Gremly?” the guard demanded. He grabbed Fallon by the nape of his neck and forced the muzzle of the rifle into his throat. “What the fuck’ve ye done?” he screamed into his ear.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Fallon yelled. The man was squeezing his neck downward while simultaneously pushing his rifle upward. “Please! You’re hurting me!”

  “I’ll blow yer fuckin’ brains from ’ere to Western Shore ’f ya don’ tell me what ye done!” he growled.

  “I—” Fallon stammered. He squinted his eyes tight against tears and thought of Anda. His only aim was to see her again. “Please let up. I can’t speak.”

  The guard only redoubled his grip and pressed the rifle deeper into his throat. “I will bury ye to yer neck in a scorpion pit!”

  Just then a commotion erupted not far away. The guard loosened his grip and perked up to look toward the muffled shouts. Before he could decide what to do about it, the sounds of several gunshots echoed across the fields. The guard dropped Fallon to his hands and knees and set off at a full gallop toward the ruckus.

  Fallon panted and nursed his aching neck. His heart raced with a ferocity spawned from the certainty that he would be dead moments ago. He had been a fool to stay and pretend things could carry on this way. No one could prove he’d killed Gremly, but no one needed to. They would execute him in the streets on the mere suspicion he knew anything about it.

  He stood to his feet and looked at the unfinished deer—the last animal he’d ever have to skin, of that he was certain—before turning and fleeing toward the tree line on the far side of the field.

  10

  Fallon found a suitable place in the forest not far from Krake to lie low for a while. He couldn’t travel far yet because he would sooner die than leave Anda behind to this life. He also couldn’t retrieve her just yet, for the healer would certainly need more time. Thus, he spent the most grueling of days lying in wait alone amongst the trees.

  By nightfall he felt the pangs of hunger settling in, after having eaten only pickings from small berries he’d foraged. The hunger was familiar, for they’d all grown accustomed to eating poorly since The Baron took power, but a novel sensation accompanied it this time. He felt darkness creeping into his mind, like he’d taken poisonous plants inhabited by the baleful spirits of the restless dead. Sinister, shadowy fingertips grazed his mind and planted notions of hopelessness and despondency. Voices that could not possibly be his own whispered inside his head.

  Your life is over. You’ve ruined what little your daughter may have enjoyed.

  Fallon squinted his eyes tightly. Ever a dutiful and well-adjusted man, he knew not the experience of a mind-sickness. The dismal voices continued and brought him slowly to his knees and, eventually, onto his side in the dirt curled into a ball.

  Look what you’ve done … You worthless grub.

  The voices whispered, as convincing as they were persistent, until Fallon shivered into a troubled sleep.

  The next day he lay in the shade on his side and listened remotely to the sporadic shouts and bouts of gunfire in the distance.

  There’s no use in retrieving Anda. She’s better off without you …

  For much of the day, he stared at the dirt and wished he could simply fade away and feel no more, think no more. He would never be able to pull himself out of this hole he’d dug, and he would be a fool to drag Anda down with him.

  She will pay for your misdeeds …

  He slept on and off throughout the day and lay shaking in his own waste through the night. The following morning brought only a marginally improved disposition. Fallon awoke no longer able to withstand the churning and cramping in his gut, so after two full nights of immobility, he stood upon shaky legs to forage for a little food.

  By evening, he had made up his mind to rebel against the whispers of the baleful spirits in his head. The act felt hollow and futile, but he simply could not leave Anda behind to this. They were better off dying together than to have her grow up in this world alone.

  He made his way back into Krake alongside the falling sun. The newly fallen night brought him cover that proved fortunate, given his bumbling carelessness and anhedonia. The guards and overseers were especially vigilant of late, given the various bouts of disobedience and fracas. Fallon was not attentive to this fact, and some may have called him lucky that he wasn’t intercepted by a guard, but given the sequence of events to follow, Fallon himself may have argued to the contrary.

  “Fallon!” a harsh whisper called from the shadows.

  He could hear a strange murmuring, as though a crowded area of excitable people were collectively doing their best to keep quiet. He turned to see his old friend Corin, who immediately noted the continued change behind his mate’s eyes.

  “Fallon, where have you been?” Corin whispered as he approached.

  “I am collecting Anda from the healer, and we’re leaving for good,” he said, eyes cast to the ground.

  “You would create such turmoil only to turn tail and abandon your old friends?” Corin accused.

  “Turmoil?” Fallon demanded. “What turmoil have I created?”

  “Where have you been?” Corin repeated. “You haven’t heard the unrest throughout the city?”

  “I have heard some disturbances, none of which I’ve had any hand in.”

  “Do you see not what is occurring?” Corin asked, motioning toward the hushed commotion in the distance.

  Fallon made no response.

  “Come,” his old friend said. He led Fallon along the dark street and around the corner of a building.

  When the pair approached a dimly lit clearing behind some old abandoned shops, Fallon saw a crowd of twenty or more men surrounding two scrawny beggars sparring with one another.

  “Give it back to me!” one of the men shouted at the other. The two were wearing tattered garb and pacing circles around each other like rabid wolves.

  “My need is greater than yours!” the other man spat back, attempting a clumsy blow that his opponent avoided. “Stay away from my family!”

  As the first man dodged the inept blow, he swung his momentum back and
tackled the other to the dirt.

  “Give me the paga!” he screamed, slamming his fists down onto his opponent’s exposed face.

  The crowd of men and women around them gasped and jeered in a strangely hushed way. They knew if they were discovered, the guards would begin shooting, but still they couldn’t seem to walk away from the sick excitement unfolding. Many of them were no doubt hoping to pocket a few coins in the event the metal began flying.

  “Hey!” Fallon called, his voice much louder and more commanding than any in the uneasy crowd.

  Everyone fell silent and looked to him. It took only a glance to see he was no overseer and that he wasn’t armed, so no one in the crowd stirred or attempted to flee. The two men lying in the dirt hushed and looked toward Fallon as well.

  “Look what you are doing to one another,” he commanded. “What is this?”

  The crowd shuffled uncomfortably.

  “We need the paga to survive now!” one man called in justification.

  “Oy!” another voice yelled. “He’s the one who left the bag filled with the coin!”

  A slow murmur began to rise and spread throughout the crowd. The two sparring fellows in the dirt even stood to their feet and brushed themselves off, paying no heed to one another any longer.

  Fallon could feel the animosity turning toward him, and he characteristically would have swallowed his pride and backed quietly into the shadows. But today a darkness spoke in his mind.

  They will kill you, and they should.

  “No,” Fallon said, mostly in response to the voice in his head, but he raised a hand to the crowd nonetheless.

  “You caused this!” another woman called.

  “I took that paga for my daughter!” Fallon growled. “She was dying, and—”