“I don’t understand. Who would we go to war with?”
“There are seven continents on this planet, Robinson. You know we weren’t the only ones to survive.”
“But the One People live in peace.”
“Peace, war—two sides of the same coin. It is man’s nature to struggle. When devoid of natural conflict, we will always turn upon our brother to fill the void.”
“That’s it!” the Iron Fist shouted and rose. “I’ll show you what happens when you keep me waiting.”
“Taskmaster—” Robinson said.
“Be quiet and listen. Saah has begun amassing weapons from the pre-Render civilization here but now he is searching for something specific. It is called FENIX. I cannot speak of its capabilities or purpose, but he cannot be allowed to find it. You must do everything in your power to stop him from acquiring it. Promise me.”
“Of course, but come with me. I can help you.”
Taskmaster Satu looked over his shoulder as the Iron Fist closed in.
“There is no help for me now. Go. Be the man your parents hoped for. Light the wick they can never blow out.”
“Talking to yourself again, Teacher?” the Iron Fist said as he pulled out his truncheon. “I have just the remedy for that.”
Fueled by alcohol, the Iron Fist swung his truncheon again and again as Robinson edged back into the night, silently pleading for the rain of blows to stop.
“Careful,” another Iron Fist warned. “Captain has a particular fondness for that one.”
“As do I. He failed me in all my classes ten years back. Let’s see how he grades this performance.”
The abuser was raising his truncheon again when the toe of Robinson’s axe caught him flush in the forehead. He dropped like a stone.
“Taskmaster? Can you walk?” Robinson asked, but his teacher could only groan.
Robinson reached down to pick him up when something struck the back of his head. His vision exploded with stars. He teetered and fell to the ground as blood ran down his scalp and neck.
A boot rolled him over as a familiar voice sounded: “Looks like we have company, boys. Let’s make him feel welcome.”
Robinson’s vision focused long enough for him to recognize the face, even though he wore a different uniform.
There, standing over him, was Jaras Saah.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Captain Jaras
“It looks like a native, Captain,” said the Iron Fist.
“I can see that,” Jaras snapped. “Though Father always said they were formidable. This one fell like a woman with a single blow.”
“He might not be alone. Shall I have the unit check the perimeter?”
“Yes,” Jaras said. “And shoot anything that moves. We can’t have these apes wandering into our camp and killing us in our sleep.”
The Iron Fist left just as Jaras secured Robinson’s tomahawks to his belt. He had called him an “ape” while his subordinate had described him as a “native,” which meant neither had recognized him. It might have been the oil and dirt that covered Robinson’s face or the fact that it was night. Then again, he was probably the last person in the world Jaras expected to see here.
Out of the corner of his eye, Robinson saw an Iron Fist check Taskmaster Satu’s pulse and shake his head. Robinson let out a moan.
“When that man recovers,” Jaras said, pointing to the Iron Fist on the ground, “I want you to disarm him, escort him past the repulsion field, and give him to the renders. And any man that defies my orders in the future will be immediately executed!”
“Yes, Ser,” the Iron Fist responded.
Another nodded at Robinson. “What do you plan on doing with him, Captain?”
“I plan on delivering him to my father. He’ll know what to make of him.”
For some unexplainable reason, Robinson chuckled.
“Find that funny, do you? Let’s see if you’re laughing after this.”
Jaras held something in his hand. Eventually, Robinson realized it was Taskmaster Satu’s old lash. One minute it was twirling and the next it was speeding straight for his face. He caught it midflight.
“Let go. Let go, you bloody bastard, or else!”
Robinson grinned. And then he heard the Iron Fist’s weapon click. He let go.
“You know what that is, don’t you? So you’re not entirely stupid. I imagine you’d need some brains to survive out here in this Spires-forsaken land. How ironic then that you’re going to die at the hands of someone far more civilized than yourself.
“Get him up,” Jaras said to his men.
Robinson pretended to be wobbly when the two men picked him up and started marching him toward the big tent. Behind him, he heard the third Iron Fist release the hammer of his weapon, but he couldn’t tell if he’d put it away.
Jaras had also grown over the past months. Stubble dotted his face and chin, but he still had that impish look that served to rekindle Robinson’s hatred of him.
Robinson was already five moves ahead in his mind when a weapon discharge echoed from the far edge of the field. When every head turned in its direction, he pulled out of the smallest man’s grasp and whipped the bridge of his hand into the second guard’s throat. He felt it crumble as the man collapsed.
The Iron Fist behind Robinson was trying to raise his weapon when Robinson’s thumb clamped over the firing pin. His other hand locked onto the soldier’s wrist and pulled. The Iron Fist was thrown over Robinson’s hip, landing hard on the ground, where his elbow was snapped with a kick, followed by a punch to the face that put him out.
Surprisingly, Jaras wasn’t running. Instead, he pulled out the tomahawks and swung them with obvious strength. Jaras had no experience wielding such weapons, but he was light on his feet. He’d obviously received some kind of training in the months Robinson was away.
The third Iron Fist froze and Robinson spun behind him, wrapping one arm around his throat while he struck the man’s temple repeatedly. He waited for Jaras to step closer before kicking his man straight into him, knocking both to the ground.
Robinson scooped one of the tomahawks off the ground just as Jaras grabbed the other. Only then did he hear the downed Iron Fist pull his weapon from its leather purse. Robinson rolled as the barrel came up and felt his blade sink deep into the flesh behind the man’s right ear. The man collapsed without a sound.
That was the first man Robinson had ever killed.
The thought was still center in his mind when Jaras swung the second tomahawk at his head, missing by the narrowest of margins. Then Robinson did the unthinkable. He dropped his tomahawk and waved Jaras forward.
Jaras sneered. “That was a mistake.”
He stormed in, swinging the tomahawk wildly. Robinson pivoted to avoid each strike, and the fight slowed way down. Robinson remembered Friday telling him the Aserra became so attuned to the rhythms of battle that they could see every blow coming.
Jaras grunted, his footwork sloppy with each strike. He charged without balance and he watched his enemy’s eyes, ignoring his torso and hips altogether. Finally, Robinson paused and let him come. When the tomahawk rose up, he ducked under the blade and landed a fist behind Jaras’s ear. As he fell, the tomahawk shot from his hands.
Jaras struggled to rise. For the first time, there was panic in his eyes. When he regained his feet, Robinson went on the attack. Each punch caught Jaras flush but at half speed. Each kick was poised for maximum pain but not for maximum damage. He wanted him to suffer. He wanted him to suffer as so many others had. The attack was a dance of subtlety and precision. Jaras reeled back, gasping, with terrified eyes.
Robinson smiled. And then he heard the bolts click into place. Two Iron Fists stood ten feet behind him, holding long barreled weapons. They had him dead to rights.
“Kill him!” Jaras screamed.
Robinson waited for the explosion. Instead, one of the Iron Fists groaned and toppled forward, a knife jutting from his back. Robinson recognized
the blade an instant before Friday sped out of the darkness and clubbed the second gunman with her stick. She fell to the ground next to him, winded and looking very pale.
Robinson stalked over to Jaras.
“What do you want?” he whimpered. “I’ll give you anything.”
“Beg,” Robinson said.
He nodded shakily. “Please. Please, don’t kill me,” he sobbed.
Robinson smiled. “Since you asked so nicely.”
A flicker of recognition passed over Jaras’s face a second before Robinson hit him. His eyes rolled into the back of his head and he ceased moving.
Friday was already struggling to her feet when Robinson took her arm. She wiped the blood from her knife and slid it back into its scabbard.
“You shouldn’t have come,” he said.
She knew better than to argue there. “We must go.”
He grabbed his tomahawks before helping her back toward the airbase’s buildings, taking only one last look at Taskmaster Satu lying dead in the grass.
Just as they passed the hangar with the blue seal, a flyer swooped in from the east and landed.
“Wait,” Robinson said and Friday pulled up.
A moment later, the flyer door opened and Vardan Saah got out. Robinson wanted to kill him so badly, but his time would come. He would make sure of it.
“Let’s go.”
The trip back to the city was twice as slow. Friday was wracked with a terrible fever. She coughed and shivered and her forehead was burning to the touch. Robinson knew if anything happened to her, it would be his fault.
Once they were past the bridge, she agreed to rest.
“How did you find me?” he asked.
“You leave trail like child. Plus, I found this.” She held the map in front of him. “Did you learn what you want?”
He nodded. “But you still shouldn’t have come. Not in your condition.”
“Had I not, you would be dead.”
“Are you kidding? I had them right where I wanted them.”
Despite herself, she smiled and raised a trembling hand to his face.
The streets were still dangerous. Robinson knew he’d have to be doubly careful with Friday in her condition. Soon, the capitol building came into sight again and he felt a little reassured, but then Friday froze in her steps.
“What is it?”
“Listen,” she said.
His heartbeat picked up a notch. He was expecting to hear the faraway bay of render dogs. But he didn’t.
He heard drums.
“It’s too soon,” Robinson said. But Friday’s look assured him it wasn’t.
“Do you smell it?” she asked.
Robinson sniffed the air. “They’ve lit the fires.”
She shook her head.
He should have known what she’d meant.
They headed quickly to the top of the hill of the capitol building, which afforded them a view of the arcade below. The Bone Flayers’ ship was anchored in the basin. The renders had gathered around the bonfires. The night was full of carnage and dance.
But one flame shone brighter than any other.
The memorial.
It was ablaze.
Chapter Forty
The People of the Mountain
The Bone Flayers had come early, no doubt to find Friday. Had Robinson not set off on his selfish journey, and had Friday not followed, they would both be dead. But how had the savages learned where they lived?
Robinson’s first thought was of Resi. They had left him behind. Friday bore the responsibility mutely, but it was there, forming another scar around her already hardened heart.
As their home wafted into the ether, Robinson knew they should be counting their blessings. Friday’s Goddess had given them a gift, but that’s not how she would see it. To her, this would merely be proof that her fate was aligned with the savages and that any hope of escaping them was futile.
“There is nowhere to go now,” she said.
But he knew a place.
They entered the library cautiously and made their way up the grand staircase. Nothing in the main room looked as if it had been disturbed. On the third floor, Robinson saw the signs of the struggle where the renders had nearly killed him during his first week in the city.
He pushed aside the refuse blocking the stairwell door. The inside smelled of dust and stone but nothing else.
They descended to the subbasement and scrounged a few old blankets and clothes to wrap around Friday. Robinson then found the nub of an old candle and lit it in a tin before taking her trembling form in his arms as they listened to the drums.
“As soon as they’re gone, we’ll find a new place to live. It doesn’t have to be as fancy as before. Just something safe and secure while we hunt and restock our supplies. In two weeks, maybe three, we’ll leave and never come back. It’s probably fortunate this turned out the way it did since the weather will be better then.”
Friday hesitated before saying, “I will not be leaving.”
“What do you mean? Of course you will. We’re leaving together.”
“The Goddess has chosen my fate. Tomorrow, I will wake, go outside, and seek the leader of the Bone Flayers and I will challenge him to a duel to the death.”
“Friday, you can’t beat him. Not in your condition.”
“It is not Aserra to name the future. The Goddess will decide. I must only attend and give what I can.”
“And what about me? What am I supposed to do? I love you.”
“The Goddess will protect you, Cru-soe. She has marked you her bright sun. Your destiny is only beginning to unfold.”
“I have no destiny without you.”
She looked at him with pity in her eyes and told him her story.
When one of the Aserra comes of age, messengers are sent out to the other tribes to find a mate, since the bloodlines within their tribes have become too diluted. When an acceptable match is found, a party is dispatched, taking the woman to the man’s tribe. With her, she caries a single gift.
Friday pulled an acorn from a small bag hidden beneath her garments. Robinson had never seen it before.
She explained how it was a seed of the tree of her people. When those to be mated meet for the first time, there is a brief ceremony, after which they scale the nearest mountain to plant it in fertile earth. Day and night, the two remain to nurture the seed. Each day the man says, “I am the morning sun,” and the woman answers, “I am the evening shade,” and together they ask the Goddess to bless their union. The tree then becomes a symbol, not only of their ties, but also of the tribe’s. If the seedling first appears in the light of day, they return to the man’s tribe to be mated. If it comes at night, they return to the woman’s.
“And if no tree appears?” Robinson asked.
Friday’s eyes narrowed. She told him both are cast out to face the Goddess alone. She was on such a journey when the Bone Flayers overtook her party. Her tribespeople fought valiantly, claiming many lives, but they had been greatly outnumbered. She was the only one taken captive. That in itself is a great shame. But she had heard the Aserra were sometimes allowed to challenge their captor’s leader, and if worthy, send him to the everlasting night. This was her only objective.
When she turned to him, something in her eyes had changed. “And then you came along,” she said. “I don’t know why the Goddess sent you. At first, I thought she was testing me to see if I could survive. But now I believe I failed her test because I chose love over duty.”
“That’s not true …”
“Isn’t it? We have failed at every turn. We have survived by luck and the evils of the ancients.” She made the warding gesture.
“And yet we’re still here. That has to mean something. If your Goddess wanted you dead, wouldn’t it be so?”
“Not if I was meant to suffer first.”
“The Aserra are hardy people, but I know a thing or two about pain, Friday. I know about suffering and loss. And I’m still h
ere, by your side. And if your Goddess or the Bone Flayers or anyone else wants to take you from me, they’re going to have to kill me first to do it.”
“You would die for me?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“And your people? The soldiers? The answers of your mother? You would give them up too?”
“Yes.”
She buried her face in her hands. At first, he thought she might be crying, but when she looked up, her eyes were dry and resolute.
“I need water,” she said suddenly.
“There’s a reservoir on the roof. I’ll be right back.”
She nodded and Robinson rose quickly, halting at the foot of the stairs. “You won’t go anywhere, will you?”
“Oh no,” she said. “We have business, you and I.”
The reservoir was full but had a thin sheet of ice covering it. Robinson broke through it with an old glass bottle, taking a quick swallow to make sure it tasted fine.
When he turned, he saw the glow of the bonfires reflecting off the façade of towers and heard the drums echoing through the empty streets. He never understood why the renders responded to its call. But he understood why Friday did.
As soon as he approached the stairwell, he saw the smoke. He hustled quickly inside, calling Friday’s name again. To his surprise, she hadn’t fled or done herself any harm. Instead, she sat on her knees, eyes closed, humming while she rocked slowly in front of a small fire. She had tossed everything that would burn into the can until the kindling was red-hot.
“Friday?”
Her eyes opened, but she never looked at him.
“Remove your shirt.”
He did as told.
“We are the mountains that stand together. We are the summit and the base. From our forests come the arrow, from our crags, the blade. We are born in shadow and pass in fire. We are Aserra. Blood is our name. Will you stand the mountain with us?”
“Yes,” he answered.
“Then may the Goddess give you a death worthy of life.”
She stood, the iron glowing in her hand. When it struck his flesh, it took every ounce of his being not to wince or cry out in pain. His skin popped and crackled, and the smell that followed made his stomach turn, but he never flinched or grit his teeth.
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