savage 05 - the savage protector

by Tamara Rose Blodgett

  Harvey's eyebrows rose like a thick caterpillar. “Really?” he snorted in disbelief. “The king of one of their weak spheres has ventured Outside?”

  Theo nodded.

  Harvey's wheels were slowly turning and finally he struck on it. “Why?”

  Theo gave a pleased smile.

  “That is the question. However, I think it might be an important alliance. Their sphere no longer holds the people as it once did. There are more holes than sphere.” He stated it logically as all who roamed Outside were privy to the mess of the spheres, save one.

  “Tucker,” Harvey announced.

  “Yes, he is the one who destroyed the spheres.”

  “Not all,” Harvey said, looking to the southeast in the direction of the one sphere that did not have holes.

  Theo turned in that direction, thinking of the spoils confined in that sphere. It would be wealthy with much.

  He could just make out the softly rounded top from their vantage point at the apex of a small knoll, the forest at their back.

  Theo passed the binoculars to Harvey.

  Harvey pressed them against his forehead. His eyes appeared to bulge grotesquely with the magnification. “We must decide, Theo.”

  Theo grunted at the unsolicited advice.

  “I already have.”

  Harvey looked at him then scanned their meager supplies, broken weapons, spartan food, and one horse. He sighed.

  “We cannot hope to be victorious in this. He has two with him who look hardened. Seasoned, Theo.”

  “Aye,” Theo said, forgetting with whom he was speaking.

  However, Harvey understood the affirmative and nodded in agreement.

  “They can't be here for exploration,” Theo mused. “No one such as he would be bothered with that. No, they come out of the safety of their royal shelter seeking something more.”

  “I ask again, what?” Harvey said, handing the magnifiers back to Theo.

  Theodore checked the sphere again, his mind tumbling with the possibilities.

  If he were a king with a fallen kingdom, a place without defense, he would want to reclaim that security. He lifted the binoculars again and looked at the addled king.

  No, he wishes to take what others have, rather than build or repair that which has fallen.

  “We will meet with them.”

  Harvey exhaled in a loud rush. He hated following others but was too weak to lead.

  They made their way out into the open. The hardened men at the king's sides drew their weapons.

  The blood of the Band roared in Theo's body, begging for escape through war. He stifled it mercilessly.

  He needed to act the part of diplomat, something which was a learned thing, acquired.

  The niceties were not an easy observance for one such as himself.

  They kept walking. The king's eyes widened at the sight of Theo’s neck.

  Theo spread his hands away from his body in a true and peaceful offering of neutrality.

  The king turned to the man on his right. “Cyril, give this heathen his say.”

  Theo forced the greeting smile all the way up to his eyes.

  He knew immediately that only the high speech would do and thanked whatever reigned supreme that he could recall the speech of his clan, though he could not remember his parents or way of life there. Only the speech. Theo studied the two who flanked the king. He knew instinctively that he could kill them both. Harvey and a few others might need to be sacrificed, but that was not the goal. The objective would be to gather sufficient information to gain power through knowledge, then perhaps align with those who would wrangle him into a position to stop living the nomadic life he loathed.

  “I come in peace,” Theodore said.

  Cyril spat at his feet.

  “Fragment.”

  Theo's eyes became crystalline shards, cutting and slicing anyone he looked upon.

  “Aye, I am aware noble. Yet”—Theo pointed at his neck—“I am more than the sum of Fragment alone.”

  Cyril frowned.

  He wished to hack and slay, not waste time on the drudgery of diplomacy. His eyes skittered across the small faction of weary Fragment then landed on Theo. He was the problem.

  Could the king not see the fox in the bush?

  Theo ignored the blatant insult and spoke directly to the sovereign. “I have wondered these moments past, upon lighting on your vestige, what would bring your highness from the safety of your royal shelter.”

  Let them chew upon that, Theo thought, keeping the grin off his strong face by a fraction. Somehow, he thought Cyril had an inkling of his scheming.

  “We move to overtake the Clan stronghold half day's ride from this very position,” Cyril said.

  Theodore could not help the derisive bubble of laughter that sprang from his mouth. That was rich. A Clan with sixty-foot trees sharpened to fierce points? A fort that could not be breached by anyone?

  He ran the edge of madness with those ideas.

  The king frowned. He did not abide humor pointed at him. “We have something that might aid in this.”

  Cyril held up several animal-skin flasks that were strung together as though they were a great prize. Theo squinted at the kidney-shaped flasks, for there was a single word inscribed on each.

  “Come hither if you be literate,” the king invited.

  Theo was a rarity amongst Fragment, another mystery of his origins, in that he could read. He puzzled out the letters. The word was one he did not know yet simple to sound out: Gasoline.

  “What substance is this?” Theodore asked, not liking the development at all, but curious nonetheless.

  Cyril smirked, uncapping the flask. He held it out for inspection.

  Theo cautiously moved to within arm's reach of the other man, who was well fashioned with muscles and well over six feet, though still inches shorter than Theo. Theo strained, his neck out like a duck, and the smell assaulted his throat slits first, which closed instantly against the fumes.

  He fell backward, chocking and gagging. The king’s men roared with laughter.

  Theo would have loved to cut the tongues out of their mouths but was indisposed at present.

  Tears clogged his ducts, running unabated down his cheeks as he sucked fresh winter air far away from the noxious vapor of what was held in the flasks.

  The king grinned. Harvey looked on in dismay. Theo choked and gagged, spitting on the ground. “What is that foul substance?”

  He plugged one nostril and blew out a stout stream of mucus then repeated the process with the other.

  The king answered with a question. “How much do you wish to be done with the Clan yonder?”

  Theodore stood there, his eyes stinging, the snot of his nose filling it to capacity, his gills slowly opening to take in additional precious oxygen.

  “I do not hate. I covet.” He felt that was what had always separated him from the Fragment. He was ambitious while the Fragment were greedy.

  “Ah,” the portly king responded. “Then if we take the fort and you aid us, you will get your portion of what is therein.”

  Theodore's eyebrows drew together. His mind turned over the simplicity of the phrasing, knowing full well there was more there.

  “That is a fine plan. How to you endeavor to accomplish this feat?”

  Harvey and the others looked anxiously between their leader and the royal from the destroyed sphere.

  The king nodded. “We believe that if the fort is destroyed and the inhabitants taken, then we might yet see a turn in our favor.”

  Theodore frowned. “I see not the benefit. Your sphere is destroyed. You plan to destroy another area of possible safety? To what end?”

  Again, Theo felt a prickling of understanding just at the edge of true reckoning.

  The king leaned forward on his mount. “The one sphere which remains whole and unblemished shall be mine.”

  Theodore looked behind him, and a new frown darkened his face. “Yet you move against th
e Clan of Ohio?”

  The king righted his girth, and the horse shifted nervously. “They are allied.”

  Ah! Theodore finally understood. They meant to hurt the allies, and the sphere's doors would open, pouring out assistance and leaving the very thing they protected unguarded and fragile.

  The plan was quite clever. Theodore's eyes moved to the flasks of gas-o-leen, as he thought of it.

  An idea occurred to him. “Is that foul liquid part of what will bring the Clan down?”

  The king nodded. “Cyril.”

  Cyril said, “There are those who are not from this world, and they travel here from time to time, leaving supplies… taking samples.”

  That was news to Theodore. However, it did explain some of the strange Fragment he ran into infrequently, using speech that even he could not decipher.

  But how was it that there were other worlds? It did not seem possible. Yet… his eyes traveled once more to the strange flasks. The proof of it had made his eyes run like a river.

  “It is an accelerant to fire. It aids in burning,” Cyril confirmed.

  Theodore was stunned. He swallowed hard. “You would pour this on the Clan perimeter? Then light it?”

  Cyril held up a small box of wooden sticks with bright red tips. The word inscribed on the box was: Matches.

  Theodore's disquiet deepened.

  He was not a soft male but did not like destroying for no purpose. The Fragment were loathsome, and he had always known it. Yet they destroyed for gain, not revenge. That at least made a grim sense.

  The Fragment were not vengeful for the most part but opportunistic.

  Theo would go along for the moment, but always he would deliberate about the best choice for all when the clan arrived. And the king might not be aware, but the very people who had been a part of his kingdom currently lived and died Outside, a Fragment of their own.

  Theo looked at his starving and injured group then gave a curt nod and held out his hand to the king. The man looked at it with distaste, merely touching his fingers before snatching his own hand back.

  A genuine smile lit Theo's face, and he found he could not help the fantasy that sprang to mind wherein he jerked the fat king off his safe perch and watched the blood sprout from his cut throat.

  Theodore sighed. Those things must wait. For there were strength in numbers. The Fragment had taught him that.

  “I will ally with you, King…”

  “Otto,” the king supplied.

  Theo introduced himself.

  The king pointed at Theo’s neck. “You are of the Band?”

  “Aye,” Theodore answered.

  “Yet you travel as Fragment,” King Otto said.

  “Aye.”

  “You do not know who your kin be?”

  “I do not remember them,” Theo replied honestly.

  “It must be difficult to have a foot amongst both peoples,” the king mused.

  Theodore shrugged. “Mayhap, though I do not think upon it.”

  “I am sure you do not,” Cyril said.

  The king looked between the two. “Do not worry, Cyril. We will do this dastardly deed together, and then my Band friend is free to go.”

  Theodore heard his words and understood that his death would follow “the deed.” The king apparently thought Theo daft, and that precept would aid in the man’s death when the time presented itself.

  Theo smiled as he strode back to the stolen horse. Things were falling into place rather well.

  He took a running leap and landed with surety on his mount. The horse fell into step behind the king as if she knew where they were going.

  Theodore stroked her flank, and she shook her head, her mane floating about like attached silk as she neighed softly. The sound was almost like a whispered salutation.

  CHAPTER 7

  Matthew rode hard until he came within range of the small group. But he stayed just far enough away to keep them from scenting or hearing him.

  He scanned them, taking in the livery of the small royal contingent then moving to a large male with a smaller group who stood loosely behind him. Matthew frowned, settling his steed with a hand at its neck. The animal was coated with a light sweat.

  Certain death waited for Matthew if he addressed the mixed group of Fragment and royals. His eyes narrowed, his vision capability beyond that of most humans.

  He easily made out the distinctive form of King Otto and the royal battle contingent that flanked him.

  Matthew's unease grew. He would seek another route. Though farther away from the Clan of Ohio, perhaps he could travel undetected and be there before the king arrived.

  For that was the direction they struck. Due north.

  The King of Kentucky only had one manipulation Matthew was sure of: greed. But why would the king seek to endanger himself by leaving the haven of his sphere? Though Matthew knew the sphere to be compromised, the Royal Manse was as fortified as Clara's own.

  That he had not sought Clara's help but endeavored to move on the Clan instead was illogical. There was no way for three strong and a straggle of fighters to pierce the armor of the fort.

  Still, Matthew made haste on instinct alone. His gut told him something was not right. He knew not why, yet he was emboldened to find out.

  Matthew dug his heels into the beast’s sides and rode a large loop around the interlopers.

  However, one of them heard the faint sounds of his steed and kept that knowledge in the back of his mind. The gait and rhythm of the horse were clues to who rode its back.

  Band. Of that, Theodore was quite sure.

  *

  Clara

  Clara was drenched. She was out of practice at working the oyster fields and had even gotten the muck inside her boots. Her father would have chastised her soundly had he been alive. She was a sodden mess and knew it well. Her hair was an unsightly top knot at the crown of her head, and sweat beaded at her temples and upper lip.

  Clara was also glorying in belonging.

  She drove the pole down into the soft floor of sand, and the pungy crept forward. The crystal bay was so shallow that she could see the oysters lined up like rippled eggshells, ugly on the outside but beautiful with gems inside.

  Clara raised the oysters for different reasons now—trading with the Outside.

  Each Tuesday, the field workers would trade with the discarded sphere-dwellers who had survived their broken homes. They were part of the Fragment that roamed but a different people, softer, made vulnerable by the criminals who looted from the broken spheres.

  She drew near the pier. Clara stabbed the pole and swung on it toward the dock.

  She landed expertly upon the stout wood planks and pivoted to pull the pungy close to the soft pillows that eased the mooring of the small boat.

  She heard the gallop of footsteps and turned, her heart in her throat. “You startled me!” Clara said, frowning at Charles.

  “Dear Guardian, Clara!” Charles said. “What say you?”

  She sighed and began tying the ropes to the forged brass dock cleats. Clara finished the figure eight knot and rose. Charles grasping her elbow to assist.

  “I needed a day in the fields, Charles,” Clara replied in the most unperturbed voice she could manage.

  “By yourself?” He dropped her arm. “What if the pungy capsized whilst you be too far out to swim ashore?”

  “Oh, my word!” Clara said a little too loudly. “You are a true pessimist, Charles, and I, for one, loathe it.”

  They glared at each other. Clara saw the ready concern he had for her and felt a stab of shame. Charles always wanted what was best for her, and Clara would do well to remember that.

  Then she remembered why she kept forgetting that when he added with his usual critical assessment.

  “And your wardrobe!” Charles swept his gaze across her drenched breeches, wet boots, and dampened blouse. “It is scandalous. Surely you do realize.”

  Clara's temper was renowned, though she tried mightily
to contain it. Her father, King Raymond, used to tease her that if she did not have the complexion of a redhead, life would be gayer. As it was, she saw red.

  “I think some of the civilities have changed, Charles.”

  Charles stalked up to the pier. Cooling his temper, she imagined. When he made his way back to her, his bearing was calmer. “It is you who sets the precedence of what is morally true, Clara.”

  She nodded quickly. “Aye, 'tis true.” Her eyes locked with his. “And ye best remember that whilst you beat me bodily about it.”

  Clara pointed a finger at him. “I am working. In the fields, I govern. While my betrothed is gallivanting around, saving a world I have seen burn.” She ended in a low whisper.

  Charles's face softened.

  He stepped forward. Clara stood there, feeling weary, alone, and defeated, the goodness of the day she had spent leeching out of her with the appearance of Charles.

  “What say you?” he asked quietly, finally leaving the superficial behind and getting to the heart of the matter.

  Clara placed her small hands on her woolen hips, feeling the dampness of the material, and did not know where to begin. Yet she did, in fits and starts of recall from the horrible prophetic nightmare.

  Charles palmed his chin, thinking about her words. “Do you believe this is a dream of precognition?”

  Clara lifted her shoulders. “I am not sure, but since I became aware of my blood”—her eyes shifted to his—“or it had its way with me, there have been many changes afoot. Matthew has told me there be gifts, as it were, that are bestowed on people who possess blood of the Band.”

  “As your half-brother, Maddoc?” Charles asked, having instantly put together what her next example would have been.

  In that moment, it was not hard for Clara to imagine why she and Charles had once been so close of friends. He had a sharp intellect, though he hamstrung it neatly with his sensibilities.

  Clara nodded. “I believe it is possible. Given that we hail of Rowenna's line.”

  Charles's throat convulsed in a hard swallow. “Who, Clara? Who will burn?”

  She told Charles what she had not told Matthew. It was too terrible to utter out loud. That she did now made her feel as though she was being unfair to Matthew.