Killers, Traitors, & Runaways

by Lucas Paynter

  For the first two days, they found no identifiable corpses; any bodies they came across were heavily decayed, brutalized or, most often, burnt beyond recognition. Many were soldiers, as evidenced by their uniforms and the blunted swords and broken rifles abandoned nearby.

  While the sight sickened his companions, Flynn viewed the corpses with cold comfort. Even the smallest wars could bring profit, and Flynn had fostered his share of blood feuds back on Earth. He had never encountered destruction on this scale, though, to see communities demolished and the very soil burnt.

  By the third day, when the skies showed no signs of clearing up, they found a body. It was a soldier who’d fallen into a ridge, shot through the head but miraculously overlooked. Chari climbed down for a better look, and upon rolling the body over, she recoiled in surprise.

  “My goddess!” she gasped. “Flynn, he–he looks just like you!”

  Flynn hurried down to join her, and while the resemblance wasn’t perfect, there were too many features in common to ignore. It felt like discovering a lost brother; his ears were pointed in a similar way and his dilated pupils, upon examination, would have been far narrower were he still alive. The dead man’s features appeared natural, as if he’d always been this way, unlike Flynn, whose appearance had been inexplicably forced upon him. The only difference between them was the soldier’s tail, which dangled limply from under his lower back.

  “…You sure yer from Earth?” Jean asked coldly.

  He didn’t answer, too bewildered by this new find.

  “I know where we are,” Zella spoke gravely. “I’ve never seen the world, but I know its people: this is Keltia. For every tale I’ve heard of this world, there is always one constant, and it is war.”

  “Even so, is there no chance that this is the work of Taryl Renivar’s soldiers?” Poe asked. “They possess the numbers.”

  “I am beyond certain that it is not,” Zella replied. “They are trained to fight, prepared to kill for all it might cost them. But they would not make war like this. They would not desecrate the dead.”

  The revelation that Keltia’s people were like him should have brought Flynn some hope, some joy—at least, that’s the reaction he concluded as normal. Instead, he felt a sense of unease that he might finally have a place to be accepted. Here, his allies were Other, and would have to be kept secret. Here, Flynn could disappear into the crowd and ply truths and spin lies and now, more than before, what moral part of him existed wished they had taken the path through the desert.

  * * *

  War had swept these lands recently, but it was already receding when the six arrived. Not once did they see battle, rarely did they hear it in the distance. Jean knew they were never far from an incident—they had met their share of smoldering wrecks along the way. But the bodies had settled and the soldiers had departed wherever they went, and it took another week before they found a town that hadn’t been abandoned or torched. They took the shade of a tree bearing some kind of blue, citrus-like fruit, and Flynn left the others behind to investigate the people nearby.

  Jean leaned against the tree and tried to shut the world out for a time. A terrible force was bottled up inside of her, and she wanted to scream and wreck the earth around her, without a damn to give for the harm she might cause.

  Her best friend was gone.

  What injured her most—and what she now struggled to endure—was the way she second-guessed herself. Mack had expressed something intimate, something she’d vaguely feared but hoped to never learn. Were they still on Earth, would she have worked past the matter, or would she have abandoned him to the wastelands? Her vow of friendship weighed on her, and the manner in which she had rejected Mack’s affections left her doubting her loyalties. It had been tearing her apart for days.

  Flynn was her last tie to Earth, and she was no longer certain she could call him “friend.” She was surrounded by people she hardly knew, most she barely connected with. There had been too many lies, too much deceit, however well-intentioned it might have been. She realized then that even during her year of imprisonment, she had never felt so alone.

  It ain’t fair. Flynn, who had lied about what he was, had found a place where he could be accepted. He wouldn’t quit the journey, but he could return if he wished. Ain’t gonna be a place for bulgy-armed freaks, she thought bitterly.

  “You’ve known Flynn longer than most.” As Zella approached, Jean listened in silent contempt of the conversation being forced upon her. “Back on the train, when he…” She couldn’t finish the sentence, but the way she rubbed her throat said everything. “Do you think he would have done it?”

  “Yer still alive, ain’t ya?”

  Zella nodded reluctantly, and left Jean alone.

  Of course he would have, she concluded. If he had to. For Chari, for Zaj … for me.

  After a time, Flynn returned. When the others moved to meet him, Jean was last to join.

  “I got us a wagon,” he told them, and she wondered how. Had he flattered some craftsman’s daughter or convinced some lucky survivor that they no longer needed what they had? She tried not to think about it. “A city called Selif rests on the southeast coast. They’ve been hit hard by the war, but they’re a major supply point. We may be able to find refuge there, if we’re careful.”

  Jean didn’t have the energy to focus on the conversation that followed, preoccupied by an urge to leave like she’d never known before—to strike out on her own like she had years ago, prior to Flynn and the prison tower of Civilis, even before Mack. She wanted to drop it all, the stakes be damned, but when Flynn looked at her, seeking her input, her dry voice cracked as she asked, “When do we go?”

  * * *

  The wagon rocked steadily with the contours of the road, drawn by a foul-smelling beast whose coarse fur was so shaggy that Poe wondered how it could even see. A row of horns ran from the back of its head down each side of its spine, positioned just far enough apart that riding the beast would have been uncomfortable, but possible. It was stubborn, and even after they had climbed the hill, its pace did not change on the steep descent that followed. Had Poe known this would be the experience sitting up front, he might have considered staying in the back. But then, he wasn’t fond of the company he’d have behind the raised wooden walls. Flynn held the reins silently, his ideal conversationalist.

  A rider on a similar creature—albeit one swifter and better groomed—approached going the opposite direction. The steed’s horns had been broken in places so the rider could hang his legs comfortably at its sides. He wore a uniform similar to the dead soldiers they’d seen before: a bluish-gray buttoned coat, muddied black pants, and a rifle strapped to his back. His hair was spotted, but Poe had noticed such colorings to be common. The rider drew near, and Poe adjusted his hood to conceal his face.

  “Remember what we practiced,” Flynn said in a low voice.

  “I have a skin condition,” Poe rehearsed the lie necessary to explain his stark white flesh.

  The rider passed them without incident.

  A bridge stood in the distance, and beyond it were a cold forest and a city by the sea. All else was road and sandy-colored grasses and no other sign of life. Poe preferred this near solitude, having lived alone for so long that he was unsteady in the company of others.

  “…How many did you … you know?”

  Zaja’s voice, from behind the wooden panel. She wasn’t speaking to him, but Poe pressed his ear to listen more closely. Flynn glanced at him momentarily, but said nothing.

  “One for certain,” Chariska replied. “She was on my trail and stumbled into a clean shot. It was not that I wished to do what I did, understand, but it felt necessary in the heat of the moment.”

  “Maybe it was,” Zaja replied. “I know I got two for sure. Most of the time I was trying to keep them away, and I’m sure I hurt a lot of people doing it. But they had Poe an
d I had to move fast. I didn’t really think.”

  “I fired on a number of them while Zella and I broke through,” Chari said consolingly. “Like you, I didn’t have the luxury to tally injuries and deaths. Though it’s likely that I…”

  She didn’t finish the thought.

  “Should I have trouble sleeping at night?” Zaja asked. “I thought I would. I didn’t leave home thinking I would have to kill anyone, and those people … I met others like them in Yeribelt, even helped them out with day to day tasks.”

  “I’ve counseled soldiers before,” Chari replied. “I pitied the haunted ones, who suffered in memory of things they had done, and reminded them time and again they had killed with the Goddess’s blessing. I feared those who were well, who suffered no remorse.”

  “What if one day, that’s us?” Zaja asked.

  “Then I’ll have become what I most hate.”

  There was a pause, and Poe almost pulled away, when Zaja spoke once more. “They won’t let me back in.”

  “To where?”

  “Yeribelt,” Zaja replied. “It’s supposed to be a place for good people, and they won’t welcome me back—”

  Poe wrenched his ear away. The discussion became uncomfortably familiar; he’d butchered hundreds of would-be trespassers who dared near Heaven’s gates. Who were drawn, he corrected himself. There may have been some unworthy in the mix, but Poe had never discriminated. In slaughter, he was an equalist. Like his companions, he was tainted; they were all tainted.

  The wagon slowed to a stop on the wooden bridge over a rushing river. Solid wooden bars kept them from proceeding, with similar barriers coming down behind them. Poe slouched, head low, hood drawn. He inhaled the full stench of their steed and fought not to gag.

  “Come on, now!” A soldier approached, rapping the butt of his rifle on Poe’s side of the wagon. “Stop, stop, all of ye.”

  Flynn dropped the reins and asked, “Is something the matter?”

  Behind them, other soldiers could be heard moving about, inspecting the wagon.

  “Routine check, mate. You’ve got papers statin’ your lot can go through here?”

  “I have a skin condition,” Poe blurted out. It occurred to him then that he had spoken too soon, as the soldier tried to peer in.

  “You alright there?”

  “Hey, hey,” Flynn intervened. “Just—just, leave him be. He’s had a rough time … haven’t you, Poe?” Flynn nudged him in the arm.

  “I have a skin condition,” Poe repeated abruptly, rising up just enough that the soldier could see his chin.

  “…Right, then,” came the bewildered reply. The man backed off, and circled behind the wagon.

  “What of these four?” a woman asked. The others were wrapped in heavy blankets, though excepting Zaja, they had less to hide than Poe. Even so, none of them could look the soldiers in the eye.

  Poe glanced at Flynn, and his hand fell back upon the Dark Sword, hidden beneath the folds of his cloak.

  “Those four, you should leave alone.” Flynn remained seated, his eyes steeled on the road ahead. “They’re the daughters of a wealthy shipbuilder from Kin-Kin. From what I’ve heard, Selif sails a share of his vessels.”

  “That so?” the man asked from the back. “…huh.” He came back around to Flynn’s side, and cocked his head while initiating a discussion on the sly. “A right bashful bunch, aren’t they? Poke a look and they shy off.”

  “They’ve been through hard times, Lieutenant,” Flynn replied. “We saw a share of terrible things on the way here. One hasn’t spoken in days. Doubt she ever will again.”

  “That … that so?” There was an uncomfortable pause as the man considered this information, before he leaned in and asked. “You certain she…?”

  “Mostly she just sits there and stares.” Flynn was eerily calm. They had not planned for this, and he seemed far too comfortable saying these things. The soldier excused himself, and slipped off to bicker with his subordinates.

  “What are you playing at?” Poe tensely asked.

  The soldier returned before Flynn would answer. “Show me which one.”

  “Of course … provided I go with,” Flynn replied. “She may be dumb, but a black eye speaks volumes.”

  The bars trapping them on the bridge hadn’t budged. Behind him, Flynn was helping one of the girls out from the back of the wagon; none of them spoke, nor protested. Poe didn’t look, uninterested in involving himself in his comrades’ affairs. They served to help him on his path, nothing more.

  “I need you to come along with me,” he heard Flynn whisper gently. “They won’t let us through unless you do.”

  As Poe watched the soldier lead Flynn and the huddled girl through a gap near the barrier, he wondered if anyone was going to put a stop to it. None of his allies budged, though he could just barely hear their frustrated whispers behind him. The soldiers were more vocal; the crude among them envied their commander, while others fumed with impotent anger. Poe closed his eyes to listen and discern what was at hand, but the rushing water below masked any other noise.

  His heart palpitated for a scream that never came. Minute by minute, it became easier to imagine the injustices at play. The question he found himself considering, however, was not What can I do, but What would I do? Without knowing who Flynn had escorted, all he could picture was a hooded face, otherwise nude and prone at their gatekeeper’s pleasure. Something shameful stirred in Poe, and he buried it, yearning instead to kill the lieutenant who held them captive at such a price. It felt righteous, and it pleased Poe to imagine a kill so pure and just. It was then that a voice rang from below, snapping Poe from his reverie. “Oi! Open the gates! Their, eh-heh, papers check out!”

  Flynn returned to the wagon, taking up the reins. Someone climbed into the back, and all the while, the heavy blocks barring the way were carefully being moved aside. Before their path was entirely open, one of the other soldiers came up.

  “Where’s the lieutenant?”

  “Said he needs a few minutes to get his pants buckled.” Flynn didn’t spare another word, cracking the reins the moment he had an opening.

  Poe was relieved when the foul bridge grew distant. Though he fostered no love for his companions, neither did he wish ill upon them. Very seldom had his kills been personal—he’d learned long ago to move beyond hating his victims. Yet were he already a god, every player in that foul transaction would have been slaughtered without mercy.

  At first, the lieutenant seemed enough; but what of the soldiers who’d cheered him on? What of those who groused but did nothing? What of Flynn, who had facilitated everything? Poe considered then that perhaps his friend must die once he became a god.

  It would be a service to him, he considered. The redemption he seeks is a mountain that cannot be climbed.

  As they descended into the valley, the terrain obscured Selif save for a few of its tallest buildings. The day was waning and they were being drawn toward a dark forest. Somewhere along the way, Poe caught a conversation from the wagon.

  “…Was about to smash the fucker, but Flynn didn’t even give me the chance,” Jean explained to the others. “Ripped his neck right open and sent him driftin’ down the river.” She climbed over the wall dividing them long enough to punch Flynn on the shoulder. “Don’t fuckin’ put me in a spot like that again!”

  It had been a discomfortingly bloodless victory as far as Poe was concerned; he would have slaughtered the guilty and innocent alike. Flynn could only whisper “I’m sorry,” but Poe doubted Jean heard him.

  * * *

  The main path to Selif ran around the forest they’d seen from the distance and, had it been earlier in the day, they might have taken the public road. The path through the forest seemed to offer a shortcut, and they were not long in when Zaja concluded that it hadn’t seen human traffic in some time. She shed her c
overings and stood up, stretched, then leaned on the front wall of the wagon, hovering over Flynn’s shoulder.

  “You can still see in this?”

  Flynn replied with a distracted nod and Zaja, curious to see what was around them, pulled out a flashlight and shined it around. The ground was littered with pine needles, which seemed to cushion an otherwise rocky road, cracking and crunching underneath. Small creatures skittered through the underbrush, but she could never get a bead on one.

  Poe rapped his knuckle on the backboard. “You should put that away,” he advised. “This world seems not to possess similar technology. If another traveler passes near, it would be difficult to explain.”

  Zaja’s thumb hovered over the switch. “Is that a body?”

  Slumped between the trees was a woman, rotted enough on one side that it was clear she’d been dead for a while. Her attire differed from the soldiers they’d seen thus far, a brown uniform of simpler design. The pistol clutched in her stiff hand differed from the local weaponry as well, with a gold inlay the others they’d seen lacked.

  “There was a skirmish here, recently,” Flynn confirmed. “I’ve seen bodies here and there throughout. Pockmarks in the trees from gunfire, abandoned weapons.”

  “Have you deduced who might have won?” Chari asked.

  “I’d bet good money on the local forces. I haven’t seen more than a few of their dead, probably overlooked when they were clearing out.”

  Zaja ignored Poe’s advice and continued to scan their surroundings. The tree line continued for a while until, not too far ahead, she noticed a break. Gripping the side of the wagon, Zaja vaulted over, stumbling momentarily before running ahead to get a better look.

  Flynn brought the cart to a halt behind her. Zaja tucked the flashlight in her armpit and squatted down, burying her hands beneath the pine needles and wrapping them around a thick, wooden shaft. She grunted, lifting, and unsteadily balanced a dirty old sign with three arrows on it.