by M. L. Ryan
Deep down, I hoped I was wrong, and he’d immediately argue that I was being silly. Perhaps he simply wanted to choose his words carefully, but when Alex paused for what seemed like forever, my stomach lurched, did a few somersaults, and ended up lodged in my throat.
“We don’t know,” he said finally, never taking his eyes off mine. “I am almost certain the process will stop once you can bend into your human form, but until then, we fear your condition will not improve.” He edged closer, resting his hand on my now-drooping head. “Know this—I will do whatever it takes to make certain that does not happen. Somehow, we will get you back home so you can transform.”
His eyes were so intense, his jaw set so firmly, it was hard not to be as convinced as he looked. In reality, unless everyone miraculously regained their magic or some previously unknown cavalry was coming, I knew the chances of a speedy exit were slim.
“Okay, but just in case I do, you know… don’t make it, if it is at all possible, I’d like to be cremated and my ashes taken back to the human dimension. I’d rather not spend eternity here.”
If I were Courso, my soul at death would trail off into nothingness, but my body would stay intact. That basic difference from human mortality was why most Courso weren’t religious; there was no question about where you “went” after you shuffled off this mortal coil. Personally, I had no clue if one’s soul lived on, or if it did, where it went. I did know, however, Dekankara wasn’t where I wanted to find out.
Alex nodded, leaning his head against mine. “You have my word, carisa.”
After such a heavy topic, it was tough to engage in idle chitchat. Instead, we remained silent with our heads touching until visiting hour was over. As the guard led him away, Alex repeated his assertion that he’d get me back home. He wasn’t specific about whether that was alive or dead. I chose to believe the former.
The more I thought about it, I realized I still didn’t know for sure what was happening. Somehow, Alex never really answered the pertinent question. All he said was they didn’t know. I might be dying, or maybe not, and I still wasn’t sure about my relationship with Alex. I chastised myself for not asking about that, too, although it was kind of a moot point if I wasn’t long for the world. The take-home message was clear, however—whatever was going on wasn’t good, and things must change soon.
The next night, Hyattia brought me a basket full of vegetables. Everyone took for granted my new form required food similar to what I ate as a hawk, but Hyattia wondered if my health issues were a result of a dietary deficiency. Perhaps I needed vitamins or minerals not found in my usual fare of meat, meat, and more meat. I appreciated his concern, but only the sweet potatoes looked remotely appetizing and only after he’d roasted them. After all that, I managed to finish just one.
As he straightened up my pen, raking the soft ground and adding new straw to my sleeping area, I marveled at how well he took care of me. When first assigned as my keeper, he practically threw the food at me and got the hell away as soon as possible. Slowly, his terror subsided and now, instead of always keeping his distance, he often sat close by. A couple of times, Hyattia actually touched me, and once, I accidentally brushed against him and he didn’t even flinch. He attended to me each day long past what was called for, and I wished I could tell him how much I appreciated his ministrations on my behalf.
With great diligence, I extended one of my claws to proclaim my thanks. It took some effort, and I hoped I spelled it correctly, but eventually, I produced a readable, “Nitkew,” scratched into the dirt. I could have simply thought the sentiment, but putting it in writing seemed much more formal and a better way to convey my regard.
Hyattia beamed when he read it, and repeated, “Ichoklitim,” the Dekankaran word for “you’re welcome,” over and over. He said a lot of other stuff as well, but without Ulut to translate, I just nodded and hoped I wasn’t agreeing to something I might regret later.
After Hyattia left, Ulut appeared.
“Where have you been all evening?” I wondered.
He circled twice in place before curling up next to me. “With Alex and Sebastian.”
Snuggling closer to take advantage of his extra body heat, I inquired, “Anything new to report?”
He lifted his head. “What makes you ask that?”
I’m curious if Alex proclaimed his eternal love for me or if Sebastian was in the running in the pool to predict how many days I had left.
“No particular reason. I suppose I hoped for some good news for a change.”
“Oh, hopefully, there will be soon,” he replied, yawning. “Let’s try and get some sleep; I’m exhausted.”
I had no idea if he was actually tired, or making an excuse to avoid further conversation. Deciding to take Ulut’s fatigue at snout value, I murmured a quiet, “Good night,” and tried not to obsess about feeling left out of the info-loop yet again. I was beginning to understand why Rachel was so incensed when she discovered she had been kept in the dark.
Before I dozed off, I swore I heard the raucous laughter of inebriated men coming from the jail, even, perhaps, the higher-pitched twitters of women. My first thought was maybe Hyattia shared more of his moonshine with the guards, but the only women around were Bex and V, and I couldn’t fathom why they’d be sharing anything with their captors. As I listened more carefully, I thought similar sounds of glee and festivity came from other, more distant parts of the camp. I chalked up the unusual noises to my exhaustion, as no one partied in Jifgaville.
My dreams were unusually strange and fragmentary, even for me. Usually, they ran much like short films—albeit ones written by middle school students with a penchant for the works of Tim Burton—with a more-or-less discernable plot. These didn’t even have a consistent cast, much less a central theme, and consisted of momentary glimpses of unidentifiable people, places, and things, like clicking through a bad PowerPoint presentation at light-speed. Eventually, a cacophony of voices replaced the visuals, some shouting, others wailing in despair.
I opened my eyes, immediately realizing Ulut was no longer by my side and the sounds weren’t a part of my slumberous visions.
It was still the middle of the night, but even in the darkness, I could see people running about, weapons drawn. Most were moving away from where I was, which I appreciated in terms of avoiding the fray, but it also made it difficult to figure out what was going on. I spotted Ulut, finally, near Jifga’s tent. Because of the chaos, it took a few minutes for him to navigate safely down the hill to my pen, but for the most part, no one paid much attention to a dog scooting on his belly across the camp.
Before I had a chance to ask anything, Ulut transformed back into a man. I must really have been sick: there he was, naked before me, and he didn’t look the least bit edible.
“They’re under attack,” he shouted above the din. “Stay here and keep down. The guards have left the jail; I’m going to spring Alex and Sebastian and help fight.”
He ran off, and I called out, “Wait, what?” but either he didn’t hear me, or he didn’t want to take the time to explain.
Who was attacking and which side was Ulut on? Which side was I on?
Before I had much time to think, Alex and Sebastian burst out of the prison followed by Ulut, now wearing a pair of way-too-big pants. I was happy to see he’d found something to put on—bare-assed was no way to go into battle.
Sebastian and Ulut ran off into the night, but Alex sprinted over to me. He held a sword in one hand, and a smaller, but no less deadly looking dagger in the other. His eyes blazed with determination, confidence, and something else I couldn’t quite identify.
“What. Is. Happening?” I demanded, attempting to sound tough to cover my apprehension.
He spoke quickly and to the point. “It’s an uprising against Jifga. The combat is mainly toward the river. You should be safe here. I’ll be back soon!”
And then, he, too, disappeared into the darkness.
Damn. I hated being on the side
lines, but it wasn’t as though I had the strength to be much help. The Jyryxahal popped out soon after, and Bex and V made their way towards me. Each carried a weapon: Bex grasped a long-handled axe while V carried a blade similar to the smaller one Alex wielded. I couldn’t tell if W, Z, or T were armed; all I saw of them was their backs as they took off in the other direction toward the skirmish.
While relieved I was no longer alone, I’d have preferred personal protection with whom I could easily communicate. It was tough being in a dangerous situation without the ability to exchange words of either comfort or trepidation. Still, Bex was no slouch, and I knew she’d be a formidable adversary to anyone that might try to harm me.
I glanced around, but from our position under the lean-to, I couldn’t see shit. There was no way I was going to sit blindly while all hell was breaking loose.
As I eased my way out of the shelter, both Bex and V shouted at me to stay where I was, but the rest of their appeals were way beyond my comprehension. Therefore, I pretended I didn’t understand anything they said, and continued my cautious advance toward Jifga’s tent, where I figured the view must be better. They followed, pleading with me to stop the entire slow trek, but when we reached the top of the hill, both fell silent.
From this vantage point, the battle sandwiched between the encampment and the river unfolded before us. Tremendous noise rose up from the struggle, people screaming, and the clang of steel on steel. Partially hidden behind some thin clouds, a half-moon illuminated the proceedings to an extent, imparting an eerie gleam on the combatants below. Jifga’s men had their backs to us and clashed with the advancing rebels in a melee resembling masses of writhing snakes more than men fighting for their lives. I couldn’t make out enough detail to tell if any of the struggling forms was someone I knew, but I could see bodies, and the dark stain of blood seeping onto the ground around them.
An arrow flew past my head, and the three of us—who had been standing in plain sight, gawking at the spectacle—dropped to the ground. V and Bex scurried behind the protection of a thick, overturned bench, a spot where they could still observe the hostilities with less danger of taking a stray arrow. Under normal circumstances, I was impervious to the projectiles, but in my current feeble state, I wasn’t taking any chances. I followed, but the wooden planks weren’t large enough to shield me completely.
The chaos below was oddly mesmerizing, so much so I didn’t notice a group advancing from the north on horseback until they were almost on top of the conflict. The hundred or so armed riders crashed into the throng of Jifga’s men, trampling and slashing to great effect. Atop a sturdy buckskin, a woman led the charge, pale blonde hair streaming out behind her as she cut down a swath of men with her saber. The cloud cover must have parted, because she was suddenly lit up by the moonlight like she tripped the automatic sensor on a flood lamp. It took a minute before I realized who she was, or maybe it took that long for me to accept what I was seeing.
It was Agnes, and she looked, as usual, pissed off.
29
I wasn’t sure what was more shocking—seeing the long-lost deputy mowing down people or realizing I hadn’t even thought about her since shortly after she and Prytx eluded capture. In my defense, I’d had a lot on my mind in the ensuing months, what with transformation into a ginormous creature and Jifga’s blackmailing me to help him amass more territory and terrorize the countryside, not to mention my failing health. As for her prowess at old-school combat, she was amazing—horrifying and strangely attractive at the same time. I’d never seen her with her hair down—she always wore it pulled back in a bun as tight as her personality—but with it flowing around her head like a mane, she looked like she had been waging warfare with swords her entire life and loved every bloody minute of it. I was immensely grateful she was on our side, because she was scary as hell.
While experienced in the art of sacking and plundering, the addition of mounted warriors into the fray clearly threw Jifga’s men for a loop. Many ran, only to be hacked mercilessly by their pursuers. Others tried to engage, but were hopelessly outmatched by the dominant position and superior speed of the armed equestrians.
Agnes continued to shout directions as she slashed her sword from one side to another, dispatching her enemies with amazing efficiency. She had almost made her way through the enemy’s regiments to the base of Jifga’s hill when one enterprising combatant managed to grab her leg and pull her from her mount. The soldier tried to skewer her while she still lay on the ground, but she rolled out of the way just in time to avoid his lance. When she leapt to her feet, she glanced around, but her sword was nowhere to be found, apparently lost when she fell. I watched, horrified, as the burly warrior ran at the now-weaponless deputy, his spear pointed at her heart.
She dodged the initial thrust, relying on her agility to overcome his strength, but the man obviously knew what he was doing and quickly turned to face Agnes once more. I hoped one of her own men would notice and toss her another sword, but they were too far away. As Jifga’s thug ran at her again, instead of sidestepping, she reached behind her, pulled out the familiar Glock, and fired a single, well-aimed round into his head. A gun is the great equalizer, I mused, as the man dropped, lifeless, into the dirt.
Without a second glance, she shoved the revolver back in her waistband, whistled for her horse, and deftly swung up into the saddle when he returned. Riding back to the center of the clearing, Agnes gave the signal for her men to split off to flank their adversaries. The maneuver surrounded the dwindling number of soldiers who continued to fight, and in a stunning display of craven infidelity, Jifga’s men dropped their weapons and raised their hands in surrender. Their unwillingness to die for a jerk who’d never do the same for them showed they possessed more intelligence than I thought. It was probably the fastest capitulation in the history of Dekankara.
The battle won, Bex and V rose from behind the bench, surveyed the conquering heroes below, and hugged each other with glee. The adrenaline rush that had propelled me through the raid was wearing off, and without it, I felt even more drained than I had before. Unfortunately, my baseline was so low to begin with, there wasn’t much lower to sink. On the other hand, the victory meant there wasn’t anything stopping us from returning to Dekan-Babo to attempt re-entry into the human dimension. Thus, despite the almost overwhelming fatigue, I celebrated the victory in my own way by remaining upright and conscious.
There was still a lot going on between the bottom of the hill and the river, and once I regained my senses, I scanned the area for the rest of our party. Unfortunately, the clouds had reformed and the hazy gauze covering the moon made it impossible to identify anyone. My pen was the most likely spot to reconnoiter, I decided, as that was where we were supposed to remain. As I began to drag myself there, I heard a gasp behind me.
It was Bex, and the cause of her surprise was evident. Jifga stood behind her, one hand yanking her head back with a firm grip on her braid while the other held a small knife against her exposed throat.
That slimy, verminous, asswipe must have hid during the fight because there was no way he could have gotten up the hill in the short time since the combat ended. While everyone was otherwise occupied fighting for him, he used the ensuing bedlam to skulk in the shadows, waiting for an opportunity to flee. I had no allusions concerning Jifga’s character—or lack thereof—but this seemed repugnant even for him. Soldiers had just died in his service, and instead of leading, or at the very least, going down with the ship, he was the first coward in the lifeboat.
His eyes were wide, his face flushed as he shouted something—demands?—seemingly oblivious to the fact no one understood a word he said. Every few sentences, he jabbed the dagger into Bex’s flesh. He drew blood at one point, and although it was a small cut, the escalation of his hostility made mine boil.
You stupid asshole, I fumed inwardly, I have no clue what you want. How am I supposed to comply? I wasn’t even certain if he wanted me to do anything—he looked a littl
e unhinged. Maybe he was simply raving.
In his agitated state, he somehow neglected to realize he, Bex, and I weren’t the only ones there. V crouched behind the warlord, partially obscured by the bench, but within my line of sight. He must have missed seeing her when he grabbed Bex, I reasoned. She bit her lip, plainly weighing the available options, a knife shaking along with the hand that held it. I didn’t think she could stab Jifga without him slicing into Bex’s jugular, and I thought out the Courso word for, “don’t”—flij—hoping V would realize I was speaking to her.
She must have heard, because her eyes reflexively darted in my direction. Unfortunately, even though Jifga didn’t understand what I said, he also didn’t realize I had uttered the telepathic admonition. He only knew Bex hadn’t said anything, which, to his mind, could mean one thing, the one thing I didn’t want him to know in the first place—that someone else was there. It took only a slight glance over his shoulder to notice V, and he didn’t have to release his hold on Bex to make it clear that she needed to put her knife down.
V stood, but instead of dropping the blade, she lunged forward. The determination and rage in her face belied her usual meek demeanor. She knew exactly where she wanted to plant the dagger as she shoved it under the shoulder blade of the limb holding the weapon. Jifga shrieked, and V, still gripping the bloody knife, scuttled backwards to put some distance between herself and the injured warlord. Bex used the opportunity to shove his maimed arm away and heaved herself from his grasp. The move prevented him from slashing her throat, but it didn’t stop Jifga from turning and flinging the stiletto at V.
His aim was unerring. V studied the blade protruding from her chest, as if trying to comprehend why it was there. She raised her head, and as the corners of her mouth curved into a small smile, she said, weakly, “Ovhailey tl sagaxijy,” before the light left her eyes and she collapsed.