by Brandon Barr
Gently he shook the old man’s arm. “Seethus, we’re leaving. Wake up, Seethus.”
The old man did not move.
Wiluit shook him more firmly. Then turned him from his side onto his back. The old man wheezed, then a snort issued from his throat.
“What? What?” moaned Seethus. His eyes still closed.
“We are on the move again, my friend,” said Wiluit.
Seethus’s purplish lips pursed together, then formed into a smile. Slowly his eyes blinked open. “Another adventure. Very good then.”
Wiluit helped him to his feet and handed him his staff. He shouldered the old man’s bag of books and started the slow walk to the door. Once Seethus’s blood warmed, he would move a little faster.
“By the gods’ grace, these old bones are still creaking,” said Seethus with a rasping laugh.
Wiluit grinned. At one hundred and twenty-eight years, Seethus’s age and cheerful attitude were no small miracle.
CHAPTER 3
MELUSCIA
Seated upon her horse, Meluscia watched as the two younger prophets rode out from the stables upon a large brown horse. The older girl, Jauphenna, had the small boy at her back. One glance from Jauphenna told Meluscia that the girl’s disgust for her had not lessened a hair.
The sight of the girl’s scorn fanned the guilt that smoldered in her soul.
The girl prophetess trotted her horse up beside Meluscia. “The gods wish us to go with you to the Verdlands,” said Jauphenna, her tone flat.
“I am glad the gods and their Tongues will bless this mission,” said Meluscia.
“Truly?” Jauphenna smirked. “Do you not fear my mouth will ring with more of your secrets?”
Meluscia looked away from Jauphenna. It was true. The girl’s probing word had shattered Meluscia’s private world. Her past sins, her weaknesses—even her thoughts felt unprotected in this girl’s presence.
Jauphenna pulled on the reins of her horse, moving away. “Nothing is hidden from the gods,” she called out. Clinging on to her back was the smallest Tongue, Shauwby. The boy smiled shyly in her direction.
Meluscia looked over the rough-faced soldiers in the courtyard, unable to mask the red-shame burning her cheeks. At the stables behind the soldiers, two more horses stepped out of the shadows. Wiluit, the leader of the group, had one of the two older men saddled behind him. The other horse carried the second old man, who sat hunched upon his mount with a perturbed grimace.
Meluscia noticed an unease amongst the soldiers as the band of five prophets came together on their three horses. The five had come out of the Verdlands—perhaps it was mistrust she saw in their eyes.
A horse and rider strode up beside her. “My Lady,” said a familiar voice, “is something troubling you?”
Meluscia turned toward Praseme on her mount. “Quite a lot. Tonight…can we talk?”
“Of course,” she said with smiling eyes.
Meluscia summoned her resolve, the words of Savarah again coming to mind:
Get on your damn horse and go to the Verdlands. Do what you’ve set out to do…
“Who will lead this party to the Verdlands?” shouted Meluscia, turning to the soldiers.
Heads turned to one man standing in the back. His long, curling black hair swung past his face as he dipped his head in acknowledgement of his role.
“I am Kaolin, at your service.”
“Thank you, Kaolin,” said Meluscia. “I entrust my party’s safe passage to you. Lead the way. We will follow your good judgment.”
Kaolin nodded, then barked out orders to his fellow soldiers. With all the haste she’d expected, their group was parading down the streets of Tilmar as the entire populace of the town lined the shops and houses, all eyes on her.
She remembered a part of herself she had only recently lost. The part whose goal was to never see herself as stationed above the commoner. To treat them with as much dignity as a high official.
Despite the looming conversation with Praseme that night, she managed to smile and return a wave from every friendly hand. As she did this, she found her spirits lifting. This was who she wanted to be. This was the Meluscia she’d smothered under a blanket of disgrace.
It was time to pay for her transgressions. No matter the cost. No matter if the entire kingdom discovered what she’d done. She’d have that cursed spy hole blasted when she returned to the Hold!
Tonight, she would seal her fate and tell Praseme what she’d done. Repent, and return to the path she’d strayed from.
--
SAVARAH
“Just one,” said Savarah under her breath.
She turned her horse toward a brackish pond. It was a small detour from her journey toward the wastelands. She dismounted her horse, tying it to a scraggy pine.
The gods were going to help her kill. She sneered at the thought of Isolaug’s surprise. One of his own Shadowmen, turned by love, aided by the Makers, coming to destroy the body that hosted his spirit. He, of course, would flee to another body, but his spell over his puppet king would be broken and the kingdom he had built around him would crumble.
Her horse snorted behind her where it was tied, as if feeling her energy and delight as she made her way to the shore.
Savarah waded out only six or seven steps before she caught a terrapin by its leg as it attempted to swim away from her. She looked up the banks of the marsh, at her horse. It watched her dumbly, its long haired tail whipping at the occasional fly. Savarah arched back and threw the terrapin onto the shore.
She watched it bounce and roll on the dirt as she moved out of the green-tinted water. Her ankles sunk into the mud with each step, until she reached the dry, crusted shoreline and moved straight to the terrapin.
The creature was upside down, struggling feebly to right itself. She raised her heel and stamped down hard on its undershell. She repeated the motion, until the shell cracked. Then she picked it up and threw the shell against the closest tree trunk.
The impact startled a long slender creature at the base of the tree, and it skittered away over dried needles and dirt. The shape of it fanned Savarah’s fury. The reptilian form of a lizard. Savarah burst toward the tree, tracking the scampering legs as they kicked up dust with each shuffling movement. It jumped upon the trunk of a tree and began to climb. Savarah sprang at the trunk, hand like a claw, and pinned the lizard against the bark.
The creature hissed.
She drew it away from the tree, gripping its body tight in her hand. The open mouth was splayed menacingly as it continued to hiss.
This was the form her master had taken. Lizards only lived on the borderlands of the Blue Mountain Realm, where the wasteland came together with the foothills. She was close now. She looked up at the sky. Tomorrow was the day spoken of by the young prophet. The ship would arrive with the blessing of the gods.
Something to help her destroy her master.
Savarah turned back to the lizard. The creature had run out of breath to hiss at her, her grip unrelenting as she squeezed the small body to the point of crushing it.
She put her eyes before the lizard. Its slitted pupils stared back, incapable of emotion.
Isolaug. Master. I am coming for you.
She swung her arm back, the lizard’s head protruding from her fisted hand, then drove its gaping mouth into the tree.
QUICK FIRE
Catching the kiehueth cost us three months and fifteen lives, three of which were our own. If we ever want to rear our heads on that planet again, we had better offload an entire frigate of chocolate and liquor. They were sorely disappointed by the twenty cases of whiskey and box of truffles. Tell Kenna I get to slap her whenever I want now.
Loam was a breeze. Destroyed the tower, picked up three VOKKs for our own uses, plus everything The Divine King asked for.
PS—our three dead were killed by the natives, not the kiehueth. Turned our guys into pincushions with all the spears and arrows. Tell that to Kenna too. I hope she cries. Then pu
kes her guts out.
-Captain Mhadrees, Quick Fire, transmission to Mauris TeHekee, COO, Red Merchant Enterprises
CHAPTER 4
AVEN
Don’t let them take you alive.
Daeymara’s warning echoed in his mind as the mouth of a weapon hovered close to his face. Aven stared past it, at the mercenary whose pale knuckles gripped the deadly device. The man’s head was partially shaved with black, spiked hair running down the center of his skull.
The man’s eyes were cold and unreadable as he unstrapped Aven from the landrider.
Only moments ago, he’d been tied down to the machine as it sped toward the mercenary starship on the hilltop. The engine had squealed as it climbed the steep ramp into the ship. Other landriders had followed after them in a screeching buzz, like a swarm of bees.
“Get up,” shouted the man with the spiked hair, his weapon pointed between Aven’s eyes. In the glare of the light, he could see the man clearly. Bloody lines crisscrossed the right side of his face. It was the same mercenary who had tried to take Daeymara’s life out in the field. Aven knew, because he’d caused those deep cuts, shattering the butterfly jar against the man’s face.
What was the fate of the other missionaries? It had all happened so fast. One moment they were walking on the dirt road, headed to Aven’s farm, the next, they had scattered, running for their lives from the mercenary ship.
Aven stood, his hands bound in front of him. The mercenary produced a knife and cut the rope binding his legs so he could walk. The huge ramp began folding up. He had a passing thought of jumping out at the last moment. But the ground below fell away, and Aven’s stomach lurched at the speed. He nearly tumbled over, but reached out with his bound hands and grabbed a rail on the side wall of the enclosure. The huge ramp rose up, forming into a wall with a hiss of air.
Suddenly the metallic room seemed to slant and the walls rattled all around him. The force pulling on Aven’s insides told him the vessel was moving extremely fast.
Aven counted six mercenaries in the room. Large, dark-haired men with weapons slung around their chests. Each was struggling against the pressing force.
“Can you reach the COM?” shouted one of the men holding to the opposite wall. Aven glanced at him. It was the same man who’d filled Daeymara’s body with the blue lightning. He had a round face, eyes set wide like an owl’s.
“Watch this one for me, Dheeg,” shouted the spiky-haired man in front of Aven, shoving the barrel of his weapon at Aven’s face.
Dheeg, the mercenary across the room with the wide-set eyes, held to the rail with one hand, and turned his weapon toward Aven.
“Tell Mhadrees we’re stuck in here with the VOKKs and the grav isn’t kicking on!”
“Tell him we’ve got some live ones,” shouted another whose left eye was an empty socket. “Gonna have us some entertainment!”
Aven looked behind him, to where the force of the ship was pressing downward. Against the back wall were three of the riding vehicles cluttered together. He saw Daeymara’s body strapped down. A patch of dark skin blotched her face below her right eye where a stream of lightning had forked into her. Aven also saw Zoecara. Her mangled form had been haphazardly tied, one arm hanging loose from the vehicle. Rivulets of half-dried blood ran down to her hand, where a few drops of red continued to fall from her limp fingers. And then there was Pike. Aven saw his pale mouth moving, as if he were biting his lips, perhaps in pain, but his eyes were closed. He and Pike appeared to be the only ones alive.
The force pushing on Aven suddenly eased.
The spike-haired mercenary grabbed Aven’s shoulder, pressing his weapon into Aven’s ribs.
“Move!” he yelled.
“Careful with that one,” came another voice. It was the man with the missing eye. “He’s the only one besides that pudgy kid who ain’t damaged.”
“Mhadrees is lucky we have two, maybe three,” said the spike-haired merc holding Aven. “Dheeg roasted the third.”
The one-eyed mercenary smiled, “Mhadrees can jump out the airlock all I care. Put something hard in his glass and he’ll be fine.”
Spike Hair shoved Aven forward. “Go on piss-brain.”
Aven went forward, resisting the desire to defy them. He took in his surroundings as the man gripped his shoulder and pushed him to the right, down a new corridor.
The halls were narrower than the Guardian starship. The weak overhead lights created a green glow on the filth-covered corridor. Streaks of yellowish-green discoloration were smeared across the walls, and there were dark scuffs where something had gouged and scraped the metal. Some of the marks looked like dried blood that had splashed the wall and dripped down to the floor.
Aven glanced behind him and saw Pike following a distance behind, limping as the one-eyed man held a weapon to his back—a gun, his VOKK reminded him.
Behind them two men carried Daeymara. A spark of hope rose in him. Could she still be alive? One of the mercenaries had said maybe three were alive. But if she were still alive, he feared her becoming conscious again. She would be in such terrible pain. She needed Alael, the guardian Physician. If she was alive, he would be able to help her. The way the mercenaries carried her, he doubted they cared anything about her condition. Behind Daeymara was a single mercenary dragging Zoecara by her feet. Her hair—or what was left of it—slid along the metal floor, leaving a thin trail of blood.
Yes, thought Aven. It was blood on the wall.
They passed several doors with round, darkened portholes set at eye-level. He wondered what lay behind each, but had no conception of what might be aboard a mercenary ship. Ahead he saw a bend in the hall, but just before it was a wall of thick bars and a sliding gate. As Aven neared it, he glanced inside. It was dark, except for where the dim overhead corridor lights created a murky haze.
Then something large moved within. Aven turned his head in surprise. A monstrous head pressed against the bars. From the grotesque snout, a long, pale-pink tongue shot out at him, licking at his Guardian shirt. Aven jumped, slamming his back against the far wall.
The sound of the one-eyed man’s uncontrolled cackling echoed down the hall, but Aven’s eyes stayed on the creature behind the bars. The head withdrew, back into the dark, then disappeared.
A picture forced its way into his mind. Aven grabbed at his head as the image absorbed his every thought. He was inside the bars. The monster had its foot on his chest, pinning his arms down with long, tapping claws that clicked against a metal floor. The pale-pink tongue shot out of the dark, licking and slithering across his face like a writhing worm.
Then the image was gone and Aven heard the chatter of voices, then laughter.
Aven opened his eyes and found himself looking at a dingy light. He jolted up, disoriented.
“He’s up!” came a voice to his left.
A chorus of chuckles followed.
Aven turned his head toward the voices. Three of the mercenaries were seated around a small table, staring at him. He was separated from them by thin metal grating that stretched a narrow space between two walls. Aven’s eyes darted from the men back to the space where he sat.
Had he gone unconscious? He breathed deep, trying to calm himself. You’re not with that creature. You’re in some kind of cell.
It was a small, rectangular space, about the length of three outstretched men and the width of two. There was no furniture in the room except for a little cot. On the cot lay Daeymara. The sight of her shocked Aven, for she was completely stripped of clothing. Pike sat, not far away, huddled in a corner. His head rested on his arms, which were crossed over his knees. Pike’s face looked stony, eyes scowling angrily ahead of him.
Aven crawled over to Daeymara’s cot, shame roiling within him as his eyes glanced curiously over her body. He’d never seen a woman naked before. A form so beautiful, but marred by the weapons of heartless men and left exposed, stripped of dignity. Why had they removed her clothes?
Daeymara’s hands
lay beside her naked thighs, palms up, fingers slightly curled. He took one of her hands in his.
Her eyelids didn’t open. The dark lightning mark beneath her right eye was not the only blemish. Aven saw three other spots of dark discoloration on her body, an outward reminder of the damage inside.
But she was alive. He had been so certain the mercenary had killed her, it almost felt as if she’d come back from the dead. Aven stroked her hand. A thin chord ran from her left arm to a small machine. His VOKK processed what the machine was for. It was feeding water and nutrients into her blood.
Aven noticed her hair was full of bits and pieces of dead grass and dirt. She’d been dragged across the turf to the riders after being maimed by the lightening gun. Her hair was filled with the remnants of Loam.
His home. A place he’d never see again.
He began picking at the debris in her hair and placing what he found reverently into a pile on the floor. Stroking her hair, pieces of dirt tinkled onto the metal floor. A flash of blue caught his eye in the dingy room light. He picked his fingers carefully through the spot where he’d seen it. Again the blue object showed itself. Aven stared at its shape, and suddenly knew what it was.
A wing. A frayed and ragged blue wing. From his sister’s butterfly.
Had he killed Winter’s butterfly when he broke the glass jar against the Mercenary’s face? Had he freed his sister from her horrible visions?
He pinched the wing lightly in his fingers and removed it.
“She ain’t gonna make it,” said one of the men seated at the table outside the cell. It was the spike-haired man who’d wrestled Aven to the ground while his partner electrocuted Daeymara to the brink of death. In the dull green light Aven could see he’d washed the cuts on his face. The mercenary’s partially shaved head glistened as he glanced back to the game he was playing with the others.
“Where are her clothes?” asked Aven.
“She don’t need them,” said the mercenary with wide-set eyes. Dheeg, he remembered. “Unless you want her to piss and shit her pants. Easier if she goes through the hole in the cot.”