Last Chance and the Missing Knife (Last Chance, #3)

This work is part of a series. The first installment can be read here.

A ship.

A lumpy, ungainly, ugly thing. It hurtles at an enormous speed through the dark fabric of the universe, skirting gravity wells and skimming over swirling pools of matter. It passes the womb of a fetal star, soars under the tomb of a long-forgotten planet.

A ship, accruing a fine grey coat of silt. Raw, powdery stuff, crumbling at a touch. It is the ground upon which living things have walked; it is the dead remains of a star that once lit a long-forgotten System. The remains of so many places, with all their lives and wars and poems and stories; dust now, to be washed off at next planetfall.

A ship, pale and tiny against the all-encompassing black.

Pass inside it, through the thick steel plating of its skin. Pass the tough steel ribs filled with insulating foam. Pass the cords and cables, the veins that carry the ship’s necessary lifeblood—energy and information—throughout its small and hollow body. Pass the inner walls, to the interior—it is as dark as the universe itself, in here.

Here is the great belly of the beast, where reactors and injectors feed fuel into the fiery, closeted engine. Here is the cargo hold, where the dark shapes of boxes containing food and chrome and coffee filters lurk against the light-starved walls. Here is the cockpit, where the dials and screens provide a faint neon glow, tracing out the spare outlines of shapes in shades of blue and orange. Empty, worn chairs. A stack of papers topped by a small book.

In the upper part of the ship, just beneath the weld-scarred spine of the ship’s outer shell, there is a small room. It is located just above the cargo hold, slant-roofed in an architectural representation of an afterthought, and retrofitted with a small enclosed elevator to carry supplies up from the hold in order to save storage space in the room itself. It has empty counters, a small metal table, and a fold-down stovetop.

In the dark, the slight sound of hanging pots and pans clicking against one another in response to the ship’s shaky rumble is the only thing readily available to any human senses.

Just outside the opaque glass of the sliding kitchen door, a light flickers to life.

Unusual, for this ship. By UR time, the ship is currently experiencing 2400 hours—midnight. All is usually left quiet, undisturbed, for another eight hours at least.

The light from the hallway glows dully against the sharp lines of the table. The softly swinging pots and pans glint with it.

Voices—one bright with excitement, the other rougher and sleep-slurred—filter into the room. As the steady tramp of footsteps brings the two speakers ever closer, the voices grow louder.

The door slides open, sending the hallway light pouring in unchecked. Holding a stack of photographs, Ketzal barges into the room first, flicking the switch by the door as she enters. The room comes to life, bathed in a white glow.

Covering his mouth to stifle a yawn, Eli comes after her, and the door slides shut behind him.

Ketzal flings her photographs on the table, letting them spread out in a haphazard fan over its weathered, age-dented surface. Eli succeeds in beating down his yawn.

“So.” He makes his way fumblingly to the stovetop. “This guy.”

“Ma-Rek,” Ketzal supplies helpfully, as Eli folds the stovetop down and turns the dial to set it to heat. Among the pots and pans swinging idly above his head, he picks out a blackened kettle. Dislodged from its brethren, the kettle clanks and clatters in protest as he opens it, placing it in the small, efficient sink. The water turns on with a burbling rush, filling the kettle with a sound that is somehow both sharp and soft.

“Uh-huh. Let me see if I have this straight. He gets a ton of chrome,” Eli holds up one finger, as though ticking off items from a list, “hides it all, builds a map to where he hid it, and then—abandons his crew and flies into an asteroid belt?”

He keeps his four fingers up, holding them as though for inspection. Ketzal is unperturbed.

“Pretty much. Though the vampirism on Bleachbone might have been a part of his reason for abandoning the crew, if it happened before he left. Or, he could have just been being selfish, not wanting to share. He was a pirate, after all.”

“Share what? And when? He flew himself into an asteroid belt.”

Ketzal shrugs.

“I don’t know what he was thinking. Too many variables to guess, really. It’s wild, right?”

Eli yawns again.

“I’d go for ‘insane’, but sure.”

The kettle is full now. The water jumps up from the small opening at its top, burbling over the sides like a tiny but very energetic waterfall. He reaches back to shut off the water, pouring out the excess before putting the lid back on the kettle and setting it on the stovetop. The kettle hisses, indignant, at the sudden heat. Ketzal pulls out a chair.

“It might not be a treasure map,” he says, readjusting the kettle on the stovetop.

“How do you mean?”

Eli, circling back towards the table, hesitates briefly by the cabinets. Opening one, he pulls out an apple. Setting it on the counter, he begins to open drawers with systematic steadiness. He frowns, briefly, into each one before closing it again.

“I mean,” he says, to one of the open drawers, “It seems like he went into a ‘kill everyone’ stage, right before he died. He could’ve built that map to—I don’t know, a planet like Blue 12. Somewhere deadly enough that whoever dared to go hunting for his treasure wouldn’t make it out alive. A death trap.”

Ketzal sits, running her tongue over her teeth in thought.

“That’s actually really likely. I didn’t even think of it.”

Closing another disappointing drawer, Eli hums slightly in response.

Ketzal is still turning something over in her head.

“That would be so cool,” she says. Eli turns away from his search to direct a squint at her.

“You’d still go, wouldn’t you?”

“To find out the closest existing equivalent of Ma-Rek’s last will and testament? Of course. Whatever else it is, it’s sure to be fascinating.”

The worry lines imprinted around Eli’s pale eyes grow a shade deeper.

“You can’t be fascinated if you’re dead,” he says, slowly, giving weight and meaning to each word. Ketzal looks up, one eyebrow cocked, shoulders straight.

“You’ve got personal proof of that, or something?” She says, a little sharply.

He frowns deeper, and after a moment, she sighs.

“Sorry. It’s just—I’m not built to be cautious, Eli. I’m not made for being prudent or looking before I leap or—any of that. I have to find things out, I have to look, even if it’s dangerous. It’s just who I am.”

On the stove, the water simmers.

Eli is still frowning, but after a moment he nods.

“I guess I can see that,” he says. “I don’t get it. But I can see it.”

He directs his frown at the drawer for a moment, then closes it, and opens another. He frowns into that one too.

“Have you seen our knife?”

She sits up in her chair, squinting at the drawer he has open without actually being able to see into it.

“I put it in there last time I used it.”

“Well, it’s not here now,” Eli says. He shuffles the drawer’s contents a bit, as proof.

“That’s weird. Here.” Ketzal digs something out of her pocket. “Use mine.”

He turns around in time to catch the folded knife that tosses at him.

“Thanks.”

He frowns into the drawer one last time before shutting it again.

“So,” Ketzal says, shuffling her photos again, “It’s a death trap.”

“It might be.”

Opening the knife, Eli returns to the apple. He cuts it into neat quarters, carving out the seedy centers in a neat, precise series of movements.

Ketzal nods.

“Okay. So if you had to go somewhere that might be a death trap, how would you go about it?”

Eli returns to the table with two handfuls of apple slices. He places a small pile of them in front of her, and another in front of the chair just across from hers. Opening the incineration bin in the center of the room, he drops the core scraps into it, frowns at the over-full bin, and closes the lid, jabbing the button on its side. With a muffled rush of flames coming to life, the trash from the last few days is burned away to nothing.

“I’d get a good idea of what I was going into first,” he says, sitting down. “Take some time to assess everything. I’d have a plan to get out quickly, and I wouldn’t go alone.”

She nods thoughtfully, shoving an apple slice into her mouth. The water is boiling. Eli gets up again, going to the stovetop to pour out two cups of tea.

“Okay,” she says. “So, once we get to Red 16, do you know if there’d be anyone who would be interested in a possible treasure hunt/ death trap investigation adventure scenario?”

Eli turns away from the stove, walking back to the table and setting the two steaming cups down. He’s frowning again. Ketzal notices.

“What?”

“We’re still going by Red 16 first?”

She wraps her tea in her palms, soaking in its heat.

“Well. Yeah. You still want to go home, right?”

“Of course.”

“So, yeah. Red 16, then Ma-Rek’s treasure.”

Eli’s mouth is a flat line, and the crease between his brows is a veritable channel.

“I’ll pay you for the ship!” She says suddenly. “It’s mostly yours anyway—or you could keep it and I could buy a new one?”

Another silence.

“They do sell ships on Red 16, right?”

Eli bobs his head to one side, an inconclusive combination of headshake and nod that conveys no useful information about Red 16’s spaceship market.

“I do want to go home,” he says, “But not if it means leaving you to go shooting off alone to some pirate’s death planet.”

“I wouldn’t be alone, I’d—wait,” Ketzal gives him a piercing look. “You want to come with me.”

Eli picks his tea up and rolls his shoulders.

“I want to not leave you alone,” he says, after a pause.

Ketzal’s piercing look becomes sharper. It’s an expression she’s practiced many times in the mirror.

“You don’t have any obligation to keep me safe. Besides, I’d find someone to tag along.”

Eli’s shoulders fall.

“All right,” he says, reluctant. “Maybe I want to see this pirate treasure. If it is pirate treasure. Which I doubt it is.”

“Ha!” Ketzal shouts, snapping her fingers. “You’re curious.”

“I’m—I’m not—“ Eli splutters, which only makes Ketzal bend forward over her tea in a fit of laughter. Putting his tea down, he throws up his hands.

“Fine! I’m curious! You’re infectious.”

Ketzal chokes on her own laughter, and Eli shakes his head.

“It’s not that funny.”

“It is” she insists, face planted firmly on the table. The metal surface makes her sleep-deprived giggles reverberate through the whole room.

Eli shakes his head again and picks up his tea to take a sip.

Behind the mug, it’s impossible to see if he’s smiling.

* * *

Half an hour later, the lights are off. Two empty tea mugs sit, ringed with faint stains, in the sink. The ship has fallen asleep. Two of its inhabitants are asleep as well, tucked comfortably away and given over to dreams of treasure and discovery.

In the kitchen, a cupboard door creaks open.

Cautiously, an arm pokes out of it, then a head. Like an egg cracking open to expel a salamander, the cupboard spills a whole sprawling human figure onto the floor, one limb at a time.

They snap their gaze around the darkened room, gleaning what little they can from its shadows. Padding across the floor, they slide the door open. A knife-sharp wedge of light spills into the room, and they stand, a spindly silhouette, in the light.

Breek has a jacket at least a size too large for him on his shoulders and a paring knife in his hand. Wide-eyed, he looks around the hallway.

When no one jumps out from the bare walls to seize him, he seems to judge it safe enough.

The door slides shut behind him, and the kitchen is bathed in darkness once again.

* * *

It is 0800 hours and 12 minutes when Breek reenters the room. Peers inside. Frowns. Risking another backward glance into the hallway, he flicks on the light. He creeps into the kitchen, quietly opening a drawer and pulling out several cans—meat, and fruit, and potatoes. Enough to last a few days. He stuffs the food into his coat, looking around all the while, and silently pads away.

* * *

It is 0800 hours and 17 minutes when Eli walks into the kitchen and flicks the lightswitch.

The room, utterly contrary to expectation, goes dark around him. Eli blinks into it in confusion before flicking the switch again. The room flares up in friendly visibility. Eli scowls at the light switch for a moment, and finally shakes his head.

“We don’t need to save the ship’s battery!” He says, voice pitched a little higher than is usual for him. “We can leave all the lights on, all the time. I’ll just buy a new ship! I bathe in chrome and brush my teeth with silk!”

He stumps over to the counter, opening a drawer and frowning when he finds it empty.

“Could’ve sworn I just filled this.”

Grumbling at the delay of his breakfast, he walks to the side of the room, where the outline of a door is set in the wall by a panel of buttons. At one point, buttons had clear indicators of their function painted on them, but the paint has worn away, replaced by oily finger stains. Eli knows them by memory.

He jabs one, and the panel slides open for him. Rubbing his eyes irritably, he steps inside. The panel slides shut behind him, and the elevator descends with a rush of muffled mechanics.

* * *

It is 0800 hours and 19 minutes. Ketzal wanders into the kitchen, her hair tied in a messy purple pile on top of her head and a glowing datapad balancing on one hand like a waiter’s tray. She fills the coffeemaker and turns it on without glancing at it. Frowning down at the datapad, she makes her way, arm outstretched, towards a cupboard.

With a sharp crack and an exclamation of pain, her progress is jarred to a halt and she jumps back, rubbing her hip and taking her eyes off the datapad for the first time since her entry into the kitchen. An open drawer, all hard lines and sharp corners, stands in her path.

“Sheesh. How hard is it to close a drawer,” she grumbles, slamming it shut with her bruised hip and wrenching open the cupboard, retrieving a canister of dry milk and a mug. Clutching these awkwardly in her free hand, she makes her way back. The coffeemaker is burbling its last, the reservoir filled to the brim with hot brown liquid. Dumping a good amount of the dry milk into her mug, she returns to gazing at the datapad.

“Loris, colloquially known as Greyscape. Dry, rocky surface.” She reads. Coffee follows the dry milk, and she stirs the lumps in with one finger. “Mostly flat. Not a great place for a death trap.”

She takes a sip of the coffee and wanders back out the kitchen, leaving the canister of dry milk open and forgotten on the counter.

* * *

It is 0800 hours and 21 minutes. A slim figure slinks cautiously into the kitchen. Breek, glancing aside every few seconds, has a can of meat in one hand, and a marked lack of can opener in the other. Muttering to himself, he is quietly opening a drawer to search for one when returning footsteps sound in the hallway, and, cursing, he scrambles to duck behind the incinerator in the center of the room, curling his limbs up and out of sight like a startled spider.

* * *

It is 0800 hours and 22 minutes. Ketzal’s head pops through the door, and she bumps the light switch off with her half-empty coffee mug.

“You’re welcome, Eli,” she says, to no one in particular.

* * *

It is 0800 hours and 23 minutes, and Breek has gathered the courage to move from his hiding place. Gingerly feeling his way to the drawers in the dark, he resumes his search. Metallic shuffling and clinking sounds through the room as he shoves aside everything in the drawer that does not feel like a can opener.

The muffled sound of the rising elevator rumbles and screeches through the wall, and Breek shoves off from the counter with a curse. Something falls, hitting the floor and rolling with a loud clatter. Slipping a little, Breek flees. He is a dark shape in the doorway—and he is gone.

* * *

At 0800 hours and 24 minutes, the elevator door opens.

“Oh, for—,” Eli snaps as he is presented with the lightless room. He stomps meaningfully towards the switch, and the lights flare up again. Eli, arms full of canned food, turns around and stares at the floor.

It is covered with dry milk powder. An open canister lies innocently, apparently having been hurled at the tile and then left there.

“Why,” Eli asks the empty room, dumping his armful of cans on the table.

“Why.” as he sweeps up the mess and dumps the contaminated powder in the incineration bin.

“Why.” as he finds the lost knife also on the floor, lying on the drifts of dry milk like a sunbather on a beach.

And finally, “Why,” as his valiant search for the can opener is fruitlessly disappointed.

Having arranged the canned food in its proper place and scrounged a plastic meal packet that does not require a can opener from a cupboard, Eli leaves the room, shutting the lights off behind him with a decisive click.

* * *

At 1100 hours and 48 minutes, the door opens once more, and the lights come on. Ketzal and Eli both walk into the kitchen.

“Coffee is not breakfast,” Eli insists, shutting the door as Ketzal places her datapad on the table.

“I wasn’t hungry.”

Eli’s mouth flattens, but he doesn’t argue.

“I was thinking maybe soup for lunch?”

Eli nods, bending low to retrieve dry broth base from a lower cupboard while Ketzal reaches up for freeze-dried vegetables, meat, and spices.

“That’ll work. I still don’t know where the can opener went.”

“I didn’t do anything with it.” Ketzal says, holding up the meat packets in a gesture of innocence.

“I didn’t say you did. Things just keep disappearing. It’s unsettling.”

“Weird,” Ketzal agrees, pulling down the stovetop. The soup form a promising pile on the counter, and Eli goes over to snatch down the saucepan.

“So,” Ketzal says, “I’ve been taking a look at Loris, the planet that Ma-Rek’s map points to. If the surveys taken a decade or so ago are still accurate, it’s a sparsely populated planet. Carbon-heavy rock, mostly, with some caves and old mine shafts.”

Eli, filling the saucepan with water, turns toward Ketzal.

“Can I see?”

“Sure!” She says, tripping over to the table and tapping at her datapad. When it fails to light up at her touch, she frowns and makes a disappointed noise.

“It’s out of power.” She says. “I can show you on the cockpit computer”

Eli sets the pan on the stovetop, brushing his hands on his shirt.

“Sure.”

It is 1100 hours and 50 minutes when the door slides shut behind them both.

* * *

It is 1100 hours and 58 minutes when that same door opens again.

Breek stands in the doorway. He glances around the room, takes in the abandoned cooking, and hesitates—but only for a moment. Looking back over his shoulder and finding no one in the hallway, he enters the room.

He digs the can opener from his pocket, treading softly to the drawer where he found it and replacing it where it was—or, at least, somewhere close enough.

He glances at the door again—still silent—and bites his lip. Finally, he goes to the sink, turning on the water and ducking his head under the faucet, gulping down greedy mouthfuls. He stands up, wiping his mouth.

Another glance at the door.

Gaining courage, Breek begins to look through the drawers, shuffling through the utensils. Losing that knife has left him all but defenseless, and he’s eager to get it back. He’s gone through two drawers without finding what he’s looking for when voices sound in the hallway—close, and coming closer.

Breek jumps at the noise, casting about the room for somewhere to hide. Fingers outsplayed as though to grasp any hiding place that presents itself, he takes the room in with wide eyes, silently mouthing every curse he knows.

Footsteps, just outside the door. No time. Breek’s eyes settle on the incineration bin, large and shiny and completely enclosed, sitting in the very middle of the floor.

Without hesitation, he leaps inside. A cloud of white milk-dust puffs up around his head for a split second, and then—

The lid is closed, and the door is opening.

“So, I’m hoping that there will be some clue once we reach the surface about exactly where the treasure—“

Eli, a mere step behind Ketzal, shoots her a look.

“—or the death trap, whatever he left behind to be remembered by, is, because I can’t find a single thing from up here. At least, not unless we orbit Loris until our fuel reserves run out.”

“Going in blind,” Eli says dryly. “fun.”

Ketzal either fails to notice the sarcasm, or intentionally ignores it. Her eyes are alight with adventure, and nothing will dim them now.

“I know! It’s gonna be so amazing!” She spins in the center of the room, and Eli steps around her overexcited figure on his way towards the stovetop. This time, he doesn’t bother to hide his smile. It’s only a small one.

“Right! Soup!” Ketzal says, once she sees what he’s doing. She comes over to the counter, prying the lid from the canister of broth while Eli rips open a packet of meat to reconstitute in the the simmering water.

He’s busy pouring it when a sharp, muffled sound makes him stop.

“Did you say something?”

Ketzal looks at him, questioning.

“No?”

Eli frowns and goes perfectly still, straining his ears.

“Ahhhpssshhttt!”

That is not the noise the incineration bin usually makes. Ketzal hears it too, this time, and she gives the canister raised eyebrows.

“Psssshhhttt,” the bin declares.

They look at each other.

“Oh no,” Eli declares, loudly, while opening the drawer and pulling the knife free of it. He holds it loosely in one hand, at the ready. “It looks like the bin is full again.”

Ketzal catches on, reaching up to take a heavy cooking pan from its hook.

“We should probably clear it out!” She says, holding her pan at the ready.

Eli takes a step towards the silent canister. “I’ll just press the button,” he announces, in the exact manner that any right-minded person about to press a button wouldn’t.

At this, the bin pops open, and a spring-coiled figure leaps free of it with a yowl and a cloud of dust.

With a terrifying yell of her own, Ketzal starts running towards the figure with her saucepan raised. Startled by the noise and searching for an escape route, the coughing stowaway spins in a confused circle, standing right in her path.

Even draped over shoulders too narrow for it and covered in milk powder, Eli knows that jacket.

He reaches out and snags a handful of familiar material, tugging the kid out of Ketzal’s warpath just in time to save him from another concussion. Ketzal flies past them both, skidding to a halt just in time to keep from slamming into the wall.

“Kid, I thought I told you not to be stupid,” Eli says.

Ketzal spins around. “Wait, we know him?”

“Ketzal, meet Breek,” Eli says. “The thief.”

“Oh!” Ketzal says, “The vampire kid!”

In response to this introduction, Breek tugs himself out of Eli’s grip and goes for the door. Eli, not particularly feeling like chasing the kid all over the ship, steps forward and grabs him again. Breek tries and fails to pull himself free, twisting around like a caught warp-rat until he’s facing Eli and shoving him away with both arms. The kid’s eyes are red-rimmed and wild, snapping from the knife in Eli’s hand to his face and back again.

He’s afraid, Eli realizes. Of Eli, of the knife, and more specifically, of Eli holding the knife. His grip on the kid releases of its own accord.

Breek staggers back, but doesn’t run. Ketzal and her pan are in front of the door, cutting off his escape. He squares his shoulders and raises his chin, going for a stolid, stubborn look. It’s ruined, a little, by the fact that he’s still covered in dust and coughing miserably with every other breath.

“M’not a vampire,” he mumbles, through dust-choked lungs.

“No, I mean—you know what I mean.” Ketzal lets he pan drop harmlessly to her side in favor of making a vague explanatory gesture.

“Kid,” Eli starts, “What are you doing? Stowing away on a ship that belongs to strangers? For all you know, we could’ve been the types who’d really have turned that thing on with you inside. Are you really that desperate to get off of—“

Breek glares at Eli with red, accusatory eyes.

“I’d do it again,” he snaps. “And—and you can’t kill me. Not unless you wanna never find Malek’s treasure. I know where it is, there’s—it’s impossible to find, unless you know.”

Eli is unimpressed.

“Do you.”

“Yeah. Malek’s treasure, I’ll lead you right to it.”

“It’s Ma-Rek,” Eli says.

Breek takes a step back, eyes darting between Ketzal and Eli with painful wariness. “That’s what I said.”

Eli shakes his head.

“Stop digging while you can still climb out, kid. We’re not gonna kill you.”

“I’m not—“ he starts, defending his honor, but falters as Eli’s words sink in. He keeps his shoulders straight and his head up, thin and brittle as a dry sapling. “I’m not going back,” he says, instead. “I won’t.”

For a moment, Eli is ready to point out that, as a point of fact, Breek has very little ability to direct where he will or will not go; that, by stowing away and then letting himself be found before they made planetfall, he’d put himself almost entirely at Eli and Ketzal’s disposal.

But something stops him before he’s even drawn breath to speak. He looks the kid over.

Breek already knows all of that, he realizes. He’d already known he was powerless here; judging from the raw rage that has filled his every movement since the moment Eli’s first met him, Breek has been aware of his own helplessness for some time now.

Suddenly, Eli doesn’t want to be the one to remind him.

Instead, he turns to Ketzal, who is scrutinizing them both with the same thoughtful, curious expression that she turns on old manuscripts and artifacts.

“Well,” he says. “How do you feel about another member of this adventure party?”

She shook away the scholarly solemnity in the space of a second and grinned at him.

“Great.”

“I can stay?” Breek asks, surprise leaking past his bravado, if only for a moment.

“Sure thing!” Ketzal says. “Sit down, there’s soup. Want some tea?”

Watching the kid’s eyes grow a little wider with each word, Eli wonders when it was, exactly, that Ketzal’s easy friendliness had stopped surprising him.

Ketzal breezes past them both, hanging her pan back on its hook and turning down the now-boiling soup water.

Breek watches her, then glances at Eli, looking a little lost.

“You’ll get used to it,” Eli promises.

* * *

“I will be needing my jacket back.” Eli says, once Breek has gingerly sat on a chair. He looks for all the world like he expects it to be snatched out from underneath him.

“No.”

“No?”

“It’s not your jacket anymore.”

“It shouldn’t be anybody’s jacket, with all those holes,” Ketzal interjects, and is immediately met with two indignant sets of protests and a detailed outline of exactly why it was a perfectly good jacket, thank you, and how dare she suggest otherwise.

“Alright, all right,” she says, waving a set of bowls at them placatingly. “There’s some perfectly good soup ready, so hush.”

Epilogue:

A ship.

A small, fragile, unimportant thing, in the grand scheme of things. Soaring through such a small patch of space, locked tight in such a tiny swatch of time.

A ship, her walls built of iron ore dug up from deep below the surface of some distant planet—smelted and purified and hardened with carbon, cast and ground and riveted together to keep a few fragile lives safe, just a little longer, from the cold and the drift of the dark universe.

A ship, engineered over lifetime after brief lifetime by hundreds of thousands of thinkers, creatures with minds that could barely grasp what sort of thing a star might be, but who wanted to sail among those unfathomable giants all the same.

A ship that will be rust, and dust, and gone in just a few short centuries. A planet’s workday, a star’s lunch break. Inside it, an adventurer laughs away her fear of the unknown. A brittle boy slurps a spoonful of warm, salty soup. A man wonders, quietly, at a foreign feeling rising in his chest.

A ship.

The stars look on, and do not comprehend.

The Last Chance will return.


Enjoy this story?

You’re in luck, my friend! There are many more. Why not delve into one of these?

The Wolf Of Oboro-Teh

Brevian And The Star Dragon, Part I: Stowaway

Bazar-Tek And The Lonely Knight


Thank you for reading! If you like, leave a tip.

Advertisements

This Screaming Earth

Day 5

The sun was a hard-edged yellow disc in the sky, providing little light and less warmth, when Hamish looked up through frozen lashes and saw the temple.

It was huge, a great monolith of solid stone, rising out of the flat plains with the brutal grandeur of all large things. The pale sunlight made mirrors and abysses of its sharp-edged planes.

He stood for a moment, staring at it. The wind shoved at him, making him stumble a little—shaking the grasses, stirring the fallen snow up into fresh whirlwinds. Struggling over snow that slid out unhelpfully from underfoot, Hamish began to run.

He reached the doors and shoved at them, half-expecting them not to budge under his weak assault. They swung open easily, opening upon a dark cavern of space. He entered, boots clattering oddly against the smooth floor, scattering snow and bits of dead grass with every step.

The doors swung slowly shut behind him, and Hamish slumped against them with a hollow thump, raking greedy breath after greedy breath into his frozen lungs.

There were no more wailing people.

No crunching snow. No howling wind.

Just silence.

Day 1

Hamish sat in the straw of the prison cell, entertaining himself by fiddling with his chains. They were worn and slightly rusted, a testament to the prison’s long life.

“You have two options before you,” the scribe said. He stood outside the prison bars, holding a flat wax tablet and a sharp copper stylus. Hamish did not look up at him.

“Your first option is to appeal to municipal law, and consent to be tried before the county judge. This would likely result in a punitive amputation.”

Hamish did glance up at that. His fingers stilled over a link in the chain, prickling in protest.

“A what?”

The scribe cocked an eyebrow at him. “Your hand,” he said. “They’d cut it off.”

Hamish knew what an amputation was, damn it, but he hadn’t thought—he hadn’t thought what he’d done was that serious. Was it?

“What’s option two?” He asked, throat dry.

“Since it was a temple you stole from,” the scribe continued, looking back at his tablet, “You may apply to be tried by theocratic law, instead of a municipal judge. The priests would assign you a fitting penance. I’m told the most likely one is a temporary exile to the Wailing Plains.”

It was not really a choice.

Day 2

Hamish shifted from foot to foot, half in the temple courtyard and half in a dusty store-room, watching an equally dusty priest rummage through piles of liturgical necessities like animal pelts and brass censers.

“What are the Wailing Plains?”

The priest looked up from his search of the storeroom. The temple was evidently supposed to provide its exiles with supplies appropriate to their destination. Those supplies, he’d learned, included a coat, a scarf, boots, mittens, and whatever it was the the priest was currently searching for. No food. He was told he wouldn’t need it.

He hoped that meant it would be short penance. Somehow, he doubted it.

“It is a physical location,” The priest said, turning back to shuffle for the last of Hamish’s ‘supplies.’ “Though we have so far only reached it through mystic arts, so where it would lie on a map is unknown. Very few have been there, and returned.”

Which sounded less than encouraging, really. Hamish wondered how bad it could really be, life without one of his hands. He could get a hook, right? He could probably live with a hook.

‘Probably’ was not enough certainty to try and change his fate now.

“The few who have been there describe it as— not properly of this world,” the priest went on, finally finding what he was looking for. A flattish ebony box, inscribed with swirling, unreadable letters. “One grows hungry, but never starves. Grows cold, but never freezes.” He blew the dust from the box, and then turned, handing it to Hamish. “They say the true temple of the Silent God is somewhere on the plains,” he said, looking Hamish in the eye. “You will look for it. Should you find it, you may return.”

Day 5

Inside the temple, the air was close-knit and still. It was a balm on Hamish’s wind-worn skin and aching lungs.

He couldn’t stay here forever.

In just a moment, he would get up. Leave. Go back.

There were so many who wandered on these plains, so many whose ears bled under the weight of the eternal screeching. This place, whatever it was—he had to bring them here. He had to show them.

So he would get up, he would.

In just a moment.

Day 2

Hamish held his mysterious box, and again wondered if a hook would be so bad, after all.

“Open that,” the priest said, nodding at the box. Hamish did. Inside, lying on a bed of velvet, were two perfect spheres of black wax.

“You’ll need those,” he said. “There are…creatures, on the Plains. They will not harm you, but you cannot listen to them, not for one second.”

Hamish had never liked priests, or people telling him what to do. The combination of the two now was enough to loosen his tongue.

“What happens if I do?” He asked. If he was going to starve to death on an otherworldly hellscape, he would rather not do it with wax in his ears.

The priest’s gaze was soft, almost compassionate, but it allowed for no argument.

“You would become one of them.”

Day 3

The first thing he noticed was the wind.

It cut through his every outer layer, biting at his skin with no regard for his thick coat and stabbing itself into his finger-bones as though the mittens on his hands were mere prayers for warmth. Under the thick grey sky, thinly streaked with yellow by an indifferent sun, it whipped the brittle brown grasses and made intermittent whirlwinds of the icy snow—the refuse from the last blizzard, reliving its glory days by snapping hard icy pellets against Hamish’s face.

The third thing he noticed was that the priests had managed to give him a scarf of exactly the wrong size.

It was wide. It was long. But it was not quite wide enough to cover both his mouth and his neck and the awkward triangle of space where his coat didn’t quite button, and not quite long enough wrap around twice to make up for its deficiencies in wideness. He pulled it up to cover his mouth and keep the cold from entering his lungs, but that only let the cold in to slice, knife-sharp, at his throat. He shoved it back down to cover his throat, breathing through his nose; but he had already breathed on the knit wool and now it was wet and cold. His nostril hairs were frosting up and sticking together.

He growled, feeling the sound low and deep in his chest without hearing it. It was strange, not hearing his own voice.

The balls of wax in his ears were cold and itchy. His attempts to ignore them were failing.

Even with the ready distraction of his many annoyances, his attempts to ignore the second thing he had noticed was failing too.

They were everywhere.

Pale, ghost-grey things, with wide open mouths and cavernous eyes, solid as stones and—if their wild stumbling at every gust of wind was any clue—light as feathers. Milling around aimlessly, they didn’t seem to notice Hamish. He was glad of it.

More than once, Hamish caught himself being drawn in to look at their faces—the wide, pale eyes, the gaping mouths. Every time, he tore his gaze away again. The shivers that ran down his spine had nothing to do with the wind.

Look at them too long, and they might well look back. The wax in his ears itched, but he didn’t dare touch it.

Look for the temple, Hamish thought. It was a simple enough task. Or, it should have been. But the plains were flat as a skipstone, wide and wild, with a barely perceptible line for a horizon; and nowhere did Hamish see a temple. Not even the ghostly outline of one.

He squinted, wondering briefly if it was possible to build a temple underground. He looked down at his boots, half-buried in some dormant snow, and kicked experimentally. He took a step forward, still squinting at the ground.

Something solid collided with him, sending him sprawling on his back. Hamish caught a glimpse of wide, dull eyes and outstretched hands as the creature trampled over him, seemingly unaware of his existence; and then he blinked, and found that he was staring up at the sky.

That was when he heard the screaming.

Hamish sat up with a panicked jerk, turning to scrabble in the powdery snow in a vain search for the gobs of wax. He succeeded only in getting snow wedged into the gaps between his mittens and the ends of his sleeves. The snow was soft, and cold, and unhelpful. The wax was gone.

While Hamish was still on the ground, another of the stumbling creatures tripped over him. It did a sort of one-legged dance, trying to regain its balance, and then finally seemed to gather itself. It moved on, mouth open and face lifted as though it intended to drink the sky, letting out a wild animal wail as Hamish got up and brushed himself off.

Their cries were piercing, high and sharp enough to carve the moon into a harvest scythe. Remembering the priest’s warning, Hamish hastily stuffed his fingers into his ears. Another of the creatures brushed by his back, screaming almost directly in his ear, and Hamish flinched away, wondering if his skin was already turning gray, if he was going to start wandering aimlessly and screaming at the sky. He clenched his teeth shut to ward off that possibility as long as possible.

This wasn’t worth it, he decided. Not all all. He turned back—but when he swung around, he couldn’t tell if he was facing back the way he’d come or not. It all looked the same.

There was no way home.

His beating heart throbbed against his fingertips, doing little to dull the endless screaming, and Hamish swallowed the dull lump that clogged his throat.

The only way back was to find the temple. Wherever it was. If it even existed.

He wasn’t going to find anything by standing here. He started walking, dodging away from the grey bodies that wandered about so carelessly of his own and trying to ignore the spike of fear every time he tripped over the uneven ground.

Day 4

After one night without sleep, Hamish stopped stuffing his fingers in his ears. His arms were too tired, and the priests had probably lied about him turning into one of those creatures anyway. Lying, just to scare people, was what priests did.

His legs were jelly-soft, wobbling as he walked, and his whole body was aching under the oppressive weight of the wind.

It was shortly into this second day of exile that he began to recognize words in the screaming. Jumbled, garbled words, all being screamed over one another; but words.

He checked his hands frantically, wondering if he was beginning to go grey, if something about him was changing that he could understand the inhuman screams; but no, red-blooded flesh still laid beneath his mittens.

It was only a matter of time before the words became sentences in Hamish’s ears.

“Fire! There is fire, everywhere there is fire!” One cried, spinning almost into Hamish before spinning away again.

“Where do I go? Where am I supposed to go?”

“Floods! The rains are coming! The rain will kill us all!”

“I am beautiful! I am new! I am young and lovely!”

Hamish could have sworn it was enough to make his ears bleed. He walked as fast as he could, squinting against the flakes of snow that pelted his eyelids, trying to block out the noise.

Intent upon his feet, he didn’t see the figure until it collided with him. The solid body knocked him flat on his back, and he found himself looking up into a pair of pale, wide eyes, set into a long, sagging face. Irritably, Hamish got up, expecting it to wander off again.

The watery eyes followed his motion as he rose, and the keening, wordless cry died down a fraction. Hamish, occupied with brushing himself off, stilled. A spark of fear flared up bright in his belly as he realized that the creature was actually looking at him.

“Swords!” the creature bellowed, a hollow sound from hollow lungs. He watched Hamish without blinking, as though in expectation of a response.

“Swords, really?” Hamish said, trying to shake the snow out of his mittens.

“Swords! The grass is made of swords!” A gust of wind blew up, and the creature stumbled a step, but held his ground. The watery eyes stayed fixed on Hamish.

Hamish had spent so long carefully not looking at the creatures or their faces, only catching glimpses of the wide-wailing mouths. The thing’s face is strange, disturbingly solid and fleshy despite its ghost-gray color.

“The grass,” Hamish said, “is swords.”

“Old swords! Ancient swords,” the creature said, volume decreasing slightly as it spoke. It was as though the simple act of listening had created a thin shield around them both, blocking out the incessant screaming, if only for a few moments. The thing bent over, careless of the wind that nearly tipped him flat on his face, and plucked a bit of brown grass out from its bed of snow. It lifted it up, waving it in front of Hamish’s face.

“Blade!” It said, and then let out a wild whoop of laughter. “Blade! See? The grass is made of swords!”

Hamish blinked. He was cold. He was hungry. He was tired. He did not want to listen to a theory about the origin of grass, much less a theory based entirely upon a pun.

“Fascinating,” he said, even though it wasn’t. “I’m on my way to the temple, though, so—“

The man’s gaze snapped suddenly to his.

“The temple is empty!”

“It’s—you’ve been there?” Hamish asked. “Wait! Where—where is it?”

But the creature’s gaze had already slipped away from him, and when another snap of the wild wind made the thing stumble away, it began stumbling off aimlessly, once again screaming to the sky about swords—and grass—and swords. Once again just another dull figure in a horde of dull figures, all ears made deaf by their own shouting.

Hamish watched it go, heart pounding.

The temple is empty. That was what the creature had said. Not it’s gone, not there is no temple.

It’s empty.

There was a temple, then. There had to be. For something to be empty, it had to exist. And if that thing had found it, then Hamish could too.

The thought did not settle a sense of determination in his stomach. It did not invigorate his body with fresh energy.

Instead, his feet felt frozen to the earth.

The only thing that stirred them was desperation—desperation at the thought of an eternity of life like this, frozen to the bone, surrounded by the careless, screaming creatures with their blank eyes and drunken steps. He had to find a way out of this. He had to find a way home.

He took a step, hardly knowing where he went. At least he was going somewhere. Maybe, if we wandered long enough, he would stumble across the temple by accident.

He told himself that it was hope.

The sun slunk lower on the horizon, rebelling against the worldwide grey with a stripe of faded red.

Hamish’s limbs had stopped feeling the cold. He knew enough about cold to know that this was not a good thing, but all the same, he couldn’t help but be relieved at the lack of pain.

He could hear the words better now. When he listened to them, it made the screaming both easier and harder to bear. Parsing out the individual words distracted him from the fact that the cries made the very bones of his ears shake until they seemed about to shatter, but the words themselves were difficult to listen to.

The creatures, it seemed, were masters of truly terrible ideas. They screamed that the sun didn’t exist. They screamed about how unbearably hot the Plains were. They screamed that it was too quiet. They screamed so many inimitably stupid, false things that Hamish had to keep an iron vice on his tongue to keep from screaming back at them.

He clenched his teeth closed and stepped out of the way as one of the things spun past him, wailing that clouds were secretly made of bees.

“Curse the earth,” Someone said softly from right beside Hamish’s ear, and he jumped. He spun aside, turning to stare at the thing who had spoken.

No, not a thing. A girl.

She was small, fine-boned, with eyes set so wide apart that they seemed to be trying to make room for a third. Her flesh had not yet gone gray, and her fingers clutched at her arms, knuckles pale, as though trying vainly to keep warm. Her eyes flicked briefly over Hamish, seeming to take him in, before sliding away again.

“Curse the earth!” She said again. Not a scream. Not a wail, but a small-voiced, mourning plea. “There is blood in it. Curse me, for I have shed it!”

There were tears in her voice, and anger too. It was such a human voice that it caught at Hamish’s heart. He took a step towards her, and her eyes slipped towards him again. Instead of sliding past him, though, this time she fixed on him, her eyes suddenly intent. Hamish went very still.

“I have shed blood,” she told him. “Too much blood. It’s seeping from my feet. It fills my eyes. They sent me here to be whipped clean by the wind; but the wind is no cleaner than I am.”

Hamish could not tell if it was sorrow, or triumph, in her tone; whatever it was, it leaked out of her in the next moment. Her shoulders slumped, and her voice cracked with tears.

“Oh, curse the earth!”

“Why should I?” Hamish asked.

“Because it’s full of blood,” she said. “Can’t you feel it—surging beneath your feet? See, it’s starting to leak into the sky.”

Hamish looked at the sunset. It did look like blood, now that she mentioned it.

“That’s not—“ he began, turning back towards the girl, and his words caught in his throat. There was a living fire in her eyes, directed at the sunset; a wild, raging red; but the rest of her—

The rest of her was gray as a stone.

“I’m looking for the temple,” he said, mouth dry.

She looked back at him, unblinking. Her eyes had gone ghost-pale and watery.

“There is only the earth, and the earth is full of blood,” she said, unshakably certain. “Curse the earth!”

A strong gust of wind made her stumble backwards, almost falling. She wandered away, and as she walked, she began to wail. The wind caught at her words and tore them away, so that they reached Hamish’s ears as though it was the very air that screamed them.

“Curse the earth!” The earth itself reverberated, as Hamish looked down at his shaking hands and wondered when the color would leach out of them, when he himself would begin to wander, forgetting what he’d come here for. When he would stumble and scream his lungs raw at a sky that would never listen.

“Curse the earth!”

Day 5

It was early morning, the grey world made hazy by the new light, when his foot caught on something. There was a sharp pain, a sudden snag, and Hamish found himself splayed flat on the ground, taking panicked breaths through a faceful of snow.

After a night of sleepless wandering, every moment afraid of losing himself to the gray wailing plains, Hamish had to fight down the insane urge to start laughing. It was all so ridiculous. Sleepless and sore and starving, wandering to someplace that might not even exist, and he just had to trip. Fall flat on his face in a perfect farce, an excellent summation of his entire life up till now.

He wanted to lie where he’d fallen and just not bother to get up again. What would be the use?

Frightened by his own thoughts, he struggled to his feet and turned back to scowl vengefully at the thing that had probably left a throbbing bruise on his left big toe.

It was a stone. Low and square, half-hidden in the grasses. Hamish felt a jolt of rage for his still-throbbing foot and the snow that had been dumped down the front of his coat; who would set a stone like that out in the middle of nowhere, just for people to trip over?

Then, as sharp as the wind that cut into his skin: someone had set that stone there. It was too square, too clean-lined to be there by accident.

His head snapped up, and he studied the surrounding ground with renewed energy. There. Another stone, hidden by the grass, and another, just a bit farther from it.

It was a path. He set off, following it, and began to laugh. It was hysterical, his laughter; something that bubbled out of his lungs like vinegar fizz, sharp and sour, the product of sleeplessness and desperation and a wonderful, horrible relief that ran, soft and clean as soapy water, through his veins. He had a path. He’d had nothing, and now he had a path.

Just ahead , one of the screamers was stumbling under the force of the wind, a wild, unstrung dance. One of the pathway-stones caught at their feet, tipping them over in a sudden sprawl that looked like something out of a comedy play. Hamish hurried towards the fallen figure, laughing all the harder.

“It’s a path!” He shouted, even though the wind swept his voice away. The sprawled figure in the grass was still lying there, probably without the motivation to get up. “Follow it, don’t trip over it!” Hamish shouted, voice unsteady with the hilarity that bubbled up in his lungs. He knelt by the figure, tapping them on the shoulder, offering his hand to help them up.

They made no move to reach for it.

He touched their shoulder again, gingerly pulling, turning them over.

Their eyes were blank, mouth frozen open. On the grey skin of the heavy-boned face, a thin line of bright red marked where their skull had cracked against the frozen ground.

Hamish was still laughing, lungs seizing with it as though they had forgotten how to stop. His hand, where it rested on the human creature’s shoulder, was a cold and stony gray.

He slapped a hand over his mouth, trying to force himself to be quiet. He felt sick inside.

Laughing at this forgotten someone, someone who had been wandering just as he wandered, tripped just as he’d tripped, but—had not been given the chance to get back up again.

Even though all hilarity had left him, even though he had no desire to laugh any more, his clutching lungs and shaking throat too far too long to settle, seeming to have gained a will of their own. He got up and stumbled away, hand still covering his mouth, ribs trembling with his efforts to keep them still.

Hamish hated the path. He followed it, clutching his hand to his chest as though whatever warmth still thrummed through his heart could return the color to the changed limb, but he hated it. The sharp, stubby ridges of rock. The way they hid in the grasses and the snow, almost malicious as they lay in wait for someone to trip on them, careless of their deadly power.

And yet—if the screamers would just stop shouting, and look—they could find their way, they could get free of this place.

Thinking that, he almost hated them.

In the end, hatred was useless. He let it slip through his fingers. He followed the line of rocks again, keeping an eye on the stumbling men and women. He ran ahead to pull the them back whenever they seemed likely to trip. They yowled at him in response, never listening when he tried to explain, but they also didn’t die.

He didn’t laugh at them, or himself, again.

Day 1

“Well then. I’ll alert the court of your decision, and you’ll be remanded into the custody of the priests by tomorrow, if all goes well.”

The scribe tucked his stylus into his sleeve, clapping the wax tablet closed. He looked up at Hamish, his eyes unclouded for the first time, and gave a single nod.

“I’ll offer a prayer for your well-being,” he said, with a sincerity that made Hamish stop fiddling with the shackle that was beginning to gall his wrist.

“What have you to gain from that?” He snapped.

The scribe shrugged.

“Peace of mind, I suppose.”

Hamish shook his head. “Silent god,” he said, scornful. “With all that silence, how are you supposed to know if he’s answered your prayers or not?”

“I won’t.” The scribe said, simply. “But I hope you will.”

Day 5

The doors of the temple were solid and smooth against Hamish’s back. The warmth was making a slow but determined foray into his ice-numbed bones, sparking stabbing pains that ran up his arms and sliced through his joints. It was excruciating, but good. A living pain instead of a dying one.

As the shivers began to subside, one deep breath caught in his throat, making a hitching, soft sound that sounded like blasphemy in the stillness. His face was wet. His hands were shaking.

How many wanderers were there, he wondered? How many lost?

He could go home now, if he wanted. The priests would take him back. He’d found the temple, completed his penance.

But how many had been left unfulfilled?

He could go home.

But he wouldn’t.

He would drag every last one of them here, by force if he had to. No one was going to be lost on those lonely plains again if he could help it.

So yes, he would get up. He would get up, and go out, and start bringing every last screaming human thing here until the only wailing on these plains was the lonely wind.

The silence, the stillness, was like a healing balm on his skin.

He would get up.

In just a moment.


Enjoy this story?

I’ve got tons more. Why not take one of these for a spin?

Sunset Soliloquy

The Wolf Of Oboro-Teh

Dragon-Slayer


Thank you for reading! If you like, leave a tip.

Dragon-Slayer

There had been rain that morning. It had pounded and penetrated the earth, going straight to the lush green of the trees, followed by a golden afternoon. Now the sky was clear and the moon was lighting the new blossoms on the almond and cherry trees outside the tiny teahouse, painting them white as ghosts and making spun cotton of the drifting mist.

It was out of that mist that the stranger came.

Arukoru owned the teahouse, and carried with him a mild but constant caution on its behalf. Serving cups of warming liquor, wakeful tea, and the occasional meal, talking with a few of the men in the low and businesslike tone that the evening seemed to merit, he was the first to hear the approaching footsteps, and he glanced up with a slight frown, pausing in the midst of setting down a steaming bowl of rice and vegetables with no acknowledgment for the look of confusion from the man he’d been handing it to.

A few of the house patrons noticed his sudden stillness and followed Arukoru’s gaze, and a few more looked up when a slight thud and a low curse announced that someone had attempted to duck through the teahouse’s low door wearing a sword-belt. There was another, lighter thud from the wall as the sword was laid against the side of the house, and a few moments later, the man’s head appeared in the doorway. He had to kneel to get in, and he rose into the lamplight brushing splinters from his shoulders. Dark-clothed, he seemed to absorb rather than reflect the warm light from the paper lanterns, and carried the scent of rain and mist in with him. There was a kind of shadow in his eyes as he looked around the room, and one by one the patrons realized that they were all staring, rather rudely, at a man who owned a sword. The room fell back into a stilted resemblance of its former ease, and Arukoru, frown still on his brow, finally set down the bowl he was holding. It was requisitioned rather peevishly by the man for whom it was intended.

“Honor on your house,” the stranger rasped, bowing lightly as Arukoru came near. He was young, Arukoru realized, beneath the hard-set lines of his face.

“Fortune to your steps.” He offered his own bow, just as slight, in return. “How may I serve you, sir?”

“One cup of tea, if you please.”

Arukoru did his best to hide his displeasure. Tea was the cheapest thing he offered. The only thing cheaper was water, and that was free.

“Of course. If I may suggest, tea is a wonderful complement to a meal.”

The stranger huffed an amused breath. “Just the tea.”

Arukoru silently bade good-bye to the notion of earning a few more coppers, and bowed again to go and prepare one single solitary cup of tea while the stranger seated himself on the farthest side of the room, statue-still and eyes shaded so that he could have been watching everyone in the room–or no one–and it would be impossible to guess which. A faint shiver went down Arukoru’s spine, and he disappeared gratefully, offering up the dim hope that the stranger would pay his copper and be gone.

* * *

It is difficult to remember anything, even a mysterious spirit of mist and moonlight, when it hides in a corner of the room and says nothing. So, ever so slowly, the teahouse came alive again. The conversation swept to and fro like a lazy broom, stirring up more than it made clear, going from the recent rains (good for the crops, bad for the livestock, would there be more and when) to whether Gaiken would go through with building his well (of course he would, and the whole village was welcome to draw from it, the slightly tipsy man declared) to whether or not they would be able to grow enough this season.

“If I had only myself and my wife to feed, I’d know the answer to that easy enough,” one of the younger men said, shrugging as he looked down into his steaming cup. “But with the…other one, it’s no certainty for any one of us.”

“Don’t speak of him,” someone else hissed. “You never know who’s listening.”

But, however wise that statement might have been, the subject of the Other One was not dropped. The opportunity to complain had presented itself, and no one was going to turn down their chance at it.

“Ah, I’m with you, boy,” another man said, clapping the young man on the shoulder. “And it only grows harder the more mouths there are to feed. The snake cares little whether our children be fed or no.”

The stranger was bent savoringly over his cup of tea, having yet to take a sip. At this last, his head came up, the first hint that the conversation held any interest for him; but no one noted it.

“I tell you, no good can come of talking about it,” the same man who had hushed the boy before said, eyes strained. “The Clever One has better ears than any man. Do none of you remember–”

What it was that everyone was supposed to remember was never said. The man’s warning was once again brushed aside.

“Clever One!” someone snapped. “What has that dragon done to earn the name, I ask you? Does it take cleverness to steal and terrify?”

They had all forgotten the stranger in the corner. Thus, when a rain-rasped voice asked, “What dragon?” every eye turned toward it. Arukoru straightened, frowning. He didn’t like the intruder, and liked less that he’d forgotten the man.

“What’s your name, stranger?”

A question for a question; that was fair enough.

Though the young man had been inside long enough to shake off the strange smell of the mist, he had a face that seemed to belong to the night it had come from. Expressionless, as a beast might be, save for one small and unsettling turn of feeling–in the line of his lips, perhaps, or the darks of his eyes–that teased, not allowing itself to be read.

Arukoru waited. The man shrugged, the ley line of emotion in his face seeming to turn to levity for a moment.

“Sutoro.”

Stranger. Arukoru raised one eyebrow. A sense of humor, then.

Sitting motionless at his table, half-wrapped in darkness in spite of the lantern light, Sutoro’s silence demanded an answer of its own.

“The Clever One is the lord of this valley, and of the mountain over it.” He watched the stranger’s expression for any hint of approval or disapproval. The old snake had never used human servants before, but Arukoru knew well enough that the Clever One was not above spying. The last person caught speaking ill of the dragon had been found the next morning, impaled on a pole in the middle of the town and charred to a crisp.

He was careful with his words.

“He offers us protection, and asks for a percentage of all we earn in return,” he went on, and heard a few grumblings from the men behind him at that. (percentage? More like all he can squeeze) (protection from what, anyway?)

Sutoro’s gaze flicked over the speakers, and Arukoru stiffened, trying to will the men behind him into silence. He didn’t want to lose another friend to a loose tongue.

The stranger seemed to be considering the information. He looked down, swirling the tea in a lazy circle in its cup, then drinking it down in a single gulp. He set the cup down so that it barely made a sound against the solid wood of the table. Rising, he pulled loose a single copper coin and dropped it beside the cup.

“My thanks for your hospitality,” he said, bowing again. Arukoru, still wary of the man, did not take his eyes from the stranger’s face even as he offered a bow in return.

“I have no more coin to pay for a meal,” Sutoro said, gaze drifting back to the empty cup of tea, and Arukoru’s jaw set. So he was a spy after all, here to bully and demand and blackmail–

Sutoro looked up, expression as night-dull as ever, betraying nothing.

“Would the head of your dragon suffice, in place of coin?”

Arukoru’s thoughts tripped over themselves in an attempt to halt on the unpleasant path they’d been speeding down, and wavered with newfound uncertainty. The man was a stranger. He could be a spy. He had a sword sitting outside the door and he had appeared out of the mists like a demon clothed in flesh and bone.

He remembered Youjo’s fire-blackened body, hanging death-stiff on its pole like a roasted chicken on a stick, and his caution–always since held over his words like a shield–dropped for a single instant.

“For the head of that dragon, you may have the whole of my household and myself as your servant.”

* * *

Halfway up the mountain, the teahouse and its warmth were nothing but a memory. Sutoro did not mind. The night with its cold mists and brisk breezes fit his mood, and the now-clear sky was filled with a billion shining stars. There was a cautious whisper in the branches of the trees as he climbed, and whirls of sharp-scented pine needles were blown up, pelting weakly at him as the waving boughs hissed go back. He ignored them, fixing his eyes on the stars above his head. The mountain was a steep but gradual slope, and from the bottom it seemed that one would have reached the stars before one found the peak.

Sutoro–it was a name the man used often, and after years of wandering as true to him as any other–contemplated as he walked.

The villagers in the teahouse had been full of warnings as he prepared to leave: the Clever One had a hide tough as diamonds, a mind sharp as a razor, eyes that could read his soul and claws that could shatter stone. One warning was as often repeated as any well-wishes and just as useless: he was a fool, and would surely die.

Sutoro did not plan on dying.

The slow, grassy slope stuttered and ended, giving way to a harder climb, clefts of jagged stone and shifting rock. He halted a moment, studying the rock with a practiced eye in preparation to climb it, when he realized that the wind’s warning whispers had finally quieted, leaving the night as still and clear as the sky itself. He took a step back, one foot on shifting rock and the other on tough-grown grass, and set a cautious hand to the hilt of his sword, scanning the moonlight rocks again.

“Come out of hiding, Ancient One,” he said, in a voice that would not have been heard over the relatively mild clamor of the teahouse, but which rang between the rocks like the clanging of a time-bell. “Someone has come to challenge you.”

A dull rattle of laughter answered him, echoing off the sharp and shifting rocks on every side.

“Truly.”

Sutoro’s gaze darted from rock to rock, hoping to catch some glimpse of it–or, no, he thought, the melodious voice traipsing through his memory. Of her.

There was a rattle and a slither to his right, and he jumped to face it.

The Clever One was sliding over the rocks, her golden scales making a kind of music against them. She cocked her head, looking at the sword on his hip, then back to his face, bemusement sparkling in age-old eyes.

“Are you going to slice my head off with that toothpick? It’s quite ambitious of you. I applaud your confidence.”

With a grin that was all teeth, she raised herself, long body coiling as she clacked her foreclaws together ironically. Sutoro rubbed his thumb along the sword-hilt, looking down at the weapon. It seemed an ill match for the creature that lay on the rocks before him.

“You are wise, Ancient One,” he began.

“My pride takes to stroking as well as that sword would take to my hide, little thing.”

The sword was a comfortable weight at Sutoro’s side, a pleasant solidness for his knuckles to go white upon. It would shatter the second he tried to use it against her, surely, but it was not quite useless. It was all that kept his voice steady, his feet planted, as he met the dragon’s gaze.

“Forgive me. I meant no flattery,” he said, slow and even as he could. “I mention your wisdom only to ask why you are currently acting the fool.”

The dragon blinked at him. Then she raised her head up and laughed. It was a terrible sound–sharp as her claws on the rock, clear as a midnight moon, shimmering as her scales; but, in spite of shaking the dragon’s sides until they threatened to split, there was no trace of humor in it.

“Ah, little one,” she said, when the last shudderings of it left her. “What do you know of wisdom?”

“Enough to know that it doesn’t lend itself to tyranny.”

“Oh, is that what they call me now? A tyrant?”

Sutoro was silent. It was answer enough. The dragon laughed again, low and dull, a stagnant pool with something rotting in the waters.

“I was born into this world when the world itself was new. I watched your kind, naked and mewling, and I took pity on you. It was I who plucked the words from your mouths and set them into lines of ink so that they could never be lost. It was I who wrapped furs around your shivering bodies and kindled fire in your greedy eyes. It was I who dug gold and silver ore from the earth and showed you how they sparkled. I have raised kings up to their thrones–and taken them off again, when they became cruel with their power. I have watched more born than you will ever meet, and I have seen as many die. Still, your kind learns nothing. You live, you eat, and then you die. Your kind always dies, and you always forget that you die, and you make mistake after mistake, generation after generation. I am done trying to save you. That is wisdom, little one.”

“We don’t forget.”

She narrowed her eyes at him.

“About death,” Sutoro explained. “We never forget.”

“Is that why you have come to meet me? Do you tempt the inevitable?”

“No. I’d rather not die, to honest.”

“You will.”

“It’s all hopeless, then?” Sutoro asked, ignoring this last. “From the beginning of time, you’ve seen nothing–nothing different?

She huffed a ring of smoke, chuckling again, and Sutoro shifted his feet. The rocks shifted with him.

“So it’s different you’re looking for,” she said. “Funny. I could have sworn, from the look on your face, that you meant better. The answer’s the same, either way; nothing is new. Nothing is good. Not then, not now, not ever. One might as well do as one likes.” She grinned. “I happen to like being feared.”

Sutoro gripped the hilt of his sword tighter, staring down at his feet.

“There must be something,” he said. “There has to be.”

She had settled on the rocks as if on a sleeping-mat, but at that last she gave a snort and gathered her legs beneath her.

“It is folly, caring about things like that. It all ends the same, whatever you do; for what do you fight? For what do you struggle? In a hundred years all you fight for will be dust. Nothing more.”

Sutoro considered this. Then he shrugged.

“I suppose I should be glad that I won’t be here to see that, then,” he said, offering the dragon a smile as he began to untie the sword from his belt. She watched as he laid it down on the ground, her eyes mere slits of suspicion. He smiled at her again. “No sense in breaking a perfectly good sword against your scales, Ancient One.”

She shook her head, raising up onto her feet. She was lovely, he thought; all aglow and aglitter in the moonlight.

“Very well then, little one,” she said with a sigh. “Let me give you a gift, then, before your end: I will show you the futility of your life. You will see the solid things you fight for turn to dust, before you see the face of death.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Hm. I don’t think you’ve got a choice,” she informed, and lunged for him.

In spite of the dragon’s lazy mein, when she moved, she moved like a striking viper. She seized him effortlessly and leapt, flying out and up. The rolling plains-ground dropped off farther and father below them both.

“I will show you fear!” She purred, in a voice that rumbled thunder-deep through her coiling body and shook Sutoro to the very bone. She could have crushed him in her grip at any moment, but she did not, instead holding him just tight enough to keep him from wrestling free. He struggled, trying to pry the tight-gripping fingers from his chest, but it was in vain.

“Stop struggling, little one. You’ll die if I drop you.”

Sutoro’s heart was a fast-galloping warhorse, pounding against his ribcage as though it wished to break free of it, and he was half-twisted in the dragon’s grip, dangling oh-so-far above the ground below and watching it speed by–mist-and-moonlight fields, the black mass of a pine forest. And then, in an open space where the moon shone slick and unimpeded by the mists, he saw the shining roofs and wire-bright muddy streets of the little village, distant still but growing ever closer.

“I am owed respect,” the dragon rumbled, “From those whose lives are but dust mites to mine. And if respect cannot be given, it is still mine to take.”

Sutoro could make out the dark square of the rain-soaked teahouse. He remembered the villagers gathered inside it with their good humor and mild complaints, the warm lamplight thick with the scent of old wood and dry tea, and a spike of panic went through his chest.

He was no match for her strength, and they both knew it. Bent on their destination, she had ceased to pay any attention to him. Mind racing, Sutoro stared at what was within his reach, hoping to find something–anything–that he could use to keep her away from the village and its people. There was the dragon’s chest, pale and broad and covered in impenetrable scales; no help there. Her claws, wrapped around his chest, razor-sharp and shining even in the dim light.

Her claws.

He stared at the long golden talons for a mere second. Then he grabbed hold of one of them, digging mercilessly into the soft flesh at its edges and wrenching it with all his might.

She shrieked, twisting dizzily in midair as the talon–long as a sword and diamond-sharp–came free in Sutoro’s hands. Teeth clacked together beside his ear, a narrow miss as she snapped at him; the next bite she tried would take his head off. She had drawn him closer to her chest to gain a better grip. It was all he needed. He set the point of the talon over her heart. She was still writhing and screaming–or possibly shouting, though no words reached him–when he drove it in.

It was as easy a thing as driving a stake into soft earth. Hot golden blood hissed and sizzled on his face, his chest, his arms, and the dragon’s furious scream garbled. Her grip grew loose, then gave way completely, and Sutoro was falling free through the icy mist, with the great golden coil of the dragon hurtling silent as moonlight after him. The moment was outside of time. It was a picture in a book, set down in pigment and ink, sitting and gathering dust with no one to look at it. Sutoro’s mouth was dry.

Blackness met him only a second after the earth did.

* * *

He awoke to the dim knowledge of hands around his wrists, gripping tight enough to bruise, and a warm dark weight on top of him. The hands tugged, dragging him out from underneath it, and mud was squelching beneath his back as Sutoro took a ragged breath, sucking in the suddenly cool air like a benediction. He felt like something that had spent a week hanging in a butcher’s shop as he struggled to get upright. The world smelled of sick and sulphur, but at least he was standing on his own two feet.

People were moving around him, strangely tall. He looked down at his legs, gathered crookedly under him. Oh. He wasn’t standing, but sitting.

The discovery absorbed the whole of his mind for a moment, and he didn’t realize that he was slowly tipping over until hands caught him on the way down and set him upright again.

Voices gabbled all around him, and every so often a string of words became comprehensible to his heavily throbbing brain.

“–impossible–”

“–should be dead–”

“–get back, it could be a trick–”

The hands that had kept him from falling over were still on his shoulders, solid in a world that seemed as steady as a stomped puddle, and Sutoro blinked, staring into an age-lined face that seemed familiar, somehow. The man from the teahouse, looking him over with something like concern. Sutoro had never asked his name.

“Stranger, you’ve more than earned your meal.”

Sutoro managed a bleary smile.

* * *

The teahouse was packed to the brim with people. Arukoru could have made a year’s wages in coin that night, if he’d wished; but somehow the sight of the dragon, dead and dull-eyed in the mud of the very village it had thought to destroy, was too large. It pushed every petty thought of money and exchange from his head. He might be depleting his stores and destroying his business by giving away food and drink to all comers, but that hardly mattered, because the dragon was dead.

The dragon was dead. He could hardly believe it.

Men, women and children all had joined the celebration, eating and drinking and dancing as though there was no tomorrow–or, rather, because there was a tomorrow, and it was a much brighter tomorrow than anyone had dared to hope for.

As for the stranger, he had resumed his dark corner, nursing a cup of tea and a bowl of rice–all the thanks he would accept. His face had gone animal-blank again, but for a few moments, after they had dragged him free of the monster’s body, dull and dizzy and dripping with golden blood, it had been raw and open, full of human fear and confusion. It had been an odd, almost frightening sight; the bleary-eyed man, face like a confused child’s, sitting slumped in the dirt mere feet away from the monster he had killed.

Arukoru shook the thought from his head, turning to serve another steaming plate to a woman whose smile nearly split her face, and she knelt, offering the plate to share with the wide-eyed little boy who hugged her leg.

When he next looked around to check on the stranger, Sutoro was gone.

* * *

The mist had cleared, and the night was black edged in silver. For the second time that evening, Sutoro walked up the mountain. His legs shook, and his head felt as though it was swimming, but no trees whispered at him to go back. The wind was still.

It was the same mountain, he thought; the same climb. There was no reason for him to feel as though it was an impossible task. He had done it before. He could manage it again. One foot in front of the other.

Finally, the grass gave way to shifting rock beneath his feet, and he winced as he knelt, feeling on the uneven ground until his hands found the outline of his sword. He picked it up and tied it around his waist–the familiar weight a comfort, as always, but in the chill air a strangely inadequate one.

He let out a heavy sigh and got to his feet again, closing his eyes against the hurt in his skull. The dragon’s blood had dried on his clothes, but the smell of it was still there, doing no favors for his head. He let himself sink down for a moment, the rock that shifted under his knees reminding him of her laugh–so lifeless, after so many years of living. The sound of it–he didn’t think he’d ever forget it. Her words, too. For what do you fight? It’ll all be dust in a hundred years.

The echo in his head was nothing new, but he still grimaced against it. For a brief moment, he wanted nothing more than to remain where he was, kneeling, until the dragon’s promise to become dust came true.

He pushed the thought back to its proper place, to the edge of his mind, beyond the border of things he allowed himself to dwell upon. It could lurk there all it liked. For now, he just had to stand up. It was a minute until he managed it, but manage it he did.

He turned around, and halted, wavering on his feet, when instead of the slow moonlit slope he was confronted with the silver-edged outline of a man.

“Steady, stranger,” the shape said, holding out a hand. The man from the teahouse, Sutoro remembered. Arukoru, was the man’s name.

He remained silent and still, wondering what it was he wanted. Why he’d followed him up here, alone. He had hoped to slip away unnoticed; find another town, another monster to kill, another mountain to climb; but Arukoru was standing in his way, and to his water-wobbling mind, the shape of a man in his path presented an insurmountable obstacle.

“You’re not planning on traveling tonight,” Arukoru said, making the question into something that had no room for questioning in it at all.

“I cannot stay.”

If Arukoru’s question sounded like an order, his own statement had decided to dress itself in mourning-clothes when he had meant to parade it out in silks and armor.

“I never stay,” he added. The heavy thing in his throat did not disappear with the words. If anything, it grew heavier.

Arukoru only stared at him, face hidden in shadow, for a long moment. Sutoro’s legs felt weak beneath him, and his head did not want to stay solid on his shoulders. He could still feel the dragon’s claws around his chest, pressing tight. He swallowed, realizing what an easy thing it would be to step around the man, walk away from him and the little village with its warm teahouse and laughing people. He could leave this place, Arukoru’s outstretched hand, behind.

The freedom should have been a comfort, but instead it terrified him.

Arukoru was silent, a shadow that smelled like lantern-paper and candle-wax, as alien to the dark and cold as a shaft of sunlight.

“Boy,” he said, “don’t be a fool.”

He could leave. He should.

He didn’t.

His hand slipped off the hilt of his sword, and he let everything that had made his knuckles go white on it–all the fear, all the trembling tiredness–seep into his voice.

“Perhaps,” he said, “just one more cup of tea.”


Enjoy this story? 

There’s more where that came from. Why not give one of these a try?

Of Stolen Gold and Princesses

Cracks in the Concrete

Suddenly, A Dragon

Wings

   Soldiers would be coming soon. Icanthus had yet to see them, however often he turned to look over his shoulder; but they were coming. He knew it in his bones.

   It was dawn, and butter-yellow light was shining, jewel-like, on the thick sheen of frost that covered the world. The light was warm, but not quite warm enough to cut through the bitter cold that had kept Icanthus walking and shivering all night long.

   He cursed the sunrise. Sunlight meant daytime, and daytime meant people, and people meant capture. He had to hide.

   He’d reached the foot of the mountains the night before, and made his way up a narrow goat-herder’s path along the mountainside. In the high altitude, the wind groaned around the solid, frozen rock, shuddering through the sparse growths of misplaced foliage. Between the solid rock on the one side of him and the steep drop-off on the other, Icanthus could see nowhere to hide. Even if he did stop and try to get some sleep, in the freezing wind he suspected that it would be a much longer, more final sleep than he wanted.

   He could go back. Perhaps it would be all right. In any case, it would be better than freezing to death.

    He gave the unworthy thought a feral growl, and tugged at his cloak, feeling the sharp spike of pain as the fabric moved across his ragged back. A small trickle of blood dripped, pleasantly warm for the two seconds before the cold got to it, from a freshly opened cut. Icanthus gritted his teeth. He would not go back. He would not turn around.  On the other side of this hellish peak, the lands of the Robber King, where there were no slaves and no masters, lay as a promise of freedom. He would not turn his back now.

    Even if he froze to death here, he would still be free. Slave-tattoos or no, he had no master now, and he never would again.

   The fiery words did not make the wind bite less.

   His empty stomach twisted, and a sudden spasm of dizziness hit him. Icanthus reached out a hand to steady himself on the cliff face, leaning heavily.

   The rock that was supposed to meet his fingers did not, and he fell. For a split second, his overtired brain wondered if he was falling down the mountain; but then he hit the ground and wasn’t dead.

   He was in a cave. A cave where the rock was dry and, though far from warm, protected from the biting wind. Moss grew sporadically, and was the softest thing Icanthus had felt in days.

He didn’t bother to get up. He was weary to the very bone and no longer cared if he froze to death. Too tired even to shiver, Icanthus curled up under his cloak and fell into an exhausted sleep.

*   *   *

   A muzzy-headed world of dreams held fur cloaks, hot spiced wine, and blazing fires. Icanthus woke to darkness and a dry throat. He blinked, worked his tongue fruitlessly, and looked at the pattern of shadows on the cave walls. Moonlight, he thought, reluctant to get up. Time to strike out once more towards freedom.

   He did not want to strike out towards freedom. He wanted to go back to sleep. It was comfortable, sleep. Warm. Pleasant.

   His slowly waking mind caught on a thought, tugging at it like a stream at an intruding branch. Sleep. Dreams. Comfortable. Warm.

   With a dull click of facts fitting together, Icanthus suddenly realized that there was something soft and solid resting against his back, and that whatever it was, it was breathing.

His shoulders stiffened. Other than the soft rise and fall of silent breath, the thing was motionless. Asleep? He eased himself away from it slowly, slowly…

   Getting to his feet as quietly as he could, he turned to look at the shape in the dark. The lumpy ridge of a powerful back, the dark gravity of a huge head–

   It growled softly in its sleep, and every muscle in Icanthus’s body went taut.

   It was a lion.

   A huge lion. A great mass in the dark, large as five men–a giant.

   Away from the beast’s warmth, Icanthus’s own heat was draining quickly. Shaking with equal parts cold and fear, he began to back out of the cave. It was just his luck to stumble across what was probably the only ginormous mountain-dwelling lion in the world. Just his luck.

    Please don’t wake up, please don’t–he sang inside his head, hope and prayer both.

   The great form shifted, a head rising up and turning until the moonlight glinted off of two great yellow eyes.

    It was a wonder that Icanthus’s heart didn’t stop. It raced in his chest, panic-weak, and his mind refused to do anything at all but order his feet to keep walking back, back, slow and calm and steady, as the beast stood up and began to follow, step by step, until they were both bathed in moonlight and Icanthus knew, with an odd certainty, that to step back any further would send him hurtling off the mountain. He stopped.

   The beast was tall as a young tree, and towered over him in a startling outline of silver. A lion’s eyes stared down at him, and a lion’s mane trembled softly in the bitter wind. The beast yawned, stretching out great wings that showed up bright against the bitumen night.

The gryphon shut its yawn with a lazy clack of teeth and tilted its head to look down at Icanthus, regarding him with the same air a housecat might regard a small bug that could be a suitable snack, plaything, or both. Trembling, Icanthus didn’t dare move.

   And then, with a low keening sound, the great beast laid down at his feet. Its head swung around, nosing with pitiful gentleness at a place fear the base of its wing, then back to Icanthus, expectant. The moonlight made the scene a silent one, despite the moaning of the wind.

   If the gryphon had eaten him, Icanthus would have been annoyed. But only mildly so, and only for a very short while. It was expected of monsters who showed up at midnight to eat people, however inconvenient. But the creature was looking at him as though he was supposed to do something; and, tired and cold as he was, doing something sounded much more unpleasant than being eaten by a gryphon. Frankly, Icanthus wanted to go back to sleep and not have to wake up for another day or two. 

   “What is it?” he finally asked aloud, snappish from cold and annoyance. His limbs still shook with fear, but his mind was too tired to bother. The gryphon jerked its head around to the base of its wing, snorting impatiently. It wanted him to look at its wing. He did not want to look at its wing. However, with the great forepaws on either side of him and only the sheer cliff face behind, he didn’t have much choice.

   It keened again, petulantly.

   The wind nipped at Icanthus’s very bones, making his fingers feel like dry twigs and his feet turn into lumps of useless stone. The gryphon huffed again in soft impatience, and the gust of warm air washed over him like an all-too fleeting taste of heaven–if, that was, heaven smelled faintly of freshly slaughtered meat.

   “Don’t eat me,” Icanthus ordered, taking a step forward. He had to climb over its great forelimb to get close to its wing, and it shifted–ever so slightly–as he did. Iron-hard muscle rippled under him, and needles of visceral caution prickled inside his chest. The attractive option of running away as fast as he could tripped briefly across his mind. 

   Then he saw the creature’s side.

   “Oh. Oh, gods,” he whispered.

   He’d thought that the smell of meat had been on the beast’s breath. It had only made sense.

   But there, not quite hidden under a wing that had lost a good chunk of its feathers–

he couldn’t see it well, in the dark, but the smell turned his stomach. Great patches painted black, sticky and gelatinous to the touch, trailing tatters of skin and fur. The gryphon trembled when his hand came too near it, and Icanthus didn’t blame him. The wounds on his own back were a pinprick, a parchment slice, compared to this.

   “What did this?” He asked. The gryphon only stared back at him, dull gold eyes alive with expressionless personality.

   Who did this,” he amended, looking at the sick mess. He almost wiped his face with his hand, then realized there was blood on it, and let it down again. The beast shifted with a soft noise of pain, and Icanthus wanted, suddenly, to do something.

   “I don’t know anything about doctoring,” he said aloud. Partly to the creature. Partly to himself. The only thing he knew about doctoring was that it involved hot water and bandages, and he had niether.

   A sharp wind blew along the cliffs, and he shrugged his shoulders into his cloak absentmindedly.

   Then he thought again, and fingered the soft, thin fabric for a moment.

   The gryphon blinked at him, slowly, as he took the cloak from around his shoulders and began to tear it into strips.

   “You’d better appreciate this,” Icanthus mumbled, through chattering teeth.

   When he finally tied the last ugly knot on the makeshift bandage, his fingers had gone mercifully numb. To make up for it, sharp pains were jabbing from his knuckles up to his wrists at every movement. He stepped back, wrapping ice-cold arms around his stone-cold chest. The cloak had not been warm, but it had been keeping him from freezing completely. The gryphon turned its head to nuzzle at its freshly covered wounds, curious.

   “You’re w-welcome,” Icanthus said. He was feeling snappish, and felt as though he had a right to.

  With a throaty rumble, the beast swung around, pressing its head into Icanthus’s chest. Warm breath huffed softly around his feet. Surprised, Icanthus reached up a cautious hand to stroke the rough fur on the creature’s forehead. With a rumble of pleasure, it pressed his head into Icanthus’s hand, then shook free and licked his arm.

   “Ow! Stop that,” Icanthus protested, flinching away. The gryphon’s tongue was sharp as a razor. A lot of razors.

   Abruptly, the gryphon’s happy rumbling stopped. It looked up, staring out into the blackness beyond the moonlit cliffs. Mouth half-open, it huffed at the air. Icanthus realized, with an odd sense of shock, just how huge and wild and dangerous the creature was. It rose slowly to its four paws, and he took a step back, remembering to be afraid.


   The gryphon turned on him, looking at him with dark, animal eyes. Then it made that keening sound again–soft and almost friendly–and bent down again, extending a paw to him.

Icanthus, with only half a sense of what it wanted him to do, took another step back and the beast huffed with impatience. It stood and lumbered up to him, and Icanthus was paralyzed by the thing’s very hugeness.

   He remained so until it reached down and clamped its teeth over the back of his shirt. It picked him up, kitten-like, and Icanthus suddenly realized just how fond he was of having his feet on the ground.

   “Hey!” he shouted at the creature. “Stop! What–”

   It let him go, and he dropped heavily into the soft fur of its back. There was a man-sized hollow where the creature’s wings met the space between his shoulder blades, and Icanthus’s half-formed plan to clamber off its back began to lose its luster as the beast’s warmth began to seep into his own frozen bones. Its wings folded like shutters over him, keeping out the wind, and Icanthus blinked. The gryphon started walking, but he couldn’t get himself to care whether it took him across the mountains or back to the tramping soldiers who hunted him. He was warm.

And in another moment, he was asleep.

*   *   *

   Voices woke him. Icanthus burrowed deeper into a bed of fur, not wanting to wake up. The world was too bright and too loud to do anything in it but sleep. 

    His eyes opened, and he stared up at the golden light that drifted through his roof of feathers, listened to the rough voices that surrounded them both. Daylight. And people. He froze, digging his fingers into the gryphon’s fur and praying that whoever surrounded them would leave. Soon. Or that the beast would live up to his fearsome looks and chase them off.

   Instead, the treacherous creature sat down. Still weak-limbed from sleep, Icanthus’s grip failed him; he tumbled bruisingly down its back and into blinding morning sunlight. Something large loomed between him and the light. Icanthus squinted at it. A rough face, bearded and scarred with eyes as clear as shattered glass, squinted back at him.

   “Aye, Decimas. What big lice the beast’s got.”

   Icanthus stared up at the face, and edged away until he felt the gryphon’s solid bulk against his back. He was surrounded by amused faces and men with weapons in their belts, and he could feel the slave-tattoos like a firebrand on his skin. These were not soldiers. Somehow, the fact failed to make him hopeful.

   “Look at his wounds!” someone exclaimed. “It’s a wonder that he’s alive.”

   “Alive and fighting. He’s brought us a bounty,” someone else said, from nearby. “We’ll get some coin, I think, for a runaway slave.” 

   Tired or not, Icanthus’s hands fisted and he jumped to his feet. His legs trembled under him, and he felt the hopelessness of running like an abyss in his chest. Bitter bile in his mouth, he cursed the gryphon, cursed it.

    The man called Decimas was looking at him bemusedly, and in the midst of hating him, Icanthus saw that the gryphon wasn’t the only wounded one. Decimas was covered in cuts and bruises, and held himself carefully, as though some unseen wound pained him.

   Looking around at the gathered company, Icanthus realized that no one was walking undamaged. The clothes the men wore were worn thin and ragged by long use, and often stained with blood. For all the weapons in their hands and the swagger in their words, these were men who had suffered defeat recently, and not a clean one. Which made them at once ten times more pitiable and a thousand times more dangerous.


   With a great, comfortable huff, the gryphon shrugged his wings and began to clean one of his paws.

   “Tom, go get Hemas.” Decimas said, and the bearded man who’d called Icanthus a louse straightened up.

   “You’re certain? He’ll be asleep by now.”

  “I know. He’ll want to see the beast.”

  Tom left.

   “That,” Decimas turned his attention back to Icanthus, “And we’ll need him to figure out what to do with you.”

   The gryphon seemed more than content to sit and lick his paws. Icanthus backed against the beast as much as he dared, seeking a dim idea of protection from the prying eyes around him. Closed in on himself and wondering dully about his fate, he did not hear the faint rustling of movement and voices to one side of the human circle. He didn’t notice anything until the gryphon suddenly got to its feet–a sudden, careless movement that sent Icanthus half-sprawling.

The beast was keening joyfully. Icanthus turned, blinked, and saw a man. Tall and dark, with hollows under his eyes and a caution in placing weight on his left leg, he was grinning up at the great beast like a prisoner might grin at a glimpse of sky. The gryphon bent its head to him, pressing into the man’s chest, keening and purring by turns. The man, obviously tired and in pain, nonetheless reached up a hand, knotting it in the creature’s fur.

   “Aye, and you’re back to us,” he half-whispered. “You’re back, Cornibus.”

   “And he’s brought us a gift,” Decimas called out, aiming a pointed nod at Icanthus, who was now alone in the midst of the horde of men. The tall, shadowy man glanced up, his gaze crossing Icanthus with a faintness of feeling belonging to the very sick and the very tired.

   “A man?” he asked, with evident confusion.

   “A slave, and a thief too, if my guess is right,” Decimas said, with harsh practicality. “He must’ve tried to steal Sir Giant here, and was stolen himself.”

   Icanthus was indignant.

   “I didn’t steal anything.” Not even a slightly thicker cloak from his master’s house, when his master was a man not worth what a camel could spit. He’d taken what was his and nothing else. “He found me and he all but sat on me until I bandaged his side. I thought he was going to eat me.”

   This brought a flicker of a smile to the tall man’s face, followed by a frown as he stepped back, checking the gryphon over.

   Decimas was less amused. “Ah, yes,” he said in a careless deadpan. “And you were so terrified of this monster–” he gestured to Cornibus, who was purring loudly and trying to lick the Hemas’s face– “–That you decided to sit on his back. Or did he make you do that too?”

   “Actually,” Icanthus began.

   Behind him, there was a thick inhalation of breath, almost a hiss, that drew Decimas’s attention and Icanthus’s along with it. They both found Hemas, looking at what Icanthus knew to be the gryphon’s wounded side with an expression of consternation. He looked up, finding Icanthus’s eyes and holding them with an odd kind of magnetism.

    “You did this?” he asked. Icanthus, thinking at first that he meant the bloody mess, shook his head vehemently.

   “No, it was like that when–oh, the bandages. I did those. They’re not very good, I didn’t know what I was doing.”

   Hemas went back to studying them, crooning softly over the beast, petting it as though he could heal the creature by touch alone. Icanthus realized, with an odd sense of space, that the surrounding hooligans had trickled off, one by one, to settle around campfires, talking in low tones. It was a largish camp, and Icanthus didn’t stand a chance of running, even with no one watching him. Decimas was looming over him, anyway, standing with the mountains at his back like a posse of armed guards, keeping Icanthus from the Robber King’s lands.

   “We’re going to have to sell this lump, I’m afraid. I know you don’t like it, Hemas, but with the losses we’ve taken…” Decimas began, but Icanthus stopped listening, looking instead at the mountains, at the glitter of sunlight along their peaks, and feeling an odd tearing in his soul between the wild dreamer who longed to be free, and a dull, practical, half-human thing that, though hardly himself, was likely to survive for a very long time as a slave. He was too tired to feel anything very definite about the division, except that he didn’t like it and he couldn’t do a thing about it.

   “Need their feed–mutiny otherwise–” Decimas was droning, and Icanthus realized that the mountains looked wrong. In a sudden, wild flash of inspiration, he realized that they looked wrong because he was on the wrong side of them.

   He snapped his gaze back to the camp. A robber’s camp, and–he looked sharply at Hemas, whose tired eyes avoided his own–a robber king. Icanthus had done it. He’d crossed the mountains, and he was exactly where he’d set out to be.

   And the Robber King, champion of the poor and downtrodden, was going to sell him.

   Hemas seemed to have been taking in Decimas’s words, but his gaze had never left Cornibus’s side. Finally, as Decimas’s twelve-part presentation finished hammering out in excruciating, convincing detail exactly why Icanthus should be sold, Hemas looked up. Without hope, Icanthus had nonetheless gained a great deal of last-minute insight. Hemas was the Robber King. He looked so like the legends painted him, and yet so unlike. Like a statue battered by time, or simply a man drained by weariness. He looked at Icanthus for a moment–judging just how small a bag of coins he was worth, probably–and then to Decimas.

   “No,” he said.

   The same word lifted Icanthus’s head that slumped Decimas’s shoulders.

   “Sir, the men need–”

   “Food. I know, Decimas. We’re all hungry.”

   Decimas pressed. 

   “For food, we need money. And for money–”

   “One slave won’t fetch enough in any market to feed the whole camp, Decimas. Ten slaves wouldn’t. We will find food, or we will starve, but we will not sell anyone.”

   Decimas was quiet, and Icanthus felt his hopes, which had been slowly sinking into a pit of muck, somehow rise out of it all, dripping and dirty, but whole. It was a great deal more than he had expected. He looked up at the tall, reedlike figure, uncaring as Decimas stumped off in a huff, muttering about idiot ideals and fool’s dinners. 

   Hemas followed the man’s shoulders with his gaze for a moment, then dropped it once again to Icanthus. Dark eyes, but bright. Almost fever-bright, and the way he held himself did not seem entirely healthy, but the set of his mouth was kind enough. Icanthus didn’t dare look away.


   “It’s cold on the mountains at night,” The Robber King commented. “Not many would dare take the cloak from their shoulders. Certainly not to bind the wounds of a beast.”

   Icanthus didn’t know what to say.

   “You’re sure–the money–” he finally began, confusedly.

   “Quite sure. You’re free, boy, welcome to stay or go. Though if you stay, I warn you, you’ll be hungry. Food is scarce in the mountains these days.”

   Cornibus made a low rumble of assent, and ruffled his feathers. Icanthus stared at him, able to think only of the twin facts that the Robber King needed money, and that the Robber King was not going to sell him.

   “Aye, food is scarce.” Hemas said, patting Cornibus’s head softly.

   “But, then again–so are bandages.”

 

Enjoy this story? There’s more where it came from. 

Why not take one of these tales out for a spin?

Desert

Saphed Maut

Land of Ghosts