by Amanda Milo
BLIND FALL
by Amanda Milo
Copyright © 2018 Amanda Milo ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information and retrieval system without express written permission from the Author/Publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The cover: In Memory of the stealthiest nighthawk ever to patrol. We miss you Kai Kai ♥
Edited by THE VERY, VERY BEST HAWK-EYED (or should that be hob-eyed?) BETA READERS: R, Cindy, Tammy, Yui, Lyda, Linda, and ED.
To R: Thank you for keeping me fed, and for foregoing onions on our dishes, and by the way: CHECKMATE.
Glossary
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
EPILOGUE
Is the dog okay?
About the Author
Book Linkage!
Glossary
Confession: I’ve said this before but I tend to skip over glossaries in order to get to the good stuff on my lunch break. That said, there are instances when glossaries and dictionaries are immensely helpful (Kristen Ashley’s Golden Dynasty I’m looking at you—I must have flipped to your dictionary fifty times) and you’ve asked me to do this so I’m finally, finally putting in a glossary with some useful terms and words you might want to reference in this book. (But feel free to skip right to Chapter 1 if you’re on the clock and want to dig into some BOOK. P.S. good luck at work today! May this story mini-transport you to a sweet place ♥)
Na’rith: a particularly mischievous race that excels at the business of obtaining a variety of goods by questionable and occasionally nefarious means, i.e. pirating.
Iechydmaw: Race of people transported to planet of Vfayr for the purpose of terraforming it.
Garthmaw: Iechyd for The Breaker.
Narwari: frightfully strong species of land animal native to the planet Vfayr. When the Iechydmaw people were sent to terraform Vfayr, they managed to tame a few of the obstreperous creatures and found them quite useful for riding, carting, and plowing.
Smarl: a befanged Narwarian smile.
Salk: Iechyd for girl, woman, and the female gender of Narwari.
Salkells: Iechyd for boy, man, and the male counterpart of the Narwari.
Crite: an exclamation common in some galaxies used for emphasis, especially to express surprise, frustration, or even anger.
Krit: an expressive Iechyd word used in various phrases (or even alone: “The krit?”) to convey shock, surprise, irritation, impatience, or simply for emphasis.
Tevek: an intensifier to give force or emphasis, or to express surprise or alarm or anger.
Gentling: to make a creature docile, preferably by gentle handling when possible. Gentling also refers to easing/encouraging a fledgling Gryfala to take bonding interest in a male.
Moonringstraked: marked with circular stripes.
Moonring: fetching, to the moon and back attractive.
Dijjü: features peculiar to the Iechydmaw male in rut. Refers to the two erectile organs located on the foresides of their cranium that are highly responsive to sexual stimulation.
Pakkluks: warm, rugged winter boots typically fashioned out of cured animal hides.
Sticks: Vfayrian measure of time.
Laps around the sun: Vfayrian equivalent to an Earthen year and a half.
CHAPTER 1
BRESLIN
My heart gives a little pang as I step back from the trio of Narwari. It breaks me a little to part with them. It always does. After this many sales, after saying goodbye to so many four-hooved friends, I should be able to walk away without feeling the tug of attachment. But that’s not how this works.
With most Narwari you reap what you sow when you train them: give them your heart and they’ll give theirs to you in kind. Nothing throws their shoulders into the harness harder than a Narwari who wants to please you and thrives on praise. Narwari are strong beasts bred for pulling heavy carts over rough terrain on planets where motorized vehicles either aren’t affordable or the terrain makes it too difficult to traverse by anything other than a nimble beast.
And these beasts in this group are nimble indeed. Wonderful animals. They work well together, they work hard—and just as important, they've learned the patience it takes to stand at a hitching post, taking advantage of the resting time before the long haul home.
I’ve just stopped them in front of such a post, therefore resting is exactly what they begin to do. But instead of wrapping their reins around the weathered wooden beam, I hand them off to the buyer standing an armspan from me. It’s a small movement, a subtle action. However, there is no more sensitive a creature than a salk and I happen to have one in this group of Narwari.
Of course she’s the one that notices something is different.
I swallow thickly when I see the worry lines form above her eyes. I stroke her nose and her nostrils quiver wide as she blows out a shaky, uncertain breath—and this is what sets off her two male teammates, or salkells. Arching their necks, side-eying her and glancing sharply at each other—they’re beginning to show the first signs of being uneasy.
In this moment, the command to stand still and rest would give them an objective, and following an order would provide them the reassurance they’re desperately seeking.
I don’t give it. Neither do I give the command for them to follow me. It’s no longer my place. I was only ever meant to be temporary, and I’ve given their reins over to their new owner. They aren’t mine to command any more.
I pat the three of them, force myself to turn, and walk away.
The salk swings her head towards me and looses a questioning honk. She might have been a trying creature at the start, but by the end, we got on so well together I knew this moment was going to leave me feeling hollow-chested.
She came to me with the most nervous disposition, but helping her find her place on this team has given her the confidence to master most of her anxieties.
Now though, all her hard-won calm is eroding with her growing concern as I break our routine and… abandon them.
She honks again, a wordless sound that manages to convey her plaintive, worried question. By now, she equates me telling them to Stay with the promise that I’ll return as soon as I’m able. The pattern in the routine keeps her steady. Just like when I tell them to follow me, they know they’re about to work: they know what to expect. So when I utter neither of these commands, of course it’s upsetting. Encountering the unknown is always a bit worrisome.
I come to a full stop, sighing. All three animals stare at me and, left to right, you can
read their expressions clearly: the dark male is uneasy, his brother is confused, and this female is in an anxious state of disbelief. I wish I could explain to them that they’re being sold, and that their new master is good. Varold’s stable sports more than one Narwari from me and they’re happy, hardworking beasts under his capable hands—he’ll love this trio. And they’ll love him.
In time, they’ll see.
The salk squeals impatiently as if to say Well what are you waiting for? Call us there or get over here!
Her thigh muscles twitch as she fights her instinct to fall into step with me. She lifts one foot—
“Stay,” Varold says softly, and her hoof drops to the ground as she makes herself stand tall.
She’s obeying the command, just like we worked and worked on. She’s obeying his command, and I’m so proud of her.
She squeals again and I hesitate. I’m compelled to offer comfort even though I know it’s only temporary: I do have to leave them, and it’s the nature of the business that the transition takes work and some time. And naturally, it’s best achieved when the old trainer isn’t an interference or hindrance in the process.
I must leave. I accept this, and I don’t want to confuse them (more than they already are) by returning once when they call me—only to ignore them when they try the same thing a moment from now.
But I have to try to say goodbye.
Tuning out the shifting of my mount, Meesahrah, behind me, I pull the nervous salk close. She spreads her jaws wide—an action that always calls for instant caution when the subject is a Narwari—but she isn’t trying to bite. She’s gasping for breath, and that makes me feel worse. She’s just scared.
I croon, “There’s a good salk. You’ve been trying so hard, haven’t you?”
Her short tail, with three quarters of its length being flesh wrapped tightly around bone and one quarter being stiff bristled hairs, bears wary watching as it whips back and forth unhappily. But she’s only swatting at herself in her agitation. She makes a high-pitched, shrieking cry.
To the uninitiated, it sounds like she’s in pain. But this is her voice and she’s just trying to tell me how she feels in the only way she can. I stroke her cheek. “A little anxious aren’t you sweetheart?”
Her vocalization turns to a reedy squeal, and she presses her flat-planed cheek deeper into my palm, her eyes worried, her ears curled so hard atop her head they’re overlapping. She moos in my face.
“You’re going to do fine,” I say with a smile, ignoring her breath. It’s awful, with almost an undercurrent of llarolla carcass gone rancid, but for the most part I’ve grown immune to it. They can burp in my face and I rarely gag anymore.
Her muscles stop straining against the harness and the cart rolls back several hand spans as she relaxes herself. I pat her neck. Varold steps closer and offers her a treat which she gobbles as if she’s been starved. As if I didn’t have to add a lengthener strap to her harness at the beginning of harvest because her stomach’s gotten bigger than the cart’s set was made for.
She’s not pregnant: she’s happy. You could say that, one treat at a time, she’s grown very, very happy.
She moos and her ears twitch when Varold extols her virtues, strokes the bases of her pronged antlers, and tells her what a fine creature she is. He’s not wrong. I tap her neck crest. “There, see? You’re doing well and you’ll like Varold, won’t you?” I soothe before I drop my hand. She gives a deep sigh.
I step back, relieved she’s calmer. Unfortunately, her crying has set off my ride, Meesahrah—or maybe it’s my attention paid to the other female—but Meesahrah begins high stepping and dancing in place as I attempt to mount up. I suffer her attitude as I win my seat, twitching the reins back and forth, making her work herself in place until she gets bored, loses interest in wreaking havoc, and relaxes some. She’s really a lovely animal when she grows weary enough to quit being a nit brain.
Do you recall how I said that with most Narwari you reap what you sow? I sowed nothing but spoiled peevishness with this one. Precisely how I managed to do so still vexes me. There’s always one little brat—or in her case, an overgrown one. At eighteen of this Garthmaw’s handspans high, she dwarfs each member of the trio in height. Unlike the worried salk, this female of mine is not several-extra-treats-a-day happy: Meesahrah prefers to keep herself all muscle and aggressive, deadly grace. Somehow it manages to be attractive. More than manages: she’s exceedingly fetching—therefore, she’s easy to sell when she feels like behaving and showing herself to her best advantage. Unfortunately with this one, her ‘best’ doesn’t last longer than it takes the new owner to shut the gate behind her rump. On the occasions when she has deigned to stay long enough to see her new stall—the shine wears off quick, and it always ends in her ultimately deciding she doesn’t like her new territory, her new treats or her new master for that matter, and I get a Comm to come collect her.
She’s like a scratched copper coin and I keep getting her back in change.
Meesahrah bears what’s called a starlight pattern; a dark green blanket of color, heavily dotted with bright, lunar-white spots and white splashes that streak up each one of her legs and muzzle. Loudly marked as she is, she’s very fetching. But unless she catches a Gryfala’s eye (they adore flashy colors no matter the attitude under the ears) I’ve given up trying to sell her. I’m tired of having to buy her back.
As for this trio, relief hits me like a Narwari’s kick when Varold leans in to bump the salk’s forehead with his. Instantly, she gives him a little knock back, finally looking reassured. Her teammates lower their heads once as I wave a final goodbye.
The salk turns her head to the side so that she can keep one eye watching me, but she allows herself to be plied with soft strokes and a sackfull of treats. Her two salkells are looking less and less forlorn as they realize their third is no longer crying and food is involved.
I cluck my tongue to signal to Meesahrah that it’s time to take our leave.
I dearly despise this auction planet but it’s worked as a decent enough meeting point, and this trip has also provided me time to visit an old friend.
We’d split off earlier; me to make my sale, and him to stalk sales with the hope that something shiny would catch his eye. Unfortunately, it’s his nature to be attracted to dangerous treasures, and when I reach him again, it’s to find I’m nearly too late to stop him from doing something asinine and insane.
He’s standing, transfixed, in front of an auction ring holding some of the rarest females in the galaxy. Normally very, very well-guarded females.
“You’re going to bid on a Gryfala? Are you mad?” I dismount abruptly, dropping to the ground hard. I pay for my impulsiveness in the form of an instant twinge in my back that nearly steals my breath. Stark proof that I’m getting too old for this move. Just as I’m getting too old to take part in any of Ekan’s wild schemes. I suck air in through my teeth as I straighten.
Ekan gives me a knowing look. “Training Narwari is hard on a man. Why don’t you retire?” His expression morphs to one of profound excitement. “You could travel with us.”
I give him the stare his invitation deserves. “With or without the Gryfala you’re going to buy?” Each one of these females will have a dozen hobs searching for her. ‘Owners’ with any wisdom should be fully prepared to be hunted down. “Whether you rightfully paid for her or not, they will kill you. I’ve seen a Rakhii light a Krortuvian on fire for looking at the Gryfala he served.”
Ekan claps me on the back. “I wish I could have seen that.”
“Ekan? If you buy one of these females today, you’ll get your wish—it’ll just be more up close and personal than you’re prepared for,” I finish on a mutter since he’s already turned from me. He hears me just fine: he’s simply choosing to ignore that I’m absolutely right. “It’s been good knowing you.”
“Likewise, Bres,” he returns cheerfully.
I grunt at him and turn my attention to the females in the
corral. One of them catches my eye straight off. It’s a waste of effort to hide this fact from Ekan, but I try.
He nudges me. “Like that one?”
When I don’t answer, his shoulder collides with mine again. He’s going to keep doing it until I speak up. I glower at him a moment before I deliberately turn my attention to one of the other females. My eyes narrow. “Something’s not right.”
Ekan’s entire manner turns sharp as he drops his playful mood for his deal-hunter mode. “Do tell.”
I jerk my chin. “Look at that one: she’s heavy with a litter.”
“Gryfala lay eggs,” he murmurs thoughtfully.
“Then I say she’s no Gryfala. That doesn’t look like eggswell to me.”
“No wings or claws either,” he adds. “I thought that was patchy, but I tapped it off as overzealous control methods on the part of the seller—harder for the princesses to fight their captors if they’ve been stripped of natural weapons.” He scrutinizes them with a seriousness he rarely displays. “I also thought Gryfala were bigger.”
“They are,” I confirm. “And these look…” I picture the Gryfala I’ve encountered. They’re beautiful, all them, but they exude danger. “Softer.”
“Oooh, I like soft. I want to pet one.”
“These are people, not animals,” I snap.
He smirks. “A bit of advice, friend: pets, people, aliens—every female likes to be pet.”
Ekan springs up, landing agilely atop the corral wall. He proceeds to pace it with the skill of an aerialist. “Teveking hells. Counterfeit Gryfala? This is fantastic: they’ll fetch a fortune at resale and there will be no repercussions.”
“Get down, you fool. And no repercussions?” I interject as much skepticism in my tone as I’m capable of. “How do you figure?”
He doesn’t heed me and his manner remains unworried. “Real Gryfala won’t rain down hobs and Rakhii-fire on us for buying and selling fake Gryfala.”
I turn to him. “That’s your definition of ‘fantastic?’ Is fiery retribution the only reservation you have about buying women?”
