by Mason Thomas
What now?
It had taken the rest of the afternoon for his nerves to settle, for the shakes to finally diminish from his hands. He’d survived—intact—and his brain was only now beginning to believe it.
For the first time in two days, here in his dark little cocoon, he realized he felt a modicum of safety. He was out of sight. Alone. And the camp was apparently well guarded. But was that feeling an illusion? He knew nothing about these people. They didn’t have horns or gruesome teeth, but that didn’t mean they weren’t dangerous. He wasn’t exactly made to feel welcome.
But the ordeal had left him with a lingering damage. His psyche was frayed and unraveling. The trauma might have been over, but it had settled somewhere in the depths of his gut, and like a prowler, waited silently in the sediment for the opportunity to strike at him again. The quiet isolation in the tent in some ways made it worse. He couldn’t escape the images of what might have happened had Quinnar’s rescue party arrived but one minute later. And it made Hunter’s stomach lift into his throat.
He could hear activity beyond the canvas walls, albeit staid. Voices and the sounds of productivity reached into the tent. The talk among the people of the camp was sober, direct.
There was something odd about this group. They wore no uniforms or any identifying symbols on them. They were all rather “come as you are,” and some seemed a bit ragtag. Yet there was definitely a hierarchal structure. Clear leaders, like Quinnar, and rank and file. They carried about as some form of military.
And why were they so suspicious of strangers?
The crunch of boots on the hard ground outside the tent stirred Hunter from his dark reverie. Someone was approaching. Dax, he hoped. Then maybe he could get some answers. But the fact that he heard the footfalls at all told him it wasn’t likely him.
The tent flap pushed inward, and Zinnuvial poked her head in and then bent inside.
In one hand, she carried a wooden plate. Tendrils of steam rose up from it, and Hunter caught the smell of cooked meat. A bulging linen sack was in the other, which she tossed on the ground at his feet. “Some appropriate garments,” she said as she handed him the plate. “Less conspicuously… strange… than your current attire. Can’t speak for how well they’ll fit. Not many around the camp your size.”
Slices of roasted meat and cubes of something that looked like beets covered the plate. Heat emanated through the wood of the bowl to warm his palm, and the rich smell seemed to go up through his nose and straight to his stomach. No utensils. He set the plate on the cot next to him, and pinching a slice between his fingers and thumbs, he tore off a piece and dropped it into his mouth. He closed his eyes and relished the explosion of flavor on his tongue. He’d never tasted anything so good.
When he opened his eyes, Zinnuvial was heading out of the tent.
“Wait.”
She paused at the opening, hand pushing on the flap, looking impatient. Her form was statuesque in a way that was martial and resilient, poised with a sense of power and grace. But she eyed him like one would an unfamiliar stray dog that wandered too close.
Was everyone here this guarded? “I have questions.”
“I have other duties to attend to—”
“I know nothing of what’s happening here.”
Zinnuvial lifted a single dubious eyebrow. “What has Master Dax told you so far?”
“Literally nothing.”
Zinnuvial’s lips tightened. “I am not confident in how much I am authorized to say. If Master Dax has said nothing—”
Hunter set the bowl down next to him and stood. “Forget it. I’ll hunt down Dax and ask him myself.” He had to be one of these tents, right? Shouldn’t be too hard to find him.
Zinnuvial let the hand holding the flap open lower, and she took a step closer. Her head almost reached the top of the tent ceiling. “That would not be advisable. You were instructed to remain here and out of sight. And he is occupied with others matters. Matters more pressing than you.”
“Well, it doesn’t hurt to ask, right?”
She held her eyes on him, blocking the way out of the tent.
Hunter crossed his arms. “Look, I’m not asking for secrets. Just what is this shit pile I landed in the middle of. Huge ugly creatures that want to cut off my hands—”
“Kug’ra.”
“—creepy-ass people with demon horns that shoot lights out of their fingertips—”
“Henerans.”
“How do these things even exist?”
She held her eyes on him and seemed confused by the question.
“Where I come from, there’s nobody like that,” he said. “Just people like us.” He wagged his finger back and forth between them. “For fuck’s sake, give me something.”
“Very well,” she replied softly, almost like a sigh. “Not much I can tell you about the Henerans, frankly. Master Dax is probably the most knowledgeable of their kind, but there isn’t much known about them. They were the first to occupy these lands. Our kind settled here later when a catastrophe drove us from our original homeland. They tried to enslave us.”
“Like they did with the kug’ra.”
“Not exactly. They lifted the kug’ra up from mere beasts, so they feel the kug’ra owe them for their sentience, limited as it is. No, the Henerans intended to enslave us as punishment for defiling their land with our presence. We have been at war ever since.”
“How long has that been?”
“More than a century,” Zinnuvial said.
Hunter shook his head, unable to grasp how a war could have continued for so long. And the impact it would have had on all the people. “How do you fight against something with powers like that?”
“We have our own sorcerers. Fewer perhaps. But we have greater numbers in our army. Henerans are tribal, primitive.” Her voice was saturated with disdain. “Disorganized as a whole. They may be powerful, conniving, but when it comes to the art of war, they are lacking and too arrogant to realize it.”
“So, is that why this camp is here? Part of the war effort?”
Zinnuvial’s lips pursed and she lifted her chin. Hunter could tell she was trying to decide how much to say. “This camp is not part of the war against the Henerans. We are… part of an independent organization. Attempting to mire the spread of tyranny.”
Tyranny. Hunter bristled—it was a word too easily inflated. “So, this is some kind of rebellion?”
She hesitated, her lower lip pinching. These questions were making her uncomfortable. “We are not in open rebellion. Not yet. But support for our cause grows daily.” Her voice had a thread of solemnity.
The dynamics of the camp, its strange, pseudo-military structure, were starting to make more sense. “A resistance movement, then. Who are you resisting?”
She stared at him with her brow knitted in bemusement. “The crown, of course.”
“The crown,” he repeated quietly.
Which meant a kingdom. Or city-state. A primitive form of government at any rate. More indication the world here hadn’t developed beyond medieval. He wondered how many modern conveniences he’d come to take for granted were absent from this world. Obvious things, like electronics, certainly. But things like health care, food safety, and a general awareness of basic human rights were notions he never had to live without. And what of the long list of classic preindustrial problems he might have to contend with here? War. Slavery. Superstition. Wanton and indiscriminate violence.
Add in an assortment of horrible creatures, and strange, inexplicable powers…. It made his insides constrict.
In his world, uprisings against monarchies weren’t uncommon. But he knew enough history to know how those pushbacks usually worked out. These people would likely all end up with their heads in a basket.
“Some kind of succession fight? Your guy wants the job?”
Zinnuvial’s cheeks darkened, and she stepped closer, fists clenched, until they were face-to-face. “This is about the future of the kingdom. Saf
eguarding it before it is lost forever.”
How did fighting the crown save a kingdom if this wasn’t a fight over who was in power?
Hunter forced any reaction from showing on his face. He sat back down on the cot and looked up at her, arms folded. “Explains why everyone is so jumpy and suspicious.”
Zinnuvial huffed and turned away. “You are an outsider. An unknown. People have had to learn to be cautious.”
“What do you hope to achieve? Independence? A new government?” Curiosity was getting the better of him. He couldn’t help but wonder what level of idealism he was facing here. Was this just a group of fanaticized youth, hell-bent on a fight, or did these people have a legitimate ax to grind?
And what did sending a guy into his world to steal a broach have to do with any of this?
She pulled in a long breath while she held her gaze on him, as if trying to untangle some puzzle. “You would not understand.”
Hunter didn’t buy that. People with a fight in their belly were always more than willing to rattle off all the injustices they’d suffered. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust him. She was reluctant to tell him for some other reason he couldn’t tease out yet.
“I will tell you this,” she continued. “Everyone here believes in our cause. But many are afraid. For themselves, perhaps. Or for their families. But fear makes them distrustful. And dangerous.”
“So, you’re saying to keep my distance.”
“I’m saying the danger is greater than you realize,” Zinnuvial told him. “The people here are risking all. They cannot trust their own neighbors, some even their own kin, for fear of being exposed as traitors. You are a stranger to us and your intentions here will be suspect.”
“I’m no danger to your resistance.”
“And you expect everyone will take your word on that,” she replied dryly. “You will be closely watched, stranger. Should you think about stealing off during the night or doing something that arouses suspicions, no one will hesitate to put an arrow through your skull.”
“Just like that?” Hunter said.
“Just like that.”
“Including you?”
“Without hesitation. I agree with Corrad. Keeping you alive is a foolhardy risk.”
The icy assurance with which she said it sent wild shivers over his shoulders and arms. The plate of food was forgotten next to him. “Then, why am I still alive?”
“Because Master Dax ordered that you not be harmed. Pray that Quinnar does not override that order.”
Dax had saved his life a third time. This was getting embarrassing. “Look, I don’t even belong here. I only want to find a way home.”
Zinnuvial shook her head. “That will not be allowed. You already know too much.”
So… he was stuck here with a band of violent and paranoid insurgents, unwelcome and distrusted, but also not permitted to leave. Great.
“What’s going to happen tomorrow, Zinnuvial?”
She lifted one eyebrow and turned again to leave. “Wear the garments to bed. We will leave before the dawn.”
Before Hunter could say another word, Zinnuvial ducked out of the tent.
THE CONVERSATION with Zinnuvial left a bitter film in Hunter’s mouth, but he forced himself to clear the plate anyway and used the bread to sponge up the last of the meat juices swirling around. No telling when they’d decide to feed him again. Not knowing what else was in store for him, he needed to keep his strength up.
It seemed quieter outside. The firelight cast fewer shadows of people on the walls of his tent, and any voices he heard were hushed or distant. The camp was settling into a nighttime calm.
He thought about peeking his head out to scope out what was happening—maybe see if Dax was anywhere. But Zinnuvial’s warning left him disinclined to push any boundaries yet. His tent was surely being watched. He’d seen enough violence in two days to believe her when she said anyone in the camp would happily kill him in cold blood.
A yawn stretched his jaw to its limit, reminding him how exhausted he was. He might as well call it a night himself. There was nothing else he could do. The sleep would do him good—and he might actually get some, tired as he was.
He stripped off his clothes and kicked them aside. In in odd way, it felt like abandoning his home, as if removing them was somehow conceding to the madness of this world. But it felt good to be out of the filthy jeans, stiff with dirt and dried blood. A grim reminder of everything that had happened. He was tempted to keep on the underwear, if only to maintain a connection to home, but after days of wear, they were sweat-soaked and clung to him like a grimy second skin. He peeled them off slowly as if removing old wallpaper. Naked, he stood in the center of the tent for a time as the cool evening air licked his skin. What he wouldn’t do for a hot shower. Or a toothbrush. With a sigh of surrender, he pulled the garments from the sack one at a time and angled them toward the illuminated wall to inspect them. A blousy beige shirt that hung more like a nightshirt, a pair of brown pants only long enough to reach his shins, a rust-colored vest, boots, and a long leather belt that had a ring at one end in place of a buckle.
He started with the pants, stepping into them and sliding them easily over the curve of his ass. They seemed a “one size fits all” design, with plenty of space in the legs to accommodate his thick thighs. They ended just below the knee and were tied off with drawstrings. The waistline had a drawstring, too, and leather laces over the crotch, which had to be loosened a bit. The shirt fit well enough, perhaps tight under the arms. He sat on the edge of the cot, tugged on the boots, and laced up the sides. They were snug, but not uncomfortable. Overall, Zinnuvial had guessed his size rather well.
What he couldn’t figure out was how to fasten the damn belt.
It was simply a wide strap of leather with an iron ring at one end. No buckle or fastener to keep it around his waist. He fiddled with it for a time, looping and tugging, but couldn’t work it out, at least not in a way that kept it snug around his waist. He was ready to give up and toss it on the bed when the sound of the tent flap opening pulled him around.
Dax stepped in. He carried a small lantern that tossed warm light and black shadows against the tent walls.
Hunter froze. He hadn’t expected Dax to show up again. A part of him was relieved, and he hated himself for it.
“Have everything you need?” Dax asked. He let the tent flap fall closed behind him, but he stepped no farther inside.
Hunter shot him a look. “Other than what actually belongs to me? I’m good.”
Dax ignored the comment. “The garments fit well.”
Hunter grunted as he once again looped the leather around his middle and held both ends, trying to figure what to do next.
“Is there a problem?” Dax asked.
“No, I got it.” He slipped the end through the ring and pulled it tight, then bit the inside of his cheek, thinking.
“Have you not worn a belt before?”
Hunter sniffed. “Plenty. But we’ve invented a thing called a buckle. Makes it a bit easier.”
Dax’s eyes narrowed at him. “Cinching a belt is not difficult.”
Hunter let go of the loose end and the strap fell from his waist and hung at his side. His upper lip curled, he stared back at Dax.
“Come. Give it to me.” Dax set down the lantern and closed the distance between them. Before Hunter could react, Dax took the belt from his hand and wrapped it around his middle with the ring in front.
Hunter tried to resist this sudden and awkward invasion of his space with a step back, but Dax tugged on the ends and drew his waist close again. Hunter was tempted to punch him, now that he finally had the chance, but instead sighed and held out his arms, feeling ridiculous.
He could only imagine what their shadows on the tent wall looked like from the outside.
Dax guided the end of the belt through the ring; then slipped it under. The end was drawn down through the loop it made. Little by little, he tightened the slack by draw
ing more belt through the ring and adjusting the loop until the leather was snug around Hunter’s waist.
It felt weird and oddly intimate, having Dax so close to him, helping him dress, and it made Hunter’s insides squirm. The warm smell of Dax’s leather armor wafted into his sinuses. Dax, biting his lip in concentration while he tugged and pulled on him, only made it worse.
“A ridiculous amount of effort to keep your pants up,” he said.
“It will go faster after some practice.”
Silence followed, which only accentuated how awkward this was. “So, seems you weren’t that excited to see Quinnar when he showed up.” He had to say something but had no idea why he chose that particular subject to bring up.
Dax’s body stiffened a moment. He made one final rough tug and stepped back. The belt remained firm around his middle. “We’d be dead if not for him.”
Hunter could tell the question irritated Dax, but the subject was broached, so he pressed on. “Only saying it wasn’t the warmest reunion I’ve ever seen. Rough patch?”
Dax turned and strolled toward the exit. “I’m not discussing my relationship with Quinnar.”
Hunter stared at his back as he swept aside the flap. Just like that, he was going to leave again. With no explanations or answers about anything that had happened. His frustration level flipped. Anger flared, sudden and hot.
“Anything you are willing to discuss with me?”
Dax didn’t respond, but bent to pick the lantern up from the ground.
“Am I a prisoner here?”
“A prisoner?” Dax looked back over his shoulder at Hunter, puzzled.
“You know, someone not permitted to leave.”
“No,” Dax said. “But I don’t recommend you wander off on your own.”
“Will I wake up to find one of your friends in my tent with a knife at my throat?”
