“You’re bleeding,” Bekka said, speaking for the first time as her concern overweighed her disgust of the environment. She rushed forward to try and see where else she was injured.
Willa bit her lip and fought through the pain. “It’ll stop, it always does.”
“This happens a lot?” Bekka asked.
Willa nodded, then swooned as the motion nearly caused her to black out.
Bekka gently pulled at the torn rags she used as a skirt and gasped when she saw the damage that had been done to her. She laid them back down then turned to Dexter. “The guards,” Bekka said, making it an accusation and a statement all at once.
Dexter looked at her curiously for a moment, then realization dawned on him. He turned to look down the hallway then headed down it, moving quickly. In the guardroom he looked at the three guards present, plus the clerk that had led them downstairs. He looked at them all, trying to figure out which one, or ones, had violated Willa.
“Gonna miss her,” a thick necked guard said with a cackle when Rosh emerged from the doorway.
Dexter’s fist smashed his already flat nose into his face and sent him stumbling backwards into a chair. The chair tripped him up further and dropped him to the ground. The other two guards looked stunned and took a moment to react. Dexter’s pistol was out in one hand, waving slowly between the two of them and the clerk.
“I’m wanting to give him justice for what he done,” Dexter said in a near growl. “This ain’t my world, so I’ll just leave with her.”
“Five coppers,” the clerk said after several moments of hesitation had passed. The guard on the floor began to pick himself up, one hand cradling his nose and dripping blood.
“What?” Dexter asked, amazed.
“Five coppers for the slave,” he repeated, his voice a little stronger the second time.
Dexter stared at him, open mouthed, then shook his head. “Wow,” he muttered, reaching down with his free hand and untying a pouch at his belt. He slipped his fingers into it and pulled out several coins one at a time to check their worth. When he found a copper piece he tossed it on the ground at the clerk’s feet. After counting out five of them he pulled the drawstring on the pouch and motioned for the others to file out ahead of him.
“You can put your weapon down, our business is done,” the clerk said.
Dexter lowered his pistol slowly, and seeing no action being taken against him, he slipped it into the holster at his side. When still no one came after him, he followed his crew up the stairs and back into the auction hall.
“Cap, I dunno if she’s gonna make it,” Rosh said, seeing the filthy collection of skin and bones in his arms passing in and out of consciousness.
“Walk faster,” Dexter said, holding open the door to the outside world.
Rosh slipped through it, his movements bringing a faint moan from his cargo, and waited for Dexter to take the lead again. The Captain glanced at Willa as he passed them and frowned, then reached out and grabbed the first person passing him.
“Where’s the nearest church? Temple? Priest? Healer?” Dexter nearly shouted at the man.
The man, far from his prime and burdened by a roll of sticks he carried on his back, seemed ready to faint from the surprise of the near assault. He pointed off to the side, back towards the road they had come from. His eyes were wide with fear and he could do little more than stare at the angry fistful of his tunic that Dexter had in his hand.
Without another word Dexter let him go and headed in that direction. Rosh hurried behind as quickly as he could without jostling Willa too much. In the fresher air of the city the rotting stench that sometimes came from her hand or her clothing only seemed that much worse to him. Occasional drops of blood continued to dot the dusty road beneath and behind him.
In moments they came upon a large temple devoted to some God or other that Dexter had not heard of. Sometimes deities persisted from one port or world to another, but often each had their own pantheon to follow. Dexter did not know how it worked or why, nor did he care. What mattered was that they were often the best healers to be found, though the donation required was sometimes more than a normal man could bear.
Willa had passed out by the time they entered the fancy building. Dexter spared no time to admire the artwork, colored glass, or feats of fanciful architecture upon which the building was founded. Instead he found an acolyte that waited in front of double doors and pointed at Willa.
“We’ve come for the favor of your God upon this woman, fetch a priest boy!” Dexter said, wasting no time with irreverent small talk.
The acolyte looked at the woman, then at the still small but growing puddle of blood beneath her and nodded. He turned and slipped through the double doors, taking care to shut them behind him.
“Is she getting heavy?” Dexter asked Rosh, seeing him holding the woman as far from him as possible.
The large man scowled and shook his head, “light as a feather,” he grumbled. “Stinks like a tavern privy though!”
Dexter chuckled, knowing his hidden barb would cause the man to endure her weight longer. Fortunately, Rosh did not need to endure it for too long. A smaller door to the side opened and the acolyte gestured for them to come through it and follow him.
They ducked through it and followed him as he led them to a room that had a small alter set up in it. A hastily put together cot was in front of the alter, with some cloth draped across it. A full figured priest stood in the room, finishing the process of dipping his hands in a bowl of holy water.
“Set her there,” the man said, holding his hands up to dry in the air.
Rosh laid Willa into the cot as gently as he could, then gratefully stepped away from her. She moaned as she settled into it, her breath rattling in her throat.
“What happened to her?” Asked the priest, moving to walk around her and look at her more carefully.
“For the most part, we don’t know,” Dexter admitted. “She was raped at least once, probably more often. I’m for guessing the rest of her injuries came when she resisted in the past.”
He muttered something under his breath and kissed his holy symbol, which was a circle with an eye in the middle of it. It was made of gold and platinum, and probably worth more than Dexter had made since they had launched the Voidhawk.
“Who did this?” The priest asked, looking up at them.
“Does it matter?” Dexter asked him bluntly.
The priest looked at him for a long moment, then sighed. “Yes, yes it does. This is a temple of Acaros, and his light shines only upon the brave and the true.”
“She was a slave,” Dexter told him, not wanting a full discourse on the theology of Acaros.
“She was a slave?”
“Aye, as soon as I paid for her release she’s a free woman,” he said.
“My friend, such a thing is not possible. Surely you must know that only one of the Azmar can grant a slave freedom, and such things rarely ever happen, save for gladiatorial champions,” the priest said, incredulous.
“Very well,” Dexter said. “I purchased her and I’m the Captain of the Voidhawk, a ship that sales through the Void above. As soon as we get off this dirtball she’s free to do as she pleases.”
The priest’s eyebrows raised. He thought it over and smiled. “Indeed, that you may.”
“Leave us, child, we have work that must be done,” the priest said, turning to the acolyte. The boy nodded and left, shutting the door behind him.
“I admire you, Captain,” the priest said. “Though perhaps if you are not of this world you do not realize the dangers to which you speak. All the same, I admire you.”
“Have you a donation for the blessings of Acaros?”
“What sort of donation does your God require?” Dexter asked, the words tasting foul in his mouth.
“Surely the Captain of such a fine vessel must be able to afford something so trivial as a donation?” the priest pointed out.
Rosh barked a short laugh, draw
ing a glare from Dexter. Bekka seemed to be ignoring them all as she was lost in concentration. Dexter turned back to the priest and nodded, “I fancy myself the richest man alive. I’ve a fine ship and a fine crew.”
He reached into a pouch and withdrew several coins from it and offering them to the priest. Dexter counted roughly a score of gold coins lay in his hand, a pittance by any estimation.
The priest looked at it and sighed. “Really?” he asked, looking to Dexter’s face. Dexter nodded, his jaw set firmly. The priest nodded. “Very well, I will do what I can. What matters is that you give… I’ll not turn away someone so desperately in need of my help who, by all appearances, is worthy of such aid.”
Dexter’s eyebrows raised. He had not expected generosity from the man. Rarely were men of the cloth as benign as they claimed themselves to be. His bias made him not at all surprised when the priest spoke again.
“I would ask a boon of you, however.”
Dexter nodded for him to continue but the priest shook his head. “Later, she needs me to direct the blessings of Acaros or she will not be long for this life.”
Dexter’s nostrils flared. This left him indebted to the man. Had Willa’s life not been in the balance, he would have left. As it was, he had no choice but to nod again.
The priest held his holy symbol and chanted, sometimes softly and sometimes louder. It took him long enough that Rosh looked around and ended up sitting down with his back to a wall. Bekka remained attentive, watching in a way that made her seem as though she were lost in a daze. Dexter moved about, acting almost like a caged animal when he did so.
“I cannot save her hand,” the priest said at length. “And I fear she will never bear children, after the savagery that has been done her.”
Dexter came up beside him and looked down at her. Her color was somewhat restored, though she still looked weak and pale. The filth and dried blood upon her remained as well, though the wounds under it were gone. Her hand, however, was worse than before. It had been discolored, swollen, broken, and altogether ugly. Now it was shriveled and black.
“It’s dead and if it is not removed, it will poison her.”
Dexter nodded and turned to Rosh, who was by now snoring softly with his chin on his chest. A quick step and a kick brought the man awake.
“Hey! What? We wasn’t doing nothing!” He protested, rolling away from Dexter quickly even though there had not been enough force behind the kick to injure more than his pride.
“A swift clean stroke,” Dexter told him, jerking his thumb back at Willa.
“You want me to kill her?” Rosh asked, eyes wide. “I’ll kill a man sure as the sun shines… or a woman, but it ain’t right killing one that’s sleeping.”
Bekka blinked, her focus returning. She turned to Rosh and rolled her eyes while making an exasperated sound.
“That’s good to know,” Dexter said. “now cut off her hand.”
“Her…oh,” Rosh said grinning stupidly. He started to draw his great sword then realized he did not have enough room to swing it in the small room. Frowning, he reached around behind the small pack he carried on his back and pulled out a hand axe.
“That ain’t right,” he muttered when he stood next to her and stared down at the blackened ruin that had been her hand.
The priest gently picked up her arm and moved it so that it was away from her body. He placed it upon a pedestal that normally held a vase, frowning about the damage that was soon to be done to it. Once in place, he held her arm firmly. Willa slept on, oblivious to the lifesaving pain she was about to endure.
Rosh took careful aim and drew back, then swung with a sure stroke powered by his great strength. It landed true, crushing and parting the bones of her wrist as it swelled to become her palm. The hand, blackened and lifeless, bounced off the pedestal and landed upon the floor. No blood oozed from it, but likewise no one moved to pick it up.
Willa, on the other hand, awoke with her eyes wide and a scream instantly parting her lips. She struggled to sit up, but Dexter was there holding her down. It lasted a timeless few seconds until the renewed pain caused consciousness to flee. She slumped back onto the cot, her frail body almost seeming to collapse in on itself.
The priest picked up her arm and chanted again. He touched his holy symbol to it and sprinkled holy water from his fingertips across it. The gaping ruin aged before their eyes, the harsh and gory details becoming fuzzy and obscured as the magic mended the shorn limb. When he finished, many minutes later, her right arm ended in a pink stub.
He took a deep breath and seemed to stagger away from the slave girl. He turned back to Dexter and said in a tired voice, “it is done.”
Dexter nodded and looked to Rosh, who still held his hand axe. Rosh shook his head to clear it and slipped it back beneath his pack, then moved forward and picked her up. He wrinkled his nose again as he did so.
“Couldn’t you have cleaned her up some too?” he asked the priest.
The priest, regaining some of his strength, smiled. “That would have required a larger donation.” Apparently his sense of humor was returning as well.
Rosh grunted and stepped away, holding Willa firmly. Before she had hung limply, whereas now she almost seemed to turn in towards Rosh as if she was clinging to him.
“What of this boon?” Dexter asked, anxious to get back to the ship.
“A member of my order has been stricken with a magical ailment,” the priest said after glancing at the door to insure it remained closed.
“He is a good young man, and it is a terrible shame that such a thing has happened. I have spent much time in prayer, trying to learn a way to help him.”
Dexter nodded, wishing the priest would hurry up but knowing better than to rush him.
“This malady he suffers, it takes control of him upon nights when the moon is high and full in the sky. At other times he can control himself,” he explained.
Dexter’s eyes widened. “That’s inconvenient,” he said. “But how could I possibly help?”
“Take him with you,” the priest asked, his tone changing so that he almost sounded as if he was pleading. “Up there he would be free from the moon here. Free from its effects upon him.”
“How old is he?” Dexter asked.
“19 summers old.”
“He’s a priest like yourself?”
“Yes… I mean no. He’s heard the calling of Acaros, true, but he is scarcely more than an acolyte.”
Dexter turned to Bekka and saw her eyes were wide and supportive. She nodded imperceptibly. Dexter ran his tongue along his teeth thoughtfully then nodded.
“Alright, I’ll take him. Bring him to my ship when he’s ready… if he’s ready. I hope you don’t mind but I’ll be keeping him in a hold until we’re off this world.”
The priest nodded, smiling widely. “Yes, yes, I understand. That’s acceptable. And thank you, Captain, thank you very much.”
Dexter turned and walked to the door, opening it and stepping out. The others followed, with none of them saying a word. As they passed the front hall Dexter reached into his pouch and tossed the promised offering into the donation well, not even watching them as they disappeared into the darkness at the bottom of it.
“It’s his son,” Bekka said softly when they were back upon the road.
“His son?” Rosh asked, loudly.
Shooting him a glare, Dexter replied, “How do you know that?”
Bekka shrugged, “I just do. These things happen sometimes. I wonder what’s wrong with him.”
“You don’t have a hunch about that too?” Rosh asked irritably.
Dexter smirked but shook his head and just led the way back to the Voidhawk.
“Hey, does this mean we got ourselves a real healer?” Rosh asked, remembering what the priest had said.
“That, or a madman,” Dexter replied without bothering to explain any more of his thoughts.
* * * *
When the three, now four, members of the Voidhaw
k crew returned to the ship they found a very irritated looking Jodyne standing on the deck with her arms crossed. A cart bearing several foodstuff sat nearby, along with the boy that she had paid to deliver the items for her. Two bored guards stood by watching the exchange while the same scribe from before was going through every item she had purchased and recording it on his parchment.
“What’s the problem here, Jodyne?” Dexter asked her with a frown on his face.
“Your vessel is ranked as suspicious,” one of the guards piped up.
A look to Jodyne and he knew better than to ask her for more; she was ready to put a kitchen knife in the dirthuggers. He turned to the guards instead.
“That right?” he asked rhetorically, to which they both nodded. “So since you’re afraid I might be smuggling something off my ship, you interfere with us loading things on to the ship?”
“Smuggling goes both ways,” the other guard piped up. His smug grin indicated he was clearly pleased with his quick witted response.
“And who’s that,” the other one asked, pointing to Willa.
“New crew I hired,” Dexter said.
“She’s got the mark of a slave,” he said, pointing to a brand that was now visible on an exposed patch of skin above her right breast.
“Aye,” Dexter said, his jaw becoming difficult to move.
“Slaves belong to Azmea, there’s a fee to be taking them off world,” the guard informed him.
“Of course there is,” Dexter said, fighting the urge to roll his eyes, punch the guards, or toss them off the dock. “How much?”
Voidhawk Page 29
