Salty Dog

by Shayne Silvers

  Cathal barked a laugh. “What, you think this is as bad as it gets?”

  I coughed into my hand, declining to answer.

  “You have no idea what we’re in for, human. The only reason we weren’t attacked on sight is because I asked Manannan to drop us off on the far shore. This is the land of exiles. Home to every creature in existence that we’ve forgotten or chosen to forget. Creatures without names. Creatures recalled only in nightmares. And we’ll be running from all of them, because you’re too damn fragile to survive, otherwise.”

  I opened my mouth, then closed it. Opened it again. No, nevermind; what good would it do to argue? Cathal was right. This was definitely going to suck. And, if we survived, I doubted either of us would make it through unscathed. I sighed and trailed after the miserable bastard, trying to ignore the popping sounds beneath my feet as we ascended towards the tree line, breathing judiciously through my mouth.

  “T’anks for taggin’ along,” I said, a few minutes later.

  “Thank me if we live,” Cathal grumbled.

  32

  I dove for cover behind the relative shelter of a time-worn rock formation, the blistering sun overhead literally scorching the earth—white-hot flames danced along the ground wherever the light touched, threatening to burn the hems of the pants I’d stolen off a corpse we’d discovered in a cave on the fringes of the desert. Not the most sanitary decision I’d ever made, but—after traipsing through the Forest of the Damned in a swiftly deteriorating dress for several days, not to mention the stubble that my legs had accumulated during that span—I wasn’t about to be too picky. Besides, I’d ripped them off the bleached bones of a skeleton, no doubt a victim of this miserable desert and its soul-searing sun; at this temperature, I doubted even germs could survive for long.

  And yet we’d managed it for, what? A week? Two?

  Time felt like such a strange, obscure measurement in this place.

  “Where is it?” Cathal asked, huddled beside me, his massive body barely shielded from view behind the weathered, sizzling stone.

  “It went left,” I whispered, scanning the ravine we’d opted to pass through as we headed for Mount Never Rest—a great big stain on the horizon that never seemed to get any bigger no matter how long we trudged.

  Or—on days like today—ran.

  “How’d you spot it?” Cathal asked, scenting the air, his once shiny black nose turned a dingy grey, the pebbled flesh cracked and ashy. My lips, I knew, were just as bad; the blistered sores kept me up at night, the taste of blood whenever I probed them making the thirst that much worse. Cathal had insisted we couldn’t die of starvation or thirst here, but I was beginning to suspect that was a torture in and of itself—being so hungry, so thirsty that you could die and then being forced to carry on like that, struck by waves of mind-crippling nausea, not to mention being constantly reminded of the crippling ache in your throat.

  Let’s just say it gave Hell a whole new meaning.

  “Didn’t,” I replied. “It caught me.” I showed Cathal my arm and the red welt already spreading across my skin. Soon, especially if I kept moving, the raised flesh would split open, the pressure too much for the skin to bear. Not that I’d mind by then.

  Better to be bleeding than dead, right?

  Cathal cursed. “Can you run?”

  I nodded, though I knew it would be a long-shot; I was tapped out, unable to muster much in the way of anything for the last day or so. At best, I could tell my legs to move and see if they felt like playing along. If so, we stood a chance. If not, the sun wraith—what I called the nearly invisible creatures that haunted this godsforsaken desert, their whip-like limbs flailing about like the arms of an inflatable tube man—would find us. At this point, though, I wasn’t sure it mattered.

  Because Cathal, my guide and last hope of surviving this place, was dying faster than I was.

  “When I say go, we go.”

  “Are ye sure?” I asked, eyeing the jagged wound that ran along Cathal’s side and flank. It was a nasty thing, pus-riddled and festering—the handiwork of a particularly horrifying, two-headed primate we’d encountered in the forest the night before we stumbled out onto this rocky desert. Together, we’d managed to escape, but not before Cathal took a blow meant for me, the creature’s feral claws gouging deep into the hound’s side.

  “What choice do we have?” Cathal asked, bunching those massive shoulders of his, ducking his head for a moment in defiance of our situation. I didn’t have the energy or the will to argue. Hadn’t had either for days, now. Instead, I nodded, rising to a crouch.

  “Alright, go!”

  We ran. Well, Cathal ran; the hound raced ahead, favoring one side, but still able to move with remarkable speed, especially considering the fact that I could hear his paws sizzling as they brushed patches where the sun hit directly—the heat so intense it had actually tried to eat away at the leather of my boots over the past several days, leaving my footwear faintly lopsided.

  I, meanwhile, jogged at a slow, measured pace. I kept my head down, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other rather than scouring the ravine for the sun wraith. One, because it wouldn’t do me any good—the wraiths were almost impossible to see so long as the sun was up and frighteningly fast besides. And two, because I was more concerned with falling flat on my face and being unable to get back up.

  As I loped, I tried to remember how long we’d been stuck here. How many days had we spent avoiding the sun, how many nights fleeing from the creatures that called this place home? It felt like an eternity, but couldn’t have been more than a week, surely. Two at most. Except my top told a different story—my former dress had been reduced to almost nothing, the ends so frayed and shredded that it rode me like a man’s oversized T-shirt. Partly that was because I’d torn some of the material to cover my exposed bits, especially my hands—tying the cloth over my scraped palms. But for some reason the top appeared more worn down, more aged than it should have.

  Before I could worry about what that meant, however, I practically stumbled on Cathal at the far end of the ravine, lying on his side, his breathing irregular, chest sinking drastically from the force of his exhales. His tongue—pale, almost white—lolled out of his mouth, his eyes so wide I thought they might pop out of his skull.

  I skidded to a stop and sagged to my knees beside him, pressing my hand against that massive chest. His heart beat frighteningly fast beneath my hand, his fur slick with sweat. A fever, maybe? His injuries must have finally gotten to him, I realized, the infection too much for his body to withstand. I cursed through broken, bleeding lips. If only I had a way to save him, to seal the wound the way he had mine. Part of me—the twisted part that still remembered how to laugh, even in this horrid place—truly wished I did; it would have been fair play to cauterize the literal son of a bitch.

  “Cathal,” I rasped, throat so parched I thought it might shrivel up and cave in, “ye have to get up.” I shook him, but there was no response. “Cathy,” I insisted. “Get up, Cathy.”

  But not even mocking the mutt was going to get him back on his feet. Not now. I lay my head against that shuddering body, listened to his ragged breathing, and tried to think of something nice to say. A eulogy, of some sort. “Cathal…” I said, at last, voice breaking. “I wish I’d never dragged ye into this. I’m so sorry. Ye deserved better.”

  Almost in response, so distant I thought I must have imagined it, I heard a horn. Then again, two notes rising to reverberate throughout the ravine, crashing over us in waves. I glanced up to find the cliffs on either side swarming with figures in black, their features nearly impossible to see beyond the glare of the sun at their backs. I squinted and raised an arm to block out the light but caught sight only of a faintly lizard-like creature, skin reflecting light like glass, scuttling past, its long, thin arms swinging around to catch me across the chest. Another sun wraith, or the same one? Either way, it didn’t matter; the instant the limbs collided with my chest, I felt agony
crack across skin and fell, unable to breathe, clutching at the raised flesh, crumpled in the fetal position, wishing I could die.

  Which was exactly how Rhys found me.

  33

  I thought I’d seen the very worst the Blighted Lands had to offer. That—between the desiccated foliage and maggot-filled corpses of the Forest of the Damned and the savage, sun- scorched Desert of Despair—I had truly grasped the horrors of this realm. I wasn’t so naive as to believe there wouldn’t be other horrifying creatures out there, other environments eager to soak up the blood of the living, but never in my wildest nightmares would I have believed anything like this was possible.

  “Move,” Rhys said, jabbing me with a jagged length of metal affixed to a crude wooden handle by a strip of knotted cloth—the Blighted Land’s prison shiv equivalent, I guessed. I did what I was told, shuffling forward, my hands bound behind my back. But I couldn’t stop staring at the valley in front of me, at the Blighted Land’s bloodcurdling underbelly—Slavers Vale, Rhys had called it, a huge gorge tucked away on the outskirts of the desert that led all the way to the sea.

  From the cliffs above, I could make out the milling crowds, peppered by many of the men Rhys worked for—bandits in black, fallen warriors all, if I were to hazard a guess. I could also see rusty cages full to bursting with haggard, half-naked people. Creatures of all shapes and sizes were kept in closely guarded pens, like animals at some improbable zoo. I found myself cringing as we approached, the noise appalling even from this high up, though nothing could have compared to the wafting odor of unwashed, diseased bodies left to bake beneath the sun. I would have gagged, but I was too exhausted, my skin throbbing, head aching. Frankly, it was all I could do to stay upright.

  And yet, that still meant I was in better shape than Cathal; the bandits were dragging him across the ground on a makeshift wagon, the uneven, wooden wheels groaning beneath his weight. One of the bandits had flushed the hound’s wound at Rhys’ command, and I could tell he still breathed, though I wasn’t sure how much longer he would last like this. But then, as I studied the cruel conditions below, I realized it may have been preferable had he died out on that ravine.

  At this rate, it wasn’t like we had anything to look forward to.

  “Take the dog to the Handler,” Rhys barked. “Get him in a cage, then make sure he’s up and on his feet. We want him to look dangerous.”

  Two of the bandits nodded and wandered off towards the men dragging Cathal. As one, the group broke away, moving briskly down a steep decline which led directly to the valley floor. The rest of us, meanwhile, seemed to be taking the scenic route; a wide, winding path had been carved into the cliffs, snaking inexorably downward.

  Not for the first time, I considered trying to appeal to Rhys, to convince him to let us go, but—after the black eye and busted lip he’d given me last time—I wasn’t that tempted. If there was one thing the Blighted Lands were short of, even more so than water and food, it was sympathy. This land was a hard, hellish place that seemed to drag everyone down, to encourage your worst impulses, your shittiest self. So much so, in fact, that it seemed the only civilization these people could carve out for themselves was predicated on slavery.

  “How did you get here?” Rhys asked, for perhaps the dozenth time, as we started down the path.

  “By boat,” I croaked.

  The bastard kicked me from behind, right behind the knee. I stumbled, cursing as I collided with the rocky wall, my shoulder screaming in pain. But that was nothing new; my lower back no longer ached but burned—the wound’s poison seeping deeper and deeper to the point that now I only wondered how much longer I had before it took me completely.

  “You didn’t come through the port,” Rhys continued, dragging me upright with a savage tug. “Which is where all the boats come in. So, I’ll ask you again, how did you get here?”

  “Magic carpet,” I replied. “No, wait. It was a time travelin’ Delorean circa 1985.” I coughed, throat too sore to laugh.

  Rhys punched me in the gut, hard enough to drive the air from my lungs and make me want to puke. I curled up around that fist and leaned into the man. A rush of something, some alien emotion, washed over me as I smelled the peculiar, off-putting scent of his sweaty body—familiar in its own way. “Oh, Rhys Two Tusks,” I said, in a voice so much gentler than my own, “how far you’ve fallen.”

  Rhys jerked back, then clenched his fists, face purpling with anger. “Do not call me that.”

  “Why not? It’s your name, isn’t it?”

  Rhys just stared at me, his anger leaking out to reveal something cold, something raptorial, in his eyes. “I’m not sure what cruel twist of fate brought you into my life, Ceara, but I will make you pay for what you did to me.” His mouth twitched in a smirk that sent chills down my spine despite the heat. “Just wait.”

  I sighed and turned to follow the train of bandits, ignoring the man, which seemed to piss him off more; he grabbed me by the hair before I could take two steps. “We aren’t done, Ceara!” he insisted.

  “It’s Quinn, actually,” I replied through clenched teeth. Then, with a savage yank of my own, I tore myself free from the man’s grasp, strands of my hair poking out from between his fingers. Though I was off-balance and so weak I felt like I might fall down any second, I felt a surge of satisfaction at seeing the man’s disbelieving expression.

  At least until he recovered and punched me in the face.

  Well, you win some, you lose some, I guess.

  34

  Forced to breathe through my mouth, my nose broken, my mouth and chin covered in dried blood, I shambled forward under the watchful eye of one of Rhys’ men; apparently the bastard didn’t trust himself not to kill me, which meant I’d needed a different handler.

  Didn’t want to ruin the merchandise, I guess.

  Either way, I was glad for the change—whereas Rhys had monitored my every move, my new captor seemed content to leave me be so long as I didn’t mouth off or wander. Neither of which, truthfully, I felt compelled to do; the blood smeared across my face was a solid deterrent against speaking, and a crowded valley full of malicious slavers wasn’t the sort of place I wanted to explore alone with my hands tied behind my back.

  Still, I made an effort to look around as we went, scanning the crowds, hoping to catch sight of where they’d taken Cathal. For some reason, I hated the idea of him being carted off and dying without me almost as much as I hated the idea of being stuck here alone. I couldn’t tell if that was me being selfish or not. Frankly, I couldn’t have cared less.

  “This way,” my captor instructed, tapping my thigh with the flat of his sword—a crooked, shoddy thing with just enough edge to keep me from teasing him. Together, we adjusted our trajectory, heading for the cluster of fighting pits I hadn’t spotted from up above. They reminded me of gladiatorial arenas, though shabbier—great big holes dug into the earth where combatants would face off and potentially kill each other for the amusement of the audience above.

  Not great.

  “Am I to fight, then?” I asked, the blood caked on my face tugging awkwardly at my skin.

  “Eventually. They’ll clean you up first,” my guard replied. He eyed me sideways. “To be honest, I don’t think you’ll last beyond the first match. But Rhys says otherwise.”

  I grunted, not bothering to respond, as I pondered why Rhys had kept my identity—my time with the Curaitl—a secret. I frowned, realizing I was likely to become his ringer. The giant, half-dead redhead. Part of me wondered if I should simply throw my first fight and die just to spite the bastard—at least that way I’d die with a smile on my face. But, deep down, I knew I wouldn’t. I definitely had my faults but being a martyr sure as shit wasn’t one of them.

  “Who am I supposed to be fightin’?” I asked.

  The slaver chuckled. “Does it matter? The Masters will decide. Bets will be taken. You’ll either kill or be killed.” He waved a hand about as if he were describing something as munda
ne as the weather, face practically bisected by his gap-toothed grin.

  “What’s the point?” I asked, dubiously.

  “The point?”

  “Aye. Are we fightin’ for our freedom? For food? Water?” I racked my brain trying to come up with anything else I might want, but that was as far as I got before my brain shut down, unwilling to think about all the other amenities I’d once taken for granted.

  The slaver belted out a laugh, shoving aside a group of regular citizens who’d gotten too close, brandishing his sword about to intimidate them. “You fight to survive. Or you don’t,” he replied, with a shrug. “Either way, we get paid.”

  Great.

  “Weapons?” I asked, hopeful.

  The bandit’s eyes narrowed, flicking up and down my body, assessing me with more intelligence than I’d given him credit for. “The Masters decide that, too.” He gestured to a pile of what I’d mistaken for trash not far from the fighting pits. “That’s where they keep the junk.”

  Turned out “the junk” referred to just about every type of weapon I’d ever seen—albeit each and every one in the sorriest condition imaginable. Rusted swords, shattered spears, broken shields, you name it. None of it looked remotely serviceable, and yet I’d have given anything for even one of those in easy reach. Sadly, it seemed the pile of semi-lethal garbage was guarded by at least a dozen men, each wielding weapons of a slightly better quality—though not by much.

  “Ye all should invest in a freakin’ blacksmith,” I muttered.

  “What was that?”

  I shook my head. “Nevermind.”

  “Rhys warned me not to let you talk too much,” the bandit admitted, reaching out to drag me close by my bound wrists, pressing the line of his body against mine in a way that made my flesh crawl. “Probably best if you shut up until we get to the cages.”