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The Alterator's Light

Page 47

by Dan Brigman


  The bearded man motioned toward Einar, and Quint nodded. “What shall I call you, Captain?”

  “I go by Captain Thester to those who get normal passage on my barge. You, and your friends here, may call me Julian. We don’t have time for formalities.” Julian’s voice rumbled deeper and offered a tone assuming orders would be followed without question. “I’ve already roused a few of my crew. We’ll shove off soon.”

  Without waiting for a reply, Julian turned, and Quint noticed the grayness of his thick beard in the lantern light. Odd, I didn’t take him for that old. The captain pulled on the door handle and exited. Quint turned back and took in the room while moving to his companions.

  The room, at first seemingly cramped, comprised the length of the entire barge, perhaps twenty-five paces. The barge’s long oak timbers, pressed watertight, creaked slightly as the river passed underneath. Large wooden crates formed a makeshift interior wall, and their tops reached nearly to the slightly-rounded ceiling. Enough room remained between the crates for a walkway to the rear of the barge. The opening at the end of the crates allowed for their room.

  Quint caught a glint of light down the passage and heard voices, indistinct enough that he could not tell how many. On the floor he noticed narrow orange lines on either side of the passage, and none of the crates sat past the lines. The voices did not sound closer as Quint waited a few breaths. Satisfied, Quint turned back to his companions. Both sat upon long thin woolen cushions dyed black. Saen had claimed a spot on the bench, her head upon a nearly flattened pillow with eyes closed. Her chest rose and fell rhythmically.

  Einar’s head lay back against the wall, his eyes shut, and a grimace furrowing his brow. A thin sheen of sweat glistened, and the hair near his temples caught some of the sweat dripping down his face. A pillow lay across his lap, and one hand rested on its top. The other hand cupped his stomach. His breaths came in quick pants, and Quint crossed the few paces feeling Einar’s forehead. Quint pulled the back of his hand away, cursing as he turned to look for water. Adjacent to the doorway stood a table large enough for two people to eat from, and a small four-legged stool. Aside the table, another small waist-high table with a wash basin and pitcher stood next to a wardrobe reaching from the floor to the ceiling. In the middle of the room across from the wall of crates, a one-person cot waited under the two-paned window a hands-width from the ceiling. A woolen bedroll had been tucked in, leaving no wrinkles. The smooth pillow lay unmarred.

  Quint removed Einar’s cupped hand and pulled the ripped shirt up. Einar moaned so slightly that Quint would have missed it if he had not been so close. He delicately removed the rags from the wound, and he sighed in partial relief mixed with worry. The long gash still wept blood, but nothing like what he had seen in the inn. Putting the rags back in place, Quint put Einar’s hand back on the wound.

  “Can you keep your hand here, Einar?” Quint whispered, partially to avoid alerting whomever may be at the end of the barge, and partially to avoid waking Saen. Einar only responded with a slight nod, his head barely leaving the wooden wall.

  “Good. Let’s get you laid down. Can you move just a few steps?” Einar nodded again, and Quint replied, “I’ll be back,” as he moved to the cot.

  He grabbed the bed roll, the woolen fabric tightly sown, and sighed again when he saw a fine white sheet lying on the cot. Quint pulled the sheet and used a dagger to cut long strips, which he piled on the tabletop. With that done, Quint sheathed the dagger, went back to Einar, and grasped his free hand. Quint pulled slightly and Einar pushed to his feet. Einar’s eyes opened to slight cracks and Quint pointed at the cot. They moved to the cot and Einar sat, then laid down. Quint lifted Einar’s head just enough to place the pillow.

  Quint strode to the washbasin and lifted the ceramic pitcher. He tilted the pitcher to pour what water it held. The barge lurched and buffeted against something hard, perhaps a piece of wood. We’re leaving sooner than I had hoped. The thought was gone as a muted “Blighter’s tears!” escaped Quint’s mouth. Nearly half of the pitcher’s water spilled into the washbasin and onto the floor. He placed his hand on the basin, waiting for the barge to gain some semblance of steadiness. Low moans brought Quint’s head around, and he moved back to Einar after grabbing a pile of the cut strips, careful to not spill another drop. Within a few seconds, the barge’s lurching stopped. Quint glanced at Saen and noticed she had not moved except to roll over. He sighed, then kneeled next to Einar.

  One of Einar’s hands now lay across his forehead and the other still pressed against the bloody rags. Quint removed the bloodied hand and gently pulled the rags away, humming as he dipped the clean strips into the clear water. He washed away the dried blood around the wound, careful to not jostle the now-forming clot. Now cleaned, Quint could see the cut flesh, six inches long and paper-thin its entire length. Blood still oozed, but with each of Einar’s breaths, the fluid flowed even less.

  Quint shook his head at the sight. Amazing. Any other man would have practically bled out by now, and all he has is a fever and the need of a new shirt. Still must watch for infection. He pushed the thoughts away and hummed Azuleus Guides us Home while he cleaned what else he could. Einar lifted his back at Quint’s request, and Quint finished wrapping the wound. As he placed dampened strips of cloth on Einar’s forehead, he saw a slight trace of blood soak into the clean strips. The redness formed to the size of the gash. He paused his humming before asking himself, “I wonder if the captain has any thread and needle to stitch that up.”

  “Aye, I do, stranger. Give some more of that tune, and I may have more than that.”

  Quint fell backward at the voice. Another “Blighter’s tears!” began to bellow until Quint cut it short.

  “Don’t sneak up on a man when he’s trying to work,” Quint said, his voice lowered and eyes piercing through the dimly lit room. “And I told you, my name’s Quint.”

  “I know, but you’re still a stranger to me. Those two are even more so.” Julian paused. He motioned toward a second stool Quint had not noticed. To confirm his earlier agreement to the stitching materials, the bearded man handed Quint a fine needle and some string.

  “You better have a good story for me, especially why those gray-skinned bastards are after you. That other thing.” He paused, shook his head, then swallowed. “Those villagers, though, are all full of bluff. They may have roughed you up a bit, or with alcohol in them, they may have turned you over to the Guardians. And that would have been the end of Quint.”

  Quint ignored the casual remark of his death, cocked his head, and an image of one the Guardian’s bodies flashed through his mind. They did have grayish skin. That boy’s lucky to still be breathing.

  The captain laughed, his beard shaking, then said, “They’ll be crying when I don’t bring them the pepper they expect each month. Besides, we’ve got time before we reach Vesper’s Point. My crew will get us there safely. But if you’ve not convinced me by halfway, then I’ll be sure to see my crew helping you find your way into the Vespow. Of course, I’d be keeping that fine mount of yours.”

  He stooped over a cook stove, large enough to hold a few pieces of wood, and stoked the dying flames. A pipe attached to the wall let the smoke escape. “Go ahead, I’m listening. Figure we could use some heat and I could use my pipe.” He turned with a grin, white teeth glinting. “The pipe helps my nerves.”

  Quint eyed the captain while he took a seat. Tiredness washed over him, but he knew the other man would not let him rest on account of being exhausted. Thoughts of the past week raced through his mind. How did I get mixed up with these two again? Oh, let’s see. Kirian asking me to retrieve Einar, compounded by Ellia and their children fleeing south. But from what? She wouldn’t tell me anyway. Coughing interrupted his thoughts, and Quint focused back on the captain. Julian inhaled from the pipe stem at the corner of his mouth, coughed again, and exhaled. The smoke billowed from his nose, mixing in with his beard. Quint recognized the scent and moved to stand on the stoo
l, opening the window slightly.

  “While Elian’s fine tobacco does give off a fine aroma, my companions will need some fresh air while they recuperate.” Quint sat back down, and he saw the captain leaning back, the front two legs of the small stool in the air.

  “So. You’ve been to Elian?”

  “Yes, a long time ago,” Quint replied. “I used,” he pointed at the pipe, “that kind during my studies at the Lyceum.”

  Julian sputtered. “You,” he began, punctuating the word with the end of his pipe, “attended the Lyceum. Now that’d be a story for another day. No more distractions. Time’s running short.”

  Quint moved to the stove and placed the needle’s edge inside. Within seconds, the needle glowed red. Satisfied, Quint grabbed the stool and sat next to Einar. Quint threaded the needle and removed the rags. Piercing Einar’s flesh, Quint began the tale of a chance meeting on the road headed south. That he had sought after them due to a favor asked of him by a mutual friend. That they had tried to skirt around North Sacclon but couldn’t due to Guardian activity. Quint paused speaking long enough to complete the final stitch and tie off the end. He finished with the story of the attack at The Last Hope and the escape to the barge. Einar had not made a sound through the entire story and the work upon his flesh.

  The account lasted as long as the pipe smoke flowed, then captain offered Quint a water-filled cup. He nodded in appreciation, drinking the cool water in one long swallow. Quint had noticed during the telling that Einar had slipped into sleep, as his face and breathing had calmed.

  “Fine telling,” Julian offered. “I have one question. Think hard before you answer, as it may fix my mind on what I do to the lot of you.” Quint nodded in acquiescence, and Julian pulled the pipe stem out to point at the two sleeping companions. “You decided to stir up a hornet’s nest, and then you come looking to the Scraper and her crew for solace?

  “It looks that way, surely. But when I requested passage on this barge, I had hoped we would avoid the Guardians completely. I was certain no threat would come to you or your crew. Apparently, my companions didn’t feel the same. I wasn’t there when the attack started. I only came in afterward when the Guardians assaulted them, and here we are.” Quint motioned to the room.

  “Aye. Here we are.” Julian tapped out the ash into the stove and stood. “Let me think on this—” Directly behind Quint, where Saen still lay sound asleep, soft light permeated the darkened room. Quint and Julian squinted while their night-adjusted eyes took in the new light.

  “What the blazes?” Julian hissed. “What did you bring on my ship?”

  Quint sighed, desperation and hope muddled his mind, at this sight.

  He replied, a smile rising on his face, “Perhaps, I brought something to fight those gray-skins.”

  28 — The Mark

  Julian sputtered again. “Answer me. Or I’ll toss you over myself.”

  He moved to the door and waited. Quint had the feeling by studying the captain’s face that the wait would not last long. He looked down the passageway past the crates; he still heard the faint sound of voices. He turned back to the door. No escaping this, and I can’t kill the man. Julian must have seen the thought cross Quint’s face and he grabbed for the door handle.

  With a raw voice, Julian said, “You’ll not take my ship.”

  “Stop! I’ll tell you. We are at your mercy.”

  To validate his point, Quint unsheathed his weapons and laid them on the small table. When he placed the last item, Julian’s hand slipped from the handle to within his cloak. The hand stayed while he watched Quint as Saen’s light intensified.

  Both men put a hand in front of their eyes, shielding themselves from the illumination. They blinked back tears as the light strengthened with each passing breath. When the sun itself seemed to be in the small barge’s room, the light pulsated once and then faded, leaving the men with white spots dancing across their vision. Quint could do nothing but stumble to Saen’s side. He knelt and waited for the spots to clear.

  Julian gasped. “I hope this is not what I think happened. If so, you’ll be off at Vesper’s Point no matter how much they hate her kind, if not sooner.” The last statement held easy confirmation of the man’s earlier threat to throw them off the ship.

  Quint wiped at his eyes, hoping that would help his blurred vision. He did not reply to the captain. Unless he could confirm what was happening to Saen, there was no sense in contradicting the man. Quint remained still while footsteps creaked along the floorboard behind him. A breath later, a hand rested on his shoulder and Julian whispered, “By the gods, it is true. Look!”

  Quint’s eyes fixed on what Julian pointed to. A set of clear lines, as if written by fine pen with pure light, stood out plainly on the rightmost side of Saen’s neck, just above where her shirt opened. The light formed the shape of two sets of intersecting lines, all spaced perfectly. The light continued to pulsate, fixing their gazes with its beauty. It pulsed softly in time with their breathing for what felt like hours, but could have only been seconds. Then the light-lines blinked out, leaving only the barge’s meager lantern light. Even in that light, the men could make out the remnants of the lines on her neck—her skin had paled where the lines had been. The surrounding skin seemed filthy in contrast.

  The men stayed positioned, both silently hoping the light would return. Quint blinked when he felt the hand move off his shoulder, forgetting it had even been there. He could not take his eyes from the still-sleeping woman, yet he heard the boots scuffing the wood, then the creaking of a stool. Minutes passed; the pain in his knees reminded him that he was still kneeling. Quint rolled to his feet, bending to rub his knees. My gray hair matches the condition of the rest of my body on some days. The pain throbbed as he straightened and turned back to Julian. The sight of the pulsating light flashed in his mind. I’ve known true beauty only a few times.

  Quint glanced at Julian, and he had taken a spot on the same stool. He lit his pipe and looked straight ahead, disregarding Quint. Julian’s stare bored into Saen and his concentration remained, even when Quint moved back to his seat. Just as Quint sat, the barge lurched, lifting the entire vessel up. The barge landed back on the river, splashing as if an undercut hillside had fallen in the water. Quint grabbed on to the edge of the cot to keep from falling over.

  He heard Julian mutter, his vision still affixed on Saen, “Must’ve hit a snag. Big one, I think.”

  Saen stirred and rolled over. She blocked their line of sight to the pale flesh. Quint sighed at the loss of even that reminder before turning back to Julian. His gray eyes now bored into Quint; Julian’s concentration had returned to this moment. He puffed from the pipe, smoke leaking from his nose.

  Their eyes locked and Julian said, through clenched teeth, “Tell me, Quint.”

  Quint began, “I think it’d be better if we wait until they both are awake. No sense in repeating myself—” A slap upon the woodstove stopped Quint. If Julian’s eyes had bored into Saen earlier, then his eyes penetrated Quint’s mind, leaving no room for discussion. Julian’s beard and hair framed his reddish face, bringing a bead of sweat to Quint’s temples.

  “Tell me!”

  The words, followed by silence broken only by the river water slapping against the barge, pressed down on Quint. He rotated his shoulders, trying to think of a way to tell the barge captain without him killing them. Quint raised his hands and opened his mouth to speak, but Saen’s voice, clear yet confused, interrupted.

  “Tell him what? And, who are you, Sir?”

  Both men turned, mouths agape, their momentarily heated gazes vanishing. They looked on her as only dying men could see their final hope of salvation or eternal damnation. Upon the scrutiny, she looked at Julian, her face befuddled. Quint forced back a pang of laughter. Saen moved to sit up, her eyes bleary. She absently rubbed her neck as her eyes fell to the floor.

  “I feel like I could sleep an age. But I felt myself nearly tossed from this bench. Then the yellin
g. I’ve always been a light sleeper, even after working a full day at the inn and tending to Einar’s children when their mother had traveled south.”

  She glanced at the two men, weariness blanketing her face, and continued, “I apologize for rambling. Even with those three children running around, I don’t remember ever being this tired.” Her confusion had leeched away. Saen’s face pursed with curiosity as she glanced up at the still-gaping men. Then she turned to Julian. “So, are you the captain of this ship?”

  The barge captain clicked his teeth together and moved forward on the stool. He tapped the pipe out in the open stove. “Aye, that I am, my lady. My name is Captain Thorsten, but you may call me Julian.” His gaze never turned from Saen. “I am at your service. That is, once this buffoon tells me what is going.” Quint glanced quizzically at Julian.

  “Buffoon? I suppose you’re right.” Quint stopped as they both turned to face him.

  “The last thing I remember is being led away from the inn. Perhaps while you are telling Julian what he needs to know, you can freshen my memory?” Saen’s eyes locked, expectantly, on Quint. She caught sight of Einar, as if seeing him for the first time. She hopped from the bench seemingly forgetting the tiredness permeating even her bones. “Is he fine? He has to be!” Panic and concern mixed in her voice as she crossed the short space to the cot.

  Quint remained seated, her newfound energy not having the same effect upon him. “Yes, he is fine. I stitched and bandaged him myself.”

  She looked at Julian and he nodded in agreement. Quint continued, “Please, Saen, let him rest. The wound is not bad now, but it needs peace.” She sat next to Einar, the cot low enough for her to grab one of his hands like a mother comforting a sleeping child’s. A moment later she gasped.

 

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