Quarrah had spent the first night aboard the Crown’s Ashing in Pekal’s harbor, too afraid to disembark, even long after Tanalin and her crew had gone into the mountains. The next morning, she had finally crept ashore, easily navigating the lax Reggies on patrol.
Quarrah had run as far as she could, staying along the eastern shoreline until she reached North Pointe. The Drift crate they had used to transport the Slagstone was exactly where Ard had left it. After being abandoned for only a cycle, Quarrah was surprised to see thin vines already creeping up the sides of the box.
Quarrah’s nights on the island had been rather sleepless, and she found herself hyperaware of every sound. Every cracking twig or rustling leaf. Every gust of wind or coo of a nighttime bird. All these sounds had been dragons to her. Dragons coming to eat her as they had done to Lence Raismus and the Kranfel brothers.
During the daylight hours, Quarrah had made treks from North Pointe, scouring the slopes for a gelatinous dragon egg. She mapped the island in her head, making a few rough notes on a piece of parchment. Quarrah learned to stop viewing the island as an overgrown mountain. In her mind, she transformed Pekal into a city.
Instead of canyons and ravines, she saw alleyways and roads. Instead of unique, gnarled trees, she saw noteworthy buildings. Instead of boulders, she saw parked carriages.
Quarrah had narrowed her search by remembering what Lence Raismus had told her about egg sites. The sow dragons selected a place in full shade with natural protection from wind and sun. But it wasn’t until the third evening that Quarrah had found the egg.
It was resting in a low grassy ravine, an overhang of rocks providing the textbook shade and shelter. The gelatinous orb was a rich gold color, distinctly marking it as that of a bull.
Quarrah had retrieved the egg the following morning, dragging the Drift crate to the site. She had been afraid to approach the egg, even though Lence Raismus had explained that the sows left them unattended to allow a bull to carry it away for fertilization.
But that morning, as Quarrah ignited a cloud of Drift Grit and loaded the egg into the crate, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching her.
Quarrah was worried now, making the descent. It was midafternoon on her fourth day in the mountains. If Quarrah didn’t make it back to the harbor by nightfall, there was a real possibility that she’d miss Tanalin’s departure.
Quarrah knew there was little possibility of sneaking back onto the Crown’s Ashing. Her cargo would be much too cumbersome. Quarrah would need to change her tactic for the sail home.
She was going to have to claim the Fourth Decree.
Quarrah knew it wouldn’t work, since her name was not on any arriving ship’s manifest. She would have to appeal to the mercy of Tanalin Phor.
Tanalin had to suspect that Quarrah had crept aboard the Crown’s Ashing. She’d actually given Quarrah the idea! Surely, the Harvesting captain wouldn’t abandon Quarrah to the wilds of Pekal. The next Moon Passing was less than two weeks away, and that would definitely finish her off. Well, the Moon Passing might finish everyone off anyway, if Ard didn’t have something brilliant up his sleeve.
Quarrah rubbed that numbing leaf between her blistering palms and felt the momentary cool relief. She took another sip from her water skin and convinced herself that it was time to get moving. According to her mental map, she was only a few miles from the harbor. Assuming nothing unexpected happened, she’d reach the ship by dark.
Quarrah had just ignited a fresh bit of Drift Grit in the crate’s hopper when something came crashing through the underbrush behind her. It wasn’t the first deer or hog that had startled her, but Quarrah spun with a sharp intake of breath.
There was a person standing in the brush, head tipped slightly to one side, face downcast. It was a woman, dressed in filthy rags, dark blue skin identifying her as a Trothian.
As sunlight dappled through the branches overhead, the woman reached up and tucked stringy strands of black hair behind her ear. Quarrah saw her face clearly.
It was Ulusal.
“Sparks,” Quarrah muttered. “Ulusal!” She was alive! Quarrah had never thought it possible. A wave of relief washed over her—relief from the guilt of abandonment that she hadn’t realized she still felt. Quarrah stepped toward her old crew mate as Ulusal’s head snapped up.
Those eyes. They were lifeless, crimson. Like pools of blood.
Oh, flames! In the exuberance of seeing Ulusal, Quarrah had forgotten the primary rule of Pekal. The Moon Passing had changed this woman.
Ulusal opened her mouth, a bloodstained slit with missing teeth, but no sound escaped her torn lips. The woman sprinted forward, blundering haplessly through the underbrush, clipping her shoulder against a stout tree.
Quarrah gasped, scrambling backward. What the blazes was happening? She’d never seen a Moonsick person up close. Let alone someone she had known!
“Ulusal!” Quarrah shouted. “It’s me. It’s Quarrah Khai!” There was absolutely no recognition in those terrible eyes. The Trothian looked almost corpse-like, her body stiff, and movements jarring. Her skin was deeply cracked and flaking, deprived of a saltwater soak for weeks now. But she moved with surprising speed and a frantic sort of desperation.
It had been a full cycle. Ulusal’s Moonsickness would be well into the third stage, her cognitive abilities drowned out by a driving need for violence that overruled any sense of self-control.
“Get away!” Quarrah shrieked as the frightening version of Ulusal closed the distance between them. What was she supposed to do, stand and fight?
Run! Quarrah could lead the demented Ulusal into the forest. Then she could circle back, grab the Drift crate and make a final dash to the harbor.
As Quarrah turned, Ulusal seemed to change tactics. Instead of giving chase, the sick woman fell upon the Drift crate. She threw her body against the side, fingers clawing at the airtight boards, leaving bloody streaks across the crate.
Ulusal must have sensed the gelatinous egg inside—something organic with potential for life—and it seemed to enhance her frenzy.
Ulusal’s fingers were bent at odd angles, as though the bones had already been broken in a previous rage. The flesh of her hands was torn and oozing, but no semblance of pain crossed her deranged face.
“Hey!” Quarrah didn’t dare advance a single step toward Ulusal, but she couldn’t let the Trothian’s fury reach the gelatinous egg.
Quarrah stooped and picked up a fist-sized rock. She hurled it at Ulusal, the stone striking the sick woman’s shoulder. The rock thudded to the ground, but Ulusal didn’t even turn.
One of the crate’s boards was peeling back, Ulusal redoubling her efforts at the success. Quarrah swung the pack from her shoulders and reached inside, fumbling for the Singler she had swiped from the Crown’s Ashing.
Quarrah quickly loaded the Blast cartridge into the empty chamber. With trembling fingers, she dropped in the lead ball, using the gun’s tamping rod to pack the shot. Snapping the chamber closed, Quarrah pulled back the Slagstone hammer, slipped her index finger over the cold smooth trigger, and took aim.
“Ulusal!” Quarrah screamed. But the woman ripping at the crate was not the Trothian who had been a part of Ard’s Harvesting crew. The sickness had taken her. What Quarrah saw here was a monster, masquerading in the dried skin of an old companion.
“I’m sorry!” Quarrah squeezed the trigger.
In a puff of Blast smoke, the Singler cracked, spitting fire. The ball didn’t have to travel far, and Quarrah saw a spray of blood as the piece of hot lead tore into Ulusal’s neck. The Trothian woman buckled, tumbling away from the Drift crate and landing heavily in the dirt.
Quarrah lowered the gun slowly. Her hand was shaking now, though it had been still when the shot was fired. While the idea of what Quarrah had just done made her sick, she knew that ending Ulusal’s life had been a favor to the suffering woman.
Quarrah leaned through the clearing smoke, drawing a few uncert
ain steps toward the downed body. The Drift crate would need some repairs before it would hold a detonation airtight, but Quarrah couldn’t work on the box so near the dead woman.
She reached down to pick up her pack, when Ulusal suddenly sprang from the dirt. Quarrah screamed, the large Trothian falling upon her with silent mouth open wide.
What was this devilry? Hadn’t Quarrah’s shot killed the poor woman?
They rolled to the side, and Quarrah managed to slip free. Ulusal’s body was covered in blood. Quarrah couldn’t count the wounds, though all of them looked roughly scabbed.
As Ulusal crouched in the tall grass, Quarrah saw the hole in the side of the woman’s neck where her lead ball had entered. A yellowish foam was frothing at the damaged flesh, staunching the blood flow and clotting the wound. Quarrah had heard that Moonsick victims had bodies that were more resilient to damage. But what was this? The sickness was healing Ulusal?
Quarrah fumbled for the thin-bladed short sword on her pack. It was a standard item, used by Harvesters to hack through Pekal’s dense vegetation. The tip of the weapon had barely cleared Quarrah’s scabbard, when Ulusal sprang forward.
Quarrah leapt back, swinging the sword in a way she hoped would intimidate her opponent. Ulusal seemed oblivious to the careening blade. It was more than the fact that she was blind. It seemed as though Ulusal didn’t care about the danger.
“Back!” Quarrah yelled, though she was the one making a steady retreat. “Get back! I will kill you!”
The threats, the weapons—nothing seemed to dissuade Ulusal from coming forward, her broken, bloody hands reaching out, clawing at the air in manic gestures.
Ulusal suddenly pounced like a cat. Quarrah shut her eyes and swung the thin sword. Not for the head, that was just too brutal, but she had to stop this horrendous monster! Quarrah felt the blade sink in, initially soft, then jarring against something hard. A warm spray spattered up her arm and across her face. Despite all these obvious signs, Quarrah thought she must have missed because there was no scream of pain, no grunt of shock. It was absolutely silent.
Quarrah’s eyes snapped open and what she saw sickened her. The sword was buried in Ulusal’s left shoulder. Her collarbone was shattered, and her arm dangled, barely attached. Everywhere Quarrah looked was red.
But Ulusal’s face was a mask at odds with the rest of her body. The woman showed no pain or discomfort, only that same frenzied expression, damaged mouth still agape.
Quarrah’s hand slipped from the hilt of the short sword. The blade remained embedded in Ulusal’s shoulder, blood and yellow foam fountaining around the hard steel. Quarrah fell to the earth, scooting on her backside to get away, as Ulusal resumed her advance.
What more could Quarrah do? She’d shot her. She’d hacked her. And still, Ulusal was unfazed. Quarrah needed heavier weaponry. A few Grit pots were stashed in her pack. If she could get to it, there might be something useful in taking down this monster.
Hurling a useless handful of dirt at Ulusal’s face, Quarrah began crawling. Ulusal paused, her dirty nose sniffing the air, head cocking to one side as she listened. Then she lunged in a silent fury, missing Quarrah by mere inches as she leapt up and ran the final distance to the pack.
Quarrah dumped out the contents, trying desperately to remember where she had stored those Grit pots. A handful tumbled into the dirt, and Quarrah snatched a few, turning them over to see what markings they bore.
Drift Grit. So much Drift Grit! It was to be expected with the task she had been undertaking. But Quarrah needed Barrier Grit. If she had brought any, there wasn’t time to dig through the pack looking for it. Ah! She’d never be so unprepared if Raek were still alive to outfit her!
Ulusal had risen again, her wounded arm looking even more likely to fall off now that the sword had dislodged.
With a pot of Drift Grit in hand, Quarrah ran back along the trail, trying to think of a way to eliminate the deranged enemy. Quarrah could Drift Jump into a tree, but judging by the look in Ulusal’s blind red eyes, the afflicted Trothian would tear down the trunk before giving up.
Perhaps Quarrah could use the Drift Grit like a trap. Capture Ulusal in a weightless cloud and escape with the crate before the Trothian managed to get free. But Ulusal was moving too quickly. If the Trothian entered the Drift cloud at a run, she’d float right through and exit out the other side.
Quarrah turned sharply and ducked into a cluster of large broken rocks. Maybe if she held very still, careful to make no sound at all, the blind Ulusal would wander past, grow frustrated, and move on to exercise her violence elsewhere. Hopefully they were far enough from the Drift crate that Ulusal wouldn’t find her way back to the egg.
Quarrah took a series of deep breaths, trying to regulate her oxygen flow so she could breathe naturally without gasping in fear. She was still sputtering nervously when Ulusal stepped into view. Against her better judgment, Quarrah drew in a deep breath and held it. She would need to exhale eventually, and when she did, the chase would be on again. But if Quarrah could hold out long enough, perhaps she could think of something.
Ulusal stood in the trail, head tilted in that unnatural way. The only sound she made was an occasional sniff. Quarrah had heard that Moonsick victims had an acute sense of smell, and their hearing was unrivaled.
Move on, Quarrah screamed inside her own head. Just keep walking!
A sharp sniff. Ulusal’s head tilted another direction. Her damaged face was staring straight at Quarrah now. Ulusal’s eyes were wide, but her sockets were filled with sightless crimson orbs. Like miniature versions of the Red Moon that caused this malady.
Quarrah’s lungs were going to burst. Ulusal took a shuffling, curious step toward the rocks where Quarrah crouched, the Trothian’s mangled hands stroking the air.
A horrific, brutal idea occurred to Quarrah. But she’d have to act quickly.
Quarrah gasped for air, the sound causing Ulusal’s head to snap up. At the same moment, Quarrah shattered the pot of Drift Grit at her feet, casting a small cloud around her and the rocks.
Bracing herself against one of the rocks that was lodged in the ground, Quarrah reached out and picked up a large boulder, her arms barely reaching halfway around its jagged surface. In the weightless environment, Quarrah managed the stone quite easily, keeping her legs anchored against the rooted rock behind her.
Ulusal broke into a maniacal sprint, damaged arm trailing behind and twitching as the other clawed savagely in Quarrah’s direction. Quarrah paused for only a second, leveraging herself against the grounded stones behind her, and hurling the boulder.
The rough boulder exited the Drift cloud, immediately subject to gravity’s natural pull. But it had height, and a little velocity. And Ulusal was utterly reckless, unflinching as the large stone came down on her.
It smashed into the Trothian with a horrifying sound. The weight of the rock threw her backward, crushing Ulusal against the dirt before rolling a few more feet.
Quarrah pushed off the grounded stones and drifted out of the cloud. She didn’t want to look at the mess on the trail, but she had to be sure that Ulusal wouldn’t rise again.
There was no chance of it. The only bit of the Trothian that was even remotely recognizable was her legs, which the tumbling boulder had somehow missed. On Ulusal’s left calf was a bandage, so filthy and shredded that Quarrah couldn’t believe it was still there. It covered Ulusal’s first injury. The gunshot wound that had caused Quarrah and the rest of the crew to leave her behind.
Quarrah felt suddenly light-headed and sick to her stomach. She turned away from the carnage and staggered down the trail to the damaged Drift crate. She needed to fix the cracked board so the crate would properly house a Drift Grit detonation and lighten her load. She needed to check on the gelatinous egg and make sure it wasn’t damaged in the attack.
But Quarrah couldn’t bring herself to do any of those things. Instead, she slumped to the dirt and stared into the trees. Unblinking. Unmoving.
It must have been an hour before Quarrah felt like she could move again. At last, she pulled herself up, still shaking. She rifled through her pack and found a measure of Drift Grit. Tearing off the end of the paper cartridge, she poured the contents into the funnel-shaped hopper chamber in the side of the Drift Grit. Closing the seal, she found the long key ignitor and stuck it into the keyhole.
She paused. Ulusal had done significant damage to the corner of the crate. A hole that size was likely to cause a loss of containment of the Drift cloud. Quarrah stepped back, trying to devise a way to patch it. She was so underprepared for this kind of setback. No real tools or materials. Quarrah thought of using the shirt off her back, but she wasn’t sure if the material would be thick enough to hold the detonation.
Quarrah suddenly remembered that run-down old tenement on Dal Street where she had spent her sixteenth birthday. That winter had been cold, and the sill had fallen out of the room’s only window. When Quarrah had complained to the landlady, the cranky spinster had given her a bucket of water and a wheelbarrow full of dirt. The patchwork had been crude but effective.
Quarrah drew her knife and began digging through the soil. This was the windward side of Pekal, so the earth was already moist. She had a heap of loose dirt in a matter of minutes. Unstopping her water skin, Quarrah poured what she had left onto the pile and began working it until the dirt had become a thick, muddy paste.
Using handfuls of the mixture, she packed it into the damaged corner of the Drift crate. It wasn’t pretty, but it filled the gap nicely. Quarrah inserted the ignition key and detonated the Grit, her eyes on the patch.
Homeland be praised, her mud seal was successful in containing the cloud! She grabbed the front carrying poles and continued down the mountainside, the back poles dragging ruts in the ground as the crate bumped and bounced over the uneven terrain.
It was significantly easier once Quarrah reached the well-trod shoreline trail. The mud had dried on her hands, but she felt blisters raw and painful underneath. Quarrah was pulling as fast as she could, but it was already dusk.
The Thousand Deaths of Ardor Benn Page 65
