Skip: An Epic Science Fiction Fantasy Adventure Series (Book 2)

by Perrin Briar

  “It was raining,” Elian said. “Animals often hide in the undergrowth to stay dry. They’re loath to come out, so they’re easy to catch.”

  Jera poked the lump on her stomach.

  “Hey,” she said. “Puca, you can get up now.”

  There was an agitated chitter of anger. Then the lump moved, and made its way down Jera’s leg. Puca emerged, his hair brushed forward into the shape of a Mohican.

  “You look pretty stylish there, Puca,” Jera said.

  Elian plucked the pheasuck. Then he broke a small branch off a tree and snapped it into three pieces. Two short, one slightly longer. He inserted the longer one through the pheasuck and stabbed the other two into the soft earth on either side of the fire and put the pheasuck over it. He washed his hands in the freezing cold river water, returned to their camp and sat down. He turned the pheasuck over, the juices running out of it.

  “You should get some sleep,” Elian said. “I’ll wake you when the food’s ready.”

  “I’ve slept enough,” Jera said. “And if I fall asleep now I don’t know if I’ll ever wake up again.”

  “I can’t believe we almost died in getting it,” Elian said.

  Jera’s eyes lit up.

  “Oh!” she said. “Do we still have it?”

  Elian reached into his bag and took out the Chain of Destiny. He handed it to Jera, who fingered it and admired its colour.

  “Maybe you should hang this up,” Jera said.

  “As a trophy?”

  “No. It’ll give us a little extra light.”

  Elian took it from her and hung it from a knotted protrusion on a tree. It cast a glow over the camp like they had their own miniature sun. Elian turned the pheasuck over.

  “I wanted to thank you,” Elian said. “For saving my life back there.”

  Jera shrugged.

  “You did the same for me when you carried me here,” she said.

  “I just kept you dry. If those Goleuni had gotten hold of me… I dread to think what would have happened.”

  “If we’re going to have any chance of living through this thing we’ve to work together,” Jera said.

  They shared a smile. Elian inspected the pleasuck.

  “I think the meat’s done,” Elian said.

  He picked up the pheasuck and walked over to a stone slab that poked up above the ground like a giant’s fingernail. He took out his knife and cut the pheasuck in half. He gave the half still on the stick to Jera, and ate his own with his fingers. The grease was hot, but he didn’t care. Jera looked at Elian out the corner of her eye and nibbled on her food.

  “Don’t stand on ceremony on my account,” Elian said. “You must be starving.”

  Jera hesitated, and then bit into the pheasuck meat with relish. Her hot breath billowed in the chilly night.

  “I swear, this is the most delicious meat I’ve ever had,” she said.

  After eating, Jera and Elian smiled with satisfaction. Puca chewed on a clump of wet grass, beginning by sucking off the beads of water.

  “Are you still hungry?” Elian said. “I can catch another one.”

  “No,” Jera said. “I’m stuffed.”

  “We’d best sleep,” Elian said. “Try to get as close to the fire as you can. The fire will help dry your clothes.”

  Elian curled around the fire on one side, Jera on the other. Puca curled up between Jera’s hip and stomach. Elian fell asleep almost instantly. Jera looked across at his peaceful sleeping mask of serenity. She’d never imagined he was capable of being so caring. Her eyelids felt heavy and they drifted shut.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Bill wrapped moss around his boots and crept through the foliage. The moss was so thick he felt like he was walking on air.

  The jungle was alive with the sound of nature; birds squawked and sang, crickets chirruped and something hissed in the undergrowth. Then he heard a faint pop that made his ears prick up. The sound caused birds to caw and take to the sky.

  Bill walked across the jungle floor strewn with leaves and twigs, quiet as a shadow. There was another pop, louder this time. Something brushed Bill on the top of his head, causing him to start. It was a vine. He took a calming breath and relaxed.

  He heard the rough cadence of an English voice sawing through the jungle. Although he couldn’t make out the words, it sounded authoritative. A deep voice answered in what Bill recognised as the Old Tongue. It was angry.

  Bill crouched down, cursing himself for not thinking to coat his hands with moss as he had done his feet. He crawled beneath a hedge. He pushed aside a thick tuft of grass, and was confronted with the backside of a man.

  He wore a white uniform that was stained green and brown around the fringes. The cloak was torn. Two dozen men, similarly garbed, stood in a loose semicircle. At their centre was the man speaking English. He was high born. There was no mistaking his stance of self-importance, the rich tone of his voice, and expectation of unquestioned subservience.

  Standing opposite him was a tall thick-bodied male Goleuni with scars across his chest and arms, and a headdress of poison frog skins atop his bald head. At his feet was a Goleuni, writhing in pain, a clawed hand cupped to his bloodied stomach. A pair of Goleuni carried him away, through a wall of warrior Goleuni, who moved aside, and then covered the gap again with their bodies.

  The highborn man spoke, and a man in a white cloak to one side translated for him.

  “I am Lord Richard Ascar,” he said. “We come in peace. So long as your warriors make no further moves of aggression, neither will my men. We have come for information. Give it to me, and we shall go. A man and woman passed through here not long ago. I just want to know which direction they went in.”

  He waited, but the Goleuni chief said nothing.

  “Tell us where they went,” Richard said, “and we will leave you in peace, I swear.”

  Upon hearing the word ‘swear’ the Goleuni chief spat. His forked tongue flickered around his thick lips.

  “I’ll give you one more chance to answer,” Richard said, “or I will give the word for my men to take you into custody.”

  The constables put a hand on their holstered pistols. The Goleuni warriors placed their claws on the dark blowpipes at their waist. The tension grew thick.

  The Goleuni chief raised his claw, and a graceful female Goleuni stepped forward. Her exposed blue-nippled breasts caught the eye of the constables. The Goleuni chief spoke in the flowing words of the Old Tongue. The female Goleuni translated in her accented voice, sounding almost as if she were singing.

  “Two Breaker of Promises came,” she said. ‘Break of Promises’ was the Goleuni word for human. “They came and took our most sacred object. They stole, like all Breaker of Promises. My chief tracker followed their trail to the flatlands in the north, land of the great buffaroo. You have nothing more to say to us. Leave this place, and never return.”

  The chief turned and headed into the jungle. The Goleuni warriors glared at the uniformed constables, and then left. Richard Ascar sniffed, indignant at the lack of respect, but wise enough to let it pass.

  “Do we trust them?” the translating constable said.

  “What other choice do we have?” Richard said. “Let’s get out of here before we catch something.”

  The constables turned and headed back into the jungle. Bill felt a giddiness in his stomach, and he could hardly sit still. He was close to Stump. He could almost taste him. He shuffled backward on his belly. Then he froze. He spotted something in the corner of his eye.

  A flicker of a tongue. A glimmer of light off glossy scales. A large snake turned to look at Bill, its black eyes glaring, its body already half coiled. It pulled back, the muscles in its body tightening. Its fangs protruded and it flew at Bill, whose hand snapped up, quick as a flash, and grabbed the snake by the neck, just below its jaw. The snake’s body went rigid and straight, wrapping around Bill’s arm.

  Bill gripped the snake with his other hand and twisted its head
around. There was a satisfying wet crack sound. Bill tossed the snake aside and turned. He froze for a second time.

  Goleuni stood with their spears aimed at his body. He could see the poison glistening on their sharp points. Apparently the Goleuni didn’t need the moss to move silently. Bill held up his hands in surrender.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The village consisted of tall tents down either side of a hard-packed road. Fish hung from vines to dry in the sun. They gave the village a strong fishy aroma. It could have been a small port town.

  The inhabitants growled and hissed at Bull Bill as he was dragged through the Goleuni village by a large muscle-bound male. Bill named him Broken Nose, as his snout was twisted. Young Goleuni threw stones at him. One caught Bill across the forehead, cutting him. The blood trickled down his face.

  Broken Nose dumped Bill before a large tent in the shape of a cone that stood with its back to a demolished temple wall. Through the hole Bill could make out two large thrones with snakes woven about the armrests. The tent was made of the thick hides of several buffaroos stitched together.

  The tent flaps opened, and the Goleuni chief emerged. Up close, Bill could see he was craggy-faced, worn and tired. His scales were rough and drained of their natural vibrant colour. His slitted eyes glowed with obvious intelligence.

  Broken Nose spoke in the Old Tongue, pointing at Bill and making gestures. The chief glared at Bill with rage he no doubt still felt from his encounter with the Force. The beautiful Goleuni joined him at his side and translated both his words and Bill’s.

  “Why are you here?” the chief said.

  “I come in peace,” Bill said. “I came only to discover the location of the two thieves. Now I know, I will leave your jungle and never return.”

  “No Breaker of Promises comes in peace. It is always with war and death and fighting that you come. So tell me, which do you bring?”

  The chief’s slitted eyes moved from one eye to the other. Bill swallowed. He would have to tread carefully.

  “I bring you peace,” he said. “I will seek vengeance on the man who stole from you and return your treasure back to you.”

  “And why would you do that?”

  “To thank you for letting me live.”

  “And what reassurance do we have that you will return?”

  Bill hesitated.

  “You have my word,” he said.

  “Your word!” the chief said, turning to the villagers who had crowded around. “A Breaker of Promises gives his word!”

  The villagers laughed, a hiss that made their tongue protrude from their wide lips.

  “In truth,” Bill said, “I want to find the man who stole from you. I have a score to settle.”

  “I care nothing for your petty squabbles,” the chief said. “You are a Breaker of Promises. You cannot bring us peace. Only more war. You shall answer for the death and destruction your ancestors brought down upon us.”

  The chief turned to Broken Nose.

  “Prepare the fire,” he said. “Tonight we eat human.”

  Broken Nose hissed with elation. The villagers whooped and spun around in a celebratory dance.

  Bill appraised his situation. The chief and translator stood not more than two feet before him. Broken Nose stood at his side, a distracted grin on his face. The closest of the Goleuni villagers stood more than six feet away. He had a chance, he thought. Slim, but it was there. As Broken Nose reached down to pick Bill up, Bill coiled his legs.

  Then a voice shouted a word Bill did not understand. The Goleuni stopped and turned to look at the speaker.

  A haggard Goleuni with ragged scales that fell from her cracked dry skin like snow stepped forward from the crowd of villagers. She had a wild tuft of coarse grey hair that ran from the top of her head down to the end of her tail. The other Goleuni stared at the ground at her feet in revered silence.

  The old Goleuni approached Bill and poked at his face and body. She brought a long claw down over his facial features, gentle and soft, but firm. Her finger came away red with his blood from the cut above his eye. She put the blood to her lips and let her forked tongue flicker over it. She looked back at Bill.

  “He has a touch of destiny,” the old Goleuni said, speaking in the Old Tongue. “He will do great things for all Goleuni, and all mythical creatures.”

  The chief looked at Bill.

  “Him?” he said in a disbelieving tone.

  “Yes,” the old Goleuni said. “Him. He has a great glowing aura. A surging light of destiny. He will help free us all. He will aid our Saviour.”

  The chief snorted.

  “A human?” he said. “Aid our Saviour? Never!”

  “Do not be foolish,” the old Goleuni said. “Hope comes in many forms. Even from those we least expect.”

  But the chief’s disgusted expression did not change.

  “He is of no use to anyone,” he said, a cruel smile twisting his features. “Look at him! He is of no use to anyone!”

  The chief looked to the villagers, expecting a reaction of agreement, but got none.

  “We have seen many humans recently,” the old Goleuni said. “First, there were the two men in white coming to us wanting seeds of our sacred purple flower. Then the thieves came and stole our most sacred artefact. Then today the same man in white came, this time with two dozen men with him. And now this man comes.”

  The old Goleuni turned to the chief.

  “You are a wise and noble leader,” she said, “but you must not ignore what the universe tells us. The theft of our most sacred artefact should remind us that not all things are forever. Let us see with the wisdom of our ancestors. The humans will help restore our people, as surely as they destroyed it. What say you, Chief? Will you make the same mistakes as past tribe chieftains, or will you walk the right path?”

  The chief peered down at Bill, his big eyes seeming to pierce through him. Finally he turned away, and marched back into his tent. Broken Nose’s shoulders slumped with disappointment.

  The old Goleuni placed an empty tortoise shell on the ground before Bill. She took some purple petals out from a jar amongst her robes and rubbed them together in her long claws. The natives surrounding them began to hum a haunted tune.

  “Give me something belonging to this thief you’re tracking,” the old Goleuni said.

  Bill gestured with his head to the bag Broken Nose held in one hand.

  “It’s under the band of my hat,” he said.

  Broken Nose turned the bag upside down. A pair of pistols, three knives, a money purse, and a hat fell onto the dusty earth. Broken Nose picked up the hat, lifted the scarlet band encircling its base, and came out with a triangle-shaped piece of stiff brown felt.

  The old Goleuni took it and put it into the turtle shell. She spat into it and moved the shell around in a circle, the debris inside flowed side to side. She stopped and peered at the fallen petals. The villagers stopped humming.

  “Go on with this foolish quest of revenge, if you must,” she said, not looking up, “though it can only ever end in disappointment. You shall meet your quarry at the bend of a river with a field of yellow flowers and a statue of a weeping woman. Do you know this place?”

  “Yes,” Bill said. “When should I get to this meeting place?”

  The old Goleuni smiled.

  “You will get there when you get there,” she said. “That is the nature of time. But once you come to your foolish quest’s end you must follow the white raven. Follow it, and your true destiny shall present itself to you.”

  The old Goleuni packed up her things.

  “Take him north of the jungle,” she said to the surrounding Goleuni.

  “I need to collect my horse,” Bill said.

  The old Goleuni pointed at Broken Nose.

  “You will fetch his horse and bring it to the north end of the jungle,” she said.

  Broken Nose sneered at Bill, and then turned and stalked away. The villagers dispersed. Another Goleuni, with a
tiger stripe pattern across his body, removed the restraints from Bill’s wrists and led him out of the village to the outskirts of the jungle.

  Broken Nose was waiting with Bill’s black stallion when he arrived. Bull Bill slapped his horse on the neck. His horse stamped his leg and neighed softly.

  Bill climbed on, looked down at Broken Nose, who had fire in his eyes. Bill tipped his hat to him with a grin on his face. He turned away and put as much distance between himself and the jungle as he could.

  “Aid the Goleuni saviour?” Bill said to himself, letting out a bark of laughter and wiping the tears out of his eyes. “What’s she been smoking?”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Jera opened her eyes to find a clear night sky above her, last of the cinders drifting up like they wanted to join the points of light in the sky. She felt the dull warmth of dying embers on her cheek. She sat up and stretched her arms and legs. She felt slight twinges and knots in her muscles. Her ankle throbbed, but she didn’t think anything was broken.

  Puca stirred on her stomach. Every few seconds his leg kicked out and he let out a whine. His eyes were closed and his breath came slow and deep. His ears grew long, his legs bigger and more powerful, and then they returned to their normal shape and size. His legs kicked faster, like he was running, and two small hard lumps began to form on his head…

  Puca’s eyes shot open and he scrambled off Jera’s stomach and sprinted across the jungle floor, as if continuing to escape the pursuer in his dream. He came to a stop, and, chest heaving, peered around at his surroundings. He shook his head with relief.

  Elian, who up until then had been fast asleep, rolled over and peered at Jera and Puca. He had lines on his face from where he’d been resting his head on his shirt.

  “Sorry if we woke you,” Jera said.

  “It’s okay. I needed to get up anyway.”

  Elian stretched, and then jerked. He massaged his arms in a duplication of Jera’s own sore arms. A key on some cord around Elian’s neck fell through a hole in his shirt. It was a chunky object with a knob on the end.