Opal's Wish: Book Four of The Crystal Warriors Series

by Maree Anderson

  He turned his attention to the basin. The configuration of this spigot differed to those in the bathing room of Sera’s house. He experimented and was rewarded with a gush of lukewarm water.

  “Dishwash liquid’s in the plastic bottle beside the faucet,” Mickey said.

  Danbur found a stopper to plug the hole in the basin. He dispensed a generous squirt of the viscous green liquid beneath the running water and uttered a bark of surprise at the foamy suds that formed. Hastily he shut off the water. It seemed wasteful to use such a precious commodity for cleaning but doubtless Mickey’s reaction would be… interesting if he asked for sand to scour the plate.

  He used the clean rag draped over the spigot to wash his plate and eating utensils, and set them on the counter to dry. The ritual of cleaning up after a meal was familiar—though trainees would have volunteered for cooking and cleaning duties if they had conveniences such as these to aid them in their chores.

  “Leave the pans,” Mickey said. “I’ll soak them once I’ve put the leftovers away. Need something for the pain? Or are you ready to turn in?”

  Danbur was used to enduring pain, but his wits were still muddled by the events of the past few hours. He needed to sleep awhile. “If you have a blanket and some floor-space to spare, I will catch a few hours rest before the sun rises.” He waited for her to climb to her feet, and followed her from the kitchen.

  She led him down a narrow hallway. “We can do better than a blanket on the floor,” she said, opening a door and standing aside to usher him into a room. She flicked a switch on the wall and light thrust back the darkness.

  A sleeping room. But instead of blanket rolls it contained four sleeping spaces in an arrangement that made him rub his eyes to insure he was seeing correctly. Beds stacked one atop the other?

  “Bunks,” she said, obviously noticing his reaction. “For a change we’re not full to bursting, so you’ll have this room to yourself—for the remainder of tonight at least. There’ll be an influx this coming evening, I expect, and we’ll have to pack ’em in upstairs. It’s pretty typical for a Sunday night. A bunch of our regulars tend to go on weekend-long benders. And when they sober up enough to realize they need a decent meal and a shower, we’re their first port of call.”

  “My thanks.”

  “Don’t thank me ’til you’ve heard the rules.” She planted her palm on his spine and gave him a little shove toward the beds. “Don’t worry. We’re not affiliated with any religious organizations so I’m not about to preach. Max and I came into a bit of money and bought this property outright. This place is our baby—our way of giving back to the community who helped us—so the only folks we answer to are ourselves. Mostly. Sit down before you fall down. And watch your head on that top bunk.”

  She was used to giving orders, this one. And to them being obeyed. Danbur sat on the mattress, hunching his shoulders, waiting.

  Mickey tapped a sheet of incomprehensible scribblings affixed to the wall. “No one ever bothers to read them so I’ll give you a quick summary. Max and me aren’t your momma and daddy. We’re all adults here, and we expect you to do for yourself. So if you dirty your clothes, bring ’em down to the laundry and wash ’em. If you can’t figure out how to work a washer or dryer, ask. If you need another set of clothes, ask. If you need help with anything at all, ask. There are no dumb questions, only dumbasses who screw things up because they’re too damn proud to ask for help. Got it?”

  He blinked at her.

  “Good. Lights out whenever you figure you need some shut-eye, so if you’re sharing the room, sort it out with your bunkmates. No trash-talking. No fighting. No stealing. Breakfast is from half-seven to nine—you’ll hear the bell when the food’s ready. If you’re up early and feel like helping out with prep, head over to the kitchen and we’ll put you to work. It’s appreciated but not expected. Got all that?”

  Most of it—the spirit of it, anyway. He nodded.

  Max stuck his head through the doorway. “Found ya some spare clothes, Danbur. These were in the bag Peter sent over.” He tossed a bag onto the mattress. “Should fit okay. Suggest ya wear ’em.”

  “Why?”

  “Right now ya look like trouble,” Max said. “And there’s folks about who’ll feel a powerful need ta prove they’re a heap more badass than you.”

  “We’ve banned gang patches from the premises,” Mickey said by way of explanation—not that Danbur understood the reference. “We don’t have too many problems of that sort. But dressed like that,” she flicked a hand at his leathers, “you’re bound to attract the wrong sort of attention. We’re neutral ground. The local troublemakers respect that—for now. We’d prefer they keep respecting it.”

  “I understand.” It made perfect sense not to attract unwanted attention when stranded in unfamiliar territory.

  “What else?” Mickey tapped a fingertip aside her nose. “Oh yeah. If you hear an earsplitting alarm, means there’s a fire or emergency. Get out of the building. Don’t try’n be a hero. Laundry’s at the end of the corridor. Showers, toilets and urinals are also down the corridor, last door on the right.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Get some shut-eye,” Max said. “We’ll talk more in the morning.”

  Danbur summoned another nod, and a smile for Mickey who appeared to be resisting Max’s efforts to chivvy her from the room. “Quit hovering,” Max growled at her. “Man won’t get any sleep if you’re doing your Mother Hen act.”

  She muttered something beneath her breath. Max muttered something back at her. They shared some kind of wordless communication and then Mickey heaved a sigh and preceded Max from the room. The door closed behind them and Danbur was finally—blissfully—alone.

  He removed his boots and set them beside the bed. The contents of the bag revealed loose gray pants, a long sleeved tunic with a hood that matched the pants, and two white items that he guessed were coverings meant for one’s feet. There were short black pants, too. Very short. Made of soft material that stretched. Undergarments, perhaps. He would wait and see what the other men wore and do his best to mimic them.

  The effort it took to stand and walk over to investigate the switch on the wall sapped the last of his energy. Thank the gods the switch appeared easy to manipulate. His brain ached too much to deal with something complicated.

  Darkness shrouded the room. Unrelenting, smothering blackness.

  He smacked the switch again and sagged against the doorframe, panting, his heart crashing in his chest like he’d been running for his life. Relief coursed through his veins as he blinked in the glare. He had not been sucked back into the crystal. He had light and air. He could see and hear and taste and feel. There were people here who seemed to care for his wellbeing. He could do this.

  He thumbed the switch, stumbled back to the lower bunk and stretched out atop it. He clasped his hands across his abdomen and concentrated on breathing slowly and evenly. The blackness thickened, threatening to smother him again. The walls of the room seemed to close in. He fought the panic that threatened by fixating on Sera’s eager young face. The curious gleam in her green eyes, the bright red of her hair, the smiles he’d coaxed from her—all helped banish the panic.

  Another face formed in his mind. Opal’s. And damned if his brain didn’t recreate every little detail of her features in his mind. Those intense green eyes. Those plump pink lips. The smooth, delicate column of her throat that had tempted him to lick and nibble and mark to stake his claim. And when sleep finally dragged him under he was smiling.

  ~~~

  Danbur lay still, listening to the world around him waking. He’d dreamed of turquoise skies and endless rolling dunes that stretched as far as the eye could see. Of the great storms that rumbled across the skies, birthing winds that transformed slumberous baking sands into slashing whips capable of shredding flesh from bones. Of fierce clashes with Styrians—Storm Riders—from distant fiefs, whose foolish, greedy Keepers coveted the thriving tract of land known far and
wide as the Shifting Sands.

  He’d relived raids on an alien world, basked in the glory of returning to his fief with dozens of young women who would, gods willing, be convinced to take mates and help repopulate his small corner of Styria. And then he’d dreamed of that last raid… and, inevitably, of the sorcerer who’d cursed a tehun of warriors and their commander to their namesake crystals.

  The old man’s features were etched into Danbur’s memory. The sorcerer’s piercing blue eyes had been calm, unnaturally composed in the face of a far superior force. He’d not flinched from his course—not even when Lord Keeper Wulf had charged, sword raised to cut him down. Once only during that fateful encounter had the sorcerer shown any trace of fear—when his granddaughter had rushed to his side in a courageous attempt to defend him….

  Danbur’s eyelids snapped open. His mind was clear now. And he remembered where he’d recently seen that face, those eyes.

  The old sorcerer was here, in this time and place. Living right next door to Sera and her mother, and calling himself “Peter Stone”. He’d fogged Danbur’s memory, influenced him. And the others, too, no doubt. Opal and Sera, Desiree and the Healer, Roth. Tampering with unsuspecting minds would be child’s play for the Crystal Guardian.

  Danbur rolled from the bunk to his feet, and stripped off his leathers, replacing them with the undergarment, loose pants, and long-sleeved tunic. The items of clothing were comfortable enough to be sure, but would provide no protection at all from the stab of a blade. Bah. He might as well be naked.

  His hand clenched at his side, the loss of his weapon weighing heavily on his mind. Then again, swords had proven little use against a powerful magic-wielder.

  Magic. The world would be better off without it—the far-reaching disaster his fief’s priests had wrought with a spell intended to protect their warriors from injury during battle was proof enough of that. So what could a sorcerer capable of warping the power of crystals and transforming them into torture chambers do to a helpless woman and child?

  What could the Crystal Guardian want with them?

  The gorge rose in Danbur’s throat. He wouldn’t let Opal and Sera come to harm. He’d die before he would allow them to suffer, as he had suffered.

  He stuffed his leathers into the flimsy carry-bag and left it by the pillow. Disdaining the strange foot-coverings, he sat on the edge of the mattress to don his boots. The pains in his belly hadn’t eased a jot but they were bearable enough. As was his hunger. Food was hardly a necessity right now. It could come later, once he’d insured Sera and her mother were safe, and cautioned them about the dangers of consorting with the man who called himself “Peter Stone”.

  Unfortunately there was one pressing need. And, as he knew little of this world’s customs, he would rather not risk Mickey’s wrath by pissing on a bush.

  He strode to the door, cracked it open, and peered outside.

  All clear. He eased through the doorway and headed down the narrow corridor toward the urinals, which he guessed to be some sort of latrine. Given the wondrous contraptions he’d observed thus far, gods only knew how even a basic piss-pot might have been transformed.

  Halfway down the corridor a door opened and a man stumbled from the room, yawning widely. He wore faded blue trousers riddled with holes, and a white top that brought to mind the one Opal had worn, except this one was sleeveless and not as form-fitting. His footwear had once been white and came to the ankle—a shoe rather than a boot. Each shoe had different colored laces: one set the brightest orange Danbur had ever seen, and the other set an equally eyeball-searing poisonous green. Both laces were undone, and as the man lurched down the hallway it was a wonder he didn’t trip and measure his length on the floor.

  Danbur lengthened his stride, unable to contain his curiosity about another denizen of this shelter.

  The man veered right and pushed open a door. Danbur followed him in, only to halt at the row of shiny white basins jutting from one wall. They looked like larger, oval-shaped versions of the basin in Sera’s bathing room. But considering there were a number of smaller basins—each with its own spigots—affixed to another wall, he couldn’t for the life of him imagine the purpose of these larger ones.

  Bathing? He eyed them doubtfully. Surely not. They were too oddly shaped to be practical. And there were pipes but no obvious spigots that he could see, and no means of bringing water to the basins… unless one drew water from inside one of the side-by-side narrow partitions shuttered by gray doors. He scratched his head, reluctant to investigate and risk looking the fool.

  The man—a too-thin fellow with pitted skin and lank brown hair—had paused before one of the large basins. And it quickly became obvious what he use he was putting it to.

  Inwardly shrugging, Danbur chose a basin. He shot a glance at the man to confirm how it was done, unlaced his trousers, and proceeded to empty his bladder, directing his stream into what was probably the urinal… unless he was mistaken, and this man had led him astray. In which case, doubtless he’d hear soon enough from Mickey or Max. Of the two, Danbur would prefer to be taken to task by Max. He got the feeling Mickey would tear him a new arsehole. And then punish him with whatever the equivalent of latrine duty happened to be in this world.

  From the corner of his eye Danbur spied on the man, who’d finished pissing and was washing his hands in one of the smaller basins by the opposite wall. He splashed water over his face. Finally he slicked his hair back with his palms and left the room.

  Simple enough.

  Danbur set his clothing to rights and washed his hands and face. Further ablutions could wait until he returned. If he returned. It depended on the lengths he would be forced to take to warn Opal about the Crystal Guardian.

  He retrieved the carry-bag with his leathers from his room and followed his nose until he reached the front door exit. He was reaching for the door handle when someone called his name.

  “Hey, Danbur.”

  Mickey. Damnation.

  “You’re up early, she said, yawning widely as she trotted toward him.

  “Yes.” Her tongue had been pierced, too, Danbur noted. With a silver ball-shaped stud. Interesting. He’d seen body piercings before but not a piercing of the tongue. The warrior caste disdained piercings. It was too easy for them to be caught or ripped out during a skirmish.

  She gave him a thorough head to toe examination through narrowed, assessing eyes. “Somewhere to be?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see. Will you be needing a bed tonight?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Instead of pushing the point, as he’d expected, her gaze softened. “You’re welcome here, anytime.”

  He inclined his head. “My thanks. And if it proves possible I will return to work off my debt.”

  “What debt?”

  “The meal. The bed.” He swept an arm down his torso. “The clothing.”

  She waved off his explanation. “It’s what we do. Help out if you can but there’s no obligation, you hear me?”

  “I hear you.”

  “Good.” She opened her mouth ever so slightly, just enough for him to see she had caught her tongue piercing between her teeth. “Still got those pains in your stomach?”

  He figured there was little point lying. She was far too astute. “Yes.”

  “You need to get it checked out.” She waggled a finger at him when he attempted a protest. “There’s a free clinic about a half hour’s bus ride from here. Won’t cost you anything to get looked at.” She reeled off a string of barely comprehensible directions and then paused, giving him a hard look—the kind that would have made a lesser man whimper. “Promise me you’ll head over there and see someone about those pains. Today.”

  Danbur expelled a sharp breath through his nose. He didn’t give out promises lightly. It sat uneasily on his soul that this was one promise he had no intention of fulfilling. “I promise,” he bit out, despising himself for deceiving her.

  “Do you need bus fare?”
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  He shook his head. That at least was the truth. He had no intention of getting on a bus—whatever one might prove to be.

  “Good. Now get the hell out of here before I change my mind and call that doc, and have Max tackle your ass and sit on you until he gets here.”

  He quirked an eyebrow. “I would like to see Max try.”

  “Me, too,” Mickey said, grinning. “I’d sell tickets to that one.” She yanked open the door and leaned against the frame. “See ya, Danbur.”

  “Goodbye, Mickey. Be well.”

  He glanced back over his shoulder once he’d reached the pathway beside the road. She was watching him. She raised her hand in farewell and then shut the door.

  Pain lanced his belly and he ground his fingertips deep into his stomach muscles. He was on his own. With no idea where he was, or what to do next. All he knew was that it was imperative he find Opal and Sera. And that something inside him, some compulsion that was too strong to be ignored insisted that he head—

  Left.

  It was obvious as a blossoming flame tree that this compulsion was the doing of the Crystal Guardian—this Peter Stone. And likely the old man’s magic had caused Danbur’s stomach pains, too. He wanted Danbur to come to him. Now.

  Very well. The godless old bastard would get exactly what he wanted… and something he did not expect.

  Logically, the best way to keep Opal and Sera safe was not to try and convince them that the old man meant them harm. If Opal’s reaction to the idea Danbur had emerged from the “wishing crystal” given to her daughter was anything to go by, likely she would think him insane. No, the best way—the most efficient way—to insure their safety was to dispose of the root cause of their troubles by killing the sorcerer intent on manipulating them all for some dark reason of his own.

  With luck, Danbur might even survive the encounter.

  He turned left, hoping Mickey didn’t spy him heading in the opposite direction to the one she’d suggested.