by J. C. Staudt
Artolo returned minutes later, carrying a flour sack so full to the brim that Lizneth could see the items he’d plundered through the space between the threads. When he’d recovered his rope and grappling hook, they rowed back toward Gris-Mirahz, taking turns paddling and watching over their unconscious prisoner. Artolo wanted to know more about Lizneth’s home and family, he said, and he began to ask her questions he’d never asked her before. He listened in silence, offering his own counterpoint to the answers she gave, telling her about his old life and his small family in Zekuza, a town over the Omnekh to the west. He seemed at times to forget about everything else, his loot and their prisoner included, and focus his whole attention on Lizneth.
They reached Gris-Mirahz just before midday. Lizneth was surprised to see a group of Artolo’s hangers-on waiting for them on the beach. They dragged the captive ashore, and Artolo instructed them to bring the eh-calai straight to Jakrizah. After they’d left, Lizneth and Artolo returned the canoe to its hiding place on the secluded strip of sand outside the village. They offloaded their supplies and plunder, then camouflaged the canoe in the sand again.
Lizneth began to gather up armfuls of their things to head back, but Artolo stopped her.
“Let’s not rush,” he said, his hands on her shoulders.
Lizneth set her things down. When Artolo pulled her into his arms, she didn’t resist. She breathed in his haick and felt the warmth of his chest beneath the comforting layer of dark fur. Now that she was there, she didn’t want to move away.
“You were great today,” Artolo said. “If I was cross with you for a minute there, it’s only because I wanted it to go well. It did, and Mama Jak’s going to be happy. She’s going to give you everything you need to get home overland. I only wish you wouldn’t leave so soon.”
“You’re making me want to stay,” Lizneth heard herself say. She regretted the words as soon as she’d spoken them. “But I can’t. I have to see my family again.”
Artolo drew his arms tight around her and nuzzled her face with his.
She could feel his air on her neck, and the soft tingle of his breath gave her chills. She tensed up, suddenly aware that this was heading somewhere she didn’t want it to go. They were wrapped up in each other now, the black of Artolo’s fur against the white of hers. It was a contrast as stark as the opposite shores of the Omnekh on which they’d been raised. Lizneth had never been held by a buck this way, except for Papa. She knew it was wrong, but the feeling was so new and thrilling that she couldn’t find it within herself to push him away. Artolo was a swindler, just as Jakrizah had warned her—a rogue and a criminal, no better than Curznack himself. Lizneth had gained freedom from her slavery, and yet they’d taken a slave of their own today. Why did she crave Artolo this way? Why did she find him so hard to resist?
Artolo’s mouth was open now, his hands down at her waist. When he pressed himself against her, she felt the tension rising in him.
“No,” she made herself say, pressing her hands to his chest.
Artolo held back at Lizneth’s brief protest, waiting, but not saying a word. They breathed together, their bodies heaving with the passion of their restraint as they stood on the sheltered little beach, enveloping one another, with the distant glow of Gris-Mirahz behind them and faint traces of Sai Calgoar beyond.
Lizneth told herself it was time to resist him. She didn’t want a mate. She’d never wanted one. Least of all, a mate whom she would never see again after tomorrow. But Artolo’s arms were strong, and his longteeth were hovering just over the scruff of her neck, and his breath was coming faster now. The way he held her there made her forget about resisting. There was an ache inside her, and as she breathed him in and indulged herself in his scent and felt the size and power of his body over her, it grew into an ache that only he could soothe.
Soon Artolo began to nuzzle her again. This time, she slipped her hands beneath his arms and pulled him toward her. She could feel his well-worked shoulder muscles gliding along his back, lean and lithe. When he closed his mouth around the scruff of Lizneth’s neck, he was firm, but gentle. His grip made her whole body shudder, and the sensation was unlike anything she’d ever felt before. She wanted him, and there was nothing else. Before she knew what was happening, Artolo had flung himself around behind her and pushed her into the sand. The weight of him and the force of his hold overwhelmed her.
The ache had grown until it was all Lizneth could think about. She stretched her legs back, reaching for him, grabbing at him, desperate for him. It took him several tries to enter her, but when he did, the pain between her legs was so fierce and good it made her gasp. Then he was driving into her, frantic and uninhibited. They slid through the sand as one, his body bearing down on hers, making it hard to breathe. It was strange how heavy he felt, how powerful for one so thin. Only a brief moment passed before Artolo made a loud squeak, gruff and strange, and collapsed onto her, breathing heavily.
His weight had become too much.
“Get off,” Lizneth managed to say, propping herself up with one arm and shouldering him aside.
He rolled over and landed next to her on his back, smiling, his chest heaving. Lizneth filled her lungs, feeling at once foolish and ashamed. The whole act seemed silly now, absurd and humiliating. Her body still ached, but now it was a painful ache, tinged with guilt. She didn’t know what had come over her, but she decided she would never let it happen again.
“I could never leave Gris-Mirahz,” Artolo was saying, his tone quite a bit different than it had been moments ago. “Not for good. I go to see my family sometimes, but Papa and I are much too busy with our work here to visit often.”
“Your Papa? He lives in Gris-Mirahz?”
Artolo shook his head. “He’s a trader. He shares time between Zekuza and Bolck-Azock, but he comes here all the time, too.”
“And you trade for him? That’s what gets you all those cuts and bruises?”
“Not exactly,” Artolo said, laughing between heaving breaths. He nudged the eh-calai’s bag with his foot. “When I’m not picking up other work, I do this for him. Mama Jak and I both.”
“You and Mama Jak both…”
“My Papa’s sick. We’ve been working on something to make him better. I’m sick too; we all are, in my family. Except my mother, of course. That’s why Papa only sired one litter; we were all born sick, like him. It’s not so bad yet with my brood-siblings and I. It really hits you when you get to be a twozhe.”
“What kind of a sickness is it? If you don’t mind me asking…”
“Of course not, if you think you have a strong enough stomach. It’s a flesh-borne disease. You just… decay. Atrophy. It’s degenerative, which means that over time, the muscles and the skin lose their strength, their flexibility. It’s like putting meat in a stew; it gets soft and tender and falls apart—”
“Okay, that’s enough. I get it,” Lizneth said. She had started to feel sick, but not because of his description. Her thoughts had taken her back to Bolck-Azock, to the mouthful of flesh and hair and the scent of old Morish’s haick, thick in her nostrils. I knew Artolo’s haick was familiar. Like his father’s. He’s Morish’s son. Artolo is Morish’s son. How didn’t I scent it before? Only Morish’s scent was so corrupted by disease, I could barely scent the true haick beneath it. The eh-calai we captured today is to be used for Morish’s aezoghil. For his experiments. And Jakrizah is the one who does them.
“You okay?” Artolo asked, concern in his eyes.
Lizneth gave him a calm nod and tried not to let her sudden insight show. “Yes. Definitely,” she said, forcing a smile.
“Good,” Artolo said. “My Papa’s ship was supposed to have arrived last week, but there were delays. He should be here before you go. I want you to meet him. I think you’d like each other.”
CHAPTER 48
Banishing
The infirmary was still in an uproar when Merrick returned. The Second Mobile Ops had followed him back from the undergro
und springs, but he’d been running the whole way, and it was easy to outpace them when he ignited.
He began to tend to the wounded as soon as he got there. The ignition, and the subsequent glow, came to him without effort. The warmth bubbled up from deep in his chest, and he found that he could compress the burn to make it flow more slowly and steadily to prevent his fingers from getting too hot. He could start and stop as he willed, and he could turn it up or down as long as he was touching someone who needed it.
Some of the patients had lost their limbs, and in those cases Merrick’s healing only served to cover the dismemberment sites with fresh scar tissue. Others had sustained damage to internal organs, and he couldn’t always tell what happened when he laid hands on them. He could only guess that his gift was curing their ailments as best it could. The healing wasn’t regenerative, but it seemed to stimulate and speed the body’s natural healing process many times over.
Wax and the Second Platoon were out of breath when they stormed through the infirmary doors. Merrick could tell by the Commissar’s frantic mannerisms that they were looking for him. He didn’t care what Wax planned to do; he was busy making people better, and he wouldn’t stop until he’d touched every last person in a bed and righted the wrongs of the Decylumites. Knowing those men were still at large somewhere in the city still angered him. They have these powers, and they think tearing people apart is the right way to use them?
“Cuff the traitor and throw him in the jailhouse,” Wax said.
Merrick looked up from his patient to find himself surrounded by the men of the Second. Admison Kugh, Coker Reed, and Jettle Trimbold had their rifles leveled at him, their faces somber and apologetic. Something in their look told him they were doing more than just following orders. Somewhere along the way back, Wax managed to turn them against me. He told them I was dangerous, or something. Merrick doubted he would be able to sway them back to his side before they carried out Wax’s orders.
“Sorry, Bouch,” Kugh said. “Gotta take you in.”
“I’m healing these people. These are your men, Commissar. At least let me finish returning them to health before you throw me in jail.”
“That’s not your place, Corporal,” said Pilot Wax. “I hereby discharge you from active service. As of this second, you’re no longer a Scarred Comrade.”
“I’m not doing any of this to serve you,” Merrick said. “Not anymore.” He took his hands off his patient, a member of the Fifth who’d been thrown out of a building during the battle at the jailhouse.
The man got up and walked away as simply as if he’d just woken from a nap. Physicians swarmed him with release papers as he tried to leave the infirmary.
“You’re a traitor to the city north, and a hazard to these men,” said Lieutenant Larabee. “You staged a jailbreak to set your friends free, and then you led the entire Second Platoon into a dead-end to distract us from recapturing them. The wounded need rest and medical attention. You’re not a doctor, Corporal. You have no medical training, and I won’t allow you to pose a further threat to their well-being. You will step away from that bed and allow yourself to be cuffed.”
Merrick rolled his eyes. “Are you serious? You gotta be coffing kidding me. Did you not just see—”
Larabee slammed a fist into Merrick’s stomach and sent him stumbling backward.
“Calm down, you asshole,” Merrick said, clutching his belly. Anger boiled inside him—the same kind of anger he’d felt while the shepherd was taunting him. You can’t heal him to death, Merrick reminded himself. But what about those red orbs? The ones I saw from the top of Mobile Ops command. The one the prisoner used to shield himself from my gunfire and cut through the bars of his cell. I bet I could make one too. I just need to figure out how.
“Turn toward the wall and show us your hands,” said Larabee, sour-faced and smug.
“You’re all nuts,” Merrick said, obeying. “Every time a man dies because I wasn’t here to heal him, it’s your fault. Remember that, Wax.”
He felt cold steel against his wrists and heard the ratchets click-click-click the handcuffs into place.
“Take him,” said the Commissar.
Merrick stared Wax down as they pushed him past. “You’d still be lying in that bed if it weren’t for me.”
“If it weren’t for you, I’d have three more children. Human civilization would have three more people to pass its legacy onto. Instead, there’s you. A delusional little twerp who wants to take everything I’ve worked for and keep it for himself. You’re not taking anything from me, civilian. The Scarred Comrades have been standing strong since long before you ever became one of us, and we’ll go on long after without you. You won’t be missed.”
Merrick blinked. There was an emptiness nagging at the pit of his stomach, the kind that would’ve brought him to the verge of tears when he was a child. The kind he felt every time his dad had ever made a scapegoat of him. That had happened every day, once. Hard luck needs a hard will, his father’s voice told him. The Aionach won’t go easy on you. Why should I? Merrick was used to the feeling. It was the feeling of his identity being torn away, one page at a time, ripped from the person he should’ve been.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Where I should’ve had you taken a long time ago,” said the Commissar.
“But I can save these people.”
“The people don’t need a savior. They have me.” He turned to his men. “Bind Mr. Bouchard’s hands and feet and throw him in the desert. I’m sure there’s something out there that needs saving. I’m sure a good fat meal like this one would do it.”
When they took Merrick by the arms and escorted him out, Pilot Wax watched him go with a satisfied look.
It was sometime around midnight by the time they’d folded Merrick over the back of a horse, ridden him two horizons past the outskirts, and dumped him in the sand. The night was a deep royal blue, and the stars shone pale from a clear sky. Admison Kugh gave Merrick a piteous look from atop his horse as the others tried to decide what to do with him. They began to deliberate about Merrick as he lay on the ground below them, listening to everything they were saying. These men had been his friends, or at least, they’d respected him enough once to trust him. Now he was nothing but scum in their eyes.
“We could kill him. Wax would never know the difference,” said Stagg Gilbighton, a shifty-eyed corporal who cracked his neck when he was nervous.
“No. Wax might ask, and I don’t want to put myself in a position to have to lie to the Commissar,” Histus Nazzal said through a jungle of gray-brown beard.
“If Wax thought he was a real threat, he would’ve killed the dway himself,” Kugh said. “He kills his problems and lets the wasteland handle the rest.”
It was an indirect attempt at reconciliation, Merrick knew, the way Kugh was trying to convince them to spare his life. The gesture was as good as stabbing someone and then handing them a bandage, as far as Merrick was concerned. Kugh can keep his coffing bandage. I’d rather bleed.
“I agree with Kugh. Our orders were to leave him here and let the desert deal with him,” said Cynus Maljorian. His complexion was so dark as to render him near-invisible against the night sky, a man who looked part savage and part Farstrander, like the seafaring folk from Port Angosia or Yellow Harbor.
“Have it your way,” said Stagg Gilbighton. “Let’s get out of here.”
Merrick heard something thud in the sand as they wheeled their horses and rode away. He waited until their shapes failed in the darkness before he crawled to where he’d heard the noise. A knife. Standard issue, if there was such a thing in the Scarred. The blade was stuck in the sand, dropped straight down. Intentionally, maybe.
It took him at least half an hour to free himself from his bonds, cutting through the thick rope little by little with small, awkward strokes. All he had on were the trousers he’d found outside the jailhouse. He couldn’t go home and get his belongings. Birch would still be shining in its hol
ster, locked away in the chest at the foot of his bed. His clothes, his uniform—even the little guitar with two broken strings he hadn’t touched in a long year. They’d all sit there gathering dust forever, until his bunkmates realized he was gone for good and made his things their own. What am I supposed to do now? I don’t have a home to go back to. The nomads will find me when daylight comes, and when they see the mark, they’ll kill me.
Merrick had to wonder how he’d managed to become one of the most powerful men in the city and get banished in the same night. Wax didn’t want me, after all. It didn’t matter how much I had to offer. He wants to be surrounded by people who say ‘yes’ to him, not people who challenge his leadership. Why would he? That’s how he’s kept his hold over the city for so long. He kills his problems.
Some animal gave a gruesome howl in the distance. Merrick knew he couldn’t stay here, but where could he go, if not back toward the city? The desert was as foreign to him as his own mother’s face, something he’d always seen from a distance but had never touched. He was getting tired. Not only because it was the middle of the night, but because the strain of healing and the stress of being held captive had worn him down. He shuddered at the thought of sleeping on the sand, of scorpions scrabbling over his skin, of the carrion feeders circling above, and of the hounds and foxes and wild dogs who had already smelled him and would help him die if he let them. Would it be any safer in the city south? He hadn’t lived there since he was a child, but he decided it was his best chance—his only chance.
The wind streaked past him as he ran. He let the heat smolder, flowing from his chest down to his fingertips in a slow, controlled burn. It was starting to feel more natural to him now, but the sensation was still painful and clumsy, like some strange bulk sitting on his shoulders, bearing down on his lungs. He didn’t know how to stop it from happening, so he ignored it instead.
