Song of Edmon

by Adam Burch

  Faria and I are meditating when Carrick calls. I welcome the familiar Picker inside. It’s time for the first move.

  “Hoping Faria the Red could take a look.” The big man holds up his finger, swollen and purple from some accident on the day’s haul.

  “I’m the healer of the Wendigo now,” I tell my old colleague. The dark shaman makes the most imperceptible of nods in assent.

  “Okay, Leontes. Just be careful,” Carrick says warily.

  “Not to worry, old friend.” I take hold of the man’s hand. “Didn’t I save your life the day you fell from the pitch? This should be relatively simple to fix, provided you help me in return.”

  I grab the broken finger and twist violently. The big man opens his mouth to let out a scream. My other hand flies, slamming fingers into a pressure point in his neck. Now he cannot scream. He cannot move anything but his eyes and still feels everything.

  “Carrick, you’re going to cause an accident. I don’t care how, but within the month, Bruul Vaarkson will find his way here. I don’t want him dead. I want him here, alive, in need of medical care. Do you understand?”

  Carrick glares at me—go fuck yourself, Leontes.

  I understand his reluctance so I twist his finger some more. “This is a relatively simple request. I’ve saved your life, and I’ll save your finger now. It will be good as new. And if you help me, there will be a reward. Agree? Blink once for yes, twice for no.”

  He blinks once.

  “Good.” I tap the inside of his forearm just below the elbow, cutting off pain to his hand. “I’m going to reset the bone. You should feel nothing.”

  He looks scared and confused. There’s an audible snap as I reset the bone. I reach into the small medical cabinet and find two small slats of coral to fashion a rudimentary splint.

  “I’m going to release you. You’ll have full control of your body again, but your hand will be numb for the next ten or twelve hours to help you sleep and heal. You will not speak of our conversation to anyone.”

  His eyes dart back and forth nervously. Then he remembers, once for yes, twice for no, and blinks.

  “Good.” I tap his neck.

  He scrambles away from me. “Witchcraft,” he mutters. “Like the old man.”

  “Within the month, Carrick,” I say.

  “It’s true what they said—you killed the monster of the Citadel, didn’t you?”

  “Within the month,” I repeat.

  Carrick rushes through the porthole and out of the hut. I take a deep breath.

  No going back now.

  The days pass even more slowly as I wait. I stew in my anger, pressing it down, letting it simmer. Carrick’s reneged on the promise, I think. I’ll have to kill him. I’m ready to lash out at anyone, anything. I’ve taken a step, but I want the thing finished already. I want to see my father’s eyes when he’s forced to face me. I meditate on the image every night; I chew on it every moment while stitching a laceration or resetting a bone.

  My healing gains the trust of the men and sparks their fear. Carrick has been sworn not to talk, but rumors of my stealing Faria’s mysterious skills abound. Coupled with Goth’s death, I’ve garnered a mystique. In the Wendigo, fear equals respect. Those who before would avoid me out of disgust, now do so out of a weird deference. I am not content with this, though. I want true power. My soul aches for it.

  “Don’t be anxious, Edmon,” Faria counsels. “There’s no way to hasten what’s coming. The opportunity will find you.”

  Before the month is out, there’s an accident in the mines. A small avalanche injures several Haulers, including Bruul Vaarkson, and the grizzled, stinking bear of a man slides into the healer’s hut.

  “Well, if it isn’t old Baldy Patch and the Black Tattoo. You’re moving up in the world, eh, sweet thing? You two would make a popular aquagraphic comedy duo, you know that?” The big Nightsider grins crookedly. “The boys insist I have you look at the old ankle. Just don’t try nuthin’ indiscreet with those delicate hands of yours, Baldy Patch. The Warden has my back and so does my gang.”

  I kneel and take hold of the man’s knee. I press into the pressure point in his thigh.

  “Hey, you . . . hey, it doesn’t hurt anymore,” Vaarkson says, astonished.

  I gently remove his boot and roll up the pant leg, revealing the purple swollen shinbone. The fracture is not compound or broken through the skin. Perfect. This won’t be too complicated.

  “It’s broken,” I say. “I’m going to reset the bone.” There’s a crack of ligaments and tendons as I place the bone into position. I reach into the medicine cabinet and pull out a sea-sponge liniment. I wrap the thick leg in the wet cloth, which hardens into a cast upon contact with skin.

  “You should take easier duty for the next few days. By then the cast should be strong enough to bear weight. It’ll naturally fall off once the bone’s fully healed.”

  Vaarkson smiles slyly. “Well done, Little Baldy.”

  “And now for payment.” I stare back.

  “Oh?” he mocks. “Little Baldy wants another roll in the ice?”

  “You once asked for an alliance,” I say calmly. “I accept. I’ll ally with the Haulers and serve only them.”

  “Is that so?” His wiry eyebrows arc with interest.

  “If the Haulers follow me as foreman.”

  His shocked face bursts into laughter.

  “You’ll be leader in name and wear the tattoo of the black fist on your neck, but you’ll take orders from me,” I say with deadly seriousness.

  His face turns hot. “You insolent—”

  My fingers tap a pressure point on his knee, releasing the flow of energy I’d diverted. Pain floods into his leg. He howls and grips his shin. “You son of a—”

  “Give me control of the Haulers or die.”

  Vaarkson stands even in his pain. He’s too weak to attack, but he rages just the same. “You’ve signed your warrant, Baldy Boy! Only one way to become foreman—kill the foreman of your assigned gang in a sanctioned duel. Wendigo code!” The rules of Combat echo even here, I think. “Challenge me, and you’ll know pain!”

  “Face me now then,” I respond calmly.

  Of course he does not. The disgusting lump slowly moves to the porthole.

  “Coward. I’ll be waiting when you’re ready,” I say. “By the way, Bruul,” I call out as he goes. “You’ll never be able to ‘claim’ anyone ever again. I’ve seen to that.”

  He looks at me with confusion, then spits venomously into the fire as he exits.

  “Nicely done. Your next move?” Faria asks from his corner.

  “Speak with Jinam Shank,” I reply.

  The bait has been set. The trap must be sprung.

  I wait weeks. So does Vaarkson. His leg heals, and I make myself more visible in the Wendigo. I take my food from the Ration Bar, I walk among the camps at night, and I make circuitous routes through the shantytown, always taking the same path home. I’m flaunting my reputation recklessly, daring him, but I no longer see predatory hunger in the Hauler foreman’s eyes. Instead, I see fear, and I smile to myself.

  I’ve taken his sexual function from him. Men are so easily disrupted. He feels helpless and unsure without it. He’ll find other ways to dominate his men, other outlets for his cruelty, but soon his terror and anger will get the better of him. I’m ready.

  News of the outside world reaches us through the first shipment of “new fish” distributed on the auction block in years. Some are thieves and cutthroats. Most, however, are political dissidents, protesters against the Pantheon and College of Electors.

  “Old Wusong has finally died,” they say, and my father has taken his throne. A man not of the line of the Great Song sits at the head of the great houses for the first time in over seven hundred years. House Wusong-Leontes is the newest bloodline among the Pantheon, though Miranda bears no son, and her “husband” is declared indisposed.

  Edric’s position is precarious. The younger genera
tion has also stepped into power. Hanschen of the Julii sits on the College of Electors. Perdiccus of Mughal has completed the rite of patricide, taken the title of Patriarch, and has been elected to his ancestral seat on the High Synod. Both oppose my father’s decisions at every turn. The wheels of government have halted. The friction is mere prelude to a coming conflagration; the common people are a powder keg sitting between the sparks.

  And I’m trapped in here, I think, fuming.

  Planetary weather patterns become more erratic. Crops and fish die. Shortage of work leaves the food lines interminable. Lowborns suffer and are restless and angry. The ranks of dissidents swell and so does the population of the Wendigo.

  “Something must be done!” the people cry.

  Some still look to the broken Pantheon for hope. Others put faith in a savior to lead them from the wasteland. My name’s still bandied about by some, but another bears the weight of undying adulation.

  The cult of Phaestion says the heir of Julii is immortal. They say his mother is a sea goddess his father was awarded by the ancestors after his victory in the arena. (That no one has ever seen Phaestion’s mother only gives this tale credence.) They say he’s the greatest warrior of his generation. Others that he is the Great Song reincarnated. They say he will win the Combat and bring a new golden age to Tao. To me it seems the Julii propaganda office has done well at bolstering its heir’s inevitable grab for power. Religious fervor often brings out the violence in the human soul.

  I can’t lose focus, I remind myself. Keep your mind on the task at hand.

  I walk to the Ration Bar and take my seat amid the gangs. I’m alone even in a crowd. There’s a tension in the air; I feel the whispers and furtive gazes as I eat. It’s happening now, I realize.

  I make my way past the Haulers’ table with purpose. I glance at the gang, including Bruul Vaarkson, with an unspoken challenge. Come and get me.

  I pass the table of Pickers and Jinam Shank. He looks nervous, his eyes shifting back and forth. I tap the table with my knuckles, the signal that was agreed upon. I can tell his stomach is churning. Shank’s not the type to upset the balance of things, though he’ll gladly take any reward as long as someone else does the heavy lifting.

  I move through the shantytown toward my hut and wait for the voice I know will come.

  “Edmon?”

  “What are you doing here, Toshi?”

  It’s just like Vaarkson to be so stupid as to send this slithering toad eel to me. Frankly, I’m surprised the scrawny man’s still alive. His strategy to survive through duplicity must be more advantageous than I thought.

  “Vaarkson is coming for you, tonight,” he murmurs. “Don’t go back to your hut.”

  “Vaarkson wouldn’t challenge me against The Warden’s orders,” I reply, brushing him aside.

  “He plans to take your life and ask questions later, Edmon. You’re still enough of a problem that any punishment The Warden gives won’t be so severe.”

  Toshi might be right. My father may have told The Warden not to kill me, but it doesn’t seem that he mentioned not harming me. Any way to pass my death off as unavoidable or not of his doing might be politically expedient. I’ve been raped and tortured since my first days here. Edric doesn’t want me protected; he wants me in pain.

  “The Haulers are too strong, and Vaarkson too entrenched as their leader. The Warden won’t remove them from power even if they disobey,” Toshi reasons.

  “That’s a lot of faith in one gang,” I retort.

  “Vaarkson has planned this for months. You won’t survive without my help.”

  I laugh. “Why would I take your help?”

  “I’ve betrayed you once,” he admits, “so trust my betrayal now. You wouldn’t have moved against Vaarkson unless you felt absolutely safe. You have something up your sleeve. I’m betting on you, but in return, I need assurance that when the storm settles—”

  “You’ll still be standing.” I stare at him, giving nothing away—yet.

  “We have a pact?” he asks.

  Indeed, I trust Toshi’s traitorous nature to seek the winning side, whichever he thinks that is. Unfortunately for him, I know I’m going to win.

  “Listen closely.” I put my arm over his shoulder. “Tonight, while the Haulers move against me, the Pickers will raid their camp, killing any left there. The Haulers will return to find corpses. The Pickers will then fall upon them unaware.”

  “Are you insane?” Toshi asks. “If you wipe out the Haulers completely, how will the system work? How will The Warden not seek retribution?”

  “He may select scapegoats, but there will be no evidence that the Pickers or I were behind it. He can’t afford to lose too many of us. The workforce will be partitioned to create a new Hauler Gang. A new foreman will be selected.”

  “A new foreman?” he inquires.

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Toshi,” I growl menacingly, and he shrinks. “Now be of service. We need a place to lay low while the attack happens.”

  “I know the best hiding spots in the Wendigo.”

  “I remember,” I agree.

  “This way.” He gestures. I follow him through the shantytown. We move swiftly to avoid prying eyes.

  “Where are we going?” I play dumb.

  “Shelter once, you shelter always.” Toshi grins.

  Vaarkson, you’re such a fool. “That place was no shelter for me.” I stop in my tracks. It isn’t a stretch to feign fear of returning to the scene.

  “No one will be there now. Trust me. They’re preparing their attack at the healer’s hut.”

  “No!” I walk away. I need to make it look good.

  “Edmon, if you go anywhere else, they’ll find you, and I’ll be dead.”

  He’s going to reveal he was trying to betray me again, in order to gain my trust.

  “They knew that you’d refuse me. Please. I was supposed to make sure that you went to the Ration Bar, where they could beset you with their main force. They’re waiting at your hut if I couldn’t convince you. The cavern is the only safe place, I swear!”

  I slam him to the ground. “I hear lies in your voice.” I smile menacingly, and he quivers underneath my grip. The power his fear gives me is intoxicating. “Speak another word and I’ll kill you.”

  This is why Vaarkson does what he does. It’s why my father is who he is. The rush of domination. The violence within awakening. I’m self-horrified, but right now, I need to become a horror. I glare through the back of Toshi’s skull.

  “Your plan will fail,” he says, sniveling. “There are no Haulers in camp tonight. The Pickers will find it deserted.”

  “Where are they?” I growl.

  “The cave!” he cries. “If you don’t go there, they have men ready to report on anywhere you roam. They’ll kill you wherever they find you. It doesn’t matter. You’re dead by morning. They’ve bought off Shank, too. They knew you were trying to form an alliance with him. The only difference is, if I fail to bring you, my life’s forfeit, too. I’ve no choice, Edmon. I didn’t then. I don’t now. I beg of you . . .”

  My stomach drops. I am alone. It doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

  “Take me to the cave,” I say. “Now.”

  “You’re going to let me live?”

  “If we survive tonight, I won’t kill you,” I say.

  “How are we going to survive?” he asks.

  “I’m not sure we are, Toshi.”

  The dead-end cavern. I’ve seen the place in my nightmares. Toshi shakes as he steps forward. The place is seemingly empty, and the silence only heightens his fear. I know we’re not alone, though. I can hear heartbeats. All of them.

  “The hammer falls, Baldy Patch.” The snarl bounces off the walls. Toshi and I turn to see Vaarkson at the head of his gang. They flood into the cavern from behind and surround us. The bear of a man steps forward gritting brown teeth at me. “I met you here once and had my way with you. I might have been content
with your humiliation, but you wouldn’t leave it alone. Now I’ll kill you.”

  “What’s wrong, Bruul?” I mock. “You don’t want to have me bent over for old time’s sake?” The big man shifts nervously. “Oh, you haven’t told the rest of your gang? Haven’t told them that you can no longer get it up for anyone?”

  There are murmurs within the ranks of Haulers. Vaarkson grabs me by my ragged furs. “What the hell did you do to me? I swear by the ancestors—”

  “Swear all you like.” I laugh. “You’ll never be able to harm anyone again.” I call out to the rest of his gang now. “Your foreman’s a limp dick piece of whale dung.” I tap my fingers against Vaarkson’s forearms, and his muscles involuntarily fire, releasing me from his grip. I back away and address the crowd. “He’s not fit to lead, but I am.”

  The crowd of Haulers bursts into laughter. “We’d never follow you as our foreman, outcast!”

  “Oh?” I ask. I raise my hand. At the signal, the Pickers, hidden on their lines and cables stolen from work lockers, rappel from the shadows above. They hang over the Hauler Gang, catching them unaware. Some Haulers make for the cavern exit, which is blocked by Jinam Shank and a handful of his strongest men.

  “This needn’t be settled by blood,” I call out. “Haulers, follow me, and you all live. All but one,” I say coldly and look at Vaarkson.

  “Son of a whore,” Vaarkson growls. “The Haulers will never follow you!”

  Nobody moves. The rivals hold shivs and chains toward one another in a deadly standoff.

  “Attack this twinkfish now!” Vaarkson screams. Again, nobody moves. “Why don’t you attack?” he screams.

  “They haven’t decided which of us is going to win,” I respond casually.