“Where is my family?” I ask through clenched teeth.
He is trembling uncontrollably, sweat pouring off of him and the base of his throat hammering wildly. “I-I'm sure they are with King Cadogan in Elian. T-that’s where he lives. It’s going to be named the new capital of Urth.”
“You don’t know that they’re alive?” I depress the tip of the blade a bit more.
“I-I don't know! They probably are. Until you are found or killed, he’ll probably let them live.”
I shake my head, disgust roiling in my gut.
“What about Prince Garan?” I ask.
“I-I don't know!” he replies nervously.
I sigh and tip my head to one side. I push the finely honed tip of the blade a bit. It has broken the skin but isn’t burrowed deep. “What good are you?” I ask in a dulcet voice that betrays the thinly harnessed rage I feel.
"Please Avery! We’re friends! Don't do this! Please don't kill me!” His voice is shrill and panic stricken. He has the audacity to believe he can claim to be my friend after all that he’s said. All that’s transpired.
I study his face for a long moment. I remember all the times he hugged my kids. Spoke to them. Played with them. “What did you say about sticking a blade into my children's hearts again?” I ask, my brow furrowed and my eyes narrowed.
“I-I was kidding! It was a joke! An act to throw the others off my trail! I was always on your side! I’m sorry for the joke. Please forgive me, friend.”
I stare at him long and hard. I remember meeting his wife and children. Meals shared with them. Pleasant words traded. And in the moments that I replay my interactions with him and his kin, I realize it is far too late for frail amends. It is time for vengeance. I handle him as any traitor should be handled and I stab my sword through his throat. I watch patiently as he makes wet burbling sounds and life slips from him.
“I don’t forgive you,” I whisper in his ear as he takes his final breath.
Sitting up, I scan the bar, straining to see out the filmy windows. Beyond the walls and beyond the pane of glass, the sound an engine rumbling can be heard in the distance. Lights approach. More Urthmen have arrived. I must slip out unseen and go in search of June, Prince Garan, Oliver, Lark, Riley and my friends. But first, I must find my family.
Chapter 6
The sound of tires screeching on pavement slices through the utter stillness that has befallen the bar. Gone is the clamor of bodies colliding with one another, ragged breaths and weapons striking. And so is the silence of death that followed. Like a high-pitched scream of a wounded animal, the arrival of the Urthmen has been announced. They are upon me.
Cautioning from beyond the flimsy walls of Vox, light from their headlights pours into the space like molten steel, blanching the macabre scene all around me in a chalky hue. The bright light temporarily disorients me. I crouch, concealing my form beneath the bar and staying close to the interior wall, but not before chancing a glimpse beyond the window pane, straining to see that five large trucks have arrived. All filled with Urthmen.
My eyes water from the intense glow and my breath catches in my chest. Squatting beside Mim’s corpse with my sword held close to my body, his lifeless eyes almost smile, mocking my predicament. If I could kill him again for the expression he wears I would. But time doesn’t allow for me to so much as roll him over. The thin wooden door separating me from the Urthmen is only locked at the handle, not with a deadbolt. They wouldn’t even need a battering ram to get through it, just one among them with a well-placed, solid kick and they’d have access.
Within seconds, pounding at the door ensues. It pauses only when a grating voice beyond it grinds, “Mim! Open up! We know she’s in there! It was radioed in!” The incessant knocking resumes.
The Urthman who called out tries the handle. “Mim! Have you secured her?”
“Mim!” Another screams.
You’d think that after the first question went unanswered and Mim didn’t rush to the door to let them in they’d have figured that perhaps Mim was either maimed or dead. But no. Ever the buffoons they’ve always been, they continue to ask asinine questions of a man who has his throat severed right beside me.
“Can you hear me?” the first one shouts. “Do you need help?”
“Mim? Are you okay in there?” the other asks.
I’d laugh if my life hadn’t transformed from peace to a swirling vortex of carnage in a matter of hours, and if it weren’t in jeopardy at the moment. Neither is laughable. Especially now that a glimmer of hope exists that Sully and the children live.
My gaze sweeps the bar, skimming every wall in search of a way out, until a loud thwack against the front door sends a bolt of terror screaming through my body. Another strike lands against the wood with force, a single hit that sticks briefly then lands again.
An ax.
They’re swinging an ax against the door.
Any second now they’ll breach the rickety wood and swarm.
Scrambling to my feet, I take off, careful to remain as low as possible. I hop over Mim’s dead body and move as quickly as I can to the rear of the pub. Stepping over bodies, the metallic stench of blood mingles with sweat and alcohol. The stink is cloying and feels as if it clings to my nasal passages. My clothes. My skin. The stew I ate hours earlier threatens to spew. But I force myself to keep from being sick. Force back the lightheadedness and fear that darkens the edges of my vision. I need to keep going. I know an exit has to exist somewhere, likely in the back of the kitchen. I hope an exit exists there.
Racing through a set of swinging doors, I step inside the kitchen. Gingerly at first, I remain crouched and vigilant, my eyes searching the immediate area first before inspecting the perimeter. I do not see Urthmen encroaching. If a door exists, they haven’t located it. Yet. I need to get to it before they do. I need to escape this tavern and find Sully and the children.
Sliding a foot in front of me, I dart forward, half-expecting an ambush. When none occurs, I find myself standing in the center of what would typically be a busy work station. A multiple-burner range is to my left. Sauté pans and tongs sit atop it with uncooked food still inside. Whomever was in charge of it left it in favor of joining the mob that tried to kill me. Opposite the range and uncooked food is a prep area with multiple ingredients sitting on top of a smoothed block of thin wood that is scored from cutting and chopping various vegetables. I walk the narrow space between the two stations and pass a grill and twin fryers before I reach a back room where grains are stored. Beyond the grains and at the rear of the room is an exit. My muscles twitch, the want to race headlong through it and out into the night burgeoning. But I can’t. The vicinity is undoubtedly crawling with Urthmen. Especially after hearing mention that they were cognizant that “she” was there, and that the hope was that “she” had been subdued. The “she” to whom they refereed was me. And clearly Mim or someone in the bar had radioed in as soon as I arrived. But why? Why would a local barkeep be given a radio to collude with the regime that overthrew King Garan? Had those who assumed power been studying my activity so intensely and for so long that they knew I’d flee Cassowary and head to Vox? Or did they simply know that if I lived, I’d eventually turn up at Vox, counting on Mim as a friend and looking to him for support? The question is one I can’t answer. As much as I’d like to know how they found me, the only part of the equation that matters is not how they knew, but how I am going to get to safety. How I’m going to get out of Vox. Out of Tyr.
Filling my lungs with air, I take a deep breath to calm the panic creeping into my core. As I exhale, I spot a small, rectangular window which sits beside the door. Boxes are stacked in front of it, blocking it. I missed it upon first inspection. Now, however, I see it. I rush to it and peer beyond it. And what I see is just a darkened landscape. The area around the back of Vox appears to be clear.
Heartened slightly, I open the door and rush through it, out into the chilly air just as the thunderous boom of the front explod
ing inward echoes through the pub. The sound of wood splintering and the shards crashing to the floor is immediately followed by a rush of footsteps and raised voices.
I do not stick around to hear what they say, I dash out and freeze dead in my tracks as two Urthmen clad in olive uniforms not dissimilar to what King Garan’s men wore, round the corner of Vox. They spot me and my heart freezes mid-beat before setting off at a gallop. The soldier nearest the building reaches for the transponder holstered at his hip, preparing to call the cavalry and tell them they’ve found me while the other sets about unsheathing his sword. In the space of a breath, I lunge, thrusting my blade forward and stabbing the Urthman with the transponder in the throat and silencing the call before he can make it. The Urthman with him turns, shouting and warning the others in front of Vox. “She’s back here! We found her!” he yells as he starts to run.
Chasing after him, I push my legs as hard as I can, catching up to him quicker than I thought. I attack, extending my arm forward and driving my blade through his back. The Urthman stumbles forward a few steps before collapsing to the ground. I advance and can’t see the street but hear footfalls and voices coming from both the front of the building and the rear. Nearly a dozen Urthmen are closing in from behind and far more wait in front of Vox. Pulse hammering and thoughts racing, I have nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. I’m without a plan. I’m trapped.
I cannot overcome more than thirty armed Urthmen.
I will die here and now.
Clutching my sword in front of me with two hands, I make my way to the street. I will battle with honor. I will not turn and run and die in the back alley of an Urthman pub.
I hold my sword out in front of me readying for my last stand.
As my foot hits the dirt and gravel road, Urthmen take notice. They ready themselves to either kill or capture me until their attention is diverted by a sound. A noise rips through the night, loud and as guttural as the roar of a beast. All heads—including my own—swivel toward it.
No far away, a trio of motorized vehicles growl and bound from a nearby street like feline predators, snarling before the engines whine and they race down the road. Barreling straight for us, they devour pavement, the distance between the three bikes and us shrinking fast. The closer they draw, the better I can make out that the men who straddle the motorcycles are human men.
Gunning the engines and aiming for us, I vaguely make out that one of the riders screams a profanity as he hefts a sword over his head. I dive out of his path seconds before his front tire nearly mows down the Urthman beside me. The Urthman tries to dive out of the way and manages to escape being run down, but doesn’t escape the rider’s blade. Slashed at the gut, he twists, gripping the side that was opened by the razor-sharp sword. All around me, dust swirls in time with the incessant whine of motorcycle engines as the riders circle quickly, taking down Urthmen before they can react. Dizzying and deafening, I struggle to focus. Only the chrome pieces of the bikes reflect the lights of the Urthmen trucks, along with the weapons the riders wield.
In an instant, two of the motorcycles zip away, whizzing out of sight in the blink of an eye. My stomach bottoms out as I watch the last one circle the edge of the Urthmen soldiers. I expect him to take off, as well, but am shocked when, as he is about to pass me, he slows to a stop.
From just a few feet away he yells over the engine, “Come on!” He gestures for me to get on the back of the bike.
Rushing toward him as fast as I can, I throw my leg over the rear portion of the seat.
“Hold on!” he shouts. He twists the handle on the right and the bike responds immediately, lurching forward and rocketing with a shrill whine. We shoot forward, leaving Vox and all of the Urthmen behind.
The two motorcycles that accompanied him are already at the end of the street. Revving their engines for several moments, they blast forward once we catch up with them, kicking up dust and smoke as they charge ahead.
All three bikes take off into the night, speeding at a rate I never dreamed possible. I don't know who these men are or why they chose to rescue me from certain death, but they are human. Right now, I fear humans are the only people I can come close to trusting. My faith in Urthmen is lost. My hope for peace is shattered. My only hope is to find Sully, John, Willian and June alive.
Chapter 7
Wind howls through my hair, jerking my head backward. Whipping like a banner behind me, it feels as if every last strand will be yanked from my scalp. The rush of air sends debris and bugs hurling at my face. I struggle to keep my eyes open despite how gritty they feel when open. I lower my head but do not dare rest my cheek or any part of me against the rider’s back. As close as I am, I can smell that he hasn’t bathed in some time. Not that his hygiene matters in the least at the moment. He saved my life. I am alive because of him.
Clutching his waist with one hand while the other grips my sword, I peek and stare beyond the rider. The long stretch of road, bordered by dense woodlands on either side, rushes at me in a dizzying, kaleidoscopic flash. Trees and brush blur, assuming distorted, skeletal shapes, and the star-dappled sky is a nebulous haze. At any given moment, I fear and expect to see Urthmen trucks in the distance, blocking the roadway. But after a long stretch of time passes, that fear dissipates. And once the driver slows and guides the bike toward the shoulder of the highway, cautiously, moving us through a gap in the thicket, a fear of Urthmen finding us has faded altogether.
The rider keeps the motorcycle on a dirt path parallel to the road on which we just traveled until the path splits and we venture deeper into the forest. He and the other riders are headed for a specific location. One which may house more humans. Though it was believed that every human being had migrated to one of the three cities and townships, the possibility of small villages surviving beyond them exists.
Jerked and jolted on the back of the bike as the rider navigates terrain that becomes increasingly rough, the hope that more humans await me intensifies. The motorcycles pull into a small clearing around which a settlement of shacks are positioned. Made primarily of corrugated tin and wood, the metal walls are rusted from exposure to rain, sun and snow, warped wooden planks that serve as doors are weather beaten. The scent of urine and feces, burning trash and the ash of hooves and horns after incineration is cloying. I can’t decide which induces less nausea: breathing through my nose or my mouth. Both seem determined to make me wretch. Since my stomach is empty, dry heaving would be the most likely outcome. I’d prefer to do neither. These men, despite their lack of hygiene and choice of living arrangements, saved me from the Urthmen. To lose the contents (or lack thereof) of my stomach would be beyond insulting. These people prevented me from getting killed. I will myself to remain calm and not puke as we slow to a stop and the riders cut off their engines.
The bike teeters a bit beneath me. The rider and I both place our legs on the ground to balance it before a kickstand is utilized. The weight of the motorcycle leans against it and he and I climb off of it. The other riders have already dismounted and stand staring at us. I can’t explain why, but it feels as if they’re waiting for something. Can they see it in my face that I’m revolted by the stink? I wonder.
Clearing my throat, I straighten my posture. “Thank you so much for what you did,” I start by saying to the rider who brought me here. “You saved my life.”
As of yet, I haven’t seen much of his face. With a swath of cloth covering all but his eyes, his nose, mouth and neck have been covered. He removes the bandana to reveal a scraggly beard that reaches the middle of his chest and a nose with a prominent, slightly bent bridge. Wiry, unkempt hair falls past his shoulder, matted and with clumps of leaves imbedded in it. His dark, closely-set eyes study me. An air of expectance hangs heavily in the atmosphere. I shift uncomfortably, unsure of what more needs to be said.
After a long moment, he parts his lips and breaks the uncomfortable silence. “Not a problem,” he says. He moves to his left and, with dirt-caked hands, expertly lights
a fire. Rocks surround the fire pit and kindling that was dried and ready for lighting sparks to life immediately. Before long, amber light laps at the dark, casting a brighter glow than the moonlight. It is then that I see that all of the men are clothed in filthy garments. Each of them has a long beard and knotted hair.
“I'm Ed,” the rider I arrived with says. “This is Earl and Tom.” He introduces the other two men and again, he stands looking at me expectantly. I realize I haven’t shared my name and he’s likely waiting for it.
“Hi Ed, Earl and Tom. I'm Avery,” I say and watch as they trade glances. “Did I miss something?” I ask and feel the faintest whisper of anxiousness pull the muscles between my shoulder blades taut.
“Uh, we’re aware of who you are,” Ed says. He makes a sound that’s neither a chuff nor a chuckle. Unsettling as any sound I’ve ever heard, that anxious feeling multiples when both Earl and Tom join in.
When the laughter stops abruptly, the conversation is offhand. “What happened to Mike?” Tom asks. He swipes a clump of frizzy hair off his brow and opens a satchel at his waist. In it are a pair of rabbits. He squats and flings their limp bodies to the ground before he unsheathes a small blade and begins skinning them.
“He was with us as we set out for Tyr,” Ed replies. “I don't know what happened.” He shrugs. “They must’ve gotten him.”
I assume the “they” to which he refers are the Urthmen and am surprised by how inconsequential the death of this person Mike is to all of them. Not one among them seems surprised or sad in the least. It’s just business as usual.
“Are you hungry, Avery?” Ed asks without another mention of Mike.
The last meal I ate was several hours ago. After many miles traveled on foot, my stomach is empty, though I wonder how I’d manage to eat given the odor of this makeshift village. In addition to the stench of urine, feces, burning trash and the ash of horns and hooves, the smell of fetid meat intermingles as I draw closer to the metal and wood dwellings. My stomach rumbles. I need to eat to have energy for whatever lies ahead. Reluctantly, I admit, “I’m starving.”
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