Peregrin

by A. Sparrow

  “They got away, up the hill,” said Frank.

  Liz came rushing over, and dropped to her hands and knees. “Oh Jeez, he looks bad,” she said falling down onto her hands and knees. She kissed Bimji’s cheek. Bimji’s eyes popped open and he smiled.

  “Frank, Tom needs help, too.” she said. “I think his skull is cracked.”

  “It sure is,” said Frank. “But Liz … He’s … he’s not …” Frank didn’t know what to say or how to say it.

  Liz scurried back to Tom’s side. “Fucking hell,” said Liz, placing her ear gently against Tom’s chest. She burst back upright. “He’s not breathing. He stopped breathing. Frank, you gotta come here, he needs CPR!”

  Frank tore himself away from Bimji’s side and walked across the gravel in a daze. Tom lay limp and still. Frank’s vision refracted from the wetness welling up in his eyes. His heart plunged with dread.

  Liz looked at him, her eyes wide and expectant.

  Tom’s scalp was soaked with blood that had leaked into the gravel. This could be his boy, their boy, he knelt beside. Their dead boy. But he couldn’t let himself be engulfed. Bimji still needed his help.

  He looked back to Liz to see that all of the last ditch hope that had been there before had drained out of her face. She knew.

  Ellie, meanwhile, had pulled up Bimji’s shirt to reveal a neat little puncture wound centered below his sternum. She gasped and went to her mother, burying her face against Liz’s shoulder.

  The puncture explained the bleeding from Bimji’s mouth. There was no hissing or bubbling. It had probably punctured his esophagus or stomach, and not his lungs. It didn’t bleed much to the outside, but God knows what was happening internally. Nothing Frank could fix without major surgery. He struggled with how and whether to tell Liz.

  Liz settled down beside him, and took Bimji’s hand.

  “Any chance he …?”

  Frank shrugged.

  Bimji looked at them. “This one … is a good man, Lizbet,” he said. “Go with him. It is his time now … his turn.”

  “Oh shush, Bimjibrun,” said Liz. “We’re all gonna rebuilt that farm. All of us.”

  “Tom …?” said Bimji, stirring, craning to look down the trail to where Tom lay.

  “He’s gonna be fine,” said Liz. “He’s … just knocked out.”

  Bimji relaxed. “That’s … good.” He closed his eyes.

  “I am so sorry,” said Tezhay, walking over with one of the Cuerti horses that he had stripped of its identifying armor. “But … they need me down there. The battle commences.”

  “Go on, Tezhay,” said Frank. “Give ‘em hell. Good luck.”

  Tezhay lingered, staring.

  “What? What is it?” said Frank.

  “You still have time … to cross,” said Tezhay.

  Frank’s face hardened. He gave his head a brisk shake and went back to tending Bimji’s wounds.

  ***

  Frank repaired the severed artery in Bimji’s shoulder. He did a half-assed job, but got it stopped enough to clot. He loosened the tourniquet slightly and sutured the wound. He had Ellie replace the IV bag but worried that Bimji was losing blood too fast from his stomach wound to maintain a viable blood pressure. His fears were confirmed when Bimji collapsed into shock before he even got the laceration closed.

  At that point, anything Frank did for him was just for show, but he went through the motions, tracking his vital signs, mopping the seepage from the wads of gauze covering his stomach wound.

  Bimji passed with Ellie and Liz nestled into either shoulder, sobbing. Frank got up and paced, between his twin failures. The sounds of battle carried up the hillside. He glanced repeatedly to make sure no more of the damned Cuerti would be visiting them.

  Tom and Misty had climbed out of view up the trail. The mule Tezhay had ridden stood tethered to a dead tree, grazing on sedges.

  Frank sat down on a protruding rib of stone beside Tom’s body and lowered his head into his hands. He felt vacant, a cicada husk, without aspirations, prospects or purpose.

  He studied Tom’s waxy features closely. That nose. It wasn’t Frank’s or Liz’s exactly, but he had seen it before on someone in his family, or on someone he knew.

  “You should go Frank,” said Liz. “Don’t let us stop you. Go on, and go home.”

  “What?” said Frank, raising his head slowly.

  “It was nice seeing you. Really, it was. But you should go.”

  “I ain’t going nowhere,” said Frank. “I got nowhere to go.”

  “Sounded to me like you’ve got a life back there. Your … fancy restaurants. Your … whatever.”

  “I don’t need that shit,” said Frank. “I just … wanted it … for you.”

  Liz looked back at him in a tear-drenched fog, struggling to compose herself. Ellie lay curled in the grass, arm draped around her dead father.

  “You’ll … help us, then?” she said. “Get them off the trail, someplace quiet, out of sight?”

  “Of course,” said Frank.

  Liz rose up and wiped her face on her blouse. “Kind of Mr. Tezhay to leave that mule for us. We’ll have to make a skid. Take them to … the … the … barrows.” She teared up again, fought to control it but lost the battle and collapsed to her knees, wailing.

  Frank went to her, knelt down and took her into his arms, and spilled his own tears in spasms emanating from deep within his gut.

  “Why are you crying so?” said Liz, her tone puzzled.

  “You’re … my wife, and you hurt,” said Frank. “Bimji … was my spouse-brother. And Tom was … Tom …” He couldn’t say it.

  She clutched and released the fabric of his jacket sleeve in a slow rhythm.

  “I need to know,” blurted Frank. “Is he my son?”

  “What?” She seemed startled by the question.

  “You need to tell me. Tom … is he my son?”

  “What difference does it make?” said Liz, her voice warbling, her eyes focused on a spot of air in front of Frank’s face, a spot that might as well have been a million light years away.

  “I need to know,” said Frank. “It would help me … I would know how to feel … exactly.”

  Liz waited till the tremors subsided in her chest, for the calm between the aftershocks.

  “He’s …” Her gaze remained fixed on that distant place. “Leo’s.”

  Frank stared past her, at the shadows lengthening behind the barrows. If he had presumed the revelation would make him feel any better, then he was dead wrong.

  Chapter 57: The Pass

  Misty was a weeping, babbling mess. Miles had to cajole and drag her up the trail. She missed seeing the blow that took down Tom, but freaked when she witnessed that sword cut Bimji to the turf. She only regained her composure when they passed a hump in the slope that shielded the massacre from view.

  Out of nowhere, AK fire cut the silence. “See Mist? Someone came to help them. Someone with a gun. Maybe they’re okay.”

  “They’re most definitely not okay!” said Misty. “I saw Bimji get stabbed.”

  “Frank’s a doctor,” said Miles. “If anyone’s hurt, he’ll take care of them. You saw what he did for Tom.”

  “Bimji … he got cut bad. And there was someone else layin’ there. I couldn’t tell who.”

  “Not much we can do about it,” said Miles.

  “We can go back,” said Misty.

  “There’s no time. This thing will be opening soon. You do want to go home, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know anymore,” said Misty. “I guess.”

  “Oh, come on, Mist. The others … they’ll catch up with us.” Her eyes flickered. He could see that she thought that was a bunch of hooey. “And if not, they can pass the next time this thing opens. It’s not like this is a one shot deal.”

  He got her going, playing on the fear that whatever happened to the family could happen to them if they didn’t keep moving. Not the most comforting tact, but it did the trick.<
br />
  She collapsed to her knees when they reached the top of the pass, gazing forlornly back into the valley. Miles’ leg muscles felt as inert as sacks of sand. He lowered himself onto a step of brown basalt, capping a layer of lighter-colored stone.

  He checked his phone. The display showed five solid bars of reception, but the battery was on its last legs.

  Miles sighed. “Should have kept it off more.” He powered it down.

  A stubby spike of a mountain separated the two lobes of the pass. They rested atop a flat space about the size of a baseball diamond that sloped down to merge with the lower lobe. The cliffs to the right led down to the cirque and its tarn.

  Miles looked askance at the cliff. “They’ve got to be kidding us. It’s supposed to be between the lake and this pass. But look at the size of that drop. What is that … like a thousand feet?”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Misty. “It can’t be more than a hundred.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “What’s this thing supposed to look like?” said Misty, mustering minimal enthusiasm.

  “Um … I don’t know … a rock.”

  “I see plenty of those around here.”

  Miles smirked. “If it’s anything like mine, it’s a special kind of rock. A chalcopyrite. The one I had was swirling with colors. I mean like purple and turquoise and splashes of gold.”

  “You owned one of these?”

  “I did … at one time.”

  “Don’t see anything like that here,” said Misty, looking about.

  “No, because it’s probably on the fucking side of that cliff,” said Miles. “According to Tezhay.”

  “So … we need to climb down?” said Misty.

  “Um.” Miles looked down and blanched. The cliff stepped down a series of ledges, and then plunged nearly vertically to the tarn below. He gasped for breath. “Jeezus! Why’d they have to go and stick it down there?”

  “What’s wrong?” said Misty.

  “Nothing. This is just … really high up.”

  “I can climb it,” said Misty. “No problem.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. No big deal.”

  “Careful, though. Looks kind of … exposed.”

  Misty scrunched her nose. “Oh, it’s not that bad.” She worked her way down the knobs and chinks of the first ledge.

  “If you find it, maybe you can bring up here,” said Miles.

  Misty paused and scrunched her face. “Is it that portable?”

  “Mine was,” said Miles. “I mean, it should be just a rock … when it’s not smoking.”

  “Smoking?”

  “Well, more like fog. A cold fog.”

  “Okay,” she said, sounding unsure. She paused on the first ledge and looked up. Something shifted in her face, a subtle improvement of mood. “If it’s just a rock … maybe we can bring it down to Liz and those guys. Right?”

  “I mean, we could,” said Miles. “If …”

  “If what?”

  Miles couldn’t bring himself to tell her that they might all be lying in a bloody heap at the base of the mountain, but she intuited what he was thinking.

  “You think they might not be … alive?”

  “Dunno,” said Miles. “But we can try … um, what you suggested.”

  Misty continued down to the next ledge. A blast of wind funneling through the pass riffled Miles’ shirt and flapped the cuffs of his trousers. He jammed his hands in his pockets and drew his elbows in tight.

  Hooves clacked against stone. A rider appeared on the trail below, looking a bit wobbly in his saddle. His helmet was cracked and his face was smeared with blood.

  Miles fell to his knees and leaned over the edge of the drop, projecting a whisper. “Misty, there’s someone coming. I think it’s one of those guys.”

  “One of what guys?”

  “Those blue riders. He looks … hurt.”

  “Good,” she said, eyes pinching. “Hurt him some more, will ya?”

  “He’s … coming this way.”

  “Want me come up?”

  “No. Stay down. I don’t think he sees me.”

  Miles sank lower, belly to the ground below a step in the brownish stone that capped the cliffs. The rider pulled a metal canteen from his saddle and swished some water in his mouth and spat it out. He rinsed the blood from his eyes. His armor looked fancier and bulkier than that of the men he and Tom had fought from Liz’s cliff.

  Misty called up, but Miles couldn’t make out what she had said.

  “Shush,” he hissed back at her. “He’s closeby.”

  “What?” she said, louder.

  “Don’t yell!” The blue rider’s gaze snapped in his direction. He had been spotted.

  “Oh shit.” He backed away and lowered himself partway down the first ledge.

  “There’s something here,” said Misty. “Like a bulge in the air, and I see trees inside. It’s happening!”

  “Go!” said Miles. “Go through it!”

  “I … can’t,” said Misty. “It’s nudging me away.”

  “That means it’s not ready. It should suck you right it in when it really opens up.”

  The rider trotted towards him warily, as if anticipating an ambush.

  Miles forced himself to look down. Misty had climbed down farther than he could imagine himself going, clinging to the side of a vertical face. A bubble of mist, confined as if by glass protruded from the cliff face like a snow globe. The ghosts of baby pines hovered within. She sidled closer to the edge of the bubble and extended her hand to touch it.

  “Wait … it’s starting to pull,” she said. “It’s strong. Real strong.”

  Metal-clad hooves skittered on stone. The blue rider approached in a rush, pulling up abruptly upon noticing the precipice. His horse skidded, showering Miles with pebbles. He shouted something sharp and guttural, his words like projectiles. He dismounted and pulled a crossbow from a sheath attached to his horse’s armor and pointed it at Miles.

  Miles flinched and lost his grip. He slid down to the first ledge, and rolled, picking up momentum on the beveled shelf.

  “I can’t hold back,” said Misty. “It’s sucking me in … it’s—” A sound like a leaping lunker of a bass splashing back into a lake swallowed Misty’s voice.

  Miles tumbled over the edge and began to plunge through open air. Heaps of toothy boulders lined the shore of the tarn below him. The blue rider clicked the release of his crossbow.

  Chapter 58: Relief

  As the six Crasacs wound their way slowly up the side of the bluff, Canu readied a stone in the leather pocket of his sling.

  “We can ambush them,” said Vul. “Whittle them down with our crossbows and then take them on with swords.”

  “Don’t be ludicrous,” said Par. “Two against six is … terrible odds.”

  “Three,” Canu called down. “You forgot me.”

  Pari threw a dismissive glance. “You don’t count, stuck up there on your perch.”

  “What else can we do?” said Vul. “We’ve no place to run.”

  “We hide,” said Pari, scrambling onto a stack of fallen basaltic columns. “Under here.”

  Vul relented. Crossbows strung, they retreated deep within the boulder caves to wait for the first Crasac to poke his head in the wrong hole.

  The Crasacs topped the ridge. Canu lay as low as a man atop a towering pinnacle can lay, watching them swarm across the rubble, wishing he had brought a bow with him, something more potent than his pathetic sling. He fully expected to watch his friends be ferreted out like rats, and then it would be his turn to be harried and besieged.

  All six knelt in unison before the pinnacle, pressing forehead to stone in prayer to this natural, phallic manifestation of Cra. They didn’t come to fight, they came to worship.

  The sight made Canu giggle. To him it looked like they were praying to him, Canuchariol. A less humble man might have risen up and given these Crasacs a bow. Canu was sorely tem
pted rise and lower his trousers to them.

  But he showed better judgment than usual, melding his body against a groove of stone, and waiting until the Crasacs rose to their feet and descended to the meadow where the siege ladders continued to disgorge a steady flow of combatants.

  The enemy flowed around the pinnacle like a stream around a boulder. The forces were not yet fully engaged, as they continued to maneuver. But while the militia and the Nalkies had all of their pieces on the game board, the Venep’o continued to add units until what had seemed a stand-off was looking more and more like a mismatch.

  Vul and Pari remained in hiding long after the worshiping Crasacs had gone. Canu hurled a rock down to get their attention and let them know that all was clear. He almost struck Vul with the second stone when the first failed to generate a response.

  Vul and Pari came back to the pillar and ensconced themselves within the fluted wall where they would be less likely to be spotted by someone on the meadows. Pari had tucked the mirror away. To use it now, surrounded by enemy would be suicide.

  “Why don’t you get down from there?” said Pari. “Before you slip and fall.”

  “I think … I’ll stay,” said Canu.

  He knew the Venep’o would eventually come to mop them up. Pari and Vul could opt to be taken prisoner if they wanted, if the Crasacs even bothered to take prisoners, but Canu had other plans.

  “Then tell us what’s happening, at least,” said Vul. “We can’t tell from down here. It’s all chaos.”

  Canu scanned the battlefield from the siege ladders to the enemy scouts negotiating the roots of the mountains. High above the fray, he had a view of the battle that any general would kill for.

  He noticed a small party standing apart from the Crasac assault blocks that were forming up in the meadows. It was obviously a command center with Cuerti guards and arrays of flags and mirrors for signaling. One of the signal operators looked too familiar.

  “Hoho! It’s the old man. The Mercomar master. I see he’s landed on his feet.”

  “Rabelmani?” said Vul. “You see him?”

  “Has to be him,” said Canu. “I recognize that slouch.” He pulled out his sling and whipped a stone in his directions, but the wind swallowed it and he lost it in the void. It splatted harmlessly in the sodden grass.

  Three blocks of Crasacs began to march. “Oh! They’re … attacking!”

  “Who?” said Vul.

  “Who else?”