Mercy (Deridia Book 1)

by Catherine Miller

  Even if he had carried her more than half the time, as had been their bargain, but he tried to quell his rising petulance.

  Prim followed him unquestioningly as he led her toward first the stream, then beyond. It took him a moment to orient himself, fairly confident of the location he sought, though it had been many cycles since last he had been there. Relief filled him as he found the correct spot, though wariness came in equal measure. The tree had long since fallen, its tall stump a reminder of how large it had been in life. Now it was hollowed by doubtlessly ravenous insects, vibrant splashes of moss and fungi decorating the decaying wood. His faeder had chosen it long ago to hide the remnants of his wife’s coming, bits of metal and strange fragments gathered and deposited here, hidden away and yet not wholly forgotten.

  “Is this it?” Prim asked, eyeing the tree strangely. He could not tell if she was excited or perhaps cautious of what she would find—or not find—within, but he nodded all the same. He had tried to temper her expectations. She could not claim that he had not.

  He pulled back a low hanging sheet of moss and beckoned her forward. There was no point in her eyeing its contents from afar.

  Prim did not creep, did not appear overly nervous even though the contents of the tree held the last chance to offer aid to her people. The metal bits were much as he remembered them. The moss did not seem able to cling to the slick surfaces, and he was a little surprised at how the debris shone even now. For refuse, it preserved itself well.

  She pulled out each object, turning it this way and that before she would set it down and examine the next. There was more than he recalled, and as he watched her, her brow furrowed in concentration, he found himself wondering what she saw. Could these bits truly be enough to propel a person through the sky? He had trouble believing it even now, but he kept such doubts to himself.

  Prim spent a particularly long time with an oddly shaped piece. It coiled about itself, almost like a hissing colnass, though the rest of it was unremarkable. Her fingers drifted over each line, each curve, assessing and almost memorising its every feature.

  “Well?” he finally asked, no longer able to bear the silence.

  And when she looked at him, her eyes were shining.

  And he knew then that they would not be returning home.

  26. Mercy

  It was always strange to him how the mists refused to touch the Wastes. He supposed it was the heat, ever trapped within the sands, blistering and encompassing, that kept them so wholly away.

  It was night before they departed for Mercy, Rykkon unwilling to venture there without the cover of darkness to aid their way as well. The mists clearly made Prim nervous, and he was reminded that her eyesight was poorer than his own, and even he found some of the trek a bit difficult with the fog so thick. He did not travel with a light, and Prim huddled close, her grip on his hand a vice. But she did not waver, did not suggest that they return home—not when she was so certain that they were doing rightly.

  The tunnels were darker still, but the mists did not invade them, allowing Rykkon to lead more steadily.

  “It’s like when we first met,” Prim whispered, her voice only wavering slightly and betraying her nervousness. “We couldn’t have a lantern then either.”

  Rykkon grimaced. “I had forgotten that this part was challenging for you. I should have thought to bring one.”

  Prim tripped over a bit of bone, some subterranean creature clearly having met its end long ago. He steadied her quickly, and she let out a shaky breath. “We’ll remember next time.”

  Rykkon glanced at her, and could just make out the way her face shuttered, clearly remembering that if they were successful, there would be no time in the future.

  She would either say goodbye to them, her strange coil proving useful in the escape of her people, or she would petition him to join them. To leave.

  He tried to remind himself that she would not, that she knew her place was with him and always would be, but a part of him still questioned—still wondered if this would be the day when she would choose to leave him. He was no fool. He offered her little besides shelter and his companionship. But there was no welcoming community, no females who had yet shown willing to befriend her. Could he truly be enough?

  He did not ask her, did not wish to hear her assurances that he knew would not be enough. He would simply be glad when they were returning home, his wife beside him, her people safe and gone.

  They walked on in silence, through the tunnels and out into the sands. It was still hot, at least to his own skin, and he watched Prim remove her fur wrap and tuck it into her satchel, the coil safely held within. “I didn’t think I’d ever miss anything about this place,” Prim told him, taking a moment to breathe in deeply. “But it’s almost nice to be so warm again.”

  He thought her quite insane, as there was nothing pleasant about the oppressive nature of the Wastes, but he would not argue with her—though he made note that he should make her another wrap in case the one was insufficient to keep away the chill.

  The light was greater here, the stars bright and full, the Wastes absent of clouds or mists to mar the way. Prim seemed able to see well enough for she took a step forward, but Rykkon caught her arm before she could move very far.

  “We are not going to simply walk into the camp,” he informed her.

  She looked at him curiously. “We won’t? It’s not like they’d do anything to you. They’re smarter than that.”

  He doubted that quite a bit, as he was certain a few of their males would take advantage of a lone Arterian, no other warriors there to help promote the use of their manners. “If you walk into the camp and they hear talk of invaders, do you think many will remain calm enough to listen?”

  Prim frowned. “Probably not.” She huffed a little, her eyes straying in the direction of the camp. The edge could just be made out, the sparse line of trees showing just their very tips. “What do you have in mind?”

  Hearing Prim’s description of her living quarters and seeing it for himself were vastly different things. For the first time, he could appreciate how luxurious his house must have seemed to her, everything tidy and well kempt. A home.

  The dwellings they passed were little more than the fur shelter he had constructed during their travels. Though they had no furs, only cloth, but Prim directed them to a strange metal tube that could be seen peeping out from amongst larger tents.

  Their leader resided there, or so Prim said.

  They moved quietly, staying to the shadows. Prim explained that many of them were awake, but they would be out combing the Wastes at this time rather than huddling about fires in an effort for merrymaking. He had been surprised at that—it had not occurred to him that they would do their hunting for hasarts any time other than in full daylight, but he supposed it would be easier to sleep away the heat of the day then to attempt much physical exertion.

  There was much he obviously had not thought to ask about her life here.

  “Are there any who rest with him?” Rykkon asked, his hand holding his blade. He hoped he would not be forced to use it, but he would not be risking either of their lives this night.

  Prim hesitated. “I don’t... know. He doesn’t have a wife, but I don’t know if there’s... anybody else.”

  Rykkon felt his mouth press into a line of distaste, and he was glad she could not see it. She knew well what he thought of most of her people and their ways, and there was little purpose in pointing it out yet again.

  They breached the exterior tent, the inside a bit nicer than he expected. Strips of cloth had been knotted and tied to form primitive coverings on the floor, though there was little else that was identifiable furniture. But it was clear that effort had been made, and Rykkon was pleased to note that their leader had at least some care for his dwelling.

  He drifted closer to the metal tube, larger and more imposing than it had been from afar. There was an opening, feet visible within, and it seemed that not everyone used the nigh
t for tending to their tasks.

  For as Rykkon neared, it was quite apparent that their leader—Desmond—was sleeping.

  Alone.

  Good.

  Rykkon moved quickly, his blade coming to the male’s throat as his hand covered his mouth. Desmond’s eyes opened wide, the fear in them obvious, even as he tried to struggle away from the intruder.

  “Be still,” Rykkon ordered, ready to say more, but he felt Prim come over to his side and peer into the metal enclosure.

  “Desmond, calm down. We’re not here to hurt you.”

  Desmond blinked, his brow furrowing in confusion, but his body did still, and he looked down pointedly to the hand still covering his mouth. Rykkon removed it warily, ready to strike if he proved uncooperative, but he made no sudden movements, he did not cry out.

  “Prim? What are you doing here?”

  Rykkon considered whether he should move the male to the larger space beyond. He felt too enclosed here, the sounds surrounding them strangely deadened by the thick metal walls, the silence unnerving. It made him anxious, as if someone could trap them here in this tomb, and he hated it.

  “Outside,” he commanded gruffly.

  Prim glanced at him, a frown crossing her features before she backed up, allowing them to exit. Desmond followed stiffly, as if his joints gave him trouble, but Rykkon pushed away such considerations—now was not the time for medicine. Desmond rubbed at his face, and Rykkon was surprised at how little trepidation he showed. If anything, he seemed supremely weary, or perhaps utterly resigned to being awoken to a blade at his throat and a hand muffling his cries for help.

  “What’s going on, Prim?” Desmond asked again, seating himself on the knotted covering, gesturing that his intruders were allowed to do the same. Prim did so, Rykkon did not. He stood by the door, his ears carefully attuned for any sound of approach. Prim could speak with her previous leader as she wished, but he would not allow the situation to take any unexpected turns.

  “There were other survivors, did you know that?”

  Desmond gave her a patient look. “I know only what they have told me. And they have never mentioned that.”

  Prim nodded, his answer obviously expected. “There are. But they got caught by another race.” If he was at all shocked by this revelation, he did nothing to show it. “They’re slaves. Forced to breed and work on command.”

  Desmond rubbed at his chin, the hair there cut short but enough to be quite evident. Rykkon thought of his own head and was glad he kept it shaved close—the prickle would surely be irksome. The other male glanced at him, frowning. “Is this to make us grateful for our current relations? That things are not as bad as they might be?”

  Rykkon nodded back to Prim, feeling no need to contribute to this conversation. “You will listen.”

  Prim turned and gave him a grim smile over her shoulder before she returned her attention to Desmond. “I want you to know who is coming for you. For all of you. And why you have to leave.”

  Rykkon eyed the male dubiously as he began to laugh. Prim looked ready to hit him, but he shook his head all the same, evidently unconcerned by the offence she was taking at his outburst. “Forgive me, Prim, but what would you have me say? Or do? If we could have left, we would have done it ages ago. You know this.” He glanced at Rykkon, before he sighed. “Slavers, you say? And they’ll be coming soon?”

  Prim gaped at him. “You’re supposed to be more upset about this!”

  Desmond smiled at her, a dismal sort of smile that showed his many cycles spent sequestered within the Wastes. “I’m old, and life has not been what I’d hoped. Thank you for coming all this way to tell us. I’ll be sure to let everyone know so they’re aware of what to expect when the...” He looked between Rykkon and Prim. “Do they have a name?”

  “The Narada,” Prim snapped, and Rykkon eyed her more closely, coming to stand a bit closer so his vantage was more helpful. She kept studying Desmond, waiting for some indication that he held some will of survival, and the male seemed to disappoint her. Yet Rykkon remembered that deadened resignation, the absurd practicality that bade a young female offer herself to a group of strangers rather than continued to face the barren hopelessness of the Wastes.

  “Prim,” Rykkon said softly, and she turned toward him, her expression still rather aghast.

  “How can he just... you don’t just welcome a conqueror when they come to enslave you!”

  He stooped, touching her shoulder, his eyes soft but his tone firm. “You were quite like this, not so long ago.” He smoothed his thumb across her cheek. “You did not know who you were mating yourself to, yet you thought it better than the life you held currently.” He gave Desmond a fleeting look, and she did the same, some of her outrage quelling at his bemused expression. “They haven’t much hope left, I think.”

  She bit her lip, glancing down at her bag, toying with the edge of it. Even if she did not admire her people or the lack of spirit they showed, he knew she would not deny them the coil and the hope that came along with its existence—even if he did not quite understand its function. Though still she hesitated, but Rykkon stood all the same, returning his attention to the outside lest they face any intrusion upon their conference.

  Desmond watched them with a detached curiosity, and Prim sighed before rummaging through her satchel, pushing past her fur before bringing out the coil.

  “I found this,” she stated, somewhat unnecessarily. Rykkon highly doubted that Desmond heard her at all, his eyes widening beyond what seemed natural for a male of his kind, his mouth dropping open in a distinctly unflattering manner.

  He reached out excitedly, though he stopped himself before he could grasp the coil, his eyes straying to Rykkon. His voice lowered, wrongfully thinking that afforded him any privacy with Prim. “Does he know what this is? What it will do for us?”

  Prim rolled her eyes at him. “Of course he does. You think I’d lie to him like that?”

  Desmond shrugged. “I’m quite sure I don’t know anything about your relationship. I honestly never expected to see you again.”

  He kept looking at the coil, his hand opening again to receive it. “You’re really giving this to us? Letting us... go?”

  At first Rykkon thought he was addressing Prim as she was the one who held their precious bit of metal, but Rykkon found that the male was looking at him, disbelief evident in his expression.

  “We do not keep slaves,” Rykkon informed him, somewhat uncomfortably. “My people made the bargain with the Narada to end a war—but that does not mean it pleased them to do so. It pleases me even less so.”

  Prim handed him the coil, and Desmond looked it over critically, much as Prim had initially done. Rykkon still had not the least idea what they saw or what the strange thing was capable of, but he seemed satisfied with it.

  Whatever it truly was.

  He suddenly worried that he had provided the means for a weapon rather than transportation, but forced himself to not think so fatalistically. Prim had made her intentions clear—her design was to save people, not to see to the eradication of his kind while offering vengeance to her own.

  Prim was still looking at Desmond, watching him intently. “We came here to help you. To give you all a chance against what was coming. I just hope you have some fight left in you to actually make use of it.”

  Desmond glanced up from his perusal of the coil. “But that is precisely the difference. I have seen us fight the people of this planet. It never ends with anything but losses on our side. Far far too many losses. I don’t have to remind you of your mother...”

  Prim frowned. “No, you don’t.”

  Desmond nodded. “That was precisely why we were given this place in the beginning—the Arterians thought the slaughter too little challenge. Better we could work.”

  “There is no honour in a massacre,” Rykkon agreed.

  Desmond smiled dimly. “We were to be farmers, not soldiers. And few of us survived the crash that did have experienc
e in fighting. I am grateful your people gave us what allowances they could.”

  Rykkon was not convinced that his people had in fact supplied all the mercy they were able. If they had thought the humans so harmless, they could have shown them a way out of the Wastes and given them freedom. But it was easier to keep them contained, an unknown entity that could never become a true threat as they were forever penned and dependent upon trade.

  Were they truly so different from the Narada? They may not call them slaves, would deny the charge even now, but they were not generous with the colonists—not by any means.

  He pushed away such thoughts. They held little relevance now, as he had helped Prim to bring the means for their escape.

  Desmond appeared thoughtful for a moment before he seemed to reach some kind of resolution. He looked to Rykkon. “Might I retrieve something?”

  Rykkon shrugged, feigning a lack of care, even though his hold on his blade tightened. It was always better to be prepared, even when this male seemed resigned to an attitude of deference. Desmond disappeared into the metal tomb once again, taking the coil with him, and when he returned he had another strange object in his hand.

  Rykkon had not seen one himself, but he had heard their description often enough to know what he had brought.

  What the colonists called a gun.

  With all the speed he could muster, Rykkon lunged, placing his body between Desmond and Prim, his hand reaching out to grasp the other male’s throat. “Betrayal!” he hissed. He well remembered the stories of the colonists’ attempts at revolt, their metal weapons that spit flameless fire that burned whatever flesh it caught.

  And now Desmond sought to use one upon them.

  Upon Prim.