They resumed walking. “What does it say?” he asked.
“It’s a call to arms,” she answered. “A declaration of war.”
CHURLI CASTA JONS
THE 24th TO THE 26th OF THE MONTH OF PILOTS, 12499 MD
LAKE TEN TO TAN-TEN ISLAND,
THE FOUR NATIONS NEUTRAL REGION
She had resisted the temptation to masturbate for almost two months. The last time she did so was in Casta, the night Vedas complimented her swordsmanship. With the wind howling over them, she rose to orgasm three times, just thinking of his body so close. She had not known him then, not really: he had been an idealized version of himself, a dream creature.
Now, of course, she held no such delusions. Vedas Tezul was only a man, albeit unlike any in her experience. A confoundingly constant presence in her thoughts, at any moment she could summon him to her mind’s eye. Hear his voice as though he stood next to her. Feel his warmth. She could close her eyes and recall every detail of his body.
He had changed a great deal during their journey. As a result of constant walking and lean meals, what little fat he possessed had burned away. His waist and thighs were thinner, not so much that a casual observer would notice, but Churls certainly did. Like a mage studying a book of alchemical diagrams, she catalogued every sinuous line of his physique.
His face, too, had been transformed. During their first days on the Steps, he had lost his razor. A thick, wiry black beard had come in, yet it could not hide the leanness of his cheeks. His hair, just a black shadow clinging to his scalp when she had first met him, grew in as a thick, helmetlike nap sparsely flecked with grey. The wrinkles around his eyes had become pronounced, and the eyes themselves, a deep brown, almost black, seemed somehow more observant.
He had possessed the appearance and bearing of a young man when they left Nbena. He was beautiful then, definitely. He was gorgeous now—a singular creature that moved with the grace of a stag, unrushed and fluid. He held himself with a natural poise, as though the world fit him perfectly, conforming to his will as surely as his suit conformed to his body.
She pictured this man, an older and perhaps wiser man, as she touched herself under stained sailcloth blankets. Her hammock swayed to the violent listing of the ship, but she was determined, matching strokes of her labia with the violent movement, now and then pushing a fingertip deeper, brushing her clitoris lightly. She flexed her buttocks in time, imagining Vedas turning her sideways in the hammock, fingers prying her legs apart, an obsessive fantasy of being exposed by him again and again.
His beard rough against her inner thighs, ticklish against her anus as he lapped at her.
Probing her fingertip deeper, she pressed against her clitoris, rotating over the small, firm organ with increasing vigor. Imagining a tongue, a mouth. The occasional rasp of teeth, shocking and almost painful.
Sailors called to one another on the deck above, sounds muted by wood and rain pounding on wood. The brass bell of Berun’s voice, calling encouragement. The constructed man loved being aboard the ship.
She sensed that Vedas was awake too, listening. Sailing did not agree with him. He worried about pirates and sinking, and his body had yet to acclimate to the motions of water. He fought every wave, attempting to right himself instead of moving with the motion. Time would undoubtedly prove his facility with this mode of travel, but in her fantasy he already moved with the confidence of a man born on the lake.
After finishing with his tongue, he wrapped hard arms around her lower back and pulled her from the fishnet—tightly hugging her so that she could not fall any lower, could not kiss his mouth or neck. She gripped his scalp, running nails through his short, thick hair. She tried to link her feet together behind his back, but it was too broad. His fingertips tightened into her skin, and he crushed her stomach into his face.
She breathed faster in the hammock, fingertip moving in rapid circles over her clitoris.
He held her down against the rough floor, hands tight around her wrists. They kissed roughly, tongues flicking, teeth occasionally clicking together. His mouth tasted like almonds, and she swallowed his saliva. She thrust her pelvis upward, trying for contact, but he held his body above her, hips high off the floor.
“Please,” she said, and he knew what the request meant. He lowered himself slowly until his weight rested fully on her. He let go of her wrist, and both of their hands descended. She pulled her skirt high around her waist, and he formed an opening in the suit material, allowing his rigid cock to spring free.
She reached for it. He batted her hand away.
The ship rocked from side to side. The sailors’ voices grew louder overhead. Churls bit her lip until it hurt, a sharp counterpoint to the waves of pleasure radiating into her stomach and legs.
He slid his length into her slowly, and she tightened immediately around him, willing him deeper. The smooth, slightly cold material of his suit slid along her thighs, an alien and unbelievably arousing sensation. As the head of his cock pressed against her cervix, she gasped. He began thrusting, not quickly or slowly, but inexorably. She wrapped her legs around his lower back and rocked into his motions, angling so that his weight fell upon her, forcing his erection to a greater depth.
He gasped. Already, he was close.
In this respect, she suspected her fantasy held truth. She had wondered many times if Vedas was an experienced lover. She thought not. He certainly did not act like one, though he possessed extraordinary control over his body. No doubt, given enough time and attention he would become a very talented lover. But the first time his rise to orgasm would be quick and ungraceful.
Sometimes, she loved quick and ungraceful.
The swells of pleasure crested and broke. Her fantasy faded to nothing as she rode her orgasm through its surges. Her back arched and collapsed in the hammock, and her legs twitched. She bit her forearm, moaning into flesh. Her fingertip twitched on and off the hypersensitive skin of her clitoris as if it were a hot coal. As the spasms wound down, she slid her hand lower and pressed the fingertip against her anus, the merest suggestion of entry.
She pushed a long breath from her lungs, and then grunted as an immense hand slapped the port side of the ship, causing it to list sharply starboard.
Screams overhead, the sound of rushing water, the snap of timber.
The ship righted, fell to port. Her hammock turned over, nearly spilling her out.
Another wave pounded into the ship, but she did not scream. She thrashed in the fabric embrace of the hammock as it spun around a second time, one part of her attention focused on getting free and the other on the deck above.
No sailors’ shouts. No feet drumming on wooden planks.
The ever-present thrum of the thaumaturgical engine, a sound that had long since faded into unheard background noise, had ceased.
The ship shuddered again, tilting.
She finally managed to throw the covers from her body. As the hammock swung high, she jumped free, landed awkwardly and rolled into the wall. She shook the impact away, oriented herself, and stood, struggling for balance on the bucking floor. Vedas swung in his hammock along the far wall, apparently unaware of any cause for concern.
She took one step, and the floorboards erupted before her. A jagged ridge of black rock rose up toward the ceiling. Water rushed in through the wound and the ship pitched violently.
Her feet left the floor and the ceiling rushed to meet her.
‡
The lapping of water upon a shore. The call of birds. A dull throb in her head and chest, her heartbeat, slowly spreading to fill her body. She swam through layers of fuzzy sensation into consciousness, into the dim recognition of wrongness. She was hurt, stricken nearly immobile on a beach. Alone, apparently. Minutes passed as she gathered the tatters of her memory and wove them together.
The wind changed direction and the leaves shifted above her. Sunlight tried to force its way in through the shutters of her eyes. She kept it out. The inside of her head felt
far too fragile to tamper with. She opened and closed her left fist in the cool sand. This movement alone took a great deal of effort, but she did not stop herself.
Stay awake , she told herself. Stay here, stay now, stay...
Her throat was raw and desiccated, as if it had been scoured with dry sand, and her right arm throbbed dully. When she tried to move it, pain flared so violently in her shoulder that she decided never to move it again. At best, it was dislocated. At worst, she was only imagining feelings below the joint, and the limb itself was drifting somewhere in the lake.
As she became more aware, the more her body ached.
Clearly, she was alive. This failed to lift her spirits.
Something approached from the left. She heard the shuff of displaced sand as it drew close.
A man.
During her fifteen years of service in the Castan Army, she had spent enough time listening to the oncoming steps of enemy soldiers. Footsteps revealed a man’s weight and height, as well as a good deal about his intentions. The man approaching her now was probably over six feet in height, well over two hundred pounds. He was not trying to be quiet. The profile fit Vedas.
Images flashed in her mind: A hammock swinging wildly, the black fabric of Vedas’s suit visible through the fishnet. Water sloshing below, rushing in through a tear in the ship’s floor, a blade of black stone jutting. A switch of perspective, her stomach rising up into her chest and promptly dropping. Sailing through the air. Out of the corner of her eye, Vedas’s hammock overturning. Blackness.
Unlikely, that both of them had made it out alive.
She took a deep breath, though her ribs ached holding it in, and simply waited. Nothing to do but wait. Were she hale, or even only partially incapacitated, she would have prepared to defend herself.
Knees dropped onto the sand beside her.
“Churls,” Vedas said.
She sighed in relief. The sound wheezed and cracked out of her like air from a dry-rotted bellows, and her fingers tightened convulsively in the sand. Her heart hammered. She did not try to speak or open her eyes, but felt her lips pull into a smile. Even that hurt. Fleetingly, she considered how much the intensity of her reaction would have bothered her if she were not injured so badly. Quite a bit, she reasoned.
“Don’t try to talk,” he said. “You’re fine. I’m going to give you something to drink.”
Unable to argue with him about moving an injured neck, she let his hand go under her head. She winced as he lifted it, but the movement did not result in additional pain or the click of broken vertebrae. Something rough and hairy touched her lips, and for a moment she fought to keep her mouth closed. She lost, and a trickle of lukewarm liquid slid down her gullet. It burned as it went, but he was slow and careful pouring. She did not choke. Eventually, she realized it was not water. The sweet taste was familiar.
She must have furrowed her brow.
“It’s coconut,” he explained. “A fruit that grows on palms. A rare treat. I remembered it from childhood.”
“Mm,” she said. He laid her head down, and a bit of light peeked in through her eyelids without killing her. She decided speech might be possible. “How?” she croaked.
She heard him sit back. “We ran aground a mile or so from Tan-Ten, and fell on our port side. The storm must have knocked us off course, right into the shallows. Maybe we were running from pirates and ran into the wind to lose them. No way of knowing, because I slept through most of it. The hold was already half full of water when I disentangled myself from my hammock.” She heard disgust and embarrassment in his voice. “The oil lamps had spilled, and fire ate at the back wall. The ship lurched against rock. It was clear that we were sinking, but I had no idea how fast. After I’d oriented myself, I noticed you floating near the entranceway. I got you out and swam here.”
Churls smiled at his understatement. “You got me out and swam here? How?”
He grunted. “With great difficulty. I can swim, but not well. If my suit didn’t provide several minutes of air, I would have drowned. I consider it a minor miracle that we made it without major injury, and I don’t generally believe in miracles. Do you feel better?”
Churls concentrated. The pain had increased, yet she did indeed feel better, more in tune with her senses. Experimentally, she turned her head from side to side, wiggled her toes, and lifted her left arm. Each movement was accompanied by its own particular pain, as if she had strained every muscle in her body. She opened her eyes a crack. The blurred outlines of palm trees swayed above her. To her left knelt the black outline of Vedas.
They appeared to be alone. This troubled her, but she could not determine why. Of course, she had more pressing concerns.
“Yes,” she assured him. “A little better. Not much. What’s wrong with my shoulder?”
He shifted. Slowly, she was able to focus on his face. He would not meet her eyes.
“What?” she asked, and lifted her head to see. Pain flared in her ribs and she dropped her head back down. “Orrus fucking Alachum! What the hell’s wrong with me?”
The weight of his hand fell on her upper chest. “Please,” he said. “Your shoulder is dislocated.”
“How did that happen?”
“I don’t know. You must have gotten knocked around before I found you.” Softly, he swore—a first, in her experience. “Never mind. I’m not being honest with you. I know why your shoulder is dislocated.”
She opened her eyes and found his. He met the stare for a second only, and then looked away. Being forced to press for an explanation would normally have bothered her, if not for the obvious fact that he was so troubled.
“Why?” she asked.
He leaned forward, cupping his chin and mouth with his right hand. His words were muted as a result, and she had to strain to hear them. “I swam as far as I could, Churls, but I still couldn’t make it. The waves were too high. I lost my direction and went under, hitting submerged rocks. I tried to grab onto a few that rose above the water, but I couldn’t get a grip. I still had air, but I couldn’t swim anymore. Too tired. The next time waves threw me against the rocks, I tried to lift your body onto them. I think it worked, because I started to sink. Alone.”
He massaged his jaw as if it pained him. He nodded, an almost imperceptible movement. “I knew I was going to die, and I didn’t care. I gave up, but you saved me.”
For a moment, she thought she had misheard. “I did what?”
He leaned forward and slipped his arm under her shoulder blades. In one smooth movement, unmindful of her protests, he lifted her into a sitting position. She had been prepared to scream, yet it never came. The pain faded so quickly she barely registered it, and he supported her in the new position while her spasming muscles calmed and the inside of her head stopped revolving.
“You pulled me from the lake,” he said softly. Warm breath on her ear. “With one arm. You grabbed my wrist and dragged me onto solid ground. You looked like you were standing on the water, but I soon realized that I had dropped you onto a flat shelf of cobbled stones. An ancient dock, worn down by the waves. I could barely see it even when I sat on it.
“My legs collapsed under me when I tried to stand, and so you dragged me behind you, all the way to shore. Your right arm flopped uselessly at your side, a result of lifting me. I kept calling to you, but I don’t think you heard over the storm and the waves.”
Churls lifted her head. It weighed too much, so she let it fall against his. “What happened after that?” she whispered.
She felt him shake his head. “It’s insane, ridiculous, but it happened. Once we were past the waves, you dropped my wrist. When I turned to you, your eyes were closed. I spoke your name, and you wouldn’t respond. Your body glowed from the inside. White, like the moon. It peeked out from under your eyelids. I touched your hand, the glow faded, and you crumpled onto the sand. I know it sounds crazy. I’ve tried to reason it out, but I can’t.”
Churls closed her eyes, listening to the swift be
at of her heart. Vedas’s hands pressed against her chest and back, cool and firm—and suddenly, she recalled her fantasy. With his body so close, the invention became more real in her mind than any story he could have told her. Pulling a two hundred and fifty pound man from the ocean? Glowing like the moon? She did not want to think about such things. Focusing too intensely made her head ache. Drifting felt so much nicer.
Yet something nagged at her. A piece of the puzzle was missing. She tried to stop thinking about it, but knew it would come now that she had admitted its existence.
“There is one other possibility,” Vedas said before she could ask the question. “You could be a witch.”
She did not dignify this with a response. Her heart was not prepared for jokes.
“Do you think you can stand?” he asked.
“I don’t know.” She exhaled slowly, evenly, preparing herself for movement. “Why?”
While still supporting her, he rose from his knees into a crouch. “I’d like to reduce your dislocation now, if possible. It’s a common injury while training. I’ve done it before. It will heal faster the sooner I get to it.”
“What do I have to do?”
He lifted her easily. She gasped when her arm fell, and he told her to let it hang, which hurt slightly less. Standing on her own was difficult and painful. Her legs shook and she doubted they would hold her weight. Thankfully, he supported her every movement, and finally leaned her against a tree trunk. Her eyes fluttered with the strain. She registered her surroundings as a collection of vertical shadows and harsh light.
“Something else,” she whispered. “Vedas...”
He said nothing in response. Perhaps he had not heard.
No Return Page 19
