An hour later, two savages appeared with a stick and rope in hand. Friday didn’t fight when the noose was wrapped around her neck. One of the men cautiously unlocked her leg irons, while keeping a second thick stick ready. A month before, Friday had bit a chunk out of his face. She looked at the scar and grinned. Arga’Zul would kill any man who significantly harmed her, but any fool can make a mistake. Today, her assault was merely a scowl.
The savages escorted Friday to Arga’Zul’s cabin, where he sat at a table, eating his evening meal. The odor of cooked meat wafted over Friday, and her mouth watered. Arga’Zul motioned the men to put her in a chair at the table before leaving.
Arga’Zul was a massive man who bore as much fat as muscle. And yet, he had shown prodigious speed and strength for one his size. His forehead was dotted with perspiration, and his body smelled rank. Then again, so did Friday. She knew in her current condition, she couldn’t overpower him, so she sat back and watched him instead.
The great enemy of her life was an arm’s length away, and she could do nothing about it.
Arga’Zul tore at a roasted fowl with his hands, licking his fingers as he shoved meat into his mouth. Sweet potatoes, hardtack, undercooked beets, and roasted corn filled out the table. Friday’s body betrayed her, and she swallowed.
Arga’Zul eyed her momentarily before raising his chin and saying, “Eat.”
Friday didn’t hesitate. She tore into the bird quickly. The robust flavor was so intense she thought she might pass out. But before she had swallowed the first bite, she was already reaching for more.
Arga’Zul set a cup down in front of her and filled it with wine from a jug. She gulped it down, only to have him fill it again.
For months, Friday had eaten nothing but gruel, so this was an extravagance beyond measure. She knew it would come at a price.
“Gōngzhǔ,” Arga’Zul said. “Stubborn girl.”
Friday hated that word and the way he said it, but she refused to quit eating. She mowed through an ear of corn and what was left of the meat. Two more cups of wine left her head feeling light. She only stopped when she realized it might make her vulnerable.
Arga’Zul looked her over and smiled. Friday wondered, not for the first time, why he had never forced himself on her. No other female slaves received this courtesy.
“You eat well,” he said, finally. “Better than some of my men.”
Friday swallowed and spoke. “When food is placed in front of me, I eat.”
She put the emphasis on the word food. Most of what she had been given she did not consider edible.
“You eat better than the slaves,” Arga’Zul said.
That was sadly true.
When Friday could eat no more, she sat back, and Arga’Zul whistled. Nameless and another slave entered to quickly clean the table. Friday silently cursed herself for not trying to smuggle food away, though there was no place for her to hide it.
After the slaves departed, Arga’Zul unrolled a thick map on the table. The Great Missup dominated the center of the page. Once the river named Mississippi fed the interior states, but after the Great Rendering spurred the collapse of the ancient aqueduct system, the river opened to the east until the Great Missup joined the Atlantic just south of the ancient capital. Now salt water coalesced with fresh water to make a passageway that cut through the heart of the continent.
Xs dotted the sides of the river. Friday assumed these were places Arga’Zul had already sacked. But there were more Xs inland. She had no idea what those represented.
“Show me where the Aserra live,” he said.
Once Friday realized he wasn’t joking, she burst into laughter. Arga’Zul smiled and then let his huge arm fly. The backhand split her lip and sent her flying to the floor.
She looked up, fueled by an all-consuming hate.
“One day, I will kill you,” she said.
“So you’ve said.”
“But here, now, I make my promise. To the Goddess and all I hold dear. When you die, it will be by my hand alone.”
Arga’Zul reached for his cup of wine and leaned back to sip it. His eyes never left her.
“Life aboard my ship can be easy, or it can be hard,” he said. “You could eat every night like this at my table. Or you could eat nothing at all.”
“A hard life is all I have ever known,” she retorted. “And I prefer the company of slaves to yours.”
“They have it worse than you. But it can be worse still. Especially for the girl.”
Friday tensed but wasn’t surprised by his words. It was why she promised to never care for anyone but herself.
“You will do as you wish. You always have. What do I care for strangers? You’re a fool if you think I will ever give up my people.”
He knew he could break her. Her body was already failing. Flesh was weak. But the mind, the heart—those were the gems he loved to hold and crush most. They did not break, they shattered, and then, only under the right kind of pressure.
He doubted she could find her people, even if she wanted to. She had been away from them nearly a year and a half. And the Aserra never stayed in one place for too long. Still, he needed to test the flaws in her armor. One day, they would become faults that would let him drive the dagger home.
Arga’Zul held out his massive hand. “Get up.”
Friday refused his hand and returned to her chair. The wine had made her head hot. Suddenly, she wanted to be away from him. The way he looked at her made her stomach turn.
He reached out and gently pushed a few strands of hair from her face.
“I could make things easier for you anyway.”
Friday looked at him in disbelief and laughed. “I would kill myself before I let you touch me.”
Arga’Zul’s mouth twitched.
“You preferred the touch of that boy I took you from?”
“Cru-soe is more man than you’ll ever be.”
“Not man enough to hold you. To keep you safe.”
“But you remember what he said that day, don’t you? He said he would come for me. He swore it.”
“To make a promise and fulfill it are two separate things. Not that it matters now. The boy is dead. I would not want to give you false hope.”
“You lie,” Friday said.
“A lie would be to say I witnessed it. I did not. But the pale stranger told me of his plans. He paid greatly to return him across the sea so he could make an example of him. If it is of any consolation, he did say it would be quick.”
Friday felt her face flush and her hands tremble. Arga’Zul watched, delighting in her pain, as he always did.
“Dead for months and still you pine for him. I almost wish I had taken the boy too, so I might have milked the life from him in front of you, one drop at a time.”
Friday’s eyes darted around, settling on a knife left on the table.
“Go on,” he teased. “Take it. If you can.”
Friday considered leaping for the knife, but she knew she would never reach it. Even with her belly full, her muscles had atrophied, her speed bled away. She turned. She would continue to bide her time.
“Wise,” Arga’Zul said. “My stubborn Gōngzhǔ. We will anchor here until the storm passes. It may be one day or five. Plenty of time to continue our games.”
He leaned closer and reached out to touch her hair again. The wine was thick on his breath. But it was the look in his eyes that truly frightened her.
“I’ve heard your promise, Princess. Now hear mine. I will break you. It’s only a matter of time.”
Chapter Eight
Black Hand
The sounds of war were replaced by the screams of the dying as an acrid, chemical odor washed over the barn.
Once Robinson’s eyes adjusted, he saw the majority of the Flayers outside had been killed. Those who survived wouldn’t last long. They were strewn across the ground, steaming sacks of flesh and gore, tissue eaten away by some terrible substance. Despite their horrific injuries, t
he survivors were focused on the figure approaching through the curtain of smoke that still bled from the house fire. A wild-eyed man speaking in tongues.
Pastor.
Robinson hurried through the dead to finish the Flayers who had been spared the worst of the blast. He couldn’t get to them all. At least two had made it to the cover of trees. They would be impossible to track down.
The farmers stumbled out of the barn, their expressions numb, their eyes locked on Pastor as if to ask what this new horror was. Robinson could see something in him had changed. Gone was the jovial philosopher. He was replaced by something older and infinitely sadder.
He had saved them, but at a terrible cost. To Robinson, the worst part was the look on his face when the mute sister limped outside, the arrow stuck in her calf.
Robinson avoided his gaze.
As parents escorted their children out with hands over their eyes, Robinson directed the woman farmer to use the cart to carry their wounded, cautioning them to avoid Black Hand, who sat numbly in the dirt, an arrow protruding from his chest.
“Leave that one for me,” he said.
No one argued. But as Robinson perused the dead, he noticed a face missing.
“The Flayer with the red hand on his face? Has anyone see him?”
No one did. He had a feeling it would mean trouble.
Pastor helped the mute brother lead his sister to a stump to sit, setting his head against hers now that the battle was over. It was the most emotion Robinson had ever seen them show.
Those farmers without children milled about, exhausted and unsure of what to do. That’s when Pastor held up his hands.
“Brothers and sisters,” he spoke firmly. “The savages have been vanquished, but there is no time to dally. We must set to saving what homes we can and looking for survivors. The womenfolk and children can tend to the wounded. The rest of you, follow me.”
By mid-afternoon, the fires had been extinguished. A makeshift healer’s house had been set up in their single-room schoolhouse to care for the wounded. Robinson discovered that somewhere in the melee he had taken a cut to his neck, but he refused to seek help before the more seriously injured were attended to.
Pastor assembled a group of male farmers to scout the forest and riverlands to ensure the Flayers were not regrouping somewhere. Once that threat was addressed, he advised them to burn the Flayer ship. They had seen enough fire that day, but the logic of the act was undeniable. After that was done, Pastor helped retrieve the bodies of the dead, and they were buried together in a field not far from their homes.
Initially, the farmers were wary of Pastor, given the spectacle that precipitated his arrival. Words like ‘sorcerer’ were whispered about, but slowly, surely, his gentle tone and wise guidance earned their amity.
Surprisingly, it was Robinson they gave the largest berth, though many took time to nod their appreciation. When it was clear there was nothing more for him to do, Robinson walked around the backside of the barn where Black Hand was secured to a post. There was little doubt the Flayer leader was in great pain, but he suffered in silence. Robinson stood over him with a chagal skin of water and took a long drink.
“Thirsty?” Robinson asked.
Black Hand said nothing, but when Robinson lowered the chagal to his lips, he greedily swallowed it down. After sitting in the sun all day, his skin was burned. His legs folded awkwardly beneath him. The arrow wound to his chest had already drawn its share of flies. He was long past slapping them away.
“I will not give you what you want,” Black Hand spat.
Robinson smirked as he sat down, sliding his back against the warm, corrugated metal of the barn. He looked out over the fields. The sun was descending through sparse clouds casting everything in the alpenglow of autumn.
“Sentiments are cheap out here,” Robinson said. “Those most of all.”
Black Hand snorted, but understood his predicament.
“I am a Bone Flayer,” he said. “We bow to no one.”
“And I am Aserra,” Robinson said. “We’re both used to getting what we want. I could torture you a hundred ways—”
“And I will not break.”
Robinson shrugged.
“I believe that you believe that,” he said. “That’s why I won’t waste either of our time. I’ve decided to leave you alive instead. Here. In the hands of the farmers. You see, these people? They’re not like us. They don’t live by a code of violence. They’re passive. You’ve slaughtered dozens of their families and friends, and still, they refuse to kill you. I don’t understand it. I doubt you do either. But it’s their way. What they’ll do instead is patch you up. Remove those arrows from your body and clean the wounds so they won’t get infected. Then, they’ll build you a little cage and prop it in some corner of their village, so every day, when they pass you on the way to their fields, they can point you out to their children and say, ‘Look. There is the evil of the world. Together, we have safety, but leave us, and it’s his kind you’ll have to contend with.’ I’m sure they’ll keep you alive in that cage a very long time.”
Black Hand glared at him, but Robinson could see his words were sinking in. For a warrior like him, it was the worst sentence imaginable.
“What do you want?” he asked finally.
“How do I find Arga’Zul?” Robinson asked.
Black Hand almost laughed. He looked at Robinson as if he was crazy.
“Arga’Zul is a war chieftain, the great champion in the history of our clan. His name is feared in every corner of the land. What is he to you?”
Robinson saw no reason to lie. “He took someone I love.”
The prisoner’s eyes drifted a moment and then snapped back.
“The Gōngzhǔ,” he said.
“I don’t know what that means,” Robinson said.
“The Aserra girl. She is yours?” He wanted to laugh but could only shake his head instead. “She is his great prize. He takes her with him everywhere he goes. He parades her at our village. Has her sit at the table of his brother, our king. She is alive. But she will never be returned to you.”
“I don’t plan on her returning. I plan on going where she is and taking her.”
This time, Black Hand did laugh. Never in his life had he heard anything so preposterous. But he saw the seriousness in Robinson’s gaze and admired the boy’s courage, even if it was folly.
“Tell me how to find her,” Robinson said, patting the knife at his waist, “and I’ll give you a warrior’s death.”
Black Hand tried to sit up, but his body would not respond. Already, he had grown tired of this dirt place, and it hadn’t even been a day.
“Follow the river south. On foot it would take many moons. Five if you slept little. More if you encounter trouble. One day, you will see a port on the eastern side of the river with many ships. There, a great pyramid rises over an ancient city. It is in the shadow of the pyramid we call home. But be warned. We Flayers are a suspicious people. We hate many but none more than Aserra.”
“What grudge lays between the two?” Robinson asked.
Black Hand snorted. “It is not for me to say. Ask Arga’Zul when you meet him. I’m sure he will gladly tell you.”
Robinson nodded and stood up. He was also tired. Tired in his bones. The road to Friday had just grown that much longer. But nothing on this continent came easy.
“The blade?” Black Hand asked.
Robinson took the knife out and dropped it in the dirt in front of him. It sank into the ground up to its hilt. Then Robinson stepped back and set his hand on the hilt of his axe.
Black Hand looked back at the sunset one last time, filling his lungs with air still tinged with the scent of his handiwork. As he exhaled, he reached for the knife, but it never left its earthen sheath.
Chapter Nine
Ghosts
Later that night, the villagers gathered together for supper. After a lengthy prayer in a language Robinson did not understand, a pig was slaughte
red, roasted, and served with potatoes, carrots, and pickled relish. The men drank a homemade wine derived from beets, while Robinson drank fresh milk with the women and children. It was the first milk he’d had on this continent.
The farmers ate mechanically, as if the dishes offered nothing more than sustenance, but for Robinson and Pastor, every bite was delicious. They offered little talk other than to thank their host for their meal. Robinson wasn’t sure if any conversation could’ve gotten through to them. The farmers were numb.
The only person who seemed eager to reach out was the girl who looked like Tessa. Several times, Robinson caught her watching him. Eventually, her mother scolded her with a disapproving frown. At the end of the table, a boy her age brooded.
Pastor nudged Robinson and whispered, “Finding anything to your taste?”
Robinson rolled his eyes but was thankful they were eating by candlelight. Otherwise, someone might have seen him blush.
Once the meal was over, the men gathered around a large fire in the village square and tapped a wooden cask of mead. It was thick and woody and made Robinson’s head swim.
For the next two turns, Pastor worked his magic on the crowd. He spoke of past civilizations and man’s inherent thirst for violence. He spoke of the necessity of small villages like theirs to establish relationships with others up and down the river; how such alliances could not only create opportunities for trade but band together in times of attack or disaster. He spoke with wisdom and humility, and with the absolute confidence of one who knows he speaks the truth.
He reminded Robinson of his father.
As the discussions continued, Robinson watched as the fire lessened and was stoked back to life. All at once, his eyes got heavy. Some time later, a gentle hand shook him. It was the female farmer. She told him a bed had been arranged at one of the vacant houses. The others bid him good evening, but he was too tired to respond.
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