“What?”
“I do not know. He had ancient maps spread across the table, and when we did stop, it was less to pillage than to search. In the end, he seemed to grow … desperate.”
Robinson thought about that before nodding.
“Thanks for telling me,” he said.
Behind them, the cat people talked excitedly.
“Looks like they’re really happy to be rid of me,” Robinson said.
“It’s not you,” Nameless retorted. “Last night, one of the scouts reported seeing a creature on the opposite shore. He swears it resembled their feline God.”
“A panther? Out here? Doubtful, but I guess I’ve seen crazier things.”
“We all have. Which is why you must be careful. The night harbors many ill things, and they all make their ways to the dark heart of the river eventually. She would not want you to fail now, when you are so close to finding her.”
Robinson looked downriver and back to Nameless.
“You really think she’s alive?”
Nameless smiled. Or came as close as she could to smiling.
“She is alive. But I saw the same desperation in her eyes that I see in yours. Also, your Friday has a special place in the master’s heart. He will not give up his Gōngzhǔ so easily.”
“Gōngzhǔ?” Robinson repeated. “What does it mean?”
“You are Aserra, and you don’t know the language?” The girl smirked. “Gōngzhǔ is the name given to the daughter of your chieftain. Your Friday is a princess.”
Once Robinson’s canoe was heading downstream, he looked back to see the cat people disappearing into the trees. Only Nameless remained behind. He thought for a moment that he might have seen her reach up to wipe her face, but his sight was affected by the sun reflecting off the water.
A quarter turn later, Nameless’s words proved true. Robinson’s canoe dumped out into the Great Missup. Although he’d traversed the river many times, he’d never seen it in all its glory. The river was boundless; its dark, muddy waters roiled along at a quickening pace.
Robinson knew nothing of canoes and struggled to keep it from overturning again and again. What made the situation worse was that the canoe wasn’t created to navigate such a speedy river, and freezing water often spilled over the side. This forced Robinson to pull to the bank again and again to empty it out. Within a turn, his arms, torso, and back were sore with the exertion. Within two turns, he was exhausted.
Thankfully, the cat people had wrapped the provisions in some kind of leaves that kept them from getting wet.
That first day was one of the longest of his life, but by mid-afternoon, the water had slowed to a modest pace, allowing him to rest between strokes. The sun had also come out mid-morning, partially drying his shirt and pants. Only then did his teeth stop chattering.
By the end of the second day, Robinson was equally exhausted, but his outlook was nowhere near as bleak. The colors of fall had bloomed into all their glory as he passed through canyons rife with brush and wildlife.
Along the way, he witnessed ancient bridges and homes bowed to time. There were also people on the move or in villages too small to raid. Once, he saw women washing clothes in the river while their children swam naked nearby. When they saw Robinson, they hurriedly disappeared into the forest.
The days got slightly warmer, but Robinson failed to stay dry. Twice, he was dumped into the water, once losing a package of rations. One day he would fight the river at every turn, while the next, it was content to carry him toward his destination.
Five nights in, he had an experience that shook him. The sun was setting in the west, and he was looking for a place to camp. But just as he was about to pull onto a bank, he heard movement in the brush. And suddenly, it was like the forest had gone silent. He turned and peered into the darkness. At first he saw nothing. But then, as his eyes began to adjust, he saw a plume of dust expelled from within a copse of trees. When it happened a second time, he realized it wasn’t dust he was looking at, but breath. Someone or something was watching him.
Robinson quickly pushed the canoe back into the water and paddled downstream before choosing a place on the other side of the river to camp, but he slept little that night. He couldn’t shake the memory of how low that breath was to the ground. Was there really a jaguar on the loose, or was he becoming susceptible to the myths of the forbidden continent? The thought unnerved him.
Fifteen days after he left the cat people, Robinson was coasting along in a light rain. But as it began to pick up, more and more water spilled into the canoe. He used his bottle to scoop it out, but it made paddling nearly impossible.
Robinson had finally decided to pull ashore when he made a terrible mistake. He steered too close to the river’s edge and got caught in an offshoot that turned into a series of rapids. He fought to control the craft, but it slammed into several rocks, one of which punctured the bottom of the boat.
Robinson tried not to panic, but when a second mass of rocks appeared, he thrust his paddle out to push the canoe away. Unfortunately, he misjudged his speed, and the paddle snapped in half. The canoe immediately pirouetted into a small eddy. When the boat hit it, it tipped over threw Robinson in the water.
The cold water shocked his senses, and he was pulled under again and again. Robinson kicked hard for the surface, but every time he managed to grab half a mouthful of air, he was cast over another set of rocks and submerged again.
When the river narrowed, Robinson swam hard for a sandbar but found the current propelling him toward a tangle of trees. At the last second, he managed a deep breath before he was sucked under.
Robinson’s leg snagged between two branches before the current dragged him down. He fought the urge to panic as water spilled into his mouth. He pulled and kicked, but his leg wouldn’t come free. When he realized his strength was ebbing, Robinson reached for his axe and used the blade to cut the top of his boot open and pull himself free.
Robinson exploded out of the water, gasping as he swam to the bank. He collapsed in the mud. When mud spilled through his fingers, he realized his axe was gone.
He struggled up the bank and collapsed in the dirt. Downriver, his canoe dotted the underbrush in pieces.
He should have felt happy to be alive, but at that moment, he felt his lowest. He was lost. He still had the Pastor’s map in its waterproof pouch, but one of his prized axes, a boot, and the rest of his provisions were gone. The only thing he knew for certain was that with every moment he stood here, Friday was drawing inexorably away.
Not far from the riverbank was a field of corn, overgrown with disuse. Robinson followed the field southwest in hopes he’d meet up again with the river.
He was limping along at a snail’s pace when, out of nowhere, a loud horn split the silence. Robinson dropped to his feet, but saw nothing. The sound blasted twice more. Robinson knew whatever it was, it was man-made.
Robinson crept along several hundred paces until he saw smoke billowing over a rise. Another sound carried on the wind. Machinery. Substantial machinery.
As he drew closer, Robinson came across a large, deep trench with fortifications that encircled the area beyond. Renders, thought Robinson. This was once used to capture Renders. But it hadn’t been used in some time. Were they dying out this far south too?
Robinson scaled the trench and crested the hill to steal a glance at what laid beyond. He was stunned silent. Spread over a flat expanse was a yard full of giant machines. He had read about them in the library but had forgotten what they were called. The ancients had used them in their day to ferry goods and people across the continent. Only when the whistle of one sounded again did he remember they were called trains.
Robinson was so filled with awe and wonder that he didn’t hear the men approach behind him. He turned and reached for his remaining axe, but his hand froze.
Two men in leather pants, waistcoats, and boots pointed ancient pistols at him. The closest one flipped up the brim of a wide-brimmed ha
t and spit a stream of inky juice onto the ground.
Through mottled black teeth, he said, “Hold it right there, Pardner.”
Chapter Seventeen
Familiar Faces
By the time the Spinecrusher reached the City of the Pyramid’s port, Friday had done enough healing to walk. Her left eye had opened partially, and although she could see colors and shapes, her vision was still blurry. She was also prone to headaches, especially when exposed to sunlight. She had been remanded back to the stockade with the other prisoners, but she was provided food from his stock, and the crone continued to tend to her injuries.
The slaves spent long hours debating what the future held for them, but whatever horrors they imagined, Friday knew the truth was much worse. She had seen slaves dragged from the ship, beaten, and caged like the lowest of animals. The women would be sold to breeders. The men strong enough to work would go to the traders. Everyone else would be killed. Still, Friday refused to speak of these things. They would find out soon enough for themselves.
When the ship finally put to quay, the pilfered goods were off-loaded first, under the watchful eye of a harbormaster who annotated each and every piece of wealth for the Bone Flayers’ king. Arga’Zul stood by the man, arguing over the value of goods, but he remained unbowed. He was clearly an important figure in the eyes of Baras’Oot.
The slaves followed next. Friday was pulled from their numbers, her chains removed, but her hands were bound with cords that cut off her circulation. The remaining slaves received far worse treatment as the slave traders dragged them from the ship, beating them with whips and marching them toward a corral in the center of the great bazaar. This cage was domed, with metal latticework that was topped with broken glass to keep the prisoners from scaling it. Inside, scores of other human beings wallowed in misery and waste. It was a pitiful sight.
Arga’Zul was quick to dismiss his men, who ran off to their families or tended to their vices. He then tied a rope around Friday’s neck and secured it to his belt. The noose wasn’t tight, but he was prone to choking her whenever she tarried too long.
The pyramid field was on a flat parcel of land not far from the water, and several old buildings had been repurposed as kitchens, barracks, armories, etc. At the far corner rose the great pyramid, a towering monstrosity of steel and glass that had been crafted by the ancients. Most of the glass had been broken over the years, replaced with black canvas that bore the familiar red sigil.
Merchant shops filled the teeming bazaar, selling wares that had been pillaged or stolen. The trader crowds were a mix of foreigners vying for deals and the city’s elite, who were always accompanied by long retinues. Black banners hung from high poles, streaming in the wind with the Bone Flayer whipping the air.
At various locations, the bodies of flayer enemies were also on display. Some dangled from ropes, others were crucified or on racks. On a few occasions, Friday caught the eyes of her own people within those lofted cages, their Aserra brand displayed prominently outside, the flesh still dripping blood where it had been flayed from those inside. Where once proud defiance reigned, now only broken spirit and flesh remained.
As Arga’Zul paraded Friday thorough the market, insults and refuse were hurled at her. Some spat, others cursed, but all reveled in her capture. When one local tried to strike her, Arga’Zul clubbed the man to the ground. The crowd laughed as he convulsed.
Although it was fall, the day was warm, and sweat trickled down Friday’s back and neck. A low wind kicked up dirt, which stuck to her skin.
Most of the villagers bowed in supplication when Arga’Zul passed. Others greeted him according to their rank, with the more prominent among them receiving a return acknowledgment.
Eventually, they arrived at a tent raised in the shadow of the glass pyramid. Arga’Zul pulled Friday’s leash taut.
“Once we’re inside, you will hold your tongue. My brother rarely notices slaves, but he has a habit of taking things that belong to me.”
Friday nodded but said no more. The guards at the door slapped their fists across their chests before opening the tent flap for Arga’Zul and his party to enter.
Friday didn’t know what to expect inside, but she found the room surprisingly modest. There were a few areas for sitting and a large bed behind gossamer curtains in the corner of the tent. Merchants were gathered around a garish throne to bargain favors.
A slender man sat in a large chair at the top of the dais. He was nearly as tall as Arga’Zul, but unlike his warrior brother, he had little muscle or fat to speak of. His waist was taut and his skin pale. Friday felt an immediate loathing for the man as he sat, bored, yawning openly as others talked.
When this king saw Arga’Zul, he did not break from his trade, but a smile-sneer appeared on his face. After dismissing the merchant, he waved his brother forward.
“The great vanquisher returns. Prince of Rivers, Begetter of Blood. Greetings, Brother.”
“Greetings,” Arga’Zul said, stepping forward to embrace his brother, who didn’t rise, but let him kiss both cheeks.
“I hear you have recovered the object of my bidding. Discovered in a minor tributary, I believe?”
Arga’Zul gnashed his teeth. The only way for the king to know this would be if he had spies aboard the Spinecrusher. He would need to ferret them out.
“Yes, my king,” Arga’Zul said finally.
“Perhaps you should have looked there first. After six moons, I was beginning to suspect you were losing your touch.”
“There are many cities of the old world. Many of these places are no more than rubble and are difficult to navigate to.”
“And yet you still had time to raid.”
Arga’Zul shrugged. “I do have a reputation to maintain.”
Baras’Oot turned to one of his slaves and said, “Find Valud.”
As the slave ran off, Baras’Oot finally noticed Friday.
“And what have we here? Is this the princess I’ve heard so much about?”
“My great prize,” Arga’Zul said. “Daughter of the leader of our rivals.”
“Bring her closer. I would have a closer look at her.”
One of Arga’Zul’s men struck Friday in the back with his staff, and she shot forward, her face hiding none of the disdain she felt at that moment.
“I heard she was beautiful,” Baras’Oot said. “But you’ve done your best to free her of that disservice.”
“A disagreement,” Arga’Zul said. “She has trouble remembering her place.” Arga’Zul turned to Friday. “This is my brother, Baras’Oot, King of the Bone Flayers, and your new master. You will kneel before him.”
Friday leaned forward as if to comply but spit on the ground instead.
Baras’Oot laughed heartily.
In a rage, Arga’Zul punched Friday in the mid-section, and she doubled over.
“I see she follows your orders as well as your men,” Baras’Oot chided.
“She is Aserra. They always prefer the whip to the bridle.” Arga’Zul glowered.
“For you, perhaps,” Baras’Oot said. “I have never had such problems.”
As if on cue, a man appeared. Head shaven, sinewy frame. He wore the dress of the Bone Flayers, complete with a single string of teeth around his neck. And yet on one of his shoulders was a familiar mark.
This man was Aserra.
Friday looked at him with disgust, but the man appeared not to notice or care.
“Valud,” the king said. “My brother claims this girl is a princess of your people.”
Valud looked at Friday as if studying an insect. “Whores and princesses look alike to me, exaltado pai, and they are of little difference in the wild.”
Baras’Oot chuckled again.
In an instant, Friday was on her feet, charging Valud, but Arga’Zul’s guards caught her and pulled her back.
“She has spirit,” Baras’Oot said. “I can see why you like her. She will be very fun to break.”
Arga’Zul
said nothing.
Baras’Oot lifted a lazy finger to one of the slaves, who hustled over with a jug of wine and two ancient glasses. Her shaking hands poured the cups and handed one to each brother.
“Show me the prize.”
Arga’Zul reached into his shirt and retrieved a folded map. It was yellow with age but intact. He held it out, but Baras’Oot barely glanced at it. Instead, he signaled Valud.
Valud spread the map out on a small table, tracing his finger over the ancient script, struggling it settled on a location to the southeast. He turned to Baras’Oot and nodded.
“The location and era appear to be correct, my king,” Valud said. “But this ancient tongue escapes me. Your guests will have to verify it.”
Baras’Oot nodded to the slave again, who quickly rushed away. Then his attention turned back to his brother.
“Fall has almost turned. Will you go out again before winter comes?” he asked.
Arga’Zul shook his head. “I am weary of travel. And my ship is in need of repairs. And I have much to accomplish here.” He touched Friday’s cheek and she snapped her head away. “I also wish to see if our guests can deliver what was promised.”
“And if they cannot?” Baras’Oot asked.
“I will do what I do best. At your bidding, of course.”
Behind them, the tent flapped opened, and the slave returned with two figures in tow.
“Come, my friends,” Baras’Oot said. “I have two surprises for you. I believe we have found what you’re looking for. The map.”
“And the second surprise?” the older of the two figures asked.
“A guest I am told you are familiar with.”
The two figures stepped out of the shadows, and Friday felt every muscle in her body seize. The older man moved for the map, but the younger one’s eyes never left Friday.
“We are,” said the younger one. “We are indeed.”
Friday had once again found herself in the presence of Vardan and Jaras Saah.
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