Robinson Crusoe 2245: (Book 2)

by E. J. Robinson

  From the east, warriors emerged from the trees, each armed, each looking more terrifying than the one before. Robinson counted over thirty before he stopped.

  Cups of water and trays of food were hastily brought out for the party. Many of the arrivals gave Robinson no more than a glance before taking seats around the main fire. And yet, they all knew he was there. He waited for the one who would take an interest.

  Chimosh was the last to enter the circle. His eyes locked onto Robinson as he sat down and was handed a plate of food. He ate in silence, sweat rolling down his lean chest. Only when he finished did he ask about the stranger. The lithe warrior who had first brought Robinson food answered.

  Everything ceased.

  All eyes narrowed in on Robinson. Their faces were grim. A reedy warrior next to Chimosh stood and crossed the circle, grabbing Robinson by the shirt and yanking him to his feet. The sleeve on his arm was torn away, revealing the Aserra brand. The reaction was instantaneous. Shouts and cries flew at him from every direction.

  The reedy warrior mocked Robinson, and before he knew it, an explosion snapped his head back. The soldier struck him a second time. The third time, Robinson caught his hand.

  The reedy warrior grinned, but as he reached for a short blade, Chimosh called out and ordered the man away.

  Chimosh set his food aside and beckoned Robinson to approach. Heart hammering in his chest, Robinson crossed to him.

  “I am told you were seized from a party of Flayers,” Chimosh said in the common tongue.

  “That’s incorrect,” Robinson said. Chimosh raised an eyebrow. “I was found after I escaped. But if your men prefer to take credit, they can say they liberated me.”

  A figure to his left rose to scold him, but Chimosh waved him down.

  “You were a conscript?” Chimosh asked.

  “A prisoner.”

  “A spy, perhaps?”

  “I am no spy. Nor friend to the Bone Flayers. Or enemy to you. They were hunting me and a friend when your party crossed my path.”

  “You bear the mark on your shoulder. How did you come by this?”

  Robinson remembered the warning of the whittling man, but opted for the truth instead.

  “I was given it by one of your people,” he said.

  At the far end of the circle, the whittling man snorted.

  “And who among our kind would do such a thing?” Chimosh asked.

  Robinson heard the scorn in the question. The disbelief. So he repeated a name he had only heard once, long ago. It translated to: “Friday, princess of the clan of the salt marshes, daughter to the king of the people of the mountain and beholden child of the Goddess.”

  The attendees were stunned silent. And then they erupted in rage. Several picked up weapons. Chimosh stood and waved them back. He sat down again, but things had changed, his blasé approach gone. He held his anger in check, but Robinson could see it simmering beneath the surface.

  “The one you speak of is dead, killed at the hands of a Bone Flayer’s war party.”

  “And yet, if your men had found me five minutes sooner,” Robinson said. “They would have seen this dead woman walking and talking with their own eyes.”

  Chimosh turned to question the ones who found him. They shook their heads, but there was uncertainty there.

  “They saw none but you and the Flayers,” Chimosh said.

  “Then the eyes of the Aserra are not what I have been led to believe.”

  This time the whittling man failed to fight back his smile.

  “Tell me how you met the princess,” Chimosh said.

  Robinson shared the story once again, but left out the parts that included his mother, the release of the FENIX, and the deal he struck with Tier Saah. It ended with their reunion, flight, and his expulsion into the river.

  “It seems you are not good at safeguarding her,” Chimosh said.

  “That’s something we have in common.”

  “And it still does not explain why you bear our mark.”

  This was the crux of it. Robinson understood he had to tread carefully.

  “It’s true,” he said. “I haven’t trained my entire life like the Aserra. I am no match for your warriors. But I’ve proven myself many times in battle. And I have given everything in pursuit of protecting those I love. When it boils down, isn’t that what this means? The code you live and die by? The thing you honor most? For Friday, this meant family. And in the end, I was the only family she had.”

  His words fell on deaf ears. Chimosh only cared about one thing.

  “Produce my betrothed and I will set you free.”

  It was a fair offer. It meant life. And yet Robinson dismissed it immediately.

  “Even if I could, she is not mine to give. Nor is she yours anymore.”

  Chimosh scowled indignantly.

  “I am the leader of my people,” Chimosh said. “Who if not me?”

  “Her new betrothed,” Robinson answered.

  More insults were hurled from the crowd, but Robinson never looked away from the leader.

  “You lie,” Chimosh said.

  Robinson turned to the whittling man and said, “Tell him.”

  All eyes turned to Friday’s father. He hesitated before saying, “He carries the seedling of our people.”

  A murmur washed over the crowd. Chimosh silenced them again.

  “Without the princess, this means nothing.”

  “Then let me go and find her. And when I bring her back, she can tell you herself.”

  This time Chimosh laughed. “One against a thousand? Impossible.”

  “I’ve done it before,” Robinson said.

  Chimosh scoffed again, but he appeared unsettled. Robinson saw an opportunity and pushed forward.

  “The Bone Flayers’ village is not far from here. We could make it in a week’s time. The night Fri—the princess and I escaped, there was a battle. I’m sure they took many casualties. Another attack is the last thing they’d expect.”

  “I should lead my people into the lion’s den on the word of a stranger?” Chimosh snorted. “Do you think me a fool?”

  “No. But your enemy isn’t sitting around while you contemplate your next move. At this very moment, Baras’Oot is planning a trip to recover a large store of weapons. Ancient weapons. The kind that could end your war in a fortnight. Check the map in my things if you don’t believe me. The Flayer king will have to divide his forces to retrieve them. If you’re unwilling to attack his City of the Pyramid, at least consider going to where the weapons are stored. You could prepare an ambush. Arga’Zul would never see it coming.”

  A buzz ran through the crowd. Chimosh realized that control was spiraling away from him.

  “Or the ambush could be waiting for us,” he said, standing. “I do not care what mark you wear or who gave it to you. You are not of the Aserra. We have survived because we are elusive. The forests are our cloaks. The rivers our roads. The trees our spears. An enemy cannot catch what it cannot see, so we keep moving.”

  “For how long? Until there’s no more of you left to fight?”

  “You are a boy. You understand nothing.”

  “I understand more than you think.”

  “Then understand this: in the morning, we will leave this place and never return. But you will not. You are a danger to us. And like all dangers, you will be dealt with quickly and permanently. You have until sunrise.”

  “I’m to die then?” Robinson asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I see. Then there’s only one thing left to do. I invoke the old law. The one no warrior of the mountain can refuse.”

  Chimosh shook his head, incredulous, but said, “Speak the words.”

  “Chimosh, leader of the Aserra, I challenge you to a fight to the death.”

  “And I accept your challenge.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Grave Visitors

  Friday’s grave lay in the center of the parade ground, where everyone in the vi
llage could see it.

  Those outside called it a grave, but those inside called it Hell.

  In truth, it was just a rectangular box with a small hole near the head for air. An adult could fit inside, but not fully stretch out. Once the top was nailed down, the box was buried just below the surface, with no chance of escape.

  There were other boxes nearby. Friday could hear the people inside whimpering, especially at night when the temperature dropped to near freezing. But she had lived her life on the run. She knew how to will the cold away. All she had to do was set her mind on something else. In this, like all things, she chose Crusoe.

  She was certain her escape had been worth it. Even if they only had those few nights together. Even if she never escaped again. Even if she died in this crypt, sullied by her own waste, at least she would know all those months hadn’t been in vain. He had kept his promise to find her. He had never veered from the course. It gave her hope that he would do it again.

  Her return to the City of the Pyramid had not been easy. Arga’Zul’s anger manifested in so many ways. She thought he might kill her. Or worse. But he never laid a hand on her. That was the scariest part. It meant he was truly in love with her.

  Instead, it was Baras’Oot who put her in the ground with little food or water to stay alive.

  The villagers came day and night to curse her, to assault her with all manners of filth, but she stayed silent and waited.

  On the third day, she awoke in shivers and felt nauseated. On the fourth she couldn’t stop vomiting. There was nothing to do. She tried instead to raise her hands at night, to cover the hole to conserve body heat. But her arms grew weak. Her body was eating itself away.

  The claustrophobia was intense. She fought hard not to panic. Even when she began to hallucinate, she clung to the tether of her love.

  And then, on the morning of the sixth day, Friday heard the stomp of feet nearing. Someone gave the order to “lower,” then a single set of footsteps approached through the mud.

  A shadow loomed above Friday, but she couldn’t see who was casting it.

  She was shocked when clean water spilled through the hole. She moved her mouth quickly to take it in. After her fourth or fifth gulp, the flow ceased.

  “How do you feel, child?” Baras’Oot asked.

  Friday was glad he could not see her lip tremble.

  “Good,” she answered. “Let me out of here and I’ll prove it to you.”

  Baras’Oot laughed. It was the first time she’d heard him do it.

  “Of that I’m certain. You are a stubborn people, defiant to the end.”

  Friday didn’t know what to say to that, so she stayed quiet.

  “It’s a shame you weren’t in here during the summer. They say the temperature inside the box can grow twice as hot as outside. I’m told it’s like being burned alive. The downside, of course, is that those inside don’t last long.”

  “You should kill me now,” Friday said. “Whatever you want, you won’t get it from me.”

  Again, Baras’Oot chuckled.

  “But I am, Princess. With each passing day, you grow weaker, and my brother knows it. You should see how he suffers in silence. Pain is a release, but torment? Torment is a leash no man can shed.”

  “It is only a matter of time, anyway,” Friday said.

  “Until you’re rescued?”

  “Until he kills you. I’ve seen the desire in his eyes.”

  “Ah. Yes. So have I. I was a young boy when I first recognized it, and I’ve seen it many times since. But do you know what stays his hand? The throne. They used to say heavy hangs the crown, but the truth is, it’s the seat that sucks you in. Some days you feel like you’ll never get up. It’s the one thing my brother truly fears. Not the intricacies of ruling. The monotony. My brother. He would love nothing more than sailing his ships around until the end of his days. Sacking, pillaging: these are the duties he was born for. And he takes such pride in his work. But the rest of it, he recognizes it for the burden it is and wants none of it. He needs me, you see. And I suppose I need him too. More water?”

  Friday didn’t respond, but when a shadow filled the hole, she opened her mouth and was relieved to taste the cool water again.

  “You are too young to know this,” Baras’Oot continued, “but once, this field held prisoners as far as the eye could see. From the river to the very steps of the temple. And each year, about this time, my people would host a tournament for them to compete for their freedom. Well, not freedom, exactly. But an opportunity to join our ranks. It was a marvelous spectacle. So many warriors uniquely skilled. In the end, it grew too costly to house them year-round, but the battles were something to behold.”

  “Barbarism.”

  Baras’Oot laughed again.

  “That’s ironic, coming from you. It was the Aserra, after all, who taught us all we know of violence.”

  “Lies!” Friday said. “Your people declared war on us.”

  “You misunderstand me, Princess. When we first moved to this land, we were simple farmers. But marauders used to attack our village, and we knew if we were to survive, we would need to learn to defend ourselves. We sought a warrior clan for training, and far and wide, all spoke of the skill of the Aserra. The Aserra. The people of the mountains. The clan that could not be defeated.

  “Eventually, we found your village, but we were turned away. Yours are a proud people. But when they saw our ability to cultivate and harvest crops, a deal was struck. We would teach you how to farm the land, and in exchange, you would teach us how to defend ourselves. Your greatest warrior was sent here each spring, and for three years, he instructed our people how to fight, how to make weapons, how to fortify our land. But some time during those years, his eyes turned to our queen and could not turn away. He lusted after her, and when she rebuked his advances, he killed her and fled.”

  “More lies,” Friday said.

  “Possibly. I once heard my mother’s mother suggest the two had fallen in love and that her husband had slain her out of jealousy. Whatever the case, that’s the truth of how our feud began. Not that it’s important. As I said before, I don’t dwell on history. But my brother is a different beast. He needs something to fuel him, and nothing has stoked his fire like his hatred for the Aserra. That’s why, tomorrow, he sets out to finish the job.”

  Friday felt her chest pushing against the top of the box. When she said nothing, Baras’Oot leaned closer.

  “Did you hear me?” he asked. “I said, tomorrow, Arga’Zul sets out to retrieve the weapons of the ancients. And when he returns, we will hunt down your people and wipe the name of the Aserra from the world for good. It shouldn’t be too difficult. According to my spies, there are only four or five tribes left. I’m told they’ve grown desperate enough to move east of here for the winter. Easy targets, if that’s the case. Not that you’ll care. You’ll be long dead by the time my brother returns.”

  Baras’Oot rose and signaled his procession. Friday called out.

  “Last chance, Great King,” she said. “You should kill me now.”

  “Why? To spare you pain?”

  “To spare your own. In my time, shackles have not held me. Nor ropes or bars or oaths. I am a spirit of the forest. I am death’s own ghost. One day, I will rise from this box, alive or dead, and I will come for you. The prickle you feel at the back of your neck will be my breath. The downbeat of your heart, my touch. When you enter a room and feel a chill, it will be my shadow, waiting for you. My eyes will be the last things you see. On the Goddess, I swear it will be so.”

  For a second, Baras’Oot said nothing, but she could hear his breath had quickened.

  “Your Goddess is dead,” he said eventually. “And soon, you will be too. Enjoy your final days.”

  Baras’Oot signaled his men to lower the palanquin, but as he was helped aboard, he thought he heard the girl say, “I will.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Blood is Our Name

  The figh
t was set to take place the following dawn. To Robinson’s surprise, he was given a hearty meal and a warm place to rest.

  The whittling man entered his tent shortly after sunset, holding a cup filled with a thick paste.

  “This is an old recipe. Rub it into your muscles tonight, and in the morning, your stiffness will have gone away.”

  Robinson took it and thanked him.

  “Tomorrow, you will be given the choice of fighting with weapons or without. Chimosh always selects staff.”

  It wasn’t a surprise. The Old Man had favored the staff too. He’d proven to be a master of distance with it. Chimosh would be even better.

  “Why are you helping me?” Robinson asked.

  The whittling man looked into the fire.

  “My daughter was always rebellious, but I never doubted her heart. To choose you, she must have seen something in you. It is unfortunate I will not learn what that is.”

  “I have no chance of winning, do I?” Robinson asked.

  The whittling man shook his head.

  “In my time, I was better than any other, and he surpasses me.”

  Robinson understood.

  “Friday used to say the business leading up to a fight doesn’t matter. Not history or promise, only the outcome. You prepare to give your best. But my best rarely earned me my victories. More often, I relied on tricks. Or luck. I’ve exhausted both, I think.”

  “The Goddess protects innocents and fools alike. But a man makes his own luck. Fight true, and even if you die, you will die with honor.”

  Robinson nodded, and the man rose and limped for the flap.

  “May I ask one more thing?” Robinson said. “The acorn. I’d like to have it back. At least until it’s over.”

  The whittling man hesitated before digging the acorn from his pocket and tossing it to him.

  “Chimosh injured his knee when he was young. If he puts weight on it while turning to the left, it causes the knee to catch.”

  Robinson didn’t know what to say to this, so he just thanked him.

  “Don’t thank me. It is a shot in the dark. Far too small to tip the scales, but perhaps it can give you hope.”