“Thank you, anyway. It was a pleasure meeting you.”
The whittling man stared at him and then shook his head.
“Odd boy,” he said before leaving.
They came for him, as promised, at the crack of dawn. No ceremony. No pomp or circumstance.
To the Aserra, it was just another day.
The circle outside had been cleaned of wood and debris. Robinson estimated it to be twenty by twenty paces. Room enough to maneuver, but no room to run. Warriors lined the perimeter.
The morning was chilly, but the sky was clear. The sun had only just edged over the lip of the world.
Robinson took several heavy breaths to stave off the panic building inside him. Fear and doubt, Friday always said, were his biggest enemies.
She’d never seen Chimosh.
There is always a way, his head said.
He liked the idea of running better.
He walked to the center of the fighting circle. The Aserra stood as stoic as always.
Life is crazy, Robinson thought. Here I am, having spent the better part of a year and a half dreaming of finding these people, and a few days after I’ve succeeded, they’re going to kill me.
Breathe, his voice said.
Robinson scanned the crowd. The whittling man was seated upon a log not far from the circle. Calm. Robinson’s hands went to his sash and felt the acorn there. That small lump anchored him.
From the far corner of the camp, Chimosh appeared. His mouth was set, but Robinson thought he saw something in his eyes. Was he conflicted? Having second thoughts? Doubtful.
Robinson churned his feet in the dirt. He had left his boots in the tent for fear they’d slow him down. He bent over and grabbed a handful of soil, rubbing it in his palms to dry them.
Chimosh stepped into the center of the circle.
“As the challenged,” Chimosh began, “I have the right to choose arms, but I leave this choice to you.”
To Robinson’s left, a warrior threw back a skin covering a rack of weapons. Robinson saw swords, spears, daggers, and shields, but, of course, no guns. Laying innocently in the dirt was a staff of thick-knotted wood. It was worn, but it looked stout and battle tested. He wondered what Chimosh would do if he selected it. Instead, he crossed over and came away with his axe. He suspected Friday’s father had put it there.
Chimosh selected his staff, twirling it as he returned. The image reminded Robinson of something, but he couldn’t place it.
Without further warning, the duel began.
Chimosh lowered his stance, staff extended, as he circled to his right. He could have been gauging his opponent, but more likely, he was sending a message to the others that every battle, no matter how stacked in your favor, raised the need for caution.
Robinson circled in time with Chimosh. The axe felt good in his hand.
Chimosh’s movements were graceful. He swung the staff as his stance changed. Robinson found himself mesmerized by his fluidity and the woosh of the wood as it moved.
Then Chimosh attacked.
The staff came at a blistering speed. Robinson ducked under the first strike and even managed to lift his leg to avoid a second, but a third spinning shot struck him across the forearm. The blow jolted his entire body and sent waves of pain radiating through his bones. And yet Robinson was already countering, swinging his axe horizontally toward Chimosh’s midsection.
Chimosh leaned back, only to find the axe had rotated upward for a series of downward slashes. Chimosh evaded them with ease. Still, Robinson saw his opponent’s eyes narrow. A lesser fighter might not have read anything into it, but Robinson saw it as a sign of respect.
Chimosh’s second attack came quicker.
The sweeping barrage forced Robinson to leap out of range. He struggled to maintain his balance in the face of the relentless barrage. Robinson took more strikes to the shoulder and outer thigh. He surged forward with his own counterstrike, one he had used successfully many times in battle, but it, too, fell far short of the mark.
Chimosh feinted low and came in high. The end of the spear caromed off Robinson’s crown, but first blood had been drawn. As it ran down his face, Robinson lunged forward, desperately throwing himself off balance to overextend his strike. Chimosh deflected the blade with his staff, but when he stepped back, he saw a thin line of blood ran from the outside knuckle where the blade had grazed him.
If Robinson thought this would throw Chimosh off, he was mistaken.
Chimosh raged forward with another spinning attack. This one came so fast, Robinson could barely see the staff coming. The first strike caught him in the ribs, and he felt them separate. The second caught him flush on the right ear. The third struck his left calf as he tried to pivot away. The fourth hit the back of his shoulder, and he fell to the dirt.
Robinson swung his axe defensively. Chimosh circled just out of range. Robinson’s vision blurred as he was momentarily blinded by the sun rising through the trees. The pain in his side was so intense, it was hard to breathe. He tasted blood in his mouth. He was losing. If he didn’t think of something soon, Chimosh would finish him.
As Robinson pushed himself to his feet, he felt a stone in the dirt. He scooped it up with his free hand. As he limped to his right, something brushed against his arm. He glanced quickly down to see the sling had unwound from the neck of the axe.
Throughout the fight, Robinson kept the whittling man’s words about Chimosh’s knee fresh in his mind. But each time the Aserra warrior had set and Robinson moved to his right, Chimosh had pivoted the leg outward to counter against his own weakness.
An idea occurred to Robinson. It was an incredible long shot. And he would only have one chance to make it work.
Chimosh strode back to the center of the circle and narrowed his head. The fight had gone too long. It was time to put an end to it.
Robinson rotated the axe in a circular motion. To those outside the circle, it looked like a gesture to keep distance. But secretly, Robinson was unspooling his sling.
Chimosh’s final attack came with forceful, decisive swings. Robinson took several blows in retreat, but only to gain position. Once he was in place, he extended his arm, allowing Chimosh to hit it hard. His arm went numb.
Robinson made a show of stumbling back. Then, with unexpected speed, he threw his axe underhanded.
Chimosh had expected this kind of desperate move, but his timing was off. He pushed hard to his left, only to feel his knee seize up. An unfamiliar tendril of panic shot through him, and in that instant, he did the only thing he could. He deflected the axe with his staff.
The staff cracked and split in two as the axe ricocheted over his shoulder. His opponent’s gambit had failed, but then a strange thing happened. The boy stepped to the side, revealing the sun behind him. He was momentarily blinded, scarcely aware his opponent was rotating something in his hands. He held up his hand to ward off the sun. Only at the last moment did he see Robinson release the sling.
The rock hit Chimosh between the eyes, and he fell backward in a crushing heap.
The silence was deafening. All eyes were on Robinson as he stumbled forward to retrieve his axe and walk back to Chimosh. His eyes were dazed. His body was rigid as his brain tried to reset. Robinson didn’t want to kill the man, but he had no choice. He dropped to his knees, taking several deep breaths while looking out at the Aserra.
The stoic faces remained. There was no surprise. No shock. No anger or fear. This was only the outcome. This was the will of the Goddess.
Robinson raised the axe and brought it down.
Chimosh caught it in his hand. His eyes focused as he seethed. He struck Robinson in the face, driving him to the ground. Chimosh clambered to his feet and assailed the boy with punches and kicks. He went down, only to rise again.
A gash opened under Robinson’s eye. His lip split. Blood ran from his ear. Still he rose. Chimosh was incredulous.
“Why do you continue to fight, boy?” he yelled.
Robinson didn’t answer. He stood again. Chimosh hit him with a massive overhand that sent him cartwheeling to the dirt.
He stood again.
“Why!” Chimosh barked. “The fight is over. You’ve lost! Quit and I’ll be merciful. I will end it quickly.”
Another strike. Another tumble. Another gushing wound. Robinson’s mouth lolled open. His legs trembled. He stood again.
“Stay down, damn you!” Chimosh screamed, striking Robinson with punches to the body and face.
Robinson was blinded by the blood in his eyes. He felt his consciousness retreating, but he kept getting up. Even when his legs threatened to betray him. Even when his balance had abandoned him. He rose.
Chimosh watched with disbelief. The boy had sustained so much punishment. He should be unconscious. He should be dead. But here he was, standing again. His legs wobbled. His face retreated under the swell of blood. But still he stood, again and again.
“Why won’t you stop?” Chimosh asked at last.
Hot tears spilled down Robinson’s face. He swallowed, and blood ran down his throat. When he finally spoke, no one else breathed.
“We are the mountains that stand together. We are the summit and the base. From our forest come the arrow, from our crags, the blade. We are born in shadow and pass in fire. We are Aserra. Blood is our name.”
Robinson stepped again toward Chimosh. But then he slowed, swaying a moment before collapsing at his feet.
Chimosh did not move. His head was still hazy. But he looked up and saw it in the faces of his people. They felt this defeat as he did.
Without thinking, Chimosh bent over and picked Robinson up, stumbling back toward the tent with the boy over his shoulder.
Chapter Forty
The Journey South
It was well past midnight when Friday heard someone else approach. Her guards had doused her with cold water every hour on the hour. Her shivering had grown worse. Fever had taken hold. It was only a matter of time.
And then someone fell to their knees on the dirt above her and spoke.
“Shh,” the voice said. “Stay quiet. I’m here to help you.”
She recognized the voice but couldn’t quite tie it to a face. Then she heard digging and knew someone else had come to torment her.
“We have to do this quick,” the voice said. “But I couldn’t risk bringing tools.”
The words were foreign, but she understood them somehow. She struggled to remember where she’d first learned them.
“I brought clothes,” the voice whispered again. “But no food. For that, you’ll have to wait until you’re aboard the ship.”
“Ship?” Friday muttered.
“Yes,” the voice answered. “Father said the war chieftain wants you with him. Father said he’s planning on killing the king, but not until he gets his hands on the weapons. By that time, we’ll be back home to Mother.”
The words ‘father’ and ‘mother’ filled in the blanks for Friday. She recognized them because Robinson had used them so often in the capitol.
“Jaras,” Friday said, finally remembering his name.
“Of course. Who else would I be? You didn’t really think Father and I would leave you here, did you, Tessa?”
His voice was shaky. She could hear the fragility in it. A fear ran through her. What if he opened the box and saw she wasn’t his sister? Would he cry out? She could disable him even now. Kill him, even. But what then? What if his plan for escape was more than delusion?
The digging continued. Friday shook with chills. Jaras was mumbling now, talking to himself. Friday had to keep him focused.
“Where’s the ship headed?” Friday whispered.
“I’m not supposed to say,” Jaras answered. “But between us, we’re going south to a city called Atlanta. Only it’s a little inland. So we’ll be sailing south for a few days before going the rest of the way on foot.”
“What’s in Atlanta?” Friday asked.
Jaras giggled. “The prize that got away. What your boyfriend stole from us.”
Friday didn’t immediately recognize the word ‘boyfriend,’ but the way Jaras said it, with such contempt, it made her think of Crusoe.
“Cru-soe?” Friday asked.
Jaras stopped digging.
“Don’t say his name, Tessa. Please.”
“No. Of course. Just get me out of here.”
As Jaras resumed digging, Friday thought about what he’d said. The prize that got away. In the capitol, Crusoe said they’d been pursuing the sickness that created Renders. Virus was the word he used. Crusoe had told her the explosions from the sky had rid the world of it. Washed it clean. And everything she’d seen in the interim had confirmed it. But if they were looking to restore the virus, it might fall to her to stop them.
As Jaras’s fingers struck wood, Friday prepared herself for what came next. Once her box was opened, she could flee. But now, there was something more at stake than her freedom. But stopping it would require she go with her enemy—the man who’d taken everything from her. Did she have that in her?
What would Crusoe want her to do?
By the time the lid of her box lifted, she had made up her mind. She would go with them to Atlanta. She would stop this threat if she could. And then she would get back to her people and find the man she loved.
“Oh, my dear, sweet sister,” Jaras said. “Look at what they’ve done to you. You’re filthy.”
The boy looked gaunt, confused. She could see the madness pulling at him from within.
“I can bathe later,” Friday said. “What do we do now?”
Jaras unexpectedly signaled someone. Friday tensed.
When two Bone Flayers holding a female prisoner came forward, the horrible truth struck her. Oh, Goddess. They are going to put her in the box, in my place.
Friday didn’t have time to resist. This was her only chance. If the Goddess put this girl in her place, it was a sacrifice she would honor by succeeding in her task.
“These men are with the chieftain,” Jaras said. “They’ll take you straight to the ship.”
“What about you?” Friday asked.
“Don’t worry, Tessa. I’ll be along in the morning, and we’ll be on our way. Maybe in Atlanta I can find you a dress. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Friday nodded.
The Bone Flayers took her by the elbows and helped her off into the night. When she last looked back, she saw Jaras on his knees, burying the girl in her new grave.
The ship set out that morning with no fanfare. Friday listened to the crew hustling on the deck from her secret location within the ship. She was hidden behind a wall of supplies with enough rations to see her through a few days.
She expected Arga’Zul to send for her or come for her himself, but he never did. Friday had been given a small basin full of water and rags to clean herself with. Afterward, she lay cocooned in her blanket, more iron around her ankle.
Arga’Zul sent for her on the fourth morning. Two Flayers helped her up the stairs. She was still racked with fever, but she refused to be carried.
He was seated at the table. The warriors sat her opposite him before leaving the cabin. She didn’t know what to expect. He had promised to kill her if she tried to escape again, but right now, all she could think about was the steaming bowl of food on the table.
“Go on,” he said.
She sucked the broth down first, letting the heat fill her belly. Then she ate the beef and potatoes, hoping it would all stay down.
“We approach our destination. Once we’ve docked, we march on to an ancient city named Atlanta. It will take three or four days to reach. I’m told you’re ill. Can you make it on your own?”
“I can and will,” she said.
Arga’Zul eyed her before nodding. “I’ve kept your presence secret from most of the crew, but there’ll be no hiding it once we disembark. Stay close to me. Most of my men are loyal, but my brother has his spies.
“I am told the city
we travel toward is filled with the hordes of the dead. I have one thousand well-armed men. But it may not be enough. I’ll need every available hand. Can you fight?”
Even as her lip trembled, she smiled.
“I can always fight,” she said.
Arga’Zul nodded.
“I will give you arms and shield, but be warned. My men have orders to slay you if you attack me or if I fall. The same goes for the flying man and his son. It is your job to protect them. You have experience there, I think.”
Friday didn’t answer. In her time with Crusoe, he’d done as much to protect her as she had him.
“I offer no future considerations. No promises of life or freedom. This is the only way I know how to keep you alive.”
Friday remained quiet. Her time would come. War didn’t scare her. Neither did Arga’Zul. The blade, her first friend, would see to both.
It was Crusoe she thought of now. Was her lover still alive? And if so, how would he ever find her out here in the wild?
Chapter Forty-One
Alliances
He’d never imagined pain could be so extreme, and he’d had his share of it. But lying back on the roll inside his tent, it was like the forces of the universe were conspiring against him. The ground hurt his back. The air hurt his lungs. The firelight burned his eyes. Even gravity was not his friend.
He heard the whittling man before he saw him. Still working away at the stick in his hand.
“Club?” Robinson croaked.
The whittling man shook his head.
“A toy for the children,” he said.
Robinson lifted his head and nausea rolled over him. It was just the two of them.
“Chimosh?” he asked.
“He lives,” the man said.
“I meant … he took pity on me.”
“That is not the word I would use.”
“What will they do with me?”
“That is what they are deciding now.”
“Take me outside,” Robinson said as he turned over onto his knees.
“Would you listen if I told you it was a mistake?”
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