Prophet of the Badlands (The Awakened Book 1)

by Matthew S. Cox

  “Why not?” His body jerked as Rachel squirmed to free her legs from his hands.

  “Get off me, you piece of shit!”

  “She’s sick.” Althea raced to find an excuse. “She’s from before-time. She has sick that will kill you. Is old sick you cannot fight. Before-time sick will make man bits turn black and fall off… much hurts.”

  “But you’re the Prophet!” He gestured at her with Rachel’s foot. “Fix it!”

  “I never see this sick before, must learn. It will take days to fix. If you get sick it kill too fast.” She emphasized the point with a telempathic poke of dread.

  The war chief dropped Rachel’s leg, taking a pace back and wiping his hand on his metal armor as if touching her had left some manner of residue on him. Rachel kicked at the ground, shoving herself into the cell away from him. The other women cowered from her, unaware of Althea’s ruse.

  “No use for this one, then.” He pulled an old pistol from his belt and aimed at her face.

  “No!” Althea screamed, clutching her fingers through the metal. “Don’t you dare!” The wave of energy that radiated from the little girl knocked the war chief back a step and left a dumbfounded look on his face.

  She hated using that magic. That was the kind of spell Mystics used. The kind of power that made people want to kill to protect themselves.

  Vakkar glanced at Althea, shaking his head and blinking as if clearing his senses from a severe punch to the nose. She stared down, the commanding tone fleeing into the delicate whine of a child that wanted something. “Please don’t hurt her.”

  Seemingly drunk and unaware of who he even was, Vakkar kicked the door closed and hung the key back on its peg before staggering off out of sight. Rachel scooted over to the partition and pressed her cheek into the metal. An unending stream of thanks flowed with her tears. She wanted to cling to the girl that just saved her, but the grating between them and the metal about her wrists had other plans. Althea leaned into the lattice, an exchange of body heat as close as they could get to an embrace.

  “Do that for me next time,” Zhar whispered, a crack in her pride showing.

  Ramani huddled in a ball, wrapped in mute shame.

  Althea sank to the ground, sick with worry. She did not use that magic often, and did not want word to spread she could do such things. Her ability to influence emotion was much stronger than forcing direct commands upon people. Some Scrags were terrified enough from merely watching her heal. Thoughts of how they would react if they knew she could command them to obey scared her to the point of trembling. One or two she could control, a crowd of angry men was another matter. Better to be caged than killed.

  “What’s wrong?” Rachel no doubt felt the quivering through the barrier.

  Althea whispered. “If people learn I can make them do things, they will be mean to me. I… Only when it’s important.”

  “Taking you away from someone you love and putting you in a cage is pretty damn mean already.” Rachel pressed harder into the barrier.

  “It’s pretty damn important not to get ra―” Zhar swallowed the rest of her words as someone approached.

  “Where’s the damn key!” A man’s voice made everyone but Zhar jump.

  The raider brutalized for shoving Althea to the ground leaned up against the post, six feet away from the pens. He looked a mess, and glared at the empty peg.

  “Vakkar has it.” Althea spoke at the floor.

  He stumbled closer; a face covered with purple and black appeared through the mesh. “Make hurt stop?”

  Cradling her growling stomach as she stood, Althea dragged herself to the door. The sight of the man responsible for her being here brought memories of Den. Tears splattered into the concrete through her toes as she put her hand through a small gap. With surprising care, he clasped it, fell to one knee, and gave her an apologetic glance.

  Eyes closed, she concentrated on the energy of his life. Dark bruises receded into his skin as the exertion sapped the strength from her legs. Within minutes, she collapsed to the floor, clinging to the grate to keep from falling over. Her head sagged and she gasped for breath. He stumbled away, his body restored. By the time she had the energy to look up, he had returned with another skewer and a grateful smile. She curled up among the mass of soft flannel, gnawing on the tepid meat.

  Zhar perked up.

  “Don’t you even think about it,” whispered Rachel, glaring her down. “Look at the kid. She’s starved to skin and bones.”

  The raider paused, a brief look of remorse upon his face, before he left her alone with dreams of a home she almost had.

  outine fell into place as the days became a blur. Her world limited to this twelve-foot chamber, Althea heard cheers echo through the factory when the raiders gamed with the strange sphere, and their shouts when they fought for spoils. Roaring buggies woke her before the dawn most days as they made forays out into the Badlands. Each time they left, she asked the ancestors to ensure no unfortunate souls were brought back enslaved, and so far, they listened. Sometimes the buggies did not return at all. When they did not, she would gaze at the broken windows along the roof, face against the metal cage, wondering what became of them.

  With each run came the inevitable follow of being dragged out to the injured raiders and made to mend them, initially at the end of a chain padlocked about her throat. Vakkar softened to her after two weeks, and no longer permitted the leash. It became a point of contention among the more aggressive ones, male and female, convinced she would flee at the first opportunity. Some were nice to her―those that feared the stories. The raiders who did not treated her like an object, manhandling her like a first-aid kit that could talk. Althea suffered through it without tears, sustained by the feeling of helping people, even bad ones.

  It had been almost four weeks since she made up the lie about Rachel’s illness, and she feared Vakkar would not believe it for much longer. Aya was proud of being chosen at night, offering no resistance whenever he came to collect her. Not sensing any hesitation, Althea let it happen, but did not watch. Instead, she tried to keep the others’ attention off what went on in front of the throne a short distance away. Ramani dreaded her turn as much as Rachel, but could not bring herself to fight back. Subtle twists of emotion had helped focus Vakkar’s affections on Aya, the only one of the harem that did not seem to mind her situation.

  Althea’s fingers scraped greedily through the warm flavorless slop given to her that morning, shoveling it into her face in an attempt to finish before they came to collect the bowl. The sound of the harem cage opening lifted her gaze. Under the watchful eye of Vakkar, a group of raiders collected the women one by one, leading them off after securing chains to their collars. Since she lacked one, a handful of men held Rachel down while another padlocked one around her neck. Althea looked away, unable to watch, as they dragged her shrieking friend through the factory.

  Paralytic guilt vanished with the cavernous reverberation of a slamming door. Alone in the massive building, she licked the last bits of nutrient paste from the steel bowl and set it on the concrete by the door. This room afforded her the luxury of motion far more than any other cage she had been kept in, and she spent some time running around in circles and climbing the shelves to keep herself in tune. As she exercised, her thoughts drifted to a blur that might have been her ninth year.

  His name was Reed, a soldier who rescued her from a pack of wildmen she no longer much recalled. He took her to a place with strange trees and rough, rock-laden hills. Sit-ups were one of the things he had shown her; thinking about him made her smile widen each time her chest touched her knees. Reed taught her about animals and creatures, what plants she could eat and which ones not to touch. Exercise was his favorite pastime. Out of breath, she clamped her arms around her legs and stared off at nothing. Sadness crept in as she thought about where he could be now.

  He had meant to protect her by bringing her to a remote place, but they had found her anyway after a little less than
a year. There was some solace in how they ambushed her while he had gone off to hunt. Althea clung to the hope they did not kill him. In a way she was glad he had been so pragmatic with her, emotionless but dutiful. He had found a child, taken her in, protected and provided for her, but love and tenderness were not in his repertoire. That had made it possible, but far from easy, not to miss him.

  Althea pressed the agate between her thumb and finger, thinking about Den. The edge gleamed white in the sun from the jagged glass at the top of the far wall. With a sigh, she crawled to the water bowl, drank, and splashed her face. The rattle of her cell’s walls made her head snap to the opening door.

  Vakkar stood just outside, waiting, quite unlike how he had gone for Rachel, or Aya the night after, or Zhar the night after that. This seemed as much a request as a demand. Althea stood, keeping her eyes on the floor, and padded obediently to his side. He took her hand like a protector more than an owner, and led her through the huge room and out into the blinding day.

  Hundreds of raiders assembled around a square area defined by faded yellow lines painted centuries ago upon the ground. Blood stained the concrete here and there in front of a large dais composed of old crushed cars and machine parts. The women were leashed to a throne of welded scrap, two on either side. Aya basked in the gaze of the crowd, posing to accentuate her looks. Zhar knelt still, accepting her exposure with the smug thought she was a captive only because she had not yet attempted to leave. Ramani had her head away from the crowd, trembling as if one bad smell away from vomiting. Rachel looked out of her mind with shame at being paraded in front of all these men in such a helpless state.

  As he stepped up onto the platform, Vakkar gestured. “Sit where you like.”

  Althea spun with a sharp twist; the strands of scrap leather fanned out and resettled against her legs, and she sat in front of Rachel, granting her a bit of cover from the crowd. As the chief lowered with great pomp into his throne, Althea put a comforting hand on Rachel’s foot and pulled the woman’s emotion under control, before she reached a point of self-harm.

  “The men compete today.”

  Althea turned her head left, facing into a wash of warm booze-air that flew from Vakkar’s throat.

  He grinned, pointing at the arena. “Some will be hurt. You will mend them.”

  She stared with a horrified grimace at the crowd.

  “Relax, child.” Vakkar pet her like a cat, stroking his fingers over her head. “They are not to kill each other. That would only weaken us. This is practice; the wounds should be minor.”

  Some of the men scowled at Althea, making her lean into Rachel. Hateful stares were something new, and not until she peeked at their thoughts did she understand why. Her presence here had made Vakkar order them to practice fight with deadly things instead of toys, since she could stop the infections and death from even small cuts.

  Because of her, they would suffer.

  Crying, she leaned up to beg Vakkar to stop this; but it was too late. Two raiders roared, facing off in the confines of the peeling amber quadrangle. Sword held high, one charged in behind a shield made of several octagonal pieces of red metal with white letters. The other circled, holding a pair of knives at the ready. An older man at each corner shouted commands and criticisms as the fight progressed. Althea hid her face against Rachel’s shoulder. She knew they were not to kill each other, but she was unwilling to watch violence for which she felt responsible.

  “What is this?” Rachel’s shivering whisper interspersed with the ringing of metal blades.

  “They are training. Later there will be contests of rank.” Zhar explained how the raiders were organized into squads and groups, and leaders had to win their rank in trials by combat.

  Rachel tried to contain her rage. “I can guess why the kid’s here, but what are we doing out here?”

  “Why have pretty pets if you don’t show them off,” Aya said from the other side of the throne as her stretch drew many eyes.

  “I’m not a fucking possession,” Rachel grumbled.

  Zhar tugged at the chain hanging from Rachel’s neck, and dropped it. “You are until you fight your way out.”

  Rachel brimmed with anger and shame.

  The tension between the two grew as taut as the link between Rachel’s wrists until Ramani crawled over to the extent of her leash. She stared at Althea, poised with a strange grin. Something different shone in her eyes; a foreign presence, something other than timid Ramani, stared back at her.

  “There you are… little one.” The voice did not belong to the thin woman; its sultry allure held calm laced with arrogance.

  “Who are you?” Althea’s voice was stern and cold. “Let Ramani go.”

  “That is Ramani.” Zhar shot a quizzical glance at Althea, gazing back and forth between the two for a moment. Something in the slender woman’s eyes unsettled her. “That is Ramani?”

  Ramani looked down at herself and around at the other women. “I think I will make sure these pigs all die for what they are doing to you. Know that friends are coming, little one.” With that, the bony woman shuddered and fell seated, swooning as if drunk.

  “What just happened?” Rachel edged away from everyone, still wringing her hands in an attempt to get loose.

  “Stop that. You’re going to cut yourself.” Althea rubbed the redness out of Rachel’s wrists. “Someone was inside Ramani.”

  “That would be Vakkar.” Zhar laughed.

  Rachel made a disgusted face. “In no world is that funny.”

  Althea frowned at the redhead. “No, a spirit I think… maybe the Ancestor of Mischief.”

  “I felt something cold drift over me a minute before,” said Aya.

  A smile crept over Zhar’s face as she whispered. “Then it is true, the Prophet will bear forth our freedom.”

  A tremendous clang made the women cringe, though Althea shot a blasé glance in the direction. Two different raiders went after each other with swords as long as their height, seemingly made of old flattened and sharpened car parts.

  “Seriously? Goddamn swords! I’m chained by the neck, naked, to the throne of a bandit king while guys are trying to kill each other with medieval weapons.” Rachel shuddered and curled forward. “Please wake up… Please wake up… So help me Hawthorne, if I’m in a fucking sim right now, I am going to rip your balls off.”

  Althea looked away from Rachel, ashamed of her own guilt. She could force Vakkar to free them and he would believe he wanted to for a time, but then he would realize, and then people would know the Prophet could do such things. Then there would always be cages and chains, assuming of course that they did not just kill her out of fear.

  “I’m gonna kill that mother―”

  Althea put her hand over Rachel’s mouth.

  “The child is right,” Zhar whispered. “Act tame, and strike when they lower their guard.”

  “Tame? This is so fucking far from okay that―”

  Zhar jerked the leash, pulling Rachel nose to nose and muttering. “You think I’m happy to be here? You think I like this?” She shook her own leash. “I’m just as pissed off as you are, but I’m not stupid enough to act like it and get my ass beat. Sit down, shut up, and do what they tell you to do till we can do something about it other than get killed.”

  She let go.

  Rachel glared, eyeballs almost bulging out of her head. Zhar folded her arms over her knees, glaring off into the distance; for an instant, her outward demeanor faltered and let a single tear slip through the iron wall. Scowling, Rachel slumped and plotted.

  A wail of agony preceded a noise like an out of tune cathedral bell, and all eyes went to the fighting. One sword lay on the ground. Half a forearm sailed through the air, raining blood upon them as it passed over the throne and out of sight. Aya looked annoyed at the red on her legs; Ramani screamed and wiped it off as if it were caustic. Zhar seemed happy to watch one of them suffer, and Rachel was too angry to notice. The bandit chief cheered and lunged to his
feet with a murderous howl of approval.

  Althea scampered over the platform, sprinting in the direction of the hand. Ignoring the raider’s shouts of alarm, she darted down the rear of the dais and jumped after the errant limb over the edge of a drainage ditch. Thigh-deep in water the color of weak coffee, she swished her hands around through the mud looking for it. The peculiar urgency in the raider’s alarm made sense as she came abreast of a corrugated metal pipe, large enough for her to walk into with only a slight stoop. It ran through the ground under the factory wall, leading quite a ways into the distance to a spot of sunlight that winked back at her.

  Freedom was right there. It stared through the heat blur shimmering from the ground outside. She could run, right now. By the time the raiders mounted up on their buggies, drove through the front gates and around the compound, she would be gone, hiding somewhere they could not find her.

  Her hand brushed the floating limb and she picked it up out of the water. Althea turned away from the pipe, and glanced up at the crowd of men arriving at the ridge. They slipped over the edge like lemmings trying to stop at a cliff. Althea held the limb up over her head so they could see why she had run off. Several rushed through the water toward her to foil her assumed escape. They slowed when she tried to climb the dirt back into the compound rather than flee to the tunnel.

  She squirmed through the hands that hauled her to the tarmac, running through the crowd to the wounded man lying on the ground in the battle arena. Kneeling at his side, she touched his forehead. He fell limp as his brain no longer acknowledged pain. After positioning the severed limb in its approximate natural pose, she clasped her hands around the torrent of blood bubbling out and called upon her power.

  Raiders, and the harem, cringed at the wet crunch of rapidly knitting bones. Some of the men lost their nerve at the sight. She regarded the gore with no more unease than a potter working clay at a wheel; when the wound had mended, she wiped her bloody hands off on his shirt and looked up at the crowd.