She took a deep breath. There was one player that she hadn’t met.
Celine knew of him. That wasn’t a warrant of anything. She knew a lot of things. He had just arrived in the Dusk Territories, with two other companions. She had only seen him briefly as he entered the Boneyard. In that small moment, she felt something. His very force, his very person was stained with blood like a murder in the snow. His very aura felt cold, cold enough for her to shiver when she saw him dismount his buggy, and enter into the bunker.
Listening to an off-tune piano, Celine thought. That was how it was seeing the man walk and lead his men. He had killed before. Not like Drifter’s nephew, who killed violently at a snap. No, he did this on an almost regular occurrence since he was of age. Now, he is going to be caught into a battle that he didn’t even plan to be in. A cornered beast is the worst kind of animal.
Celine knew that they couldn’t die. She couldn’t allow any of them to die this early. Graham, Wood, Ragnar, River…this man, they are all involved into something bigger. But, she didn’t know if she could stop it. She pursed her lips. Complications have gotten to know her really well these past few months. There were so many variables and not enough sight. She wasn’t worried about this new player; her worry lied in the players on this board already.
Snap. The breaking of wood tore her from her thought. Celine turned sharply. River and Ragnar had arrived. However, they weren’t alone. She trekked through the mud, to get closer. The sight was something she wasn’t quite expecting.
With River, Ragnar, and the return of Beastmaster, they had other soldiers. Foot soldiers, dressed in all white body armor and gas mask with blue lens, were accompanying them.
She froze, dropping her thermos into the mud. They were not supposed to be here. Her throat went dry, despite her expression keeping the form of cool and collected. She had known they were in the area, but River wasn’t crazy enough to strike a deal with them, right? No. Of course she was. It had to be the Conjurer’s doing. He was the only person that could have contacted them…
The Ancestors were here…and there was a Son in Rootgrove.
“Damn,” Celine said, dryly. Complications had indeed made an ill-friend with her.
10
Bloodstain
“There are two types of battles. The first is easy to see because it’s bathed with blood. The second, however, is much more subtle. Words are bloody in their own right.”
Wood didn’t like this place. He could smell the blood in the air, lingering above Rootgrove and nestling in clouds. He knew this because he had smelled this fragrance more than enough times, whether it was his or someone else’s. The town looked as pretty as a post-apocalypse city could be. For many people, those who didn’t know better would even assume that it was safe. But it wasn’t. People often connected locked doors and pretty scenery with safety.
Serial killers knew this wasn’t true.
The right and left hands of Drifter followed him closely as they paced down the “Main Street” of Rootgrove. The place was almost too well provided for. Though the town itself was made by the cheapest materials, there were way too many supplies and the people was living much too comfortably. Well, a small portion of the city was. Wood had noticed things last night. Things he knew Drifter saw too.
They had stayed the night in a large building—which Wood figured to be a hotel. It had accommodated all of the Drifter’s crew, marked at an approximate a hundred, with space to spare. Each room was fitted with fine silk curtains, one or more standard-sized beds with satin sheets, and a reasonable amount of refurbished or refinished furniture. To add to the troubling atmosphere, some rooms had electricity. That wasn’t unheard of in some larger towns after the cataclysm, but where was Conjurer getting the resources from?
Even with all that, the icing on this cake remained untouched.
More than a few times, Wood had noticed the “staff”. Most of them were dead eyed, and very few could talk. The speakers were dressed in black, usually robes or dresses. All the others were dressed in white, but were clothed in their specific job whether it was soldier, maid, electrician, or engineer. There were even children as young as five or six amongst these chess-piece colored servants. It all made Wood uncomfortable, so uncomfortable that his blood boiled in his skin. Yet, his Uncle didn’t notice. Or, he did notice and chose not to speak on it.
“Something’s wrong.” Wood stated, causally keeping the pace of Heron and Drifter.
“It seems like it, doesn’t it,” Heron added.
Drifter silently smiled, continuing forward.
“We are still going to meet with the Conjurer anyway.” Heron didn’t like the idea, albeit for different reasons. Everyone in the Caravan knew her involvement with the Conjurer. She was a bit shady on the details, but one thing was for certain. They were to be married once. Everyone gave her credit though, she never complained about coming here, so they kept silent.
“You and he were a thing, right?” Everyone but Wood kept it quiet.
She rolled her eyes annoyed. “Yes. Amazing those things still happen when money and a company is involved. Can we drop it, now?”
Wood yawned, “I don’t get why you’re angry about it.”
“I do not get how you made it to adult hood with your unbelievable social ineptness. Do I ask you about that?”
“Pressing matters, children. Pressing matters.” The two bodyguards kept their peace, allowing Drifter to speak. “I’m aware that something’s wrong. I’m also aware that I’ve sent four of my best men into a trap.” He paused. “Ain’t one of my best moves. Good for the timing, very good, but decent overall. Droppin’ Conjurer’s guard at the cost of him thinkin’ I’m droppin’ mine.”
Nothing could be done when Drifter was like this. He would talk, his mind wandering into a series of calculated and uncalculated thought. It was best just to watch. At the end, you might get some insight. Whether if it was his plan of attack or what he wants for dinner, you could never know. “Heron,” Drifter stuffed his hands in his pocket, “I’m gonna to need you to smile, little feather.”
He said nothing more as they turned into the courtyard.
Morning was still fresh here, fresh with pure green grass glistening with droplets of dew. Rose bushes sat on the rims of the courtyard circle, kept company by bronze statues of various gods and mentors of history. A white cloth canopy had been set up in the center, held up by large steel poles. Underneath was a small set of furniture: a table decked with fruit and drink, cherry wood chairs, and silver cups. There sat the Conjurer, donning in a light green robe, with three servants: two women and a male. One of the ladies turned, a tan-skinned woman of about fourteen with long black hair, greeted them. “Drifter, Wood, Heron. Master acknowledges your presence, you may enter.”
Master was the word she used, and this place still smelled of blood. Not even this fanciful attempt at royalty could mask it. Wood gave a lazy gaze, coldly staring at the woman’s lifeless eyes.
Drifter shook his head. “Not now, Wood,” he whispered before clearing his throat. “The pleasure, this time, is ours.” He took point, wobbling forward on his cane.
The battle of the minds started. Drifter hardly had use for that cane. He was still agile and strong; that man wasn’t needed here. Weak and fragile suited his game much better. Conjurer had faced the strong and fierce leader in the past. Wood knew that Drifter would never do the same strategy twice.
“Come, come.” Conjurer raised his cup. “Come sit with me.”
Drifter did as he was told. He rounded behind the chair slowly, and seated himself before the “lord”. Heron and Wood did the same; alas, they kept upright as Conjurer’s bodyguards did.
“You could have dressed for the occasion, my friends. I would have provided it,” Conjurer said, sipping his wine.
“Formal isn’t our thing.”
“It is rather okay, sir. People do like being comfortable.” The hawkish man gracefully bowed.
A practiced gesture, Wood knew. “Heron, still stunning as ever.”
A forced smile, though lacking the awkward of one made by falseness, graced her lips. Heron squared her shoulders, tilted her head, and bowed graciously. “Thank you, Conjurer.” She had practice, plenty of practice. “May I say that you are looking exquisite as well?” She sweetened her voice ever so slightly as she talked. “I apologize for not taking your offer of a more appealing appearance.”
Hehe. Ahhhh. I get it. And I’m the horrible one. Drifter brought her for this reason.
The look on Conjurer’s face looked rattled by the kindness for a split second. Like most, he had expected a snide comment from the woman. Instead, he got something far different. Heron knew the airs of politeness, well-versed in fact. She knew when to turn it on as well. This change caught the territory lord off guard. He recovered quickly, but not fast enough, however.
“Did you bring it?” Drifter asked.
“Of course.” The words was hurried, but held some sort of irritation. “Samson.”
A man, thin and sharp as any knife, stepped forward. He was darker skin, of some Middle Eastern descent with a dark shaven head. Unlike the others, his eyes looked different. The black gaze seemed in control. He appeared to be some law keeper of some sort with his body armor, leather boots, and thick leather gloves. Wood was sure that he wasn’t one of Conjurer’s. He belongs to someone else. Samson placed the blue covered book on the table, affirming the action with brisk nod.
Conjurer tapped on the cover. “This is a gift, my friend,” he pushed it towards him.
“Gifts normally come without a cost, if I remember,” Drifter retorted.
“That is the very definition of a gift.”
Drifter leaned forward. “And you’re the very definition of a cost.”
It would’ve been much easier to just cut his guts out, Wood thought. The brilliance in him appreciated this game though. The choice of words was duteously careful. Each played cards whether courtesy, weakness, or pleasure. Patience was thin for idiots. He yawned; Wood was far from an idiot.
Running his fingers down the binder of the book, Drifter sighed heavily. “May I ask a question?” He lightened his voice, as though asking permission.
“Of course you may.”
“May I ask where you got this?”
Drifter hadn’t expected an answer, but a response never the less. This time, Conjurer didn’t react. The wiles of the one thing he wanted had been wearing off. “Do you ask what store your birthday present came from, Drifter? Don’t tell me that you cannot take a generous offer without glancing at the bag first,” Conjurer mocked, getting his footing back on the advantageous ground. “Let’s say, I consider this an investment for the near future.”
“Investment?” There was an amusement in the caravan leader’s voice. He reached for a small apple on the table, and poured himself drink.
“An investment indeed.”
“Then I have right to take that away from you. Toast on it.”
Drifter raised the cup, smirking, even bringing it inches away from his lips. His eyes told the story of what should happen next. Wood was glad to finally respond to this obvious debauchery.
Wood snatched the food and drink away. He took one large bite and a deep gulp, a rude gesture for a classy setting, but none less warranted. Heron and Drifter knew the reason of this. Wood fancied his mutation in this fact; science was always his favorite subject. It allowed him to recognize poison or chemicals, unaffected. In fact, he would take any stray substance within his body to neutralize the envenomed food or water, making his next transformation that much more deadly. Not many people knew that. It had been useful for protection, especially when things were laced with cyanide. Satisfied, Wood handed the refreshments back.
Drifter raised his eyebrow, smugly. He crunched on the apple as loudly as he could. He even downed the rest of the wine in a single gulp. And now we have it. The trump card’s off the table.
The Conjurer and the two women frowned at the prospect. “Do you not trust us that much?”
“No offense by it, of course,” Drifter nodded briefly. “I’m old and paranoid…”he sipped again, looking over the table. A small river of red, that didn’t quite make it to his mouth, ran down his chin. “Trust is hard to come by.”
“Indeed it is.” Conjurer turned to each of the women before standing up sharply. “Elena, Amy, we must be going. I have preparations to attend to...”
“Fancy me another second, well ya?”
A dark shadow fell over Conjurer’s face. “It is rude of me to leave without much notice. Ask away.”
“You wanted me to send my boys to the Boneyard alone. Tell me why.”
Conjurer refused to answer. Politeness abandoned him. A half smile tugged at the corner of his trembling lips. “I apologize, I must be leaving.” With nothing else to say, he stood and exited the tent with a quick flap of the white cloth.
Amy, a pale skinned woman with translucent eyes and light blue hair, conveyed his message in his stead. “That was none of your concern to ask, sir,” she hissed, returning to the side of her master. The two remaining servants followed her soon after.
Heron, finally released from her silent and friendly attitude, scowled bitterly. “He tried to kill you just then.”
“Cyanide mixed with…” Wood paused, tasting the residue on his palette, “some sort of pesticide. Guess he’s a conjurer for a reason. That shit’s gross. That mess would’ve killed you.”
“At least he didn’t pull punches, very thoughtful of him,” Drifter said simply. He scooped up the book. “But I got one half of what I came here for.”
“And the other?” Heron asked.
“One thing at a time, dearie. One thing at a time. We’ve some defenses to plan.” Drifter tapped Wood in the back. “Good work, son. Good work.”
“I wanted to kill him,” Wood growled lowly. He knew why Conjurer had surrounded himself with idols of the gods in the yard. He honestly believed he belonged in their company. Sooner or later, he’ll see that his make believe throne was made of sand. He’ll fall with no one to catch ‘em, but someone to tear him to pieces.
_
Graham and his company—composed of Haggis, Pub, and Crisium—rode through the entrance to the Boneyard in the mid-noon. The rusty iron chained fence was unmanned; the gate had been pulled aside before they got there. Thick vegetation grew at the base, supplemented by thick pools of greenish-colored water that rusted away some of the links of the fence. What stayed with Graham the most was the large sign. An uncut wooden plank marked each of the deaths the Boneyard claimed with a single small red stroke. There was barely any brown left on that wood.
He worried little about his own life. If he died, it wouldn’t be his first time; he’ll have to accept it. However, if a companion died, that was an entirely different matter. Living with the pain of his already dead friends hung tightly in his chest. I hold too many already, he thought. Three more might be the thing that caused him to break. Graham swallowed a breath full of air, a refreshing reward since he had trained himself to breathe less.
“Still don’t understand why we hadda leave our tanks behind,” Haggis grumbled, knuckles white on the steering wheel of the R-WMIK patrol vehicle.
“Hell if I know,” Pub spat, equally as angry.
“Are you two really going to bitch about it the entire time we are in this place?”
Crisium was right. The two brothers had been moping about being detached from their tanks the entire time. At first, they had planned to stay with them, babysit them. Drifter didn’t allow that. He knew that they were needed. It hadn’t stopped them from bitching about it. For a set of muscled, gruff, and flame haired men, they knew how to complain.
“Piss in my cup and make me drink it, but something’s off about all of this.” Haggis snorted like a bull. “I’ll feel much better with a cannon in my face instead of a cannon up my ass.”
Graham couldn’t deny the truth of that either. The moment they crossed the gate, a feeling settled in his gut. The surrounding area told tells of death. They had begun on a ruggedly torn road, traced with thick trees and dark vines. Not only minutes later, the road stopped; since then, it had been replaced by grossly overgrown grasses. Swamps reached out through the wilderness with arms of black water. Sunlight no longer touched the ground anymore here. And the skulls…
Skeletons of animal and humans sat in almost every corner that the eye could see. Some trees had more bones in them than branches. Skulls were the most numerous, some yellowed and others freshly white. He had tasted it. Something was wrong. Something was definitely really wrong with this. “Stop the engine,” Graham said in raised voice. Somehow, it was still enough to startle everyone else.
The engines died with the command.
“Dammit lad,” Pub muttered.” “You’re pure dead brilliant, y’know that. What do you do, eat rocks?”
“Sorry, I’ll practice my voice in the mirror next time.” Graham jumped out of the truck. “We go on foot.” The command came off much more sharply than he wanted. “Sorry. Something about this place bothers me….why are we here?”
Haggis and Pub exited the truck, with an odd silence. Crisium just strutted out.
“Looking for a clue of some sort,” Crisium admitted. “That may or may not be here.” She twitched the corner of her lips. “”Let’s just say it as something to do with something important.”
“The bombs and the bioweapons…you guys figure there’s a clue here.” The prospect of that wasn’t a foreign concept in Graham’s head. The most powerful caravan in the world must have gotten something of a clue dealing with the day of endings. Drifter had suspected something, but kept the word low. As a man of his work, Graham wouldn’t ask too many questions unless it directly affected the job. Maybe he had respect enough to not tell him. Or rather didn’t want to risk his abilities on something that wasn’t there. “You could have just told me,” he said, loading his SAW.
Dusk Territories: Always Burning Page 14
