Robinson Crusoe 2245: (Book 2) (16 page)

To Robinson’s relief, the seven-fingered man was also chosen. Together, they carried bags quickly to the surface. Somewhere in the darkened tunnels, the seven-fingered man lifted his shirt, revealing a shank of wood. It must have taken him months to fashion.

Robinson’s mind churned as the guano was loaded onto the boat. He needed to get on that boat, but Trog and another guard were standing by it.

When a gap appeared in the line, the seven-fingered man pulled close.

“When the boat comes back,” he said, “I’ll give the signal. You go for Trog, and I’ll take the other man.”

“No,” Robinson said. “I need Trog alive.”

The seven-fingered man was stunned.

“I don’t have time to explain, but he has information I need. Kill the guard, but let me—”

A guard appeared and shouted for them to hurry on. Robinson could see the seven-fingered man had no intention of waiting for him. He was preparing for what would come next.

When the boat appeared, Drego called out, “Trog. After the train’s loaded, I’ll need two mules to come back to town and offload there.”

“Why? Clawfoot has muscle.”

“Clawfoot’s running errands with his men. This order comes from Mr. Dandy.”

“I don’t take orders from him. Or you.”

“O-of course you don’t. But Mr. Dandy takes orders from Boss, just like the rest of us. And if Boss wants it…”

Trog simmered. He looked back to the prisoners, and Robinson immediately pushed through the fray.

“Can I go with you, Master?” Robinson asked. “I’ll do anything to feel the fresh air on my face one last time.”

Trog’s mouth adopted a wolfish grin. He nodded, but before he turned, Robinson pulled the seven-fingered man forward.

“And him?” he asked. “He’s a hard worker. I’ve seen it.”

“Yes,” Trog snarled. “But both of you best get in the boat before I lose my temper.”

The train ride back to the yard was uneventful. Once the engine came to a stop, Trog ordered the guano unloaded. Even his guards joined in. Halfway through the process, Robinson noticed a group of riders on horseback appear atop the hill leading to Cowboytown. Boss was among them. She’d come to oversee things, which meant the guano was very important to her.

They were halfway through unloading the shipment when Robinson handed two sacks of guano to the guard on the ground. Just as the guard took them, his head exploded.

A rifle report reached them a half-second later.

Then, everything went to hell.

Crusoe was alive.

Or had been when the foreign boy last saw him. Had he remained on his continent or returned to hers? It was a question she finally felt comfortable asking.

She chose to believe he was here.

The wind of change had turned in her favor. First Arga’Zul had saved her from death out of some perverse affection. And now the Goddess was letting her know Crusoe was coming. The pain and doubt she had felt for the last six months had plunged her to the depths of despair, but she had remained steadfast in her defiance. Her flesh was bent, but her heart was unbowed.

The Goddess had approved.

And yet her situation was unchanged. She was still a captive, subjected to the brutality and persecutions of her enemies. She must continue to strive to effectuate her own freedom. Her own retribution. She was Aserra. The blood of the mountain coursed through her veins. Only by aiding in the freedom of her people would she prove worthy of them.

Her reconnaissance began with a layout of her enemy’s city and its defenses. How their society functioned. Its infrastructure. Its hierarchy. Its trade system. The functionality of their army.

They did not train as the Aserra did. They were not a combat state, bred for battle alone. Rather, they were an army of slaves. Most had been taken young, forced to fight to survive. This made them strong and fierce, but few of them could be considered cunning. They were blunt instruments with no notion of honor. And yet their numbers continued to grow. If they were not stopped soon, they would become the kind of storm that blots out the sky.

Like many of the young slave women, Friday was given menial chores inside the pyramid temple where she could be watched.

Escape appeared impossible. But Friday knew if she was to succeed, she would first need to find a way out of the temple. Then she would need to slip through a bazaar full of villagers, every one of which knew her face. Lastly, she would need to cross a wide-open swath of land patrolled by Flayers on horseback and watched over by those in the towers.

She continued her planning.

Friday spent long days setting meals for her enemies and cleaning up after them when they were done. She spent longer hours scrubbing floors under the suspicious eye of Valud, the traitor who had betrayed the Aserra. He took great pleasure in taunting her.

One evening, Friday saw a leftover cutting knife on the table, but just as she was about to take it, she looked up to see Valud in the doorway. He was eating a pear, the juices running down his fingers.

“Reach it quickly enough,” Valud said, “and you might find a warm sheath for it. If the guards don’t kill you first.”

“That would be too clean a death for you,” Friday said.

Valud chuckled.

“Death by blade is never clean, Princess. And there’s no guarantee of your success anyway. After all, I am Aserra too.”

Friday flushed with rage.

“You are no Aserra,” she said. “You are a traitor to your people. The Goddess will have her vengeance on you.”

This time Valud laughed as he circled around the table.

“Well, what she is waiting for? I’ve been here years, and still no scratch on me. Maybe she’s biding her time, dreaming up a worthy punishment. Or maybe it’s because she doesn’t exist.”

“You blaspheme against the Goddess?” Friday asked.

“Willingly and often.” He snickered. “What care do I have for a deity that made me a slave, anyway? The Aserra. The Flayers. They’re all the same. We are the dogs, and they are the masters. At least here, the scraps are good.”

“A true Aserra would choose death over such a life.”

“Prove it,” Valud said. “Take the knife and sink it into your breast.”

Friday looked at the knife but didn’t move.

“That’s what I thought. You know, I’ve seen captives like you here before. Oh, I don’t mean princesses, but the girls my master’s brother turns his special attentions to. He is a simple brute, but what he lacks in complexity, he more than makes up for in zeal. This habit he has for finding slave girls to dote over, for example. It’s sad, and yet endearing in a perverse sort of way.

“His method is always the same. First, he finds a slave with some element of strength. Usually pretty, but obviously not in every case. Then he heaps every imaginable form of abuse on them until they’re slowly broken. Only then, ironically enough, does he actually begin to care for them.

“These girls are given special care until, one by one, they cleave to him, as if he was no longer the cause of their affliction, but the deliverer of their salvation. Of course, once he has his way with them, he grows bored and, well, you can guess what happens to them then.”

Valud took a final bite of his pear and tossed it onto the table, splattering gravy across the floor. “You have until second stroke to clean up this mess. If you’re even a minute late, I’ll see to your discipline personally.”

“Arga’Zul wouldn’t like that,” Friday said.

Valud only grinned.

“There are ways to punish without leaving bruises or scars, Princess. Who do you think taught me?”

As Valud strolled out, Friday promised herself, when the time came, and the bodies of her enemies began to fall, his would be the second she counted.

The small room Friday shared with seven other women was stifling when she returned. As she settled into her spot against the far wall, an old woman with more wrinkles than hair pulled half a bread roll from her sleeve and offered it to her.

Friday looked at the roll sadly.

“You keep it, Grandmother,” she said. “You need it more than I.”

“We’ll share it,” the old woman said.

The old woman’s eyes were rheumy and her skin was pallid, but her mind was still spry. Still, Friday wondered how much longer the Bone Flayers would keep her around.

“Where are you from?” Friday asked.

“We lived on the bank of a river, but we were not a village, or even a people. Just a few souls drawing life from dark waters. The same waters that brought us death.”

“How long ago were you taken?”

The woman’s eyes narrowed in reflection. “I was older than you. But not by much.”

“You are strong to have survived all this time.”

“One does what one must,” the old woman said. “But I often ask myself why the river gods cursed me with this life.”

Friday had never heard of the river gods before, but she knew better than to question the beliefs of others.

“Maybe you are meant to do something yet. My Goddess believes there is always a time for redemption.”

“Redemption? I am too old for that,” she said. “At my age, the best I can hope for is to die before I’m cast out. Or worse.”

Friday refused to feel pity for the woman. Pity is the battle cry of a frail heart. Instead, she drew closer to the woman so the others in the room could not hear her.

“What are they preparing for outside?” she asked.

The old woman hesitated before answering.

“The fête,” she finally said.

“Can you tell me how it works?”

“Once a year, the master hosts a gathering of merchants and traders from all across the land to sell the ships, food, and slaves his people have killed for. Some buy back the very things stolen from them.”

“How long does it last?”

“A few days, a week; no more. The celebrations go day and night, as does the entertainment.”

“Entertainment?”

“You’ve seen the fighting pits outside? When I was a girl, it was only men who fought to the death. But the last few fêtes, the master has begun to include women and children too.”

Friday drew a heavy breath. Her next question was the important one.

“Tell me, Grandmother. What business do the pale strangers have with Baras’Oot?” The old woman looked at her warily. “I am Aserra. I would sooner end my life than betray another.”

It was good enough for the old woman. She leaned in and whispered.

“I have heard they seek a prize. A relic of the past, though I do not know what. In return, they have offered something the master greatly covets. I believe …”

The old woman hesitated.

“Go on,” Friday said.

“It is a location. But what awaits there, I cannot say. They leave before the sun rises and return late at night.”

“Aboard a ship?”

“Yes, but not of the sea.”

Friday understood.

“They have a flier,” she said.

“Yes,” the old woman said. “That is the name they use. It is kept in a building to the east, marked by lights and guards. Guards stand outside to protect it.”

“Thank you, Grandmother.”

Friday laid back, a lightness filling her heart for the first time in a long time.

She had just discovered the method of her escape.

“We’re under attack!” one of the Big Hats yelled before he went down in a hail of gunfire.

Those on the ground returned fire at a band of marauders storming in from the eastern fringes of the train yard.

The Big Hats in the yard had taken cover behind a wagon, as had Trog. He’d scooped up a dead cowboy’s pistol and was returning fire with glee.

Robinson looked down from the safety of the train car to see the seven-fingered man lying prone on the ground. Trog had a knee buried in his back. Even in a battle against multiple enemies, Trog refused to lose sight of his charges.

The marauders numbered somewhere between twenty and thirty. Their attack was well coordinated. Their focus appeared to be the supply barn at the northern ridge of the yard. Three Big Hats had taken up position to defend it, but their enemies were quickly gaining ground.