Robinson Crusoe 2245: (Book 2) (25 page)

“But would it be the correct location? Verification would take days, weeks perhaps. By then … anything could happen. The trains could return. Your enemies could unite. Timing is critical to both of us.”

A cough drew Arga’Zul’s attention to the table where Jaras sat, trembling. Since he’d been cracked on the head, he couldn’t shake the fuzzy feeling that was clouding his mind. In the weeks before, he’d begun to suspect the agreement with the savages was a mistake, and now it threatened to all come down around them. His father was confident the plan would hold together, but nothing in this vacant country worked properly. Not the animals or machines. Certainly not the people. He felt as if he was hanging on by a thread that was already half-unraveled. The memory of Tessa in the mob kept running through his mind.

“Your son looks ill,” Arga’Zul said.

“Yes. He was injured while pursuing Robinson Crusoe, after he slipped in and stole the girl while your men stood around and watched.”

“Maybe I should send him to the front.”

“He could fare little worse.”

Arga’Zul pounded an angry fist down on the table, making Jaras yawp. Even Saah flinched, but his eyes never retreated from the larger man.

“I could crush you with my bare hands,” Arga’Zul growled. “Tear you limb from limb while your mewling son watched. I could peel the flesh from your bones and feed it to him—”

“That’s enough,” Baras’Oot said before readdressing Saah. “I gave the order to take the train last night. The Big Hats are growing in number, and their weapons make them dangerous. Control of the gunpowder not only gives them more power, but it also makes them a target for our enemies. It was the correct plan, but poorly executed.”

Arga’Zul turned and sighed. He stared into the fireplace that his brother had commissioned several years before. It was a garish thing, old stones left from the ancients. He never understood its purpose. The Pyramid was warm enough with hundreds of soldiers and servants, but something in the flames soothed his brother. He found clarity there while Arga’Zul only saw smoke.

Smoke. He preferred it at his stern. Rising over the trees of some village he’d just sacked. A warning to all those who might cross his path: his brother might rule the land, but he owned the rivers.

“You seek a black heart in a city of blood,” Baras’Oot said finally. “How are we to know this object you seek will not be used against us?”

“I have no grievance with you nor any desire for the things you possess. Land doesn’t interest me. Nor men or power. I seek only one thing: revenge on those who did me wrong.”

“The boy?” Baras’Oot asked.

“Among others. His father. The people who betrayed me.”

“Give me the location of the weapons, and I give you my word, you will have your prize. It is in a city to the southeast. You could pilot your ship there within the hour and retrieve it before night falls.”

“I’m afraid the flier needs significant repairs before it will take to the sky again. And if it is in a city, as you say, then we must wrest it from the creatures of your land. My son and I cannot do that alone.”

“Retrieval was never a condition of our agreement.”

“Then I respectfully ask that we renegotiate. In return, I will personally escort your men to the weapons. Great King, this cache is sufficient to ensure defeat of any foe across the seven continents.”

Baras’Oot sat back and ruminated on that thought. He needed the ancient weapons to ensure the events from the day before would never happen again. But with them, he might also extend his reach and take lands he had not yet considered.

“I will give you one thousand men,” Baras’Oot said finally. “And my brother will accompany you personally to ensure the retrieval of your object as well as your safety. When you have what you desire, lead him to the weapons. Once they are secure, you will be free to leave.”

“I accept your terms, Great King,” Saah said with a bow.

Saah nodded for Jaras to follow him, and they both left the room. Once the door was closed, Arga’Zul turned to his brother.

“You should give him to me,” Arga’Zul said. “And I’ll have the location of these weapons within the hour.”

“You know much of violence and war, Brother, but nothing of men. He is frayed. His son worse. This prize of his has become his last hope.”

“Then I’ll kill them both after,” Arga’Zul said.

“For what gain? The man comes from a different land and has knowledge of technology that surpasses ours. Like his flying machine. These are the tools left on the battlefield by the ancients. What good is it to gather them up if we lack the skill to use them?”

“Look what good they did the ancients. We might fare similarly. Or worse. Besides, the best weapon is the one used up close.”

Arga’Zul was surprised when Baras’Oot laughed out loud.

“Ah, Brother. You were always father’s favorite. You ran faster and hit harder, but you never had vision. That is why I sit the throne and you hold the hammer. And why we will always need each other.”

Arga’Zul fought the impulse to roll his eyes. Instead, he thought of the task in front of him.

“This excursion will take time. I can lead the armada partway there, but we’ll still have to travel inland. It will take weeks. And if winter comes early …”

“It will not,” Baras’Oot said. “The seers have foretold it.”

This time, Arga’Zul did not hide his dubiety.

“What do you know of this place? This Atlanta?” Baras’Oot asked.

“I am told it was once the center of the great fire of man, and that the demons are many there and fierce. One thousand might not be enough.”

“You will make do. I refuse to leave our home vulnerable.”

“To split the army after last night. The losses—” Arga’Zul began.

“Are acceptable. The prize is what mattered. Each weapon of the ancients makes one Flayer worth ten. Ten worth one hundred.”

“I hope you are right,” Arga’Zul said.

“I am. Make the preparations.”

Arga’Zul nodded and turned for the door, stopping only when Baras’Oot called out.

“Brother? There is one other thing.”

Arga’Zul’s eyes narrowed.

“The girl has proven too much of a distraction for you. I need your full attention in the field. See that she remains here.”

“What will you do with her?” Arga’Zul asked.

“What you could not,” Baras’Oot answered. “I will break the Aserra princess once and for all.”

“What is that amazing smell?” Robinson asked as he walked into the kitchen. Behind him, Tannis and Tallis were setting plates at the table. Father was already at the head, drinking a warm cup of milk.

“You know very well it’s sourbread,” Vareen answered. “It’s been your favorite since you emerged from the womb.”

“What wonderful imagery when talking of a bun in the oven.”

Vareen pretended to be irritated and cuff his hand when he reached for the stove. A moment later, his mother walked in through the back door.

“I just saw Slink and the twins at the rise. Why aren’t you with them?”

Robinson pictured his friend with Jaras and Tessa, laughing as they braved the showers of the Pate. Then he looked back at his family and felt a warmth spread over him.

“I’d rather be here,” he said.

His mother ruffled his hair with a big smile before taking her seat at the table. Robinson watched the conversation develop, never more content, until the image grew hazy and faded away.

Robinson awoke in a dark room filled with smoke. He blinked until a fire burning in a small pit took shape. He was in a tent of some kind. The smoke rose lazily upward, escaping through a gap atop the cone.

The tent was made of hide, the walls lit with the glow of sunlight outside. Robinson rolled onto his side and saw an old man sitting across the fire from him, whittling wood with a knife that cut through like it was butter. He hummed as he worked, immersed in his craft. His features were dark and leathery, with hair and a beard so gray they shone like moonlight. But it was his legs that drew attention. Robinson had never seen so many scars.

“Where am I?” Robinson asked at last.

The whittling man looked up but didn’t answer. Only then did Robinson realize he’d asked in his own language. He repeated the question in the common tongue.

“A tent,” the whittling man answered, his voice surprisingly robust.

Robinson sat up gingerly and felt stinging pain in his hip and shoulder. Both were covered with bandages that were soaked with blood. He peeled the one on his leg back and smelled a familiar odor of herbs and saw a trail of stitches.

He suddenly understood.

“You’re Aserra,” Robinson said. “I’m with the Aserra.”

The whittling man nodded curtly.

Robinson was in awe.

After a few moments, the whittling man pointed his knife to something on the floor and asked, “Where did you come by this?”

Robinson saw he was pointing at the waterproof bag that held his map.

“A traveler gave it to me. He used it to keep the map inside dry.”

The whittling man shook his head and tapped the bag again.

“Not that. This.”

He pointed at the acorn inside the bag.

Robinson swallowed and answered, “It was also a gift.”

The whittling man’s hands stopped as he looked up. “From whom?”

Robinson answered truthfully, “The woman I love.”

The edges of the man’s mouth curled, but it was far from a smile.

“And where is this
woman
now?” he asked.

“The Bone Flayers have her.”

The whittling man’s face remained unchanged, but his body seemed to convey a terrible sadness.

“Has it germinated?” Robinson asked of the acorn.

The whittling man shook his head. “It is dry. How long has it been in your possession?”

“Eight months.
Moons
. What’s going to happen to me?”

The whittling man resumed his work.

“Most likely, you will be killed,” he answered. “You are not Aserra, yet you wear the mark. This is a grievous insult to my people.”

“But I was given it by one of you.”

“A petulant child.” The whittling man snorted.

“And the strongest person I have ever known.”

The whittling man shook his head.

“In this world, that is not saying much.”

“In this world,” Robinson countered, “that says everything.”

This time, the whittling man studied him closer. Then he reached for a crutch and rapped it against the stones of the fire. A few moments later, a lithe woman folded back the flap of the tent to look inside.

“Food and water,” the whittling man said. The woman nodded and left.

“Where are the rest of my things?” Robinson asked.

“The tribe waits for our leader to return. He will decide your fate.”

“I thought you were the leader.”

“I was once.”

“Did you retire?” Robinson asked.

The whittling man looked up curiously. “What is
retire
?”

“It’s when you give up responsibilities to enjoy old age.”

The whittling man laughed. It was the first real emotion he’d shown.

“The Aserra do not
retire
. A leader is a position of strength. When a man loses strength, as I have, he must give up his place at the fire. As you can see, I am a cripple. Soon, I will be a
fèishuǐ
.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“It means my usefulness to the tribe will be outweighed by the cost to feed and protect me. I slow the tribe down. When that happens, I will leave.”

“To go where?”

“I will walk until I can walk no more. Then I will sit down and die.”

“That’s crazy,” Robinson said. “Where I come from, former leaders are revered.”

“Reverence is a sentiment. And sentiments are weaknesses the tribe cannot afford.”

“But surely you have other things to offer?”

“Such as?”

“Wisdom. Knowledge. History.”

“These things were valued once. When we lived among the mountains. No more.”

Robinson was about to press further when the flap opened again, and the lithe woman returned carrying a wooden bowl and a cup of water. Robinson noticed the sinew in her arms as she set the tray down. He realized she was a warrior too.

“May I?” Robinson asked after the woman left.

“A man never asks permission,” the whittling man answered.

Robinson picked up the tray and set it on his lap. He began eating quickly. The meat was tender, but the broth was flavorless, save a slight bitterness that reminded him of roots. The water was clean, however, and cold, making it clear there was a river nearby.

He was midway through his meal when the whittling man spoke again.

“Tell me how you met her.”

Robinson did. He spoke of being stranded in Washington D.C. and how he roamed the streets alone until the Bone Flayers’ first arrival. He described how Friday was pulled from the ship, but how her resistance compelled him to help her. He recounted the long winter they spent training together and how she strove to understand his language and the technology of his people. The story ended with Saah betraying him, Arga’Zul taking Friday, and how he spent the last six months trying to find her.