Robinson Crusoe 2245: (Book 2) (26 page)

The whittling man took a heavy breath once Robinson was done.

“Was she part of this tribe?” Robinson asked.

“Another,” the whittling man answered. “She was promised to the leader here, Chimosh, but before her party could deliver her, her ship was overtaken and her guards killed. Many among our people believed her dead.”

“But not you?” Robinson asked.

This time, a memory evoked a grin from the whittling man’s face.

“The child we speak of was always more stomach than sense.”

And suddenly, Robinson understood.

“She’s your daughter.”

The whittling man didn’t nod. He didn’t have to. The truth was obvious.

“The union between my daughter and Chimosh was meant to unite the tribes. After that failed, we were in disarray. That is why so many of us are here. The fate of our people must be decided. And now it seems your fate will be decided along with it.”

“When is Chimosh supposed to return?” Robinson asked.

“Soon. He is on a hunt. It would be wise when you meet him to keep quiet about what we have spoken of here.”

As he spoke, he stared at the acorn in the bag.

“Ask for mercy. Say our enemies branded you. Anything but the truth. You will likely die anyway, but at least this way, it will be quick.”

He was allowed outside to empty his water, giving him his first view of Friday’s people. They were a hardy race, thick-boned, with ropy muscles and very little body fat. But there was a grimness to them. A sadness that bowed their shoulders like the weight of an impending storm.

The camp had been hastily erected, but it was no small thing. There were dozens of other tents mixed in among the trees. A paddock had been roped off for horses. An area for cooking and cleaning sat near a stream.

High in the trees above him, Robinson saw a lookout emerge from nowhere, hustling down without the aid of ropes or shoes. His replacement scaled up with equal speed, disappearing into the tree’s crown almost at once.

These were a nomadic people, always in motion. Even at camp, they stayed busy. There was no delineation between the sexes. Females hunted with males. Both butchered their prizes and roasted the meat above fires. The elderly fetched water and washed clothes.

The children trained near the paddock. In the morning, they worked with staff and spear. In the afternoon, they worked with sword and knife. When a child performed with skill, he or she was rewarded with a nearly imperceptible nod. When they failed, they were cuffed and took their punishment in silence.

Robinson was left unbound alone, but he had no chance of escape. Eyes were always on him. He couldn’t run at the break of day. Nor could he escape in the dead of the night. All he could do was wait.

Four days after his arrival, the hunting party returned. Robinson was sitting on a log, changing his dressing, when a short whistle rang out from above. A hush fell over the camp, but the people only focused more intently on their duties.

From the east, warriors emerged from the trees, each armed, each looking more terrifying than the one before. Robinson counted over thirty before he stopped.

Cups of water and trays of food were hastily brought out for the party. Many of the arrivals gave Robinson no more than a glance before taking seats around the main fire. And yet, they all knew he was there. He waited for the one who would take an interest.

Chimosh was the last to enter the circle. His eyes locked onto Robinson as he sat down and was handed a plate of food. He ate in silence, sweat rolling down his lean chest. Only when he finished did he ask about the stranger. The lithe warrior who had first brought Robinson food answered.

Everything ceased.

All eyes narrowed in on Robinson. Their faces were grim. A reedy warrior next to Chimosh stood and crossed the circle, grabbing Robinson by the shirt and yanking him to his feet. The sleeve on his arm was torn away, revealing the Aserra brand. The reaction was instantaneous. Shouts and cries flew at him from every direction.

The reedy warrior mocked Robinson, and before he knew it, an explosion snapped his head back. The soldier struck him a second time. The third time, Robinson caught his hand.

The reedy warrior grinned, but as he reached for a short blade, Chimosh called out and ordered the man away.

Chimosh set his food aside and beckoned Robinson to approach. Heart hammering in his chest, Robinson crossed to him.

“I am told you were seized from a party of Flayers,” Chimosh said in the common tongue.

“That’s incorrect,” Robinson said. Chimosh raised an eyebrow. “I was found after I escaped. But if your men prefer to take credit, they can say they liberated me.”

A figure to his left rose to scold him, but Chimosh waved him down.

“You were a conscript?” Chimosh asked.

“A prisoner.”

“A spy, perhaps?”

“I am no spy. Nor friend to the Bone Flayers. Or enemy to you. They were hunting me and a friend when your party crossed my path.”

“You bear the mark on your shoulder. How did you come by this?”

Robinson remembered the warning of the whittling man, but opted for the truth instead.

“I was given it by one of your people,” he said.

At the far end of the circle, the whittling man snorted.

“And who among our kind would do such a thing?” Chimosh asked.

Robinson heard the scorn in the question. The disbelief. So he repeated a name he had only heard once, long ago. It translated to: “Friday, princess of the clan of the salt marshes, daughter to the king of the people of the mountain and beholden child of the Goddess.”

The attendees were stunned silent. And then they erupted in rage. Several picked up weapons. Chimosh stood and waved them back. He sat down again, but things had changed, his blasé approach gone. He held his anger in check, but Robinson could see it simmering beneath the surface.

“The one you speak of is dead, killed at the hands of a Bone Flayer’s war party.”

“And yet, if your men had found me five minutes sooner,” Robinson said. “They would have seen this dead woman walking and talking with their own eyes.”

Chimosh turned to question the ones who found him. They shook their heads, but there was uncertainty there.

“They saw none but you and the Flayers,” Chimosh said.

“Then the eyes of the Aserra are not what I have been led to believe.”

This time the whittling man failed to fight back his smile.

“Tell me how you met the princess,” Chimosh said.

Robinson shared the story once again, but left out the parts that included his mother, the release of the FENIX, and the deal he struck with Tier Saah. It ended with their reunion, flight, and his expulsion into the river.

“It seems you are not good at safeguarding her,” Chimosh said.

“That’s something we have in common.”

“And it still does not explain why you bear our mark.”

This was the crux of it. Robinson understood he had to tread carefully.

“It’s true,” he said. “I haven’t trained my entire life like the Aserra. I am no match for your warriors. But I’ve proven myself many times in battle. And I have given everything in pursuit of protecting those I love. When it boils down, isn’t that what this means? The code you live and die by? The thing you honor most? For Friday, this meant family. And in the end, I was the only family she had.”

His words fell on deaf ears. Chimosh only cared about one thing.

“Produce my betrothed and I will set you free.”

It was a fair offer. It meant life. And yet Robinson dismissed it immediately.

“Even if I could, she is not mine to give. Nor is she yours anymore.”

Chimosh scowled indignantly.

“I am the leader of my people,” Chimosh said. “Who if not me?”

“Her new betrothed,” Robinson answered.

More insults were hurled from the crowd, but Robinson never looked away from the leader.

“You lie,” Chimosh said.

Robinson turned to the whittling man and said, “Tell him.”

All eyes turned to Friday’s father. He hesitated before saying, “He carries the seedling of our people.”

A murmur washed over the crowd. Chimosh silenced them again.

“Without the princess, this means nothing.”

“Then let me go and find her. And when I bring her back, she can tell you herself.”

This time Chimosh laughed. “One against a thousand? Impossible.”

“I’ve done it before,” Robinson said.

Chimosh scoffed again, but he appeared unsettled. Robinson saw an opportunity and pushed forward.

“The Bone Flayers’ village is not far from here. We could make it in a week’s time. The night Fri—the princess and I escaped, there was a battle. I’m sure they took many casualties. Another attack is the last thing they’d expect.”

“I should lead my people into the lion’s den on the word of a stranger?” Chimosh snorted. “Do you think me a fool?”

“No. But your enemy isn’t sitting around while you contemplate your next move. At this very moment, Baras’Oot is planning a trip to recover a large store of weapons. Ancient weapons. The kind that could end your war in a fortnight. Check the map in my things if you don’t believe me. The Flayer king will have to divide his forces to retrieve them. If you’re unwilling to attack his City of the Pyramid, at least consider going to where the weapons are stored. You could prepare an ambush. Arga’Zul would never see it coming.”

A buzz ran through the crowd. Chimosh realized that control was spiraling away from him.

“Or the ambush could be waiting for us,” he said, standing. “I do not care what mark you wear or who gave it to you. You are not of the Aserra. We have survived because we are elusive. The forests are our cloaks. The rivers our roads. The trees our spears. An enemy cannot catch what it cannot see, so we keep moving.”

“For how long? Until there’s no more of you left to fight?”

“You are a boy. You understand nothing.”

“I understand more than you think.”

“Then understand this: in the morning, we will leave this place and never return. But you will not. You are a danger to us. And like all dangers, you will be dealt with quickly and permanently. You have until sunrise.”

“I’m to die then?” Robinson asked.

“Yes.”

“I see. Then there’s only one thing left to do. I invoke the old law. The one no warrior of the mountain can refuse.”

Chimosh shook his head, incredulous, but said, “Speak the words.”

“Chimosh, leader of the Aserra, I challenge you to a fight to the death.”

“And I accept your challenge.”

Friday’s grave lay in the center of the parade ground, where everyone in the village could see it.

Those outside called it a grave, but those inside called it Hell.

In truth, it was just a rectangular box with a small hole near the head for air. An adult could fit inside, but not fully stretch out. Once the top was nailed down, the box was buried just below the surface, with no chance of escape.

There were other boxes nearby. Friday could hear the people inside whimpering, especially at night when the temperature dropped to near freezing. But she had lived her life on the run. She knew how to will the cold away. All she had to do was set her mind on something else. In this, like all things, she chose Crusoe.

She was certain her escape had been worth it. Even if they only had those few nights together. Even if she never escaped again. Even if she died in this crypt, sullied by her own waste, at least she would know all those months hadn’t been in vain. He had kept his promise to find her. He had never veered from the course. It gave her hope that he would do it again.

Her return to the City of the Pyramid had not been easy. Arga’Zul’s anger manifested in so many ways. She thought he might kill her. Or worse. But he never laid a hand on her. That was the scariest part. It meant he was truly in love with her.

Instead, it was Baras’Oot who put her in the ground with little food or water to stay alive.

The villagers came day and night to curse her, to assault her with all manners of filth, but she stayed silent and waited.