Robinson Crusoe 2245: (Book 2) (27 page)

On the third day, she awoke in shivers and felt nauseated. On the fourth she couldn’t stop vomiting. There was nothing to do. She tried instead to raise her hands at night, to cover the hole to conserve body heat. But her arms grew weak. Her body was eating itself away.

The claustrophobia was intense. She fought hard not to panic. Even when she began to hallucinate, she clung to the tether of her love.

And then, on the morning of the sixth day, Friday heard the stomp of feet nearing. Someone gave the order to “lower,” then a single set of footsteps approached through the mud.

A shadow loomed above Friday, but she couldn’t see who was casting it.

She was shocked when clean water spilled through the hole. She moved her mouth quickly to take it in. After her fourth or fifth gulp, the flow ceased.

“How do you feel, child?” Baras’Oot asked.

Friday was glad he could not see her lip tremble.

“Good,” she answered. “Let me out of here and I’ll prove it to you.”

Baras’Oot laughed. It was the first time she’d heard him do it.

“Of that I’m certain. You are a stubborn people, defiant to the end.”

Friday didn’t know what to say to that, so she stayed quiet.

“It’s a shame you weren’t in here during the summer. They say the temperature inside the box can grow twice as hot as outside. I’m told it’s like being burned alive. The downside, of course, is that those inside don’t last long.”

“You should kill me now,” Friday said. “Whatever you want, you won’t get it from me.”

Again, Baras’Oot chuckled.

“But I am, Princess. With each passing day, you grow weaker, and my brother knows it. You should see how he suffers in silence. Pain is a release, but torment? Torment is a leash no man can shed.”

“It is only a matter of time, anyway,” Friday said.

“Until you’re rescued?”

“Until he kills you. I’ve seen the desire in his eyes.”

“Ah. Yes. So have I. I was a young boy when I first recognized it, and I’ve seen it many times since. But do you know what stays his hand? The throne. They used to say heavy hangs the crown, but the truth is, it’s the seat that sucks you in. Some days you feel like you’ll never get up. It’s the one thing my brother truly fears. Not the intricacies of ruling. The monotony. My brother. He would love nothing more than sailing his ships around until the end of his days. Sacking, pillaging: these are the duties he was born for. And he takes such pride in his work. But the rest of it, he recognizes it for the burden it is and wants none of it. He needs me, you see. And I suppose I need him too. More water?”

Friday didn’t respond, but when a shadow filled the hole, she opened her mouth and was relieved to taste the cool water again.

“You are too young to know this,” Baras’Oot continued, “but once, this field held prisoners as far as the eye could see. From the river to the very steps of the temple. And each year, about this time, my people would host a tournament for them to compete for their freedom. Well, not freedom, exactly. But an opportunity to join our ranks. It was a marvelous spectacle. So many warriors uniquely skilled. In the end, it grew too costly to house them year-round, but the battles were something to behold.”

“Barbarism.”

Baras’Oot laughed again.

“That’s ironic, coming from you. It was the Aserra, after all, who taught us all we know of violence.”

“Lies!” Friday said. “Your people declared war on us.”

“You misunderstand me, Princess. When we first moved to this land, we were simple farmers. But marauders used to attack our village, and we knew if we were to survive, we would need to learn to defend ourselves. We sought a warrior clan for training, and far and wide, all spoke of the skill of the Aserra. The Aserra. The people of the mountains. The clan that could not be defeated.

“Eventually, we found your village, but we were turned away. Yours are a proud people. But when they saw our ability to cultivate and harvest crops, a deal was struck. We would teach you how to farm the land, and in exchange, you would teach us how to defend ourselves. Your greatest warrior was sent here each spring, and for three years, he instructed our people how to fight, how to make weapons, how to fortify our land. But some time during those years, his eyes turned to our queen and could not turn away. He lusted after her, and when she rebuked his advances, he killed her and fled.”

“More lies,” Friday said.

“Possibly. I once heard my mother’s mother suggest the two had fallen in love and that her husband had slain her out of jealousy. Whatever the case, that’s the truth of how our feud began. Not that it’s important. As I said before, I don’t dwell on history. But my brother is a different beast. He needs something to fuel him, and nothing has stoked his fire like his hatred for the Aserra. That’s why, tomorrow, he sets out to finish the job.”

Friday felt her chest pushing against the top of the box. When she said nothing, Baras’Oot leaned closer.

“Did you hear me?” he asked. “I said, tomorrow, Arga’Zul sets out to retrieve the weapons of the ancients. And when he returns, we will hunt down your people and wipe the name of the Aserra from the world for good. It shouldn’t be too difficult. According to my spies, there are only four or five tribes left. I’m told they’ve grown desperate enough to move east of here for the winter. Easy targets, if that’s the case. Not that you’ll care. You’ll be long dead by the time my brother returns.”

Baras’Oot rose and signaled his procession. Friday called out.

“Last chance, Great King,” she said. “You should kill me now.”

“Why? To spare you pain?”

“To spare your own. In my time, shackles have not held me. Nor ropes or bars or oaths. I am a spirit of the forest. I am death’s own ghost. One day, I will rise from this box, alive or dead, and I will come for you. The prickle you feel at the back of your neck will be my breath. The downbeat of your heart, my touch. When you enter a room and feel a chill, it will be my shadow, waiting for you. My eyes will be the last things you see. On the Goddess, I swear it will be so.”

For a second, Baras’Oot said nothing, but she could hear his breath had quickened.

“Your Goddess is dead,” he said eventually. “And soon, you will be too. Enjoy your final days.”

Baras’Oot signaled his men to lower the palanquin, but as he was helped aboard, he thought he heard the girl say, “I will.”

The fight was set to take place the following dawn. To Robinson’s surprise, he was given a hearty meal and a warm place to rest.

The whittling man entered his tent shortly after sunset, holding a cup filled with a thick paste.

“This is an old recipe. Rub it into your muscles tonight, and in the morning, your stiffness will have gone away.”

Robinson took it and thanked him.

“Tomorrow, you will be given the choice of fighting with weapons or without. Chimosh always selects staff.”

It wasn’t a surprise. The Old Man had favored the staff too. He’d proven to be a master of distance with it. Chimosh would be even better.

“Why are you helping me?” Robinson asked.

The whittling man looked into the fire.

“My daughter was always rebellious, but I never doubted her heart. To choose you, she must have seen something in you. It is unfortunate I will not learn what that is.”

“I have no chance of winning, do I?” Robinson asked.

The whittling man shook his head.

“In my time, I was better than any other, and he surpasses me.”

Robinson understood.

“Friday used to say the business leading up to a fight doesn’t matter. Not history or promise, only the outcome. You prepare to give your best. But my best rarely earned me my victories. More often, I relied on tricks. Or luck. I’ve exhausted both, I think.”

“The Goddess protects innocents and fools alike. But a man makes his own luck. Fight true, and even if you die, you will die with honor.”

Robinson nodded, and the man rose and limped for the flap.

“May I ask one more thing?” Robinson said. “The acorn. I’d like to have it back. At least until it’s over.”

The whittling man hesitated before digging the acorn from his pocket and tossing it to him.

“Chimosh injured his knee when he was young. If he puts weight on it while turning to the left, it causes the knee to catch.”

Robinson didn’t know what to say to this, so he just thanked him.

“Don’t thank me. It is a shot in the dark. Far too small to tip the scales, but perhaps it can give you hope.”

“Thank you, anyway. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

The whittling man stared at him and then shook his head.

“Odd boy,” he said before leaving.

They came for him, as promised, at the crack of dawn. No ceremony. No pomp or circumstance.

To the Aserra, it was just another day.

The circle outside had been cleaned of wood and debris. Robinson estimated it to be twenty by twenty paces. Room enough to maneuver, but no room to run. Warriors lined the perimeter.

The morning was chilly, but the sky was clear. The sun had only just edged over the lip of the world.

Robinson took several heavy breaths to stave off the panic building inside him. Fear and doubt, Friday always said, were his biggest enemies.

She’d never seen Chimosh.

There is always a way
, his head said.

He liked the idea of running better.

He walked to the center of the fighting circle. The Aserra stood as stoic as always.

Life is crazy
, Robinson thought.
Here I am, having spent the better part of a year and a half dreaming of finding these people, and a few days after I’ve succeeded, they’re going to kill me.

Breathe
, his voice said.

Robinson scanned the crowd. The whittling man was seated upon a log not far from the circle. Calm. Robinson’s hands went to his sash and felt the acorn there. That small lump anchored him.

From the far corner of the camp, Chimosh appeared. His mouth was set, but Robinson thought he saw something in his eyes. Was he conflicted? Having second thoughts? Doubtful.

Robinson churned his feet in the dirt. He had left his boots in the tent for fear they’d slow him down. He bent over and grabbed a handful of soil, rubbing it in his palms to dry them.

Chimosh stepped into the center of the circle.

“As the challenged,” Chimosh began, “I have the right to choose arms, but I leave this choice to you.”

To Robinson’s left, a warrior threw back a skin covering a rack of weapons. Robinson saw swords, spears, daggers, and shields, but, of course, no guns. Laying innocently in the dirt was a staff of thick-knotted wood. It was worn, but it looked stout and battle tested. He wondered what Chimosh would do if he selected it. Instead, he crossed over and came away with his axe. He suspected Friday’s father had put it there.

Chimosh selected his staff, twirling it as he returned. The image reminded Robinson of something, but he couldn’t place it.

Without further warning, the duel began.

Chimosh lowered his stance, staff extended, as he circled to his right. He could have been gauging his opponent, but more likely, he was sending a message to the others that every battle, no matter how stacked in your favor, raised the need for caution.

Robinson circled in time with Chimosh. The axe felt good in his hand.

Chimosh’s movements were graceful. He swung the staff as his stance changed. Robinson found himself mesmerized by his fluidity and the
woosh
of the wood as it moved.

Then Chimosh attacked.

The staff came at a blistering speed. Robinson ducked under the first strike and even managed to lift his leg to avoid a second, but a third spinning shot struck him across the forearm. The blow jolted his entire body and sent waves of pain radiating through his bones. And yet Robinson was already countering, swinging his axe horizontally toward Chimosh’s midsection.

Chimosh leaned back, only to find the axe had rotated upward for a series of downward slashes. Chimosh evaded them with ease. Still, Robinson saw his opponent’s eyes narrow. A lesser fighter might not have read anything into it, but Robinson saw it as a sign of respect.

Chimosh’s second attack came quicker.

The sweeping barrage forced Robinson to leap out of range. He struggled to maintain his balance in the face of the relentless barrage. Robinson took more strikes to the shoulder and outer thigh. He surged forward with his own counterstrike, one he had used successfully many times in battle, but it, too, fell far short of the mark.

Chimosh feinted low and came in high. The end of the spear caromed off Robinson’s crown, but first blood had been drawn. As it ran down his face, Robinson lunged forward, desperately throwing himself off balance to overextend his strike. Chimosh deflected the blade with his staff, but when he stepped back, he saw a thin line of blood ran from the outside knuckle where the blade had grazed him.

If Robinson thought this would throw Chimosh off, he was mistaken.

Chimosh raged forward with another spinning attack. This one came so fast, Robinson could barely see the staff coming. The first strike caught him in the ribs, and he felt them separate. The second caught him flush on the right ear. The third struck his left calf as he tried to pivot away. The fourth hit the back of his shoulder, and he fell to the dirt.