Robinson Crusoe 2245: (Book 2) (7 page)

“Winter nears,” the girl continued. “And a heavy snowfall is expected this season. We have homes here, like this one. A strong man could have one if he was willing to join us. He could have other things too …”

She put her hand on his shoulder. Her touch felt like velvet. The smell of flowers in her hair was intoxicating. But it all felt wrong. He took her hand gently and pulled her around to face him.

“Did Pastor send you or was it your father?” he asked.

“If I’m not woman enough, there are others—”

“Stop, please,” he said.

She shuffled awkwardly.

“Do you not find me … appealing?” she asked.

“I think you’re one of the most beautiful girls I’ve ever seen. And some man is going to be so lucky to win your heart.”

“But not you,” she said.

“Mine’s already promised to another. But I saw someone at the table tonight who seemed to have an eye for you.”

“Tomas. He’s just a boy.”

“Funny thing about boys. They have a habit of growing up to be men, with the right motivation.”

A smile crept onto her face.

“Tomas would die if I walked into his bedroom.”

She blushed and Robinson laughed. Then they heard the door open, and Pastor appeared.

“Am I interrupting?” he asked.

“No,” the girl answered. “I’m finished.” She quickly gathered her things and edged back for the door. “If either of you need anything, my parents’ home is two over.”

“Very kind, my lady,” Pastor said. “You have our thanks.”

She curtsied and left. The room descended into an awkward silence.

“They’ve given me the master’s room,” Pastor said. “But the bed is too damned large. And soft. Do you mind?”

He pointed to the second bed in the room, and Robinson nodded. Pastor plopped down and propped a pillow under his head.

“Truth is, I’m used to sleeping outside these days. I miss roots in my bum and the sounds of the night.”

“Which are usually drowned out by your snoring.”

“Pfft. That’s the wine. I’ve had none tonight.”

“You had two casks of mead.”

“Ha! One, at most.”

Robinson fell back onto his own bed and shook his head.

“Where are the mutes?” he asked.

“Who’s to say? Wandering the hills? Sleeping in trees? Those two would die before they slept inside.”

“I’m the reason the girl was wounded.”

Pastor’s head snapped toward him, ready to admonish, but he saw the guilt in Robinson’s eyes.

“You are,” he said finally. “And the reason everyone here is alive.”

“No,” Robinson said. “That was your doing.”

“Bah. Tricks. Illusions. That’s all I can conjure. You’re the real magician. The way you fight—the way others follow you—it’s a rare thing. A rare and terrible thing.”

Pastor blew out the light and rolled onto his side. Robinson was utterly exhausted but couldn’t immediately get to sleep. He couldn’t escape that fact that he was sleeping in someone else’s bed. That very morning, a child rose here with the light, and now his flame had been snuffed out. It reminded him that life was precious and never more than when it was at risk.

There, in the dark, he reached for the one thing that gave him hope. Friday’s acorn. He ran it over his fingers, letting the ridges trill against his skin. It was like their love. Hard on the outside but full of life and promise within.
One day
, he thought.
I’ll see it bloom. But not alone.

Not alone
.

The rain fell steadily at an angle, buffeting the faces of those on deck. It was a cold night that the wind had given teeth, prompting each Flayer to bundle in heavy fabrics with only a narrow slit from which to see. Not that it mattered. The fog was so thick it made visibility beyond the ship’s balustrade impossible.

They had dropped anchor in the cove of an island. A party had gone ashore to scout the area but returned with nothing to report.

The
Spinecrusher
was the finest ship in the Bone Flayer fleet. Its dual masts and low hull also made it the fastest. But like every ship, it was not impervious to the elements. In one corner of the aft deck, water seeped down through nooks and crannies until it spilled over the rafters, drip by drip, and stirred Friday from sleep.

Despite the chill outside, the hold was warm and humid. Friday yawned as her eyes focused in the darkness. At the far end of the room that single-candled lantern swayed gently with the current. It provided scant illumination, but it served as a beacon to tether her in the darkness.

Friday lay still, listening to the sounds around her. Sleeping inhalations. The occasional snore. The ever-present creaking of the ship. Even the Flayer on patrol near the steps snored lightly. Her heartbeat quickened.

The time had come.

Friday rose to her knees as quietly as she could. She wiped her hands clean and took hold of the mounting pin with both hands. She tugged it side to side slowly until it began to move. After a minute, it came out of the wood with a pop.

Friday froze and waited, but she heard nothing but silence.

Carefully, she retrieved the torn fabric of a burlap sack that she had stolen long ago. She used it to strap the excess chain to her arm. She left enough hanging in case she needed a weapon. Then she crawled out of her hovel and quietly crept past the stockade. None of the other slaves stirred. Even Nameless was lost to slumber.

The Flayer guard near the stairs sat on a barrel, his head and back propped against the wall behind him. His mouth lolled slightly open as he snored. A spear was interlaced in his arms. Friday briefly entertained the idea of killing the man for the spear but decided it was too big a risk.

She continued on instead, timing her ascent of the steps with the rocking of the ship so that the creak of the third, sixth, and eleventh steps would meld with the symphony of everyday groans the wooden vessel produced.

At the top of the stairs, two Flayers stood sentry just outside, facing away. Both were awake, but the sound of the rain striking the deck was too loud to hear over. Friday hesitated there in the shadows. She could easily poach a dagger from one of the men, finish them both off, and be over the side of the ship before the alarm sounded.

But escape had never been her plan.

Friday had sworn if she ever got a chance to kill Arga’Zul, she would seize it, consequences be damned. The man had been a blight on her people for decades, and claiming his life would not only avenge the legions of Aserra he had killed and taken captive, but it would also send a message to the rest of the Bone Flayers that none among them was untouchable.

As Friday turned for the captain’s cabin, she paused. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she heard Robinson’s voice calling her from the arcade. His words were a blur, but the meaning was clear:
he would come for her—damn everything
. Alive or dead, she knew he would not begrudge her this act. Or if he did, he would at least understand it.

She was Aserra. And the Aserra demanded a worthy death.

Friday’s hand reached slowly for the iron lock, lifting it incrementally until she felt the latch give. She pushed the door open just enough to see the room was dark inside. Once she was sure the sentries hadn’t moved, she slipped inside and closed the door behind her.

Friday froze there, taking long, deep breaths to slow her heart. The room stank of Arga’Zul’s musk. It was thick and foul, but here it was mixed with the savory meal he’d eaten that night. She padded quietly to the table and was relieved to see a glint there that she recognized as Arga’Zul’s knife.

Goddess be praised
, she thought.
I have chosen correctly.

Friday was nearing the table when the floorboards groaned beneath her feet. She paused and waited until a heavy exhalation resounded from Arga’Zul’s hammock. From here, she could see the faintest image of his form in his berth. One hand was flung over the side, hovering, outstretched, inches above a nocked blade that lay on the floor.

A splurge of rage instantly coursed through Friday, but she fought back the rash impulse she felt. She would never get another chance like this.

All at once, Friday felt woozy and had to reach out for the table to steady herself. Blood ran again from her nose, and panic began to well inside her.
Was this her fate? To come so close to killing the man she hated most only to have her body fail her in the end?

Her legs shook and her arms felt weak. She knew she would be unable to endure any kind of extended fight. Even at her healthiest, Friday couldn’t have beaten Arga’Zul.

Friday reached out and scooped up the knife, careful not to let the blade scratch the table’s surface. She then turned toward Arga’Zul’s sleeping berth, trying to dissect his silhouette from the shadows. All she needed was to identify his massive head. From there, she could run the dagger across his throat and wait for his lifeblood to spill out across the floor. The sound of him drowning in his own blood would be like sweet music to her ears.

If, for some reason, Friday couldn’t find his neck, she would sink the blade deep into his heart. He might get out one panicked cry out before death took him. What happened after was in the Goddess’s hands.

Step-by-step, Friday edged closer. Her hand holding the dagger grew slick with sweat. She struggled to keep her breathing even. There could be no mistakes now.

Arga’Zul groaned in his sleep. Friday heard his sheets rustle as he turned. A spate of adrenaline flushed her system, but she fought to keep her hand steady. Carefully, she raised her foot over the sword on the floor and set it down on the other side. Leaning forward, scanning the shadows, she found her enemy’s throat. It lay open. Inviting.

And just as Friday prepared to do the deed, she heard a click behind her. Her head turned as light spilled into the room. There, Friday saw the small red-haired girl she called Nameless pointing her out to the sentry behind her.

When Pastor woke the next morning, he found Robinson’s bed empty but made, the sheets crisp and tight. He smiled. The young man was nothing if not well mannered.

After washing his face and hands in a basin, Pastor made his way outside to take in the crisp morning air. The needles in the yard had frosted the night before, and his breath plumed out in front of him. He felt rested, but he knew there was much to do.

After a few moments, he felt a presence behind him and turned as Robinson rounded the deck, bag in hand.

“Leaving already?” he asked.

Robinson nodded.

“I thought I’d get an early start.”

Pastor nodded to a pair of chairs on the porch.

“Sit with me for a moment,” he said. And when Robinson hesitated, he continued, “I promise not to try to convince you to stay.”

The men sat a few feet apart, but for the first time in their journey together, it felt like they were leagues apart.

“I take it our painted-faced friend told you what you wanted to know?”

“Let’s just say he pointed me in the right direction. Do you plan to stay?”

Pastor nodded.

“Winter’s coming. And the people here need us, though they might say otherwise. As you may have noticed, they’re as warm as day-old pie. But they are decent and humble and deserve every chance to live their lives according to their beliefs.”

“Which are?”

“Determined by
Gottes Wille
. They came to this country in the early eighteenth century, descended from the Mennonites, though they mostly flourished up north. They reject technology and subscribe to the philosophy of
Gelassenheit
, which means submission.”

“Submission,” Robinson repeated. “Not a concept that inspires longevity.”

“And yet, here they are. Living as their ancestors have for centuries, while everyone else around them faded to dust.”

“What will you teach them?” Robinson asked.

“What I can. New farming methods. How to build a defensive perimeter. They won’t accept weapons or training, but maybe I can convince them to seek out alliances with their closest neighbors. Sometimes even the most stubborn, solitary people recognize there is strength in numbers.”