Robinson Crusoe 2245: (Book 2) (9 page)

Arga’Zul nodded. The Flayers swarmed in.

Friday crushed the first attacker’s jaw with the chain, but she never got a chance to pull it back for a second strike. The pack was on her, punching and kicking her mercilessly.

Friday collapsed in the water, her vision blurring. Before her one eye closed she saw a Flayer approaching the dam, only to leap back as something attacked him. The man turned away to rejoin the others.

Nameless would survive.

She hoped Crusoe would forgive her. She had failed in her escape, but by saving the girl, she had succeeded in saving some small measure of herself. And, of course, it’s what he would have done.

The last thought Friday had was of that small victory. Her mouth curled into a bloody smile right before she fell unconscious.

The days fell back into repetition.

Robinson rose each day before the break of dawn and ate a simple breakfast of fruit and grains. Then he’d walk until his feet hurt and his stomach screamed. After a short break for food and rest, he’d take to the roads again, this time until the sun started to set or until he stumbled upon some shelter too good to pass up.

Throughout his journey, his eyes stayed active, scanning the forest around him for danger. Still, he was apt to daydream now and then. He thought of his time in D.C. and of his friends and family back on the Isle. He thought of Tiers, Pastor, and the mutes. But mostly, he thought of Friday. Her touch. Her voice. Her face while she slept. How tender it looked. How different it was from the one she wore when she fought.

The only memory he avoided was Resi, the ornery dog who’d adopted him upon his arrival to this continent only to die at the hands of the Flayers. That loss hurt as much as saying goodbye to his mother.

He’d been walking the ancient cracked roads for eight days when he found the river again. Although the rain had stopped a few days before, the water remained high and ran at a fevered pace. Few of the ancient stone bridges that traversed the river had survived. And what steel bridges remained groaned perilously, covered in rust. Most were nothing more than skeletons, more dangerous to pass than the river itself.

So Robinson often walked along the banks, though he knew it slowed his pace. At least there, he could see remnants of the ancient world. Errant houses shorn to their foundations. Business structures folded in like the cakes Tallis once made with Vareen. Water and wind had eaten the colors, but here and there, he could still make out signs bearing faded names of brands that grew familiar after a time.

On those nights when rain or the cold forced him to take shelter, he often found it in the strangest places. Once, he slept in the belly of a rusted fuel tanker. Another time, in a metal smokehouse that still smelled of old meats. More often he tied a bivy sac between trees and slept thirty feet off the ground.

His favorite evenings were when he found some home still standing and he was able to build a fire in its hearth and imagine himself back in New London, playing
Over the Wall, Under the Wall
with Tannis while his parents chatted over mundane things. Vareen would pop in with sugarcakes, and the kids would fight for the biggest one.

Through it all, Robinson stayed close to the river, his ears attuned to the sounds of ships. Each day he imagined rounding a bend and seeing those familiar black sails and its red sigil and the giant at the forecastle would look out, unaware his death was not coming in the shape of an army, but one former boy willing to do anything for his love.

It was the sixth day after the rain had ceased, and Robinson had just finished crossing a steep mountain. That morning, he found a grouse’s nest on a high branch with six small eggs inside. He carefully put them into his pack for later, but when it was safe enough to raise a fire.

The woods along the river had grown thick, but all at once they became oddly quiet. He looked for animal tracks, but found none. A niggling feeling began to peck at him from the back of his mind. It made him wary, but he chalked it up to being on the road alone again.

It was getting late. Robinson needed shelter, but he wanted to keep moving while there was light.

The river’s pace had slowed over the last day, but sediment raised by the rain still left it thick as soup.

As the sun dwindled, he walked along the waterline, scanning for areas fish might hole up. He’d fashioned a spear from a slender piece of bamboo. But just when he saw a flash of scales glinting in the current, he looked up and froze.

A group of wooden boats lay on the shore of a small island. These were not relics, but something recently crafted. Splayed across their sides were drawings of some kind of animal, but Robinson couldn’t make out what kind. What he did see sent a chill up his spine. Smoke was rising from a fire a few feet up the beach.

Robinson quickly scanned up and down both banks and into the forest. He saw no movement, but the fire meant someone was close. If they’d seen his approach he was at a huge disadvantage.

Robinson’s hands fell to his axes, but he didn’t pull them. Instead, he stepped back from the water’s edge toward the tree line. Part of him wanted to sprint into the forest, but his eyes kept returning to those boats. One of them could cut his journey to the flayer capital in half.

While ruminating his next move, a breeze blew in, carrying an odor Robinson hadn’t smelled in some time. It instantly set his nerves on fire. Something moved in the brush behind him, and before he could react, three Renders burst from the forest.

The first Render launched himself off some rocks, forcing Robinson to roll underneath his attack and swing his axe at his hindquarters. His second blade caught the creature across the ankle, and he heard a snap. As the beast howled on the ground, Robinson spun to find two smaller, faster Renders surrounding him and driving him back toward a thick cluster of trees at the waterline.

On instinct, Robinson dove behind the trees, giving the creatures the narrowest outlet to reach him. The smallest beast circled around his flank, but the largest one stormed straight ahead, snapping branches with his massive arms.

When the smaller Render came around to face Robinson, he whirled his axes in a vertical rotation. The creature lost its footing, and Robinson sunk a blade into its flesh.

The middle-sized Render roared as its companion fell, but it was the larger Render that drew Robinson’s focus. It had broken through the knot of dead branches, forcing Robinson’s back to the river.

With no other options, Robinson remembered Friday’s most valuable lesson: when in doubt, attack.

Robinson bounded up the nest of tree branches and leapt over the biggest Render. It lashed out with its long claws, catching the sleeve of Robinson’s coat and tearing it away. Robinson landed behind the creature and rotated quickly with both blades. The creature roared, its fetid mouth inches from Robinson’s face. But slowly, surely, the two axe blades tore into its chest and sent the beast collapsing to the earth. It writhed before ceasing movement altogether.

Robinson was in the process of taking his first real breath since the fight began when the third and final Render charged from his side. Robinson tried to extract his axes from the dead render’s chest, but both were lodged in bone. In a desperate act of preservation, Robinson threw up an arm, but the mouth filled with razor-sharp teeth never reached him. Instead, a wave of arrows stitched the creature’s flesh, and it fell at his feet and moved no more.

Robinson turned quickly to see who had saved him. On the shore, some twenty paces away, stood a dozen human figures wearing loincloths and covered in blue, black, and silver body paint. Half held bows and arrows, while the other half gripped spears. At their heels were the canoes from across the river.

How could they have crossed so quickly?
Robinson asked himself.

He instinctively took a step back, but the locals notched more arrows and began yelling at him in some incomprehensible language. He raised his hands, noting the men seemed more frightened than angry.

Just when it seemed like the painted men were about to attack, a young child pushed her way to the front, motioning for them to lower their weapons. They did so, reluctantly.

The girl was also painted in silver, black, and blue, but Robinson thought he could see auburn hair underneath. Her complexion looked lighter than the others, and she had eyes that bore intelligence.

Once the men had lowered their weapons, the girl stepped closer to look Robinson over. When she finally spoke, he was stunned by her words.

“You must be Cru-soe. I’ve been expecting you.”

The ship was in full sail when Friday finally awoke. The room was dark, and the endless swaying made her want to vomit.

A blurry figure set a damp compress to Friday’s head before wiping spittle from her mouth. Friday wanted to bat the hand away but didn’t have the strength.

The woman slowly came into view. Friday recognized her as one of the older slaves. She muttered something unintelligible, motioning to Friday’s right eye. Friday reached up and discovered it was closed. She briefly wondered if she had lost it, but there was nothing to be done, so she chose not to worry about it.

With her remaining eye, Friday took in her surroundings. She was shocked to see she was not in the hold but in Arga’Zul’s berth. She tried to sit up, but something cold and hard tugged at her ankle. She glanced down to see a leg iron tethering her to the hammock. The skin beneath it had already grown raw.

Friday collapsed back into the hammock, and pain stitched her body from side to side. Her fingers reached under a blanket to find heavy bandages covering her ribs. She instinctively took a deep breath, and it felt like her lungs were being ripped out of her chest. She fought another wave of nausea and tried to remain still.

The slave woman patted Friday’s hand and whispered more words she couldn’t understand. Friday wanted to ask her about Nameless but was afraid to hear the answer. The last thing she remembered seeing was one of the Flayers duck into the beaver dam and leap back as if being attacked. She couldn’t remember what happened afterward. So be it. Friday had done everything she could to help the girl, even after she had betrayed her. Friday hoped the Goddess would take pity on the child.

Friday was startled from her reverie when she felt something cool against her lips. She tried to turn her head, but the woman held her and uttered a word she thought meant ‘drink.’ Friday opened her mouth and felt the cold water rush in. It stung her throat going down, but it almost immediately revitalized her. She swallowed greedily, even as the water spilled down her face and neck. She finished the cup, saying only, “More.”

Her voice sounded foreign to her, scratchy and thick.

The woman shushed her and put a stale piece of bread to her lips instead.

“Eat,” she said in the common tongue. Likely, it was the only word she knew.

Only after Friday had inhaled several pieces did she ask, “How long?”

The woman looked around warily but did not answer.

While the bread did help ease the pain in her belly, nothing could temper the headache that gripped her skull. It was like her head had been split in half. As she chewed, she felt soreness in her jaw and neck. She had been beaten badly. Had she come close to dying? She had suffered many injuries in her lifetime but couldn’t remember feeling worse. From the taste of vomit and blood in her mouth and the smell of urine stemming from her underclothes, she suspected she’d been unconscious at least a few days.

The cabin door swung open abruptly, and a large shadow that could only have been Arga’Zul filled the frame. A narrow shaft of daylight streamed in from behind him, searing Friday’s brain until she cried out.

“Out,” Arga’Zul growled. The slave woman quickly left.

Friday listened as Arga’Zul stomped across the room and pulled a wooden chair to her bedside. Once he sat, Friday expected him to grab her by the hair or face, but it didn’t happen. Instead, he waited until she turned her face in his direction.