Everwinter: The Forerunner Archives (35 page)

Ursa gasps, all her hopes for this expedition immediately fleeing.
"But... Why would you–"

"Wounded men slow things down," Magis explains, as if the answer should be obvious. "Can't have resources taken from the rest of
the camp in order to treat a few men who may end up being useless to us anyway. We've got an empire to run here!" He laughs, arms spread wide.

You're a bloody monster!
Ursa screams in her mind. She hadn't anticipated such heartless disregard for human life, even from bandits. She scowls at Magis.

The man laughs hard. "Not the way you hoped this would go, is it?" His rotten teeth are fully exposed. He claps his hands, the Grimm soldiers at the entrance to the tent coming in. They grab her, one of them holding something round and metal in one hand.

A collar.

"No," Ursa whispers, tears forming as the massive manacle is clasped firmly around her neck. She's never wanted to die more than she does in that moment. "Your training begins now, um..." Magis pauses. "I'm sorry, I haven't even gotten your name yet. What is it?"

Ursa shakes her head, lips pressed hard. One of the men punches her, square in the gut.

"Ursa," she finally says when she's caught her breath.

"A pretty name," Magis admits, smiling again. "I'm Magis," he formally introduces himself. "But you can call me Master." He nods to his soldiers, and they start pulling Ursa from the tent. Ursa sobs uncontrollably.

"Oh, and don't worry about your friends," Magis calls in a friendly parting tone. "They'll be joining you soon enough."

Ursa screeches. She can't help it.

Juno, I'm sorry!

50.

"Here, take this," Altair says, handing me the smooth, cool metal object.

"Really?" I ask, stunned and a little bit flattered. I never thought I'd see Altair part with one of his throwing stars. How many of these things does he have anyway? The metal is stainless, without a scratch or a chip on it.
Perfect
. What the hells is it made from? I press a finger softly against one of the five points, feeling it slice effortlessly into the skin. A little bubble of blood wells up. At the center of the star is a symbol of some sort, one I've never seen before:

☯

"What does this mean?" I ask, stunned.

"This isn't time for a history lesson, Juno," Altair admonishes, folding my hand carefully over the weapon. "This is not a toy."

"I
know
," I say, rolling my eyes. 

I can't wait to chuck this thing at so
mething!

"I'm giving it to you just in case." He nods his head toward the opposite side of the room where Ativan is conversing with Glamis and Traylor. He pulls me in closer. "Look," he says, "I know Ativan seems like a good guy, but we don't know him from a
hole in the ground. I think it best not to trust anyone at this point."

I roll my eyes yet again. "You Assassins are so uptight," I reply, but I pocket the throwing star without protest. I smile. "Don't worry, I can take care of myself."

"I know you can," he smiles back and, for a wonder, he kisses me on the forehead. "Be careful," he says.

"You too." I reluctantly let him go.

"Glamis," he calls across the room. "Time to go."

Glamis had been in midst
of recounting his life to Ativan, who seems genuinely rapt in the story.

"I shall finish story presently upon our returnings," the mutant hulk apologizes, giving Ativan a rough pat on the shoulder.

"Oomph! Yeah, sure," Ativan smiles sheepishly.

Altair takes a last look at me, nods, then he and Glamis are gone out the door.

It's just me, Traylor, and Ativan now.

The room becomes
uncomfortably quiet.

Ativan stares at his shoes, as if intimidated by me.

"So," I say, breaking the tension, "what do you do for fun around here?" I'm all smiles.

Ativan perks up then laughs to himself. "Not a helluva lot," he admits, looking around the room. His eyes fall on Traylor. "Say, son. You ever fire a shooting iron before?"

Traylor's eyes go wide. "Hells no!" he exclaims.

"Traylor!" I scold. "Watch your language!"

Ativan laughs. "Come on," he says, and leads us both out of the living quarters and into the garage proper. Despite the lights provided by the gennie, it's still dank and dark in here. We come to a locked cabinet off in one corner. Ativan produces a ring with so many keys on it that I have to wonder if he even knows what half of them do. He unlocks the cabinet, revealing a rack with a pair of shooting irons set upon it: one handheld, one larger one.

Ativan pulls
the smaller weapon out and hands it to Traylor.

"Wait a minute!" I say, not liking where this is going already.

"No worries," Ativan says, waving me down, "it ain't loaded yet. Just lettin' the little guy get a feel for it first."

Traylor takes the shooter with his jaw hanging slack. Immediately, he points it like he's gonna shoot it, making little
BANG!
noises with his mouth.

"Awesome!" he exclaims.

I laugh. "Now look what you've started," I half-heartedly chastise Ativan.

He shrugs. "Boy's gotta learn sometime," he says. He pulls a small box out of the cabinet, the contents making a clanking noise. "Here," he says to Traylor, holding his hand out for the shooter. "I'll show ya how to load 'er." Traylor grins wide and hands the weapon back.

Ativan kneels down, popping open the cylinder at the center of the weapon, revealing a half dozen bullet-sized shafts. Indeed, he opens the box and slides a bullet into one of the chambers.

"Easy enough?" he asks.
 

Traylor nods quickly. "Oh yeah," he replies.

"He's a fast learner," I add, "too fast sometimes."

Ativan grins and stands back up. Then he points the shooter across the garage. I'm not
really sure what he's aiming for but–

BANG!

The sound is deafening in the closed space. I hear a clang as an empty can situated on a metal workbench flies away, crashing to the floor.

"Good shot!" Traylor says, astonished.

"Aye," Ativan admits. "I've had a bit o' practice in my spare time." He hands the now empty weapon back to Traylor, along with the box of bullets. Immediately, Traylor opens the cylinder, letting the spent cartridge fall to the floor. Then he opens the box, reaching for a fresh bullet.

Ativan stops him with a hand. "There's a fence out back," he says, pointing to the garage door. "I got some cans and bottles
set up there. Why don't you give'er a go out there?"

"Sure!" Traylor screeches with delight.

Ativan smiles. "Only one bullet at a time though, okay? If I hear more than one shot per minute, I'll know you're using more."

"Yeah, you can trust me!" Traylor says.

"Famous last words," I grumble at him. He sticks his tongue out at me then bolts for the door. 

"Hey! Be careful!" I call after him. "We'll be right behind you."

I move to follow him.

I'm stopped by Ativan though, a gentle hand on my shoulder. "Can I show you something first?" he asks, his tone somewhat bashful. I look toward the door again and my departing brother. "Don't worry," Ativan assures, "he'll be fine for a minute. Trust me, you're gonna wanna see this."

His words creep me out a little, but at the same time there's something about Ativan that makes me want to trust him. Is it his piercing blue eyes? Maybe it's his pretty blonde hair. Yeah, okay, he's not the handsomest guy I've ever met–he's no Jude (
shudder
)–but I think I've found a kindred spirit in Ativan. For the first time, I realize I've been lonely since Jude betrayed me.

Yeah, maybe Altair
cares about me, but he sure doesn't show it much. I have no illusions that he's gonna come and sweep me off my feet when this is all over. 

Altair is an Assassin, married to his calling. His lifearc.

"Lead the way," I say with a sigh.

Ativan's eyes light up like an oil-fired electric light.

51.

THWACK!

The blows continue to rain down.

But the upside is that she's growing numb. 

The pain all blends together, her entire body a broken, bleeding mess.
 

"Where are your friends?" the Grimm soldier screams at her again. She's surprised she hasn't gone deaf yet.
THWACK!
"It's just a matter of time until we find them, Ursa. If you give them up now, we'll go easier on them."

Ursa looks up between puffy, bruised eyelids. Blood runs into one of them, forcing her to shut it. "Do you promise?" she asks, trying to sound hopeful.
 

The solider
–Mr. Nosebleed–steps back, grinning widely. "Of course," he reassures. "You can save them a lot of pain." He pauses. "I
promise
, Ursa."

Ursa sighs, pulling with dismay at her manacled hands, bound behind her to a creaky wooden chair. A chain runs from the collar around her neck to the manacles, forcing her head to stay upright lest she choke. The
re are four other slaves in the tent with her, all forced to watch her 'training'. 

They’
d all endured a similar fate at one time or another.

Nosebleed raises a hand to strike her again.
 

"Okay!" she exclaims, trying to sound desperate. "I'll... I'll tell you!"

Nosebleed smiles. "Good." He crouches down in front of her. "Go ahead."

"
Spitblood...
" she whispers, so low that Nosebleed cannot hear.

He leans closer, raising his fist warningly.
 "Say that again, love," he requests, sweetly almost. His fist goes higher. "I couldn't hear you."

"I said," Ursa replies, "spit blood!"
 Then she horks, a concoction of saliva, phlegm, and blood flying directly into Nosebleed's eye. The man screeches in disgust, wiping it away.

"Your choice," he growls with disdain. A storm of fists that makes what she'd already endured seem like a sun shower rains down. When it's over, she's barely holding onto consciousness. Fluid is constantly leaking into her eyes. She knows that at least one of the boils on her face has burst open.
 The pain is excruciating. Nosebleed is huffing, having exerted himself tremendously during the beating. He's far from done though.

"I think it's time we took your training to the next level, don't you, Ursa?"

Ursa moans, wondering what could possibly be worse than this. The other slaves in the tent groan too. They know what's coming.

Mr. Nosebleed starts to unbuckle his pants.

Ursa cringes, trying to suppress the tears, squeezing her eyes shut. When she opens them again, she thinks she must be hallucinating.

"About time you showed up," she grumbles.

Nosebleed stares at her, confused. Then he hears someone behind him and whirls to face the newcomer.

Too late.

Mr. Nosbleed's head collapses like a rotten pumpkin, all blood and brains between the brick fists of Glamis. The hulking mutant pulls his hands apart, flinging the gore from them with disgust. "I hate midgets bloods!" he stammers, moving to wipe his hands on the canvas of the tent.

"Remember what I said about being quiet?" Altair comes in, chas
tising the mutant in a low tone. He moves over to the chair where Ursa sits bound and stunned.

"Sorrys," Glamis apologizes. He moves over to the slaves, still quivering on the tent floor. He grasps their chains and snaps them apart like cheap twine. Altair has already picked the lock on Ursa's manacles, now working on the collar.

Ursa bursts into tears. "I'm so sorry!" she mumbles between broken lips. "I... I thought I could..."

"Not now," Altair cuts her off. "There'll be plenty of time for apologies later. And explanations. We have to get you out of here f
irst." Ursa is finally released and Altair helps her to her feet. She feels like she's been put through a meat grinder.

"Can you walk?" he asks.

Ursa tests her footing, shaky though it is, and finds that she can. "Yes."

"Good." He pulls out one of his throwing stars and stalks to the rear of the tent, slicing the weapon effortlessly through the material. "We're sneaking out this way. Glamis, you're in charge of the other women."

The slaves all cower before Glamis, but he helps them to their feet with a gentle touch. "I'se no hurtings you," he whispers. "Come. We's getting you'se out of here." Three of the women don't have to be told twice, but the last one still whimpers on the floor, shell-shocked. Glamis grunts and simply picks her up and carries her like a newborn babe. "Let's go," he tells Altair.