Robinson Crusoe 2245: (Book 2) (6 page)

The sounds of war were replaced by the screams of the dying as an acrid, chemical odor washed over the barn.

Once Robinson’s eyes adjusted, he saw the majority of the Flayers outside had been killed. Those who survived wouldn’t last long. They were strewn across the ground, steaming sacks of flesh and gore, tissue eaten away by some terrible substance. Despite their horrific injuries, the survivors were focused on the figure approaching through the curtain of smoke that still bled from the house fire. A wild-eyed man speaking in tongues.

Pastor.

Robinson hurried through the dead to finish the Flayers who had been spared the worst of the blast. He couldn’t get to them all. At least two had made it to the cover of trees. They would be impossible to track down.

The farmers stumbled out of the barn, their expressions numb, their eyes locked on Pastor as if to ask what this new horror was. Robinson could see something in him had changed. Gone was the jovial philosopher. He was replaced by something older and infinitely sadder.

He had saved them, but at a terrible cost. To Robinson, the worst part was the look on his face when the mute sister limped outside, the arrow stuck in her calf.

Robinson avoided his gaze.

As parents escorted their children out with hands over their eyes, Robinson directed the woman farmer to use the cart to carry their wounded, cautioning them to avoid Black Hand, who sat numbly in the dirt, an arrow protruding from his chest.

“Leave that one for me,” he said.

No one argued. But as Robinson perused the dead, he noticed a face missing.

“The Flayer with the red hand on his face? Has anyone see him?”

No one did. He had a feeling it would mean trouble.

Pastor helped the mute brother lead his sister to a stump to sit, setting his head against hers now that the battle was over. It was the most emotion Robinson had ever seen them show.

Those farmers without children milled about, exhausted and unsure of what to do. That’s when Pastor held up his hands.

“Brothers and sisters,” he spoke firmly. “The savages have been vanquished, but there is no time to dally. We must set to saving what homes we can and looking for survivors. The womenfolk and children can tend to the wounded. The rest of you, follow me.”

By mid-afternoon, the fires had been extinguished. A makeshift healer’s house had been set up in their single-room schoolhouse to care for the wounded. Robinson discovered that somewhere in the melee he had taken a cut to his neck, but he refused to seek help before the more seriously injured were attended to.

Pastor assembled a group of male farmers to scout the forest and riverlands to ensure the Flayers were not regrouping somewhere. Once that threat was addressed, he advised them to burn the Flayer ship. They had seen enough fire that day, but the logic of the act was undeniable. After that was done, Pastor helped retrieve the bodies of the dead, and they were buried together in a field not far from their homes.

Initially, the farmers were wary of Pastor, given the spectacle that precipitated his arrival. Words like ‘sorcerer’ were whispered about, but slowly, surely, his gentle tone and wise guidance earned their amity.

Surprisingly, it was Robinson they gave the largest berth, though many took time to nod their appreciation. When it was clear there was nothing more for him to do, Robinson walked around the backside of the barn where Black Hand was secured to a post. There was little doubt the Flayer leader was in great pain, but he suffered in silence. Robinson stood over him with a chagal skin of water and took a long drink.

“Thirsty?” Robinson asked.

Black Hand said nothing, but when Robinson lowered the chagal to his lips, he greedily swallowed it down. After sitting in the sun all day, his skin was burned. His legs folded awkwardly beneath him. The arrow wound to his chest had already drawn its share of flies. He was long past slapping them away.

“I will not give you what you want,” Black Hand spat.

Robinson smirked as he sat down, sliding his back against the warm, corrugated metal of the barn. He looked out over the fields. The sun was descending through sparse clouds casting everything in the alpenglow of autumn.

“Sentiments are cheap out here,” Robinson said. “Those most of all.”

Black Hand snorted, but understood his predicament.

“I am a Bone Flayer,” he said. “We bow to no one.”

“And I am Aserra,” Robinson said. “We’re both used to getting what we want. I could torture you a hundred ways—”

“And I will not break.”

Robinson shrugged.

“I believe that you believe that,” he said. “That’s why I won’t waste either of our time. I’ve decided to leave you alive instead. Here. In the hands of the farmers. You see, these people? They’re not like us. They don’t live by a code of violence. They’re passive. You’ve slaughtered dozens of their families and friends, and still, they refuse to kill you. I don’t understand it. I doubt you do either. But it’s their way. What they’ll do instead is patch you up. Remove those arrows from your body and clean the wounds so they won’t get infected. Then, they’ll build you a little cage and prop it in some corner of their village, so every day, when they pass you on the way to their fields, they can point you out to their children and say, ‘Look. There is the evil of the world. Together, we have safety, but leave us, and it’s his kind you’ll have to contend with.’ I’m sure they’ll keep you alive in that cage a very long time.”

Black Hand glared at him, but Robinson could see his words were sinking in. For a warrior like him, it was the worst sentence imaginable.

“What do you want?” he asked finally.

“How do I find Arga’Zul?” Robinson asked.

Black Hand almost laughed. He looked at Robinson as if he was crazy.

“Arga’Zul is a war chieftain, the great champion in the history of our clan. His name is feared in every corner of the land. What is he to you?”

Robinson saw no reason to lie. “He took someone I love.”

The prisoner’s eyes drifted a moment and then snapped back.

“The
Gōngzhǔ
,” he said.

“I don’t know what that means,” Robinson said.

“The Aserra girl. She is yours?” He wanted to laugh but could only shake his head instead. “She is his great prize. He takes her with him everywhere he goes. He parades her at our village. Has her sit at the table of his brother, our king. She is alive. But she will never be returned to you.”

“I don’t plan on her
returning
. I plan on going where she is and
taking
her.”

This time, Black Hand did laugh. Never in his life had he heard anything so preposterous. But he saw the seriousness in Robinson’s gaze and admired the boy’s courage, even if it was folly.

“Tell me how to find her,” Robinson said, patting the knife at his waist, “and I’ll give you a warrior’s death.”

Black Hand tried to sit up, but his body would not respond. Already, he had grown tired of this dirt place, and it hadn’t even been a day.

“Follow the river south. On foot it would take many moons. Five if you slept little. More if you encounter trouble. One day, you will see a port on the eastern side of the river with many ships. There, a great pyramid rises over an ancient city. It is in the shadow of the pyramid we call home. But be warned. We Flayers are a suspicious people. We hate many but none more than Aserra.”

“What grudge lays between the two?” Robinson asked.

Black Hand snorted. “It is not for me to say. Ask Arga’Zul when you meet him. I’m sure he will gladly tell you.”

Robinson nodded and stood up. He was also tired. Tired in his bones. The road to Friday had just grown that much longer. But nothing on this continent came easy.

“The blade?” Black Hand asked.

Robinson took the knife out and dropped it in the dirt in front of him. It sank into the ground up to its hilt. Then Robinson stepped back and set his hand on the hilt of his axe.

Black Hand looked back at the sunset one last time, filling his lungs with air still tinged with the scent of his handiwork. As he exhaled, he reached for the knife, but it never left its earthen sheath.

Later that night, the villagers gathered together for supper. After a lengthy prayer in a language Robinson did not understand, a pig was slaughtered, roasted, and served with potatoes, carrots, and pickled relish. The men drank a homemade wine derived from beets, while Robinson drank fresh milk with the women and children. It was the first milk he’d had on this continent.

The farmers ate mechanically, as if the dishes offered nothing more than sustenance, but for Robinson and Pastor, every bite was delicious. They offered little talk other than to thank their host for their meal. Robinson wasn’t sure if any conversation could’ve gotten through to them. The farmers were numb.

The only person who seemed eager to reach out was the girl who looked like Tessa. Several times, Robinson caught her watching him. Eventually, her mother scolded her with a disapproving frown. At the end of the table, a boy her age brooded.

Pastor nudged Robinson and whispered, “Finding anything to your taste?”

Robinson rolled his eyes but was thankful they were eating by candlelight. Otherwise, someone might have seen him blush.

Once the meal was over, the men gathered around a large fire in the village square and tapped a wooden cask of mead. It was thick and woody and made Robinson’s head swim.

For the next two turns, Pastor worked his magic on the crowd. He spoke of past civilizations and man’s inherent thirst for violence. He spoke of the necessity of small villages like theirs to establish relationships with others up and down the river; how such alliances could not only create opportunities for trade but band together in times of attack or disaster. He spoke with wisdom and humility, and with the absolute confidence of one who knows he speaks the truth.

He reminded Robinson of his father.

As the discussions continued, Robinson watched as the fire lessened and was stoked back to life. All at once, his eyes got heavy. Some time later, a gentle hand shook him. It was the female farmer. She told him a bed had been arranged at one of the vacant houses. The others bid him good evening, but he was too tired to respond.

Entering the house felt like a violation, but Robinson was thankful for a warm bed. He’d been shown into a child’s room before his host departed.

Simple toys carved from wood littered the floor. Blocks with letters on them. A spinning top. He even saw a silver airplane that he was sure had been left over from before the Great Rendering. He picked it up and spun the propeller, thinking how much Tannis would have liked it. For the first time in a long time, he wondered what they were doing back home. Was Father still running the Crown? Were his changes in policy moving forward or meeting with resistance? Did the children feel alone now that Robinson and Vareen were gone? Tannis had Slink, but Tallis had no one.

Robinson was lying down in bed when he heard the sound of the front door opening. His fingers wrapped around his axe, but the soft pad of feet stayed his hand.

When the girl appeared, she held a candle, and its halo of light made her look luminous. She wore a dark smock and had her hair pulled back, revealing the taut skin of her neck. Robinson felt something stir inside him and was flooded with guilt because of it.

“My father asked that I see to your bandages once more,” the girl said. Her voice was soft, but there was an undercurrent of boldness there.

“Okay,” Robinson said.

He peeled off his shirt so the girl could remove the cloth at his neck. A wave of goosebumps danced over his flesh at her touch. He thought of Friday.

“No sign of infection,” she said. “That is good.”

Robinson said nothing, so the girl took a rag and cleaned his wound again. Then she dipped her finger into a salve and worked it around the wound. Her touch was overpowering. Robinson fought the thoughts invading his mind.

“That man—your friend—” she began.

“Pastor.”

“He says you seek a lost loved one. A girl.”

“Woman would be more accurate.”

“Was she taken in a raid like the one we suffered today?”

“Something close to it.”

“My father says the savages do not keep their prisoners long. And the girls they take … he says their time is not pleasant. How long ago was your
woman
taken?”

He knew where her questions were leading, but didn’t stop her from asking them.

“Five months. Maybe more.”

“And you believe she is alive?”

“Yes,” he answered.

“Why?”

“Because it’s the only option I can live with. The only option that lets me keep hope. And I know if the situation was reversed, I wouldn’t want her to give up on me.”

“You love her then?”

“Very much.”

In that moment, Robinson felt an immense sadness. He had grown a lot since he fled the Isle a year and a half before. His father had said he had become a man, and yet, whenever he thought of himself as one, his mind went back to that day when Vardan Saah activated the FENIX and how surprised he was when the missiles exploded and spilled spores into the sky instead of death. It was his mother who had saved humanity, not him. He had sacrificed all for the girl he loved, but it had cost him something inside. He had sworn if the same situation ever repeated itself, he would make the right decision the next time. But deep in his heart, he wasn’t sure.