The Death of Dulgath (49 page)

“That’s not the point.”

“What
is
the point?”

The servant hesitated, and Raithe took the opportunity to return to the bank and search out more rocks.

“I need your help,” the man finally said.

Raithe picked up a large stone and carried it up the bank, clutched against his stomach. “With what?”

“You know how to—well, you know—live—out here.” The servant looked at the deer carcass that had gathered a host of flies. “You can hunt, cook, and find shelter, right? You know what berries to eat, which animals you can pet, and which to run away from.”

“You don’t pet any animals.”

“See! Good example of how little I know about this sort of thing. Alone, I’d be dead in a day or two—frozen stiff, buried in a landslide, or gored by some antlered beast.”

Raithe set the stone and returned down the slope clapping his hands together to clean off the sand. “Makes sense.”

“Of course it makes sense. I’m a sensible fellow. And if you were sensible, we’d go—now.”

Raithe lifted another rock. “If you’re bent on sticking with me and in such a hurry, you might consider helping.”

The man looked at the riverbank filled with rounded stones and sighed. “Do we have to use such big ones?”

“Big ones for the bottom, smaller ones on top.”

“Sounds like you’ve done this before.”

“People die often where I come from, and we have a lot of rocks.” He wiped his brow with his forearm, pushing back the mat of dark hair. Raithe had rolled the woolen sleeves of his under tunic back. The day wasn’t warm, but the work made him sweat. He was thinking of taking his leigh mor and leather off, but decided against it. Burying his father should be a miserable task. A son should feel something at such a time, and if
uncomfortable
was the best he could manage, Raithe would settle for that.

Malcolm set down a pair of rocks, letting Raithe place them. He paused to rub his hands clean.

“Okay, Malcolm,” Raithe said, “you need to pick bigger ones or we’ll be here forever.”

Malcolm scowled but gathered up two good size stones and carried them under his arms like melons. He walked unsteadily in sandals. Thin, with a simple strap, they were ill suited to the landscape. Raithe’s clothes were shoddy—sewn scraps of wool with leather accents, which he’d cured himself—but they were durable.

Raithe searched for and found a small, smooth stone.

“I thought you wanted bigger rocks?” Malcolm asked.

“This isn’t for the pile.” Raithe opened his father’s right hand and exchanged the rock for his father’s hunting knife. “He’ll need it to get to Rel or Eberdeen if he’s worthy—Nifrel if he’s not.”

“Oh, right.”

After outlining the body, Raithe piled the stones from the feet upward. He wished he had an extra blanket to lay over his father. He didn’t relish setting rocks on his exposed face. Instead, he cut pine boughs, which did a fine job. In the process, he found the other end of his father’s sword laying in the brush. He dropped it in the scabbard and considered leaving the copper with Herkimer, but grave robbers would take it. His father had died for the shattered blade; it deserved to be cared for.

Raithe glanced at the Fhrey once more to be sure. “You’re certain he won’t get up?”

Malcolm looked over from where he was lifting a rock. “Positive. Shegon
is
dead.”

Together they hoisted a dozen more rocks onto the growing pile before Raithe asked, “Why were you with him?”

Malcolm looked over, surprised. He pointed to the torc around his neck as if it explained everything. Raithe was puzzled. Then he noticed the necklace was a complete circle. The ring of metal wasn’t a torc, not jewelry at all—it was a collar.

Not a servant—a slave.

The sun was low in the sky when they dropped the last rocks to complete the mound. Malcolm washed in the river while Raithe sang his mourning song. Then he slung his father’s broken blade over his shoulder, adjusted the Fhrey’s sword in his belt, and gathered up his things and those of his father. They didn’t have much: two wooden shields, a bag containing a good hammer stone, a rabbit pelt Raithe planned to make into a pouch as soon as it cured, the last of the cheese, the single blanket they had shared, a stone hand ax, his father’s knife, and Raithe’s spear.

“Where to?” Malcolm asked. His face and hair were sweat covered, and the man had nothing, not even a sharpened stick to defend himself.

“Here, sling this blanket over your shoulder—tie it tight—and take my spear.”

“I don’t know how to use a spear.”

“It’s not complicated. Just point and stick.”

Raithe looked around. Going home didn’t make sense. That was back east, closer to Alon Rhist. Besides, his family was gone. The clan would still welcome him, but it was impossible to build a life in Dureya. They could cross the Urum River and push west into Avrlyn, nothing but wilderness out there. They might be able to disappear, but he’d have to get past the other Fhrey strongholds. They had a series of outposts along the western rivers, a series of fortresses like Alon Rhist built to keep men like him out. His father had warned about the fortresses of Merredydd and Seon Hall, but he never said exactly where they were. Raithe didn’t like the idea of walking into one. And even if he did get by, what kind of life would he have by himself in the wild. By the look and sound of him, Malcolm wouldn’t survive the first year.

“We’ll cross back into Rhulyn, but go south.” He pointed over the river at the dramatic rising hillside covered with evergreens. “That’s the Crescent Forest, runs for miles in all directions. Not the safest place, but it’ll provide cover—help hide us.” He glanced up at the sky. “Still early in the season, but there should be some food to forage and game to hunt.”

“What do you mean by ‘not the safest place’?”

“Well, I’ve not been there myself, but you hear things.”

“What sort of things?”

Raithe tightened his belt and the strap holding the copper to his back before offering a shrug. “Oh, you know, tabors, raow, leshies. Stuff like that.”

Malcolm continued to stare. “Vicious animals?”

“Oh yeah—those, too, I suppose.”

“Those…
too?
”

“Sure, bound to be in a forest that size.”

“Oh,” Malcolm said, looking apprehensive as his eyes followed a branch floating past them at a quick pace. “How will we get across?”

“You can swim, right?”

Malcolm looked stunned. “That’s a thousand feet from bank to bank.”

“It has a nice current, too. Depending on how well you swim, we’ll likely reach the far side several miles south of here. But that’s good. It’ll make us harder to track.”

“Impossible, I’d imagine,” Malcolm said, grimacing, his sight chained to the river.

The ex-slave of the Fhrey looked terrified, and Raithe smiled. He could have shown more empathy, especially given he’d felt the same way when Herkimer had forced him across.

“Ready?” Raithe asked.

Malcolm pursed his lips, and Raithe could see that the skin of his hands was white on the spear. “You realize this water is cold—comes down as snowmelt from Mount Mador.

“Not only that,” Raithe added, “but since we’re being hunted, we won’t be able to make a fire when we get out.”

The slender man with a pointed nose and narrow eyes forced a tight smile. “Okay, I was just making sure.”

“You sure you’re up for this?” Raithe asked as he led the way into the icy water.

“I’ll admit it’s not my typical day.” The sound of his words rose in octaves as he waded into the river.

“What was your typical day like?” Raithe gritted his teeth as the water reached knee depth. The current dragged, forcing him to dig his feet into the riverbed. The water frothed around his legs.

“Mostly, I poured wine.”

Raithe chuckled. “Yeah—this will be different.”

A moment later, the river pulled them both off their feet.

Bonus Short Story

Everyone wants to live forever. Not everyone can. Who decides? Desperate to save his daughter from a mysterious sickness, Daniel applies for the Methuselah Treatment. If she gets it, his daughter won’t just recover, she’ll live forever. But the drug is tightly controlled, and only the special, the talented, and the truly deserving ever receive it. There is nothing special about Daniel’s destitute ten-year-old girl—or is there? 

The Methuselah Treatment
by T. C. Powell

Daniel de Montes pulled Estrella’s photo from the manila folder in his lap and handed it to the fellow beside him on the waiting room couch, an elderly gentleman in a gray sports coat.

“She’s pretty,” the man said, handing it back.

The picture showed Estrella blowing out the candles on her seventh birthday cake, her frilly dress the same pink as the frosting. Only three months before they noticed the cough.

“How old?”

“Eleven in September.”

The gentleman looked away, not a word in response. He probably felt embarrassed for Daniel. The immortality offered by the Methuselah Treatment was reserved for society’s elite; it wouldn’t be given to a child. Daniel had to be either some sort of nutjob or incredibly desperate to think she would have a chance.

Neither far from the truth.

A pleasant female’s voice came through the public address system: “Now serving number two-oh-five at window G.” The message was repeated in Spanish and then Mandarin.

Only six more.

Filling seats along the walls, the competition was checking their own number tags, grooming in mirrors, or looking over their applications. One of them—Mr. Two-Oh-Five no doubt—walked to the bank of windows lining the far side of the room.

He was a typical candidate for Methuselah: late fifties, blue suit and tie, gold Rolex, probably a captain of industry or powerful financier.

Daniel looked down at the photograph of Estrella, her eyes shining with candlelight.

Just a little girl, nothing special. Except to me.

Estrella wasn’t a musical prodigy or mathematical savant.
Hell, she got a C the last time she was able to sit through a math class.
But no one here had ever seen Estrella run through the rain or heard her laughing when her feet were tickled.

I have to make them understand.

A commotion erupted at the window to the left of Mr. Two-Oh-Five. The applicant, a husky red-headed woman in a too-tight green dress, was yelling at the balding clerk behind the thick glass partition.
Must’ve been a no.

“Forty years I’ve been paying taxes,” she screamed, a strand of pearls bouncing around her neck. “I’ve never asked for any kind of handout or charity. Not one goddamn dime! The
only time
I ask for something, and you have the nerve to say
denied?
”

The clerk held his hands up to pacify, but the woman’s face was the color of her hair. Those who had no further recourse, appeal, or hope were dry tinder, and this one seemed ready to burn.

“Go ahead and call security,” she continued to yell. “Let them shoot me in the alley or whatever your Gestapo does. It’s all the same, isn’t it? Kill me or just let me die?” She pounded the window with her fists.

Everyone watched now, the room grateful for a break from the tedium of waiting and being on edge, knowing what might come next.

The harried clerk walked away from his window and exited through a metal door behind him. Simultaneously, another door at the side of the waiting room shot open, and two black-jacketed police officers stormed in. A third officer, armed with a laser rifle, held the door open.

The two officers charged the woman and grabbed her with Taser gloves, knocking her unconscious. They dragged the woman on the backs of her white pumps through the side door, and the third officer let it crash shut.

A few in the waiting room applauded, and a woman yelled, “One down!” which was followed by a scattering of laughter. Two men in their late thirties, maybe brothers, gave each other high-fives.

Over the speaker, the pleasant voice returned: “Two-oh-six, window F.”

The clerk at window T—her nametag read LUISA—had a warm smile and honest eyes.

Hopefully she has children herself.

Luisa slid the manila folder back through the narrow slot running along the base of the thick glass barrier.

“Mr. de Montes,” she said, “the Mexico City office is responsible for administrating the Methuselah Treatment for the entire southwest region, from Panama City to the Colorado River. That area encompasses hundreds of millions of citizens, and we are authorized to select just twenty recipients per calendar year. That means we can only consider applicants with truly extraordinary qualifications, skills, or merit. Please tell me briefly why you believe your daughter deserves this privilege?”

She’s my little girl. She’s dying. And I can’t live without her.

“Estrella is a very intelligent child,” he said. “She loves reading stories. She started young, age three.”

It’s because of how proud she was that first time she baked chocolate chip cookies with her mother. And the smile on her face when I asked for a second.