Trevil manoeuvred the truck to a road close enough to a mountain ridge to make it hard for riders to pass us. When I looked up the machine gun was still there but Brak was gone from the hatch, and it was up to me to decide whether to climb up and try to get inside the cabin through the open hatch or inch my way back to the passenger’s door, open it slightly, and get in. I chose the scenic route, finding out on the way that we were driving down the mountain to the valley below, moving between a mountainside and a deadly drop. The riders were still behind the truck, and they were nothing if not persistent. I turned to lower myself into the cabin. My feet were just touching the top of the seat when two raiders, a man and a woman, managed to climb on top of the truck. With only my toes touching, I balanced myself on the seat and grasped the machine gun. It was very heavy, held down by chains, and clumsy to wield. The recoil from the first shot almost threw me off balance, but it blew the leg off one of the climbers. The other one could have rushed me then, but she panicked and retreated to the back of the truck, climbing down. There was a loud banging noise as they tried to open the truck’s haul doors while riding behind us.
My legs were trembling. I looked down at the cabin. Trevil was still behind the wheel, his shirt crimson with blood, but Brak was worse. He was lying underneath me with his eyes closed. Right then we were relatively safe, but once we were back on open ground things would change.
“Trevil, is there a way to open your haul door?” I shouted.
He shook his head stubbornly. “No way,” he shouted back. “Fuck those naturalists.”
“I can’t treat Brak and hold the machine gun.”
Trevil glanced back at Brak and swore loudly. He reached down and pulled a lever, and I immediately felt the truck tremble as the haul’s doors folded upwards. A moment later the entire haul tilted upwards and I heard the noise of metal sliding down and spilling onto the road behind us.
When we moved a little farther away I saw that the riders had stopped pursuing us and were gathering around the metal we dropped. It was useless and stupid to shoot at them anymore, but I can’t say I wasn’t tempted to do just that. I lowered myself down carefully and Trevil pulled another lever, causing the chains all around us to move as the heavy gun was pulled back into the cabin. I was already next to Brak when the hatch closed. His breathing was shallow, and the wound on his pelvic bone was a mess. I’d seen worse—hell, I’d been wounded worse—but I knew that these kinds of wounds in the field were either treated immediately and by sophisticated medicine or the person died.
I looked around. “Trevil, do you have anything I could help him with? This does not look good.”
“There’s a medicine bag in the back of the truck under those blankets.” He guided me as I moved about the shaking cabin until I found a large satchel and rummaged through it. I did not expect to find a cell regenerator, but I was hoping to find a skin patcher, or at the very least an antibleeding salve, the sort almost every human soldier used to carry. All I found were some brown cloth bandages, an alarmingly thick needle and thread, and a bunch of leaves.
“I can’t do anything with this!” I said to Trevil. “He’s going to die if we don’t stop the bleeding.”
“Can you drive the truck?” he shouted back.
I looked at the wheel, pedals, and levers and said, “I could try.”
“Then take the wheel from me.” He pointed at the pedal below. “Here you accelerate, not that it will go any faster, and here, the other one is the brake. Push it too hard and we will skid and probably roll off this mountain, so just try to steer it steady.”
We quickly changed places and Trevil disappeared behind the front seat. I had to fold one leg underneath myself to be able to see through the front windshield and quickly discovered the steering wheel had at least a two-second delay, but it was better than trying to patch a hole in a human being with only a broken needle while inside a rocking cabin. I heard Brak moan behind me, then shout in agony as Trevil tried to stop the bleeding and stitch the wound closed under less than ideal circumstances. Eventually Brak fell silent, and I was hoping he just passed out.
By the time we reached the plains I was barely holding myself awake and had been suffering from tunnel vision. Trevil’s head popped up from behind the seat.
“How’s he doing?” I asked, but Trevil did not answer. His expression betrayed desperate resolution.
“Let me drive again. No, don’t stop, we need the truck’s momentum, we’ll change places the way we did before.”
When the manoeuvre was complete I looked at Brak lying behind us. His pelvis wound was wrapped in cloth, and I could see some dried leaves sticking out from beneath it.
I turned back and inspected Trevil’s arm wound. “This needs treatment, too.”
With his teeth and my help Trevil ripped the bloodied cloth of his sleeve and I wrapped it around the wound, then I collapsed back onto my seat. The pounding in my head grew and fog surrounded my vision. I had exerted my vessel to its limit and possibly beyond. It was time to pay the price.
I heard Trevil ask me something but his words didn’t register. “I’m sorry,” I said, or mumbled, or whispered, “I need to rest.”
And then the world went dark.
11
Twinkle Eyes
Riding double bareback on a horse trying to hold on to Galinak began as an unpleasant experience and quickly went downhill from there. At least the animal was docile enough, and we had water and a few supplies to get us to where we wanted to go. Or more truthfully, where I wanted us to go. I kept our destination from Galinak despite the periodic bouts of questions from him, mainly because I wasn’t sure what we’d find when we got there but also, I admit, because I wanted to keep some cards close to my chest.
What I couldn’t hide was the fact that we were riding away from the City of Towers, the place Galinak was eager to travel to once I foolishly admitted it was within my sight. I was surprised to find out how quickly the warrior accepted the fact that we were resurrected and simply saw it as a chance for a new life—or, to be more precise, a dramatic comeback to his old life and damn the consequences. This led to several heated arguments between us, but for some reason he still humoured me instead of doing what I would have done, which was to simply throw me off the horse and ride away. I knew that Galinak felt he owed me—he’d told me that himself—but I was not about to trust words or promises uttered while we were finishing our second bottle of moonshine. Three years was not a long time, but Galinak could suddenly decide to live the rest of his short life as a free man. This very concern led me to volunteer for long watch shifts at night, with the perfect excuse that my sight would make me better suited for the job.
If Galinak realised my fear, he did not bother to reassure me. He used his extended rest time to carefully trim his growing beard and to shave both sides of his skull with a thin folding blade he found at the village. It left him with only a thin strip of hair on the top of his skull—a strange look, yet one that nevertheless felt comfortably appropriate.
We crossed several roads and two streams without meeting a living soul. It was not unusual: most of humanity clustered around the Tarakan freeway or roads, and what was once a land full of towns and fields quickly became wilderness. Animals were certainly roaming about, though, and Galinak managed to kill a rabbit with a well-aimed—or, if you ask me, a lucky throw of—a fist-sized stone. We avoided a lightly wooded area after finding still-steamy signs of bear activity and camped one night in the remains of a tall building made of stone and warped metal. I could not have guessed its use, but it was the only man-made structure still standing amid the mounds of rubble.
My sleep was shallow, and the last moment of my previous life was the only surviving memory from my fleeting dreams. Still, I kept our course, riding in the opposite direction of the City of Towers.
On the fourth day we reached our destination, a wire gate no one had bothered to loot with three metal signs so faded one could barely recognise the skull signs on them. If there ever was a wall or a fence on both sides of the gate, it was long gone. The fields in front of us were filled with metal debris. In the distance a tower loomed, surrounded by several large buildings.
Galinak whistled. “Look at that little treasure trove.” He urged the horse forward.
“Stop.” There was enough alarm in my voice to make the horse halt by itself.
Galinak managed not to fall off the horse’s back but he was not happy. “Bukra’s balls, what are you doing?”
“Don’t cross the gate.”
Galinak glared back at me, waiting for me to explain myself.
“Look there, and there …” I pointed. “See the large holes in the ground?”
He followed my finger and nodded.
“It’s an old minefield, pre-Catastrophe.”
“Rust. We found some of those in some deep runs back in the day.” Galinak’s expression betrayed the surprise of a surfacing memory. He shook it away and said, “So, what now, use your eyes to cross it?”
I shook my head. “Now we build up a fire, a big one. There’s plenty of dry wood around.”
We dismounted and Galinak gave me the reins to the horse. “Okay, we build a fire, then what?”
“We wait, someone will come.”
He looked at me long enough for me to feel uncomfortable.
“Do you know what you’re doing?” he finally asked.
“Yeah,” I lied, but it came out convincingly enough.
“Good. Don’t get us killed. I’m starting to like this new body.”
We camped and waited. I stopped Galinak from exploring the grounds, so there was no food. We sat in silence, feeding the flames until darkness set, then we let the fire die and let the darkness and the cold slowly envelop us.
I saw them first, of course. Four men, armed with power rifles and wearing night-seeing devices over their eyes, and a dog so large it might have been a wolf.
“They’re coming,” I said in the most casual tone I could muster. “Get ready, but don’t do anything stupid, even if they are aggressive.”
Galinak got up and stood behind me and we both laid our weapons on the ground and at my instruction, proceeded to wrap strips of my old dress around our eyes. The darkness, the real darkness of the blind, made my heart race.
“You’d better be rusting sure about this,” Galinak whispered. I felt the horse’s breath on my neck.
“You there, who are you?” came a shout, not too far, but still a distance away.
“We are here to talk to Old Dwaine,” I shouted back.
“Are you merchants?”
There was no point in lying, “No, we just need to talk to Old Dw—”
“Old Dwaine’s dead’n buried with the mines.” There was the distinct sound of a power weapon charging.
“Oh, rust,” Galinak breathed.
“Don’t take your blindfold down, don’t move,” I whispered through tight lips.
“Then I need to talk to his … son,” I shouted back, my mind racing. What did my LoreMaster tell me? The memory was there, a conversation, before we parted, but I couldn’t remember all of it.
“Oh yeah? What’s his name?”
I swallowed. “Look … our weapons are on the ground … we came to parley … we knew Old Dwaine,” I tried.
“Then what’s his son’s name?” I could feel the muzzle of the weapon training itself on me.
What did I know about them? One extended family. Holed up. Secluders. Firstborn son’s name would be …
“His name is … Dwaine Junior?”
I hoped the question in my sentence was not apparent but I distinctly heard Galinak curse under his breath again.
There was a brief pause, then a voice from a different direction spoke.
“Someone will come pick up your weapons and check the blindfolds, then he will give you a rope. Hold on to the rope and don’t let go if you want to live. You with the horse, if the beast runs away don’t go chasing after it, this whole area is full of explosives and only we know the way.”
They took us in a roundabout way, that was for sure, and I breathed an audible sigh of relief when I felt man-made, solid ground under my feet. As we were led farther on, still blindfolded, I used the time to dig into my foggy memory for my LoreMaster’s words of caution that all secluders were self-sufficient and hostile to outsiders. I was beginning to doubt that my idea was a good one.
When rough hands took my blindfold off my doubts grew to near certainty. Both Galinak and I instinctively raised our hands in the air. We were in a huge indoor building, surrounded by almost two dozen men and several women dressed in tattered grey uniforms. Several generations of low hygiene and probably inbreeding were showing. Most of them had one deformity or another, but that did not stop them from pointing a rich array of firearms at us. The weapons seemed like top-notch, pre-Catastrophe stuff, but that was not what made Galinak whistle softly. Just behind the circle of hostile secluders stood a dozen metal vehicles, shaped roughly like birds with rigid wings spread wide, their metal gleaming and spotless. There was no mistake that these were Sky Birds. In the old days people ruled the skies, and sometimes each other, by flying them.
“You two.”
A voice caused me to turn my head and face the elevated dais. A man was sitting on a throne of some sort, but it was not made of gold or any kind of metal I recognised. The man, who I assumed was Dwaine Junior, was wearing a large helmet on his head which covered most of his face except his mouth and jawline. When he stood up I saw he was clad in some kind of body suit. Standing on either side of him were a wizened old woman and a young man, just out of adolescence. The woman was leaning heavily on a cane while the boy was having difficulty standing because he was holding too many weapons for me to count.
“You two,” the man on the dais bellowed dramatically for the second time, gesturing with his gloved hands, “have intruded on Skygate. Be judged by Dwaine, son of Dwaine.”
“Let them walk the field,” someone shouted from behind us, and there were several murmurs of approval. “Yeah, trespassers be gone, let them be judged.”
I bowed deeply to the man on the dais as the noise around us subsided.
“Dwaine, son of Dwaine,” I began slowly, articulating every word. “I was sent here by LoreMaster Harim. He and your father were bonded in friendship and blood.” I waited for some response but Dwaine Junior’s face was blank. “Like I said,” I added, trying to fill the dangerous silence, “my master left something for me here … in the safekeeping of your father … for me to …”
“He lies.” The boy by the dais stepped forward and pointed a shoulder missile launcher at us. “I say we let the trespassers walk the field.”
There was a quick cheer, so I couldn’t hear what the woman whispered to Dwaine, but the boy was waved by his father to step back. When the noise subsided Dwaine said, “You step on the holy grounds of Skygate, claiming a blood bond between your master and my father, Dwaine, son of Dwaine the guardian, father of us all. The traveller Harim is known to us, and was allowed to pass, guided through the fields, but how do we know your words are true? Tell us, what did this master of yours leave here for you?”
The dismayed look on my face must have been plain to see as I stuttered my reply. “I do not know precisely oh … Dwaine … son of Dwaine … but I know they are essential to my mission, and that my master—”
During the commotion that erupted a stone was thrown and hit my back. Galinak was wise enough to stay still. But shortly after, he swore and threw a man who tried to seize him. The man hit the ground far enough from where we stood for people to withdraw. Things cooled down a bit after that, but weapons were still raised and people still took aim. It was then the old woman banged her walking stick on the dais. In the silence that followed the woman gave a short speech. I recognised only a few words; the rest was a mixture of piercing wails and dialect. When it was over I looked at Dwaine. “I’m sorry, I didn’t manage to get all of that.”
Dwaine’s mouth twisted in a knowing smile. “What Nana Dwaine is saying, is that we’ll very soon know the truth.”
12
Peach
Wake up, Peach.” The splash of water hit my face a moment later and I was up, breathing hard and trying to stop the world from spinning.
It was pitch-dark outside but for the truck’s floodlights. The cabin itself was lit only by a dim red lamp. I turned my head to look at Trevil, then looked in the opposite direction. Brak was in the shadows, perched against the cabin’s wall and the backseat. His head was slumped backwards.
“Is he alive?” It wasn’t the most sensitive of questions, but it needed to be asked.
“Brak’s a warrior. He’ll pull through.” I couldn’t see his expression but there was desperation in Trevil’s voice, as if he was trying to convince himself. “He woke up for a while but now you see him … You’ll need to change his bandage and put on some fresh leaves.”
I turned around to climb over the seat but he stopped me with a thrust of his hand, holding a water skin. “Drink first,” he said. The water was warm and slightly contaminated, but my vessel needed the nourishment.
“Thanks,” I said.
“You saved us back there,” Trevil said. “The way you moved could only be one thing.” He nodded at me.
I did not know what he meant so I simply nodded back and climbed over to Brak.
“Give him some water, too,” Trevil called after me. I managed to put the water skin into Brak’s mouth, but a lot of the water I pumped with my hands spilled out. Brak was barely conscious, and Trevil had tied a rope under his armpits and secured it to a hook so he would not fall over during the drive. He was running a high fever, and I placed a wet cloth on his brow. Changing the bandages was a messy ordeal, but at least we were driving on even ground. I got a good look at the wound and grimaced. I was no field medic, but by my estimate, Brak was not going to make it without serious surgery and some modern treatment.
“Trevil,” I said, as kindly as I could. “We need to get Brak some help or he’ll die.”
“I know, we’re almost there.” Trevil leaned a little into the steering wheel, as if that would make the truck drive faster.
Looking out for the first time I realised we were no longer in the fields but driving through a ruined city.
“Where are we?”
“Changed course. There is a Mender here, one of your kind.”
“My kind?” I was careful with my tone of voice.
Trevil turned his head to me slightly. “I saw you move when we fought them naturalists. No ordinary man or woman moves like that. You are marked, tattooed, cursed, whatever they call you. That’s why you want to go to the City of Towers, to be with your kind.”
There was nothing I could say further that would not betray my ignorance, so I turned my head and watched us drive through what were once wide streets filled with people, now empty and ruined.
“This place is … unclean,” I said, using terms I was hoping Trevil could understand. “There is poison in the air. If we stay here too long, we would get sick.”
“I know.” Trevil turned the truck around a corner, and Brak moaned as his body leaned heavily against the rope. “But the Healer lives here, in the middle of the city.”
“That’s … illogical.”
Trevil shook his head slightly but said nothing else. In the silence that followed I drew my power sword and pushed the button. Nothing happened.
“You’ll need a new power clip for that thing,” Trevil said.
“It’s powered by the sun, but it died on me during the fight. Maybe something got damaged.” I tried to pry the hilt guard free so I could see inside but it didn’t budge.
“Better find a Gadgetier in the City of Towers,” Trevil suggested, then added, “Surely you’ve heard of one of those, they are also of your kind. Where do you come from, Peach?”
I sighed. “From too far away, it seems.”
“Gadgetiers are marked who can work with Tarakan technology. You could bring it to a Tinker—they are the unmarked but they deal with Tarakan stuff, too. They’ll be cheaper but some of them are hacks.”
Hacks, I thought to myself, that’s an old word. Amazing what is gone and what lingers. “And where can I find this Gadgetier?”
“Regeneration, City of Towers, or, if you’re lucky, you’ll run into one in one of the surrounding villages, those which are friendly to the marked, and not a lot of them are. There used to be a lot of Gadgetiers in Tarakan Valley, but no one goes there anymore.”
Brak groaned softly. I put a steadying hand on his middle, but there was nothing I could do anymore. “Why is that?” I asked out loud.
Trevil shrugged. “Dunno, heard there was trouble and now the place is filled with Lizardmen.”
“Lizardmen?”
“Yeah, I know, the guy who told me this was solid, though. I’ve never seen a Lizardman myself. I’ll believe it when I see it.” He pulled over and stopped the truck next to a high wall.
“We’re here. Leave your metal here. I mean all of it, even the sword. Don’t worry, no one steals in this place.”
“Are you sure?” I asked, looking around. The street was dark, full of ruined buildings and a few warped trees. Instead of answering, Trevil shoved his gun under his seat, removed his belt and knife, and even took out several bullets from his pocket. I followed his example.
Once we managed to get Brak out of the truck I noticed the wall we parked next to was made of a mixture of piled stone and wooden planks. We carried Brak to a small door with a bell hanging next to it. There were three simple stretchers leaning against the wall, just two pieces of wood and rough ropes tied among them. We lowered Brak onto a stretcher and Trevil pulled the bell until a spyhole latch opened and someone asked, “Yay? Whose in’it?”
“It’s an emergency, a bullet wound.” Trevil pointed at his own pelvis to emphasize where the bullet hit Brak. “We need the Healer.”
The eye looked down at the stretcher and the latch closed. A moment later the door opened and four men came out, all naked but for a loincloth and a wide leather belt. The first man had a torch in his hand, and on a closer examination I could see he wore a pair of odd earrings made of what seemed to be small human bones.
“Please, hurry,” Trevil pleaded.
The man inspected Trevil, then me. “Would ya be pay da price given?” His accent was thick and I could not place it, but Trevil seemed to understand him.
“Aye,” he answered as two men lifted the stretcher. “I will, whatever the Healer would ask for.”
“Ney be coin, only kind,” the man insisted. “Price be steep, but fair.”
Trevil bowed slightly. “Whatever the Healer wishes, on my word.”
“Take da Patshin to the third hut,” the man ordered, and his subordinates quickly moved through the door.
Trevil began walking after them but the man blocked our way. “You be carry gun or coin? Nay metal in’ere is Healer’s law.”
“We carry no metal,” Trevil turned his head and looked at me, searching for a sign that his words were true and when I blinked and nodded at him, he added, “We left it all in the truck.”
The man nodded. “Then you be follow me, wash and change ya wear before ya stand with da Healer.”
Trevil looked as if he was going to argue but thought better of it. We followed the man inside to a small brick building, where we removed our clothes and washed ourselves with a rough brush and a bucket of water. There was no separation between the sexes and we both had to change and wash together with only an oil lamp lighting the centre of the room. I got a glimpse of Trevil’s body. I am an older woman by any account, but I had to admit I was impressed. He was tall, lean, and muscular, not a gram of fat on him, the sort of body chiseled by harsh living. In Tarakan people only bought or medicined such a body.
