Darius Chapter 26

The two travelers ambled their way along the coastline, watching the light fade as the sun lay down on the horizon and sank. If not for the pungent body odor they both carried, the scene could've been romantic. Fine sand like crushed crystals, waves lapping at the shore like a lullaby, pink and orange rays splaying out in the sky above them giving peace of mind to a shepherd in some far-off land. The horses' hooves slipped in the sand as they walked, and their riders eventually yanked the reins to the left, guiding the animals up to solid ground.

“Do you actually have any clue where we’re going?” Peskimir asked.

Heldrus had been in a bad mood the entire evening after failing miserably at catching them some dinner. Scavenging the rock pools had not been as abundant as he had hoped, and they were left with only a palm-sized crab and some mussels. With luck, it might be enough to feed one person.

“Not specifically, no. I just wanted to leave, same as you. But I’m open to suggestions. If you have any friends out here that you haven’t mentioned, speak now or forever hold your peace. I’m all ears.”

They continued riding in silence for a few minutes. Peskimir looked out at the sun, noticing just how close it was to hiding fully behind the calm ocean.

“Soooo are we going to stop soon? It’s getting pretty dark.”

“Agh, Barratog’s beard! Fine! Yep, let's set up right here, why not. Lovely place as any.”

Peskimir dismounted and glared at Heldrus while she unpacked her few belongings. The bedroll came out, as did the mussels and crab, and one of her daggers.

“If I’d known you’d be this moody, I wouldn’t have waited up for you outside Mouse’s Melee, you know. I could’ve been on my way to Barringvale, a distinguished guest of Marth Ranvost or something like that. Instead, I’m out here starving myself to death with you, so be thankful.”

Heldrus shook the dust off his cloak before draping it across the sandy grass at his feet. The area was a half-half mix of soil and sand, so he knew he’d have to beat the grit out of it again the next morning. Such was life.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry, but this really isn’t how I thought I’d be spending my spring. Over the course of a couple weeks, I’ve gone from an Erinian Captain and noble to a homeless bum kicking around the Continent with a wanted thief or assassin - whichever you are.”

Peskimir had the good grace not to be hurt by his words – they were mostly the truth, after all.

“You know, before we agreed to that whole ‘kill-Marth’ debacle, I’d never taken a hit-job on someone who I didn’t think deserved it. I was mostly just a thief except for a few jobs getting some really shitty people off the streets. Calling me an assassin is a bit over the top.”

Heldrus looked across at her. He didn’t realize he’d struck a chord.

“I mean, you got paid to kill people. Whether they’re a serial-killer or the Holy Bishop Hathers, it’s still an assassination. I’m not saying it’s even a bad thing – I’ve seen soldiers do far worse shit than what you would’ve done.”

“Speaking of bishops, you’d be surprised at the nasty shit they get up to. In Mouse’s Melee, they scalp the peasants for funds to ‘keep the church afloat’, but they somehow manage to live a life of opulence.”

‘Divine intervention perhaps?”

Peskimir laughed. Her worldly position hadn’t changed as drastically as Heldrus’s had, so she was adapting far better to their new nomadic lifestyle. She pulled a small cooking pot from her saddlebag, along with a pouch of herbs she had grabbed from Marcus’s place. He hadn’t been prepared for her abrupt exit, so had stuffed the pouch into her hands as a parting gift. She winced a little as she thought about him.

“I’ll get started on the crab. Happy to have the mussels raw? You can crack them open with my dagger.”

She tossed the long blade to Heldrus, who inspected the weapon before jamming the tip into the shell of the first oyster, levering it open.

“Sounds good, though I’m used to having them on ice with some topping that the chefs whip up. Got anything similar?”

Peskimir gestured at the landscape around them.

“The world is your oyster, get it? You can have a look around for some yams if you want, might do the trick.”

Heldrus looked like he might give it a shot, but the sandy, salty earth was mostly uninhabitable for any ground vegetables or tubers. Instead, he bobbed around the camp picking up small sticks and branches that had fallen from the wispy trees nearby. They were extremely dry since the spring heat had dried out the dead branches, courtesy of the harsh winter. For once, the circle of life lay in Heldrus and Peskimir’s favor.

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Once the fire was crackling, Peskimir raked some hot coals to the side and set the pot on them. She placed the whole crab in the bottom, sprinkled some spices out of her pouch on it, then quarter-filled the pot with water from her canteen, just covering the crab. She put the lid on and let it sit for about half an hour, scraping across fresh coals at times. It was a lot of effort for the small portion of meat, but when she finally prized the lid off, the smell that it produced was tantalizing. Heldrus shuffled over so that he could see the crab in all its soupy glory.

“Look at that! Peskimir, that looks phenomenal! Why all the thieving when you could’ve just been a chef? Far out, lady!”

Peskimir whacked him for bringing up her transgressions yet again.

“You haven’t tasted it yet, don’t get too excited. Here, you should know how to get all the meat out, you probably ate crab three times a week in Erinstone.”

Heldrus fished out the crab with two sticks and laid it on the relatively clean surface of a fallen log. He had indeed had his fair share of fancy dinners, and extracting out every morsel of the silky flesh was no issue. He put all the pieces back in the pot and Peskimir broke them up.

“Alright, tuck in. This is our ‘Poor Man’s Crab Soup.”

Heldrus took a bite and his face relaxed with pleasure. He had planned on pretending to be disgusted, but it was just too disrespectful for such a dish. They finished the soup in a matter of minutes, each looking for more.

“Oh gods, I feel hungrier after eating that then I did before. That was so good!”

It was good to see Heldrus back in a better mood. A travelling companion in a slump was like sitting next to a bear with a sore head – not a great time. Peskimir broke some bad news.

“Unfortunately, that’s all we’ve got. Probably should've started with that then had the mussels. But what’s done is done – it’s probably bedtime, no?”

“Probably, yeah. Not much to do in the dark.”

“There is one thing.”

Heldrus laughed and stood up.

“Ha! Goodnight Peskimir. Don’t disturb my patch of dirt till the morning, thank you.”

With that, Heldrus rolled himself up in his cloak, and Peskimir nestled herself in her bedroll.

From the bushes only ten meters from their fire, a Trenk sat in wait, eyeing off the shiny dagger and cooking pot Peskimir had produced. It dribbled uncontrollably at the smell of the crab, and when it saw the travelers go to sleep, it scurried back through the low bushland, padding along in the footprints it had made before. It returned to its tribe, jabbing an oily finger at another male Trenk and making a series of grotesque noises. The other Trenk grabbed its club and hopped up and down in excitement, calling out in a frenzied tone to the other members of the tribe. Soon, a group of eight Trenks gathered, clubs in hand, and they exited their collection of low mud huts, hurrying along the trail that led to the humans.

When they arrived, their prey had not stirred. The stunted green beasts made no noise – their primal hunting instincts kicking in. They crept up to the camp, raising their shoddy clubs. Even a rotten wooden club could be a formidable weapon, and when they simultaneously clonked the sleeping humans on the head, both gave a soft ‘ergh!’ before falling into a much heavier sleep.

The Trenks stripped the horses of their saddlebags and emptied out everything that was dull and inedible, which was most of their contents. They threw in the daggers and cooking pot, then hoisted the humans as a group, one Trenk for each limb, with a saddlebag balancing on each limp body. The hike back to the camp was much longer, and Heldrus had to be dragged over the sand in a steep section, catching all kinds of branches in his back and sand in his shirt. A gritty cloak was now the least of his worries.

Hours later, Peskimir awoke. She had a headache like a busy woodpecker. Her body felt well rested as though she’d slept for hours, but the world around her was dark. She couldn’t hear the sound of the waves, nor feel the warmth of the fire. She sat up, fighting the pain in her skull, and shrieked when she saw two hideous monsters pointing chipped, rusty spears at her.

“GAH! HELDRUS! The fuck?!”

She tried to get to her feet, but she found her legs tied together by coils of wet vines. Heldrus swam into consciousness with the same reaction, shouting out in a high tone.

“BwahHH! What the fuck?! Peskimir what’s going on?”

He tried the same impossible task of getting to his feet, but he too was bested by the tightly wound vines. The guards growled and stepped closer, prodding the prisoners with the stubby ends of their spears. The message was clear.

Shut up and don’t move.

Peskimir shuffled over to Heldrus and whispered.

“Are they fucking Trenks? They’re going to eat us, aren’t they?”

Heldrus was wary of the guards eyeing them off. It seemed they didn’t care about them conversing as long as they did it quietly.

“Um, yeah. I’ve heard of that happening, yep. Do you still have your boots? They took mine.”

“Nope, I had a knife in there too. Don’t you have experience with these things?”

Heldrus had led a few raids on Trenk camps near Erinstone, but they were usually extremely low risk. Trenks weren’t particularly dangerous when you were in full armor, wielding proper weaponry, and with a platoon of fifty at your back.

“Yes, but I can’t say I’ve found myself in this kind of situation before. If you have a plan, I’d love to hear it.”

Peskimir was still processing their rude relocation. It appeared that being hungry and sore and exhausted wasn’t enough suffering already, and fate wanted to test her limits a bit more. Fine.

Heldrus did his best to look through the gaps in the ‘prison’ they were in. It was just a small mud hut with a low roof, maybe five foot tall at its highest point. It was a shoddy piece of construction – the walls were full of cracks and gaps and was sunken in multiple places. If they were patient, it might just all collapse in on them. Outside the hut, he could see a tall bonfire. Dozens of Trenks were dancing around it, throwing piles of green leaves and bark on, sending up a thick column of sappy smoke. The smell permeated the hut like a lamb in a clay oven. The Trenks were assembling something above the fire, just out of range of the hungry flames. Two thick, ‘Y’ shaped posts sat on either side of the fire, and a long branch sat between them. Heldrus groaned as he recognized what it was.

It was a spit.

They were the lamb.