Will

Will carefully monitored the steam rising from the evaporating dish, tweaking a small gas burner below to avoid the liquid coming to a boil. In a few minutes, it would be reduced enough to Prepare the final product of curare oil he used to coat blades and arrowheads.

Seeing that the process was running smoothly, he turned his attention to another project on the cluttered workbench; a stone mortar filled partway with dried, brownish flower petals. Goatweed; able to be both mixed into potions and poultices to speed up the healing of wounds. He took up the heavy pestle and began grinding the petals into a fine powder. He would mix this batch with a water base and smaller amounts of a few other herbs to make healing potions, enough for about a half-dozen.

Absorbed in thought, idly humming to himself, Will eventually realized that he had forgotten about the curare, the burner setup standing in the blind spot of his missing left eye. Luckily he had not left it too long, and he turned off the flame just as the clear oil reached the correct consistency. He was transferring the viscous liquid into a vial using a small ceramic scraper when the door to the workshop came open with the telltale rough-handed banging of one of the chimps.

Will cut a cork for the vial and stoppered it, stuck an adhesive label to the front of it that explained its contents, and set it up on a high shelf along with many other of his finished poisons. He set aside the labware he had used for later cleanup, and turned to face the vest-wearing chimp standing in the doorway.

“What is it, Number One?” he asked, arms crossed. “Tell Mongrel that if he wants something from me, he can come ask me himself like a grown adult. Also…” He pointed an admonishing finger at the cigarette hanging from the corner of the old ape’s mouth. “I told you, no smoking in my workshop. If you can’t follow some simple rules, I’ll stop making more of those things.”

Number One did not look intimidated, but made a show of grinding out his cigarette against the gravel outside, stuffing the unsmoked half in a vest pocket for later consumption. ‘Scary lady back,’ he signed, then motioned with one long arm toward the farmhouse a ways up the shallow incline.

Will did not wait for details, shouting his thanks in passing as he snatched his coat off the hook by the door and pushed past the chimp. He labored up to the main house, where three of the other boys sat on the porch telling rude jokes to each other in sign—and, of course, smoking—and headed inside. Mongrel met him in the hall and started telling him something, but Will ignored him. He stopped only when he caught the naked profile of the demon lying on the floor in front of the hearth, having just lit a crackling fire—despite the fact that it was the middle of the day, and nearly summer to boot.

“Talk,” Will snapped, holding a hand up in front of Mongrel’s face to keep him from cutting in.

“Everything went perfectly, more or less,” Nyx said without looking back. Yawning, she stretched out her legs and settled into a more comfortable position. “Pretending to be a human was fun. Earth is a strange place.”

“Riveting. You can tell us the play-by-play about your tourist experience later. What about Sam? She went along with it?”

“Yes, she died quite beautifully.”

Will closed his one eye and took a deep, calming breath. “And?”

“I guided her through the Crossroads without issue and left her at the Tower. Assuming Unger holds up his end of the bargain, which he will, she should appear at the Shore of Awakening any minute now, if she hasn’t already.”

Will turned to leave the room without another word, having heard what he needed to know. Mongrel hurried after him in his awkward, shambling run. “You going to get her?” he asked.

“Yup,” Will replied. Retrieving his sword belt and strapping on the weapon, he exited the house and hopped off the front porch. He strode across the grazing field that made up a good chunk of the property, grass clipped short by greedy animal mouths.

“Want a couple of the boys along for company? The Shore can get dicey, you know.”

“I’ll be fine. I’m faster on my own.”

“Yeah, but…”

Will stopped, looking back at the ugly little man who had fallen behind and was standing a ways off. “Thanks for worrying,” Will said. “But I’ll be fine. Me and Sam both.”

“I’m not worried,” Mongrel grumbled, crossing his arms tightly like a pouty child. His round cheeks developed a rosy flush. “But do you think you’ll be back by tonight? It’s not good to spend the night out there, either in the woods or on the beach.”

Will sighed, throwing his arms up. “I have no idea when I’ll be back. Hopefully within a few hours, but I’ll stay out there until I’ve got her.”

“Just don’t kill yourself over it. The Shore of Awakening goes on for a long stretch.”

Will did not answer. Turning away from Mongrel, he crossed the last bit of the property and entered the dense leafy forest beyond. He stepped over roots and around rocks, sticking to game trails he knew as he headed south.

Normally, Will would have exercised a certain level of caution when entering any Frontier forest, but there was no time for that now. He picked up speed as he went, occasionally launching himself into a Dash that sent him zipping through the air, kicking off tree trunks, bouncing between them, vaulting over difficult terrain that would have taken minutes to cut through or navigate around.

Faster, faster, faster he soared, only his points in Senses and Processing allowing him to react to the obstacles coming at him at bone-crushing speeds, swinging off branches and springboarding off boles, once Repelling himself away from a boulder appearing out of nowhere behind a small rise to avoid a collision.

Will skidded onto the drab, grainy sand of the Shore of Awakening before the sun had reached its noonday peak overhead, a hazy blotch of light visible through the cloud cover. He was breathing heavily, hair plastered to his skull with sweat, chest heaving as he rested hands on knees.

He still had 11 out of 14 AP remaining for the search ahead, but his extensive use of cantrips to cut the travel time was hitting him hard. He sucked air in raspy wheezes, missing ribs making his respiratory system work all the harder to function properly.

But Will had no time to stop and rest. As soon as he’d caught his breath, he forced himself straight and said: “Detect [Samantha Darling].” Another AP crystal on his arm went dark, and he scanned the terrain around him for the influx of visual data confirming that he had found his mark. No luck.

Moving back into the treeline to avoid discovery, Will continued east, prowling along the coastline while occasionally casting another Detect to cast a wider net for any sign of Sam, especially around the slaver watchtowers. If he didn’t get her right as she came out of the water, there was a good chance she would end up at one of those. While unpleasant, especially if he was unable to find her before she was processed and sent into the city, the alternative where she managed to evade capture and make it into the woods frightened him nearly as much. There were worse things than slavers in the Forlorn Frontier, and at least slavers would usually take some pains to keep their product alive.

I’ll find her, Will thought, trying to feign confidence for his own benefit. I will find her.

The search continued.

* * *

Sam

Once she’d been transported to the watchtower, Sam was released from all but her neck collar, which was fastened to the wall by a chain inside the single large room to keep her from escaping. She was given a shirt and trousers of the same gray roughspun fabric, and unhooked from her chain while she dressed, though she was placed back on her black-iron tether straight after. She had never worn anything so scratchy in her life, and both parts of her two-piece outfit were far too big, with only a frayed length of string to use for a belt. Tucking the shirt into her trousers and tying the ‘belt’ as tight as she managed, it at least kept everything more or less where it ought to be.

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After dressing, she was allowed to sit by the firepit at the center of the room, and given a bowl of hot oatmeal filled with savory bits of what she hoped was corned beef to warm her up. The four slavers that had caught her left again to get medical attention for the fellow with the broken arm, leaving only a fifth—the tower watchman who had been there when they arrived—to oversee Sam and another young man they had caught that day.

The lone slaver shuffled around for a while, going about mundane everyday activities like sweeping and doing his rounds and mending an old sock, before eventually taking a seat by the fire. The male slave stretched his chain taut to huddle in a corner as far away from another human as he could get, a faraway look in his eyes. A large welt covered almost the entire left side of his face. Evidently, he had not accepted his enslavement with the utmost grace.

“Hello,” the slaver said to Sam, his voice sounding strangely furtive given the circumstances. “I’m sorry about all this.” He glanced at the collar around her neck, then looked away with a wince, clearing his throat. “Ahem. I know me being sorry probably doesn’t make a difference, but still.”

Sam threw the man a sidelong look—too brawny to suit his soft voice—then swiveled her eyes back to stare at the fire instead. “Just business, right?” she chuckled.

“I guess so.” The man felt at a gap in his bottom teeth with his tongue. “I’m Artie. What’s your name?”

“Sam.”

Artie pointed toward a strange circular marking—almost like a tattoo—at the top of Sam’s left forearm, matching one on his own. She'd had enough on her mind that she hadn’t even noticed it until now. “You’re a Laborer,” he said, motioning to the diagonal hammer at the center of the circle. “Good for you.” He sounded sincere.

“Why’s that good?”

“Laborers are valuable. Rare, too. You’ll probably get recruited into the lord’s militia, so you won’t stay a slave for long. Just sit tight until then.”

Sam shook her head, slowly but determinedly. She had no plans to remain a slave for any length of time. This dream is taking a really weird turn.

“Do you know someone named Will?” she asked when the slaver let the conversation lapse into silence. “William Greene?”

Artie frowned. “No, I don’t think so. Why?”

“He should be around here somewhere. I have to find him.”

The big man’s frown deepened. “I don’t understand. Didn’t you just wash up?”

“Yes.”

“Then you shouldn’t know anyone on the Frontier. Are you talking about someone back on Earth? I’m sorry, but you’re better off forgetting the ones you knew in that life as soon as you can. Clinging to those memories will only lead to sleepless nights. Trust me—it’s better to let it fade.”

Sam pressed her lips shut, uncertain. She wasn’t sure how much it was wise to reveal about the circumstances that had brought her here. From what people had been telling her, it sounded like her situation was not typical. “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” she said after some time.

It wasn’t too long before Sam’s frozen bones began to thaw. Having worked up an appetite, she asked for a second bowl of oatmeal, noticing that there was still a good bit left in the pot standing on a wooden board beside the fire.

“I’m not supposed to give you anything else,” Artie said uncomfortably. “Tinny says there’s no point wasting food on slaves, since you get fed at the auction house in the city. But, well…” He glanced at the fellow in the corner. “He didn’t eat much, so I suppose giving you a bit extra wouldn’t hurt.” He stood up and went to refill Sam’s bowl with two extra ladlefuls of steaming slop. “If anyone asks, I ate it, not you.”

He gave her the bowl, and she thanked him with a smile before digging in. “Could I make an observation?” she asked midway through her second portion.

“Sure,” Artie said, stirring the fire with a poker. It was starting to dwindle, but he wasn’t putting any more wood on—she gathered it had mostly been for her benefit in the first place.

“You don’t really seem much like the slaver type.”

Artie shot her a quick, rueful smile, then his gaze darted away again. “What’s the ‘slaver type’ like?”

“You know, sleazy. A bit rapey, maybe. Your friends have pretty much got it down pat.”

“We don’t do this because we like it, you know.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t, anyway.”

“Then why do it?”

A shrug. Artie began poking more aggressively at the fire. Streams of sparks somersaulted into the air, rising toward slitted vents in the ceiling. “It was either that or the mines. I’m a Trader, so it wasn’t much of a choice. I wouldn’t last a month digging for iron. I’ve heard the stories that come out of that place.”

“Trader is your… Profession, right?” The symbol on his arm had a set of balance scales, unlike her own hammer. “Why don’t you trade something a bit more normal than other humans?”

“Gee, why didn’t I think of that?” Artie muttered. “It’s not that simple. Nothing’s simple here. You’ll learn that soon enough. Or maybe you won’t.” He glanced at her again, and there was a strange note of something—could it be jealousy?—in his voice.

“What makes you say that?”

“Like I said, you’ll end up in the militia, and you'll probably get placed in the guardsman branch. They have it easy, as long as they stay on Brimstone’s good side. Give it a few months, and you’ll probably be shaking down people like me for ‘protection money’ or some such. If you’re one of the good ones, you might leave us the clothes on our backs.”

“Is it really that bad?”

Artie did not reply. Changing the topic, he motioned to the male slave with his smoking poker, the man snarling silently in return. “Now that fellow, he’s an Explorer. Poor guy. Headed straight for the mines.”

“Why?”

“There’s just too many of ‘em to be useful for anything else, and they’re convenient to use for menial labor. Ironically, Laborers almost never have to do work like that. They’re too valuable.”

Sam threw a sympathetic look in her fellow prisoner’s direction. She was ashamed at the relief she felt over not choosing Explorer, like she’d wanted. “This place is fucking insane.”

Artie laughed hysterically at that, like it was the funniest joke he’d ever heard. It sounded like he wanted to cry instead. At the creak of footsteps coming up the stairs to the raised guard room, he suddenly went quiet, then yanked the half-empty bowl out of Sam’s hands.

“Don’t worry,” he said quickly. “Just be quiet and do as they say, and they won’t hurt you.” Raising his voice, he called: “How'd it go, Tin—”

He was cut off by a cacophony of wood tearing and metal groaning as the door flew inward off its hinges, flipping as it shot over the fire. Artie barely had time to widen his eyes in surprise before the door hurtled into him and carried him clean off his feet, slamming them both against the other wall. Sam stared as the door fell flat with a heavy thump, and the big man sagged limply on top of it.

Turning her attention back to the now-open doorway, she saw a man standing there, backlit by the dirty sunlight that filtered through the clouds. He was tall, wearing clothing that, despite being in neutral colors, was of obviously finer cut than anything she’d seen in the slavers’ possession. He carried a lightly curved sword in one white-knuckled fist, and his expression was grim. As he stepped into the firelight, she saw that one of his eyes had been stitched shut—just looking at it made Sam want to wince.

The stranger’s one eye rested on her, and he threw his coat back to sheathe his sword. “Sam,” he said, features softening as he deflated with relief.

Only when he spoke did Sam recognize him. “Will,” she whispered. She tried to stand, and was yanked off her feet when her chain reached the end of its slack—forgotten until it forcefully reminded her of its presence.

Will was halfway over to her when the slaver stirred, resting one shoulder against the wall to support himself while he felt at a freely bleeding gash on his forehead with fumbling fingers. “Wuh…?” he groaned.

Will had a weapon in his hand less than a second later, a long-bladed knife this time. He strode across the room to the slaver, pulling his head back by his hair to expose his throat.

“W… Wait!” Artie cried.

“Wait!” Sam echoed.

Only the second utterance caused Will to pause. “What?” he asked without looking back.

“Don’t kill him.”

“Why?”

“I… I don’t know. Do you usually need a reason not to kill someone?”

“In this place, you do.”

“He was nice to me.”

With a growl, Will kicked Artie onto his back and whirled around to face Sam, spinning the knife between his fingers like it was some sort of nervous tic. “Sam, you don’t know everything that’s going on yet, but trust me, this man has to die. If—when—he tells someone about this, it will be very bad for both of us.”

Holding onto her chain to make sure she wasn’t running out of slack, Sam rose to her feet. “You’re not killing him,” she said, sounding more confident than she felt.

She could hardly believe that this man she was looking at was the same shy, slightly nerdy kid she’d known since she was little. It was like all the joy had been sucked out of him, and the cold figure that remained, staring her down with its one dark eye, scared the shit out of her.

“I-I won’t tell anyone,” Artie blurted quickly. “I’ll say I don’t remember, that the door hit me, and I… I passed out! I don’t remember a thing. Not a thing. You weren’t here, Master One-Eye.”

“Thank you for your input, friend,” Will said, his voice gone eerily calm. “Now, if you’d shut the fuck up for a moment, I’d appreciate that very much.”

“Will,” Sam said, trying to bring his attention back around. “You’re right. I don’t have a clue what’s going on. But I know this man was kind to me when he didn’t have to be, and if he says he won’t tell anyone whatever you don’t want people to know, I believe him.”

Will regarded her for one long moment, whirling that knife around and around. “Fine,” he growled at last. “God, I forgot how stubborn you can be.”

Sam's reply was a sunny smile. It was the first thing he’d said that sounded anything like his old self. She rattled the chain that connected her to a heavy bracket on the wall. “Now, maybe you could do something about this? It doesn’t quite go with my outfit.”

Will reluctantly stowed his weapon.