Chapter 2: A Chariot Found (Part 2!)
Crackling, billowing flames buried beneath the surface floor. It provided him with a warm pair of socks. A skinny man, a couple years into adulthood, pinned the last of his soaked apparel. Lacking fat in all parts but his face, he was an effeminate man. Nails painted black, red rained all over his skin, and his hair a lengthy crimson.
Pale radiance clashed with a sprawl of freckles on his face. Insecurity might have challenged him but a gentle embrace took him from behind and he lay into it, preventing self insult. A large deserter was his lover. His face was quartz rough with a heavy tan. His skin was thick and his ear had appeared to become a ripped appendage.
“So how was the book?” The redhead had a throaty clarity in his speech. Definitely not educated but knew of class. He was a rugged ‘matter of fact’ commoner. The type to make siege against coin colored personas.
“Charming. That's the idea.” A straight black hide spilled over his scalp, highlighted by the nearby campfire. Quick minded like his boyfriend, but in words was tedious. The type that would agree, more statements than questions.
“What was the title on the cover? Cah-mic?” He hesitated, sounding out the battered novel’s name.
“Yup. Not too terrible that thing was. I wish it had extra pictures.” As they huddled together in the dark, the deserter blew a warm exhale through his charcoal sized nose.
“Have a clue what it means?” He held his hand to his ripped ear.
“Nah. It looked pretty though. That's the idea.” A single kiss was pressed on
the neck of the redhead. He smiled and rubbed the neat hair that was beside him. All the world is viscous but moments like these become an eternity worth living.
“When do you think they’ll be back? Better be some good elk or rabbit.” He recalled the other persons in their camp. They together were pilgrims of profit.
Robbers of righteousness. Mostly riches. And whatever they could scratch up. Or whatever they could keep up.
“Eventually.”
“Well no duh. Seriously, you lack imagination.” The redhead soured. He enjoyed his large vaguely smart man, but he lacked an ability to put into physical space. From all the might he had in his muscle and fat stores, none of it was native to his brain. He believed that. The night became calm again.
They relaxed in an earthwork made decades past. Likely a refrigerator, the freckled faced man thought. It had the aroma of wine grapes, very spicy. Scaffolding, some holding out shelves above. An idea prompted him to crawl to one of their packs. Lined with tools for throwing and spooking passerbys, he pulled out a shovel. He got to work embedding the point into the ground.
“Dig something good. Better be tobacco.” The deserter pulled out a long pipe in sync with the feminine digger.
“Ain’t that a sin?” He joked as he continued the onslaught.
“Ain’t boy kissing a sin?” He took a toke in conjunction with his response.
“Only if you like it!” The former soldier’s stomach quaked in a bit of laughter. Their smiles reflected off their skin. Rejections find exceptional acts of acceptions in one another.
Even in laborious tasks, the redhead was a student. Analyzing how strikes form certain patterns, the quaking of stocky crust. Making a pile of the crunched earth, the redhead started to feel tiresome. Sweat drooled across him, and his back sored. His eyes for a moment look at the deserter. He would make light action to discover the hidden treasures.
His half closed eyes widened in a fit of determination. He ignored his aching body and pressed further into the depths. A two foot hole was dug, and no beverage was found. The bottom half of him was invisible to the deserter. He puffed as the dauntless moon glazed outside the hole in the hill. He gestured his long arm, casting the point to the redhead.
“Need a puff?” The freckled face squinted at the pipe in rejection.
“Come on. Great strength from its breath.”
“No. Its not healthy.”
“So you say.” He arched back it into his teeth.
“So it is!” The redhead yelled, exposing one of his lost fangs.
Deeper still, visible ground became dimmer as more often the redhead grazed his foot with the shovel. Jagged fixtures jabbed at his shoulders, making cuts. When tossing one heap of dirt residue he clamored his right shoulder into one, forming a purple bruise. He almost cried on the spot, but he covered his mouth, not trying to startle his reclining buddy. Water came from the corners of his eyes.
Pathetic. He shook his head and let tears fall on the shaft of the shovel. He hated this. The callus on his palm forming, the motion of swinging upward, and a feeling of imperfection. He couldn’t tolerate it, recognizing it as himself. A hatred for the container around him drove him to drill into the ground further. A plank made a stop in his outburst. Giving him time to recover his lost manner, he crouched down and laid the side of his head.
The air of fermented juice rose from the pit. He looked for a means to enter and upon not finding one, he pushed the shovel between the boards and wrenched the nails and foundation of the room. A removal of a few planks made an opening only some inches wide. This was no problem for the redhead, tying his hair into a tail, he swam through it. He dropped onto dark cobblestone. He reached from his pouch in his shirt, pulling out a flash stick. He struck the floor around him and the stick started to sparkle.
“Hey Bolato?” He called out, awaking him. He crawled to the tunnel in the ground and lowered his eyes to the redhead.
“Yeah?”
“We still have that portable ladder right?” he questioned.
“Yeah sure.”
The freckled man saw Bolato leave for a few moments, returning by dropping a rope. It plopped just above him.
“Hey Bolato?
“Yeah?”
“You’re a bitch.” His inflection was brought with contempt.
“Yeah sure.” Bolato had likely tied the rope to a boulder, but that didn’t matter. The redhead couldn’t perform acts of hoisting oneself, not for long. He would deal with that later.
“Let’s look for goodies.” He grumbled, trying to boost his mood. This buried place was obviously for military purposes, he knew. The Iozians were zealous wine drinkers, going past the necessities to clear their water from dirtiness. Wherever they came and left, two signature industries sprang up. Wine and pottery. Pottery to aid in shipping and containing foods like wheat, barely, rice, and other dried and pickled vegetables. And wine to make the water of alien lands drinkable.
Of the few ‘democratic’ things that the Oligarchy brought, it was the various alcohols and spirits they cooked and produced. He remembered when he was a child, sipping from a soldier’s canteen and the funny taste that came from it.
“Skaldi.” Bolato rang out.
“Yes Bolato?”
“Are you okay?” Bolato probed.
“Yes Bolato.” He affirmed.
Mildly disturbed, Skaldi saw a few barrels that stood out from the rest. Three barrels, two stacked on a shelf and one toppled over. They sported a brass rim, unlike the standard bare brown planks that formed the shell of the liquid. Intrigued, he tried to raise the toppled one to a standing position.
He squatted down and pushed with all of his might. It was twice his size and sloshed as he put his being to get it into position. His grip loosened and he flew backwards. He felt another bruise and raised the sparkles to see his thigh was a bluish hue. Exasperated he got up and forgoed any finesse and punctured the shell. Wine had spurt out a powerful burst caught by his tongue. Sweet, yet not too overpowering.
Again he was reminded of his boyhood. Stealing from the local legion was a worshiped task. Skaldi had always managed to graze by the legionnaires' efforts to defend their delicious commodities. Once he had managed to steal a whole cart of wine. It was a joyous month. Full of drinking. Drinking with flies. His smile went to a frown and as he was ready to fill his pots, a sadness struck. A rancid return to days far away. Skaldi was a member of the Galti tribe, one of the last remaining sovereign states on the continent, aside from the Oligarchy.
While conquered some decades ago, skirmishes of their driven nationalists still clashed with battalions of the Oligarchy’s finest. Of course the Galtians couldn’t survive but that wasn't what this was about. The two clashing peoples of the Iozians along with the Tripol had policies similar but distinct forms of annihilation. The Tripol was state sponsored genocide, tearing up the land, murdering peoples that didn’t aid them in conquest and replace the victims of their ravenous war with themselves. The Iozians had state sponsored conquerors, tearing up the land, murdering peoples that opposed them, and assimilating the victims with themselves.
Now it might be easy to see the Iozians as kinder. But you must understand. The Tripol were uncaring. The Iozians were cold.
Imagine a human being forced to forget his nation, his language, his clothes, his religion, his friends, his family, and replace one version of those values with another. Although one still could breathe, the air was never the same as it was before. This was the belief the Galti tribe held.
Though Skaldi vehemently disagreed with such an image being the truth of the matter, he could not deny the illusion’s terrifying presence. His family was a traditional one. Each member sported well kept hair, lanky form, and a knack for throwing spears and wielding glaives. They represented the ideal Galtian citizen. All but Skaldi. Resembling his mother in shape, the height of sixty inches, and the puny form of a sapling.
It was a disgrace. A wasted boy. When he reached the age of sixteen, he saw enough combat to know that his people were doomed. On a summer night he had bought the cartful of wine, a prisoner of war, to the house he had called home. He entered and saw his mother in solidarity with his father, their faces purple in disgust.
What they wanted was a son covered in the blood of foreigners, not a sissy that wasted their time with drink. Yelling could be heard from the shack, which quaked with emotion. An hour later Skaldi left with a scar on his blank face. He went away, never to be seen in the Galti tribe’s dwindling numbers.
Skaldi had a faint sob on his knees, as he huddled in the cramped space. Whispers of sissy and weakling swirled in his mind. He rubbed his eyes and got up, to walk off unseen damage. He rested his arm on the three pots he dragged across the floor. Hands angled the spilling purple drink into each pot. The pressure of the barrel was tense and it continued until all three were full. The remaining wine pooled on the cracks and split in the floor. In a pause Skaldi heard something.
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Pitter patter.
The ceiling was dropping water on to the pool, combining both.
“... Nice sound.”
He rested; he still tested his knees, kneeling to the bleeding wine container. He pressed his lips to its wooden skin and began to drink from it. His upset mood made his senses more aware, he couldn’t tolerate it. He needed to escape, taking rotting sweetness into his system. A minute passed as Skaldi finished his improvised chugging. His face blushed and he stumbled to tie the pots on his back.
“Much better.” He proclaimed as he squeezed through the opening in the ceiling. He saw the lack of ladder and complained by gritting his teeth.
“Bola. Help me up please.” Skaldi though mildly inebriated still clung to his clear cadence. But his voice became a higher pitch throaty, like a fast moving croak.
“Yeah sure.” The rope moved at a steady pace. Skaldi was glad at the speed. The pots clung together and rubbed harshly into him. Soon he reached the surface and his shoulders bit into Bolato's hands.
“Tcch.” Wincing in a numbed pain, Skaldi reflexively closed his eyes.
“You really wanted to find wine huh?” Bolato taunted.
“Shut up.” Skaldi came close to his taller helper chin’s and sneered as best he could. “I’d like for you to collapse your malformed joints and fat in such a space.” He retorted, daring to cease challenging him.
“I’d like for you to not hurt yourself so much for so little. And you say I’m the unhealthy one.” In sequence, he pulled out two scraps of cloth and crushed myre root. He spread the cut up parts onto it and rolled up the sleeve, tying it in a strict military fashion. Skaldi sucked air through his teeth, feeling a bit stupid. After all, he got himself worked up for himself to suffer.
“Thanks Bola.” His gaze cast to the ground, embarrassed. Bolato’s hand rubbed the redhead’s bright sapphire eyes.
“Yeah sure.”
Bolato smooched Skaldi’s cheek. (Which one, you ask? I'll let you decide…)
A crunch erupted. Both heads turnt to see their companions had just arrived. Just like themselves, their comrades differed and agreed. A peach girl with red cheeks, holding the boney hand of a tall and wide turban concealed fighter. He was a mystery to them. Not because he didn’t show himself, though not his visual parts. He didn’t speak their language.
Amir was the name the girl translated from him. Skaldi and Bolato had been together for seven years, the bulky robe wearing Tripol man had joined them six years ago during a raid on a tobacco manor. The child stumbled on the group camping a month after. It was clear she was an orphan as her right hand was seared with a band.
Iozians would call her a ghost, a grievous shame. And a grievous danger…
Amir took responsibility and elected himself father to the babe and the couple became her pseudo brothers. She was but seven then. With alert brown eyes and hair, she disputed the unbelievable mind of her caretaker.
Amir was an old dark adobe brick. His left eye had been scarred ever since Skaldi met him. He was the sick man of the team, having sessions of coughing and hacking that ended with him wiping the only visible part of him beside his hands. Around the opening he painted a green makeup on himself. He appeared ready to use any nearby plant life to create the cosmetic.
He applied this same makeup to Valiato, his adopted daughter. He rarely spoke, only confining in his child to translate.
The three of them had their own beliefs on the origins of this stranger. Valiato thought he was a lost librarian, noting the sachet that held journals and odd looking trinkets. She thinks he was cast to scour this continent for revelation and knowledge. Well… it would be phrased like.
“He holds books and he likes books so he looks for books.”
Bolato thought him a mercenary, watching closely the two curved daggers tied to him. He considered that he was disgraced due to his illness, and so was forced to be away from the land that borne him.
Skaldi, in all of his time exposed to Amir, built up a theory, a canon if you will. A revolutionary lord, hiding within the Oligarchy, having committed some act of treason and was stripped of his health by the Tripol emperor. He had heard stories of the Tripol emperor, about his sadism and violence. Perhaps Amir was too a victim to his own kind, despite opposing such a vile heir to their culture’s majesty. Skaldi knew. He held that Amir had the faint evilness of the human heart, to have once been in union with forces devastating.
Amir sighed through his defined curved nose. He saw those two sodomites in an effort to ‘make out’. In front of his daughter too. What the devil. The soldier at least was dressed in great respect to his profession.
The boy however unashamedly lewd. Bushy hair that crashed onto the ground, a signal to opposing moralities. Black combat wrappings tucked hard onto his arms and legs. Yet the lower structure, where to begin? The wrappings end in the middle of the upper thigh. Could he spare any decency for common folk? And that abominable fabric that failed to be enough guard.
Booty shorts! He couldn’t believe that the boy put it on himself, what was the world coming to?. This he did not tell with speech, but with squinting.
“I know that look, Amir, we weren’t doing nothing.” Skaldi lifted the pot toward him. He let go of Valiato as she eagerly hopped to Bolato’s side.
“Bola! We found it!”
“You did? I knew you'd get my cheese wheel back!” Bolato’s speech hastened and his hand stretched to her.
“Not that.”
“Oh.” Dejected, he was looking forward to a midnight snack.
“But we found a cart!”
“Oh. Close enough.”
Skaldi smiled and squeezed Valiato’s short cut hair.
“Alright sweetpea, nice work you both did. Let's go get it.” Skaldi jumped up and broke into a run before his thigh begged him to cease.
“~Boy needs to rest.~” Amir commanded, while Valiato kept an open ear.
“You’re hurt badly, Ska. What happened?” She made efforts to soften the diction of her father. Amir couldn’t gauge the exact changes, but knew that they happened.
“Well I had a thought that this was an old refrigerator. Not too many of these in the west and well-”
Amir’s stare brought the tribal boy back to focus.
“I wanted to get some wine.” Skaldi unenthusiastically spoke, tapping the numerous pots making a sloshing. As Valito translated Amir crossed his arms, motioning to the soldier to act.
“Yeah sure.” Bolato turned and flicked his finger on the forehead of the redhead. He winced and rested two fingers on the spot stung. Amir nodded, accepting this as sufficient justice. Afterall, he was no barbarian.
“~Ari Amir? What do we do now when Ska is hurt? Wasn’t he supposed to spook the drivers?~” In the language of Iozian, she spoke in a high voice but when speaking Tripolian, she was deep and shaky. Amir took a moment goading Valiato into excitement.
“~Think you can spook their horses, kid?~” Purposefully slowing his words down to build up her energy.
“~Yes! Yes Ari!~” She squealed, jumping in acceptance. Skaldi, pushing himself up from his knees, undeterred by his desplay pain.
“I can help her.” He extended his foot to a pebble he dislocated during his quest for booze. He stomped into the air and caught it with his foot; balancing it on the toe of his sandal. Amir shook his head, rubbing the top of his turban.
“I don’t get your deal. I’ll be wearing my cloak-”
GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!
Everyone and everything went ghost silent. A harrowing voice belched out in what the whole group knew to be fear. Each member pulled out their weapons and position together, except Valiato who hid behind them. Bolato with his long shield and leaf shaped blade, and Skaldi with his bandolier of daggers.
Waiting for the voice to ring out, Amir lowered his right arm and started to under swing it forward. Skaldi, noting the signal, hopped to his right. He started to exit the hillhole. Amir held a palm to the remaining two, with Bolato getting in front of the child and hiding in the corner of the hold.
Amir sighed through his nose, in the circumstances that were, he couldn’t risk his daughter just to test her aim. For now, he needed someone with range. The outside was icy, with streams and pools making the forest’s rough terrain.
“Who-who are you!? What-what do you want!?” Amir overtook Skaldi, raising his left fist and shaking it left and right. Skaldi pilfered through his pockets and pulled out a net, with hooks and barbs on each knot. It's not strong enough to stop a caravan cart, but it should slow it enough that they can catch up. Still, there must be something assailing the merchants. No, someone, Skaldi knew. Could it be the Falconers? They must be trying to get one over on them. Maybe.
“Hey-Hey stay back! I’m on my knees here!” A terrified youngster pleaded. The two stalking gangsters could tell he was blubbering. Skaldi’s searching eyes began to soften and shut for a moment, before then opening wide. Amir palmed his left hand down, as both hunched their backs down as their pace froze. A clearing between the floral bushes appeared and both went prone. As they peered over the edge, madness struck.
“Man, ya must really have some strong lung-lungs to be crying for so long. Do ya need help?”
A shadow. A foul reeking came from the figure’s direction. A skeletal frame, dripping in organ and blood.
“Dude, are ya okay? Where are your-your parents?”
Small particles of moonlight fell onto the raspy, wobbly, voiced terror. Skaldi saw in the black night, its boots were stained in gross parts. How did this come to be?
“Stop it! You can take… you can take my carriage! I-I didn’t need it anyway.” The young trader was felled on his back, his excellent and proud reputation was stained by cold mud and redded lids.
“Are ya sure-sure? I don't want ya to leave me.”
A weapon was raised, and an irritating glow hit it. A wounded pickaxe, painted in its likely victims inner palettes. Amir coughed through his nose, he was glad that his daughter didn’t see this travesty, a violation against any standard of good. It consoled him, but he was still upset at what was in front of him.
“NO! Running! Run time!” The merchant slipped backward, climbing off the washy pavement and went into a sprint away into the treeline. Chaining their night shakened minds to focus on the carriage, both men studied it. Amir pictured its luxurious goods and curios, a good profit to be made. Skaldi admired its wheels and its steeds, strong and disciplined donkeys. The redhead shifted onto his shoulder and tugged on the spear that was attached to the robed rogue. Amir shoved him off and held his leathery hands on him.
“Why not?” He hissed at the Tripol. Amir threw his eyes to the target, resting his partner. Wrinkles of confliction formed on his emerald shaded under eyes. He couldn’t waste a spear against what was clearly a demon.
Throwing his hair over his shoulder, Skaldi aimed his arm to the cliff below him. Quickly, he vaulted over the ledge and placed his feet onto the small roots in the misshapen earth face. He was no good at climbing up, but he was good at going down. Amir placed his arm at the spot where the tribal boy once was, but crashed his hand into the bush. Erupting, he peered to see Skaldi descending the slope.
“~Idiot boy. You’re gonna lose our cart.~” Struggling to fall and swing to positions, all Skaldi could muster to reply was-
“Yeah sure.” Just a few yards and he could rest his feet and best the terror in the night. His head started to feel faint, his hands started to loosen.
“Oh yeah. I drank that wine.” Underestimating the strength of the fermented beverage and overestimating the strength of his kidneys, his body started to scrape the wall. One root maced him as he fell. He clung tightly, hoping that the victim maker wouldn’t find him. It turned its thorny head to his direction. He couldn’t find its eyes, if it even had any. All he saw was shark-like teeth. He felt it, it was too late. He waited. And waited. This is his last moment…
“Okie dokie!”
He felt an eternal minute snail by. Stuttering in an instant, he lifted one eye open. The figure was gone. Alone with their object of search, the cart. He saw its shape becoming evermore small. A couple of fragmented rocks fell on his hair. Skaldi looked up to see Amir reaching out to him.
He felt a warmth come to him, followed by Amir coughing, Amir’s body, Amir’s face, and finally the rocky rubble below them. Skaldi, becoming a human mattress, hurriedly yanked out of the huge Tripol man. They stood up, one covered in sores and aches, and one infested by sores and aches, then rushed to the road. Barely keeping themselves upright, each man stressed and struggling. But a hand reached out for Amir’s polearm.
“You know… you could have… you could throw your spear-” Amir’s titan tight fist struck the freckled covered nose of Skaldi. Muffled screams shot out of him.
“Ow! My face! My beautiful, beautiful, bruise covered face!” Amir swung again, failing to shut up the tribal boy. In fact, his shouts became more alarming. Bolato and Valiato, now appeared some sixty feet above them.
“Hey!” Bolato bellowed in noticeable anger.
“Did you guys get the cart? And stop hitting him too I guess.”
Skaldi, held up by the mammoth Tripol, raised an exhausted finger to Bolato.
“No… but I did find your cheese wheel.” He whistled in an arched throat. Amir shifted his shoulder to the pre-teen translator.
“~They’re talking about cheese.~” She shrugged her shoulders whilst raising her hands. Amir, finishing one last cough, carended his fist into the redhead’s forehead, prompting knocking him out. Finally, peace and quiet.
“~Did you at least throw your spear at it Ari?~” Amir, storming with anger, peeled the spear from his back, hung onto the back of the shaft, and hurtled across the starry scape. Its shape became a toothpick into the astroscape, and Amir was consumed by coughs, prompting him to faint.
Vega’s first day outside was pretty charming, she wondered, gazing out at the towering trees. She met some new friends, went to a curious place, saw the moon again, and noticed those four weirdos on the hill face.
It was a shame that the merchant felt the need to give up his carriage, for whatever reason. She’d picked up riding and driving the donkeys easily. Well, she wasn’t really driving them, more just moving their leash. She thought about the merchant. She’d thought of a word to describe him. Cute. Maybe she’d find him and return his stuff back.
“Well that-that was a neat day. Time to find that… voice.” As she completed her sentence, a whizzing behind her was coming, buzzing like a hoard of hornets. A plunging spear sliced her arm off in its entirety, flipping behind and releasing excess wood and hay into a gas cloud. She turned to her right shoulder then her left. This wasn’t expected.
“Maybe this is a gift from the weirdo climbers on the hill.” She still had her dominant hand. It again reminded her of the art of the deal. Give something of yours to get something of someone else. She didn’t want to lose her arm or want this spear, but that's the business of men, she convinced herself.
“The Priest said to always look at the ‘potential’ of things. Don’t think-think of this as a lost arm. Think of it as an arm surgery opportunity.”