The next days, Braylar retreated as far away as a person can who still sits right next to you, like a snake disappearing into a hole. His eyes, when open, took no real notice of the surroundings. He closed them for long stretches, apparently trusting the horse’s judgment. He paid no attention to the huge flies plaguing us, even when they landed on him. One looked ready to crawl across his eye until he absently swatted at it.
As I passed through the flap at the front and looked out, I spotted something in the distance. It looked large, though it was difficult to judge such things on those flat plains. Out of habit, I asked Braylar what it was, and why we appeared to be heading towards it, but as might be expected, if he knew the answer to either he kept them a secret.
As we got closer, I saw it was some kind of structure built entirely of sod. While it was only one story tall, it was built on three very thick tiers of sod. I wondered if the building was some kind of meeting place, and that filled me with equal parts hope and anxiety.
While the construction was crude, the building otherwise had all of the regular features-walls, windows, an open doorway. The far corner had collapsed, revealing that the walls were several feet thick. The roof also was made of large slabs of sod, and in a choice surely more whimsical than practical, the builders left the grass on top of the roof, and the old, brittle, yellow blades rubbed against each other in the breeze, producing an endless chorus of tiny clicks and clacks like a thousand miniature wood chimes.
I craned my neck to see it as we traveled past. Part of me longed to jump off the wagon, run back to the earthen hall, and scream for him to halt, to turn around, but I was sure he’d simply leave me there, and possibly not even notice my absence.
And so I moved back inside the wagon and sat down near the rear. I watched the blighted structure recede into the distance as it lost distinction and form and eventually disappeared altogether. I thought it might be the last building I ever saw.
I closed the flap and tied it shut.
CHAPTER 2
The wagon battle had occurred five days prior, and just when I didn’t think it was possible, things took a turn for the worse. Near midday, I was walking alongside, expecting him to stop and care for the horses, but he didn’t.
I asked him why we hadn’t halted, but he ignored me entirely, maintaining his maddening half-lidded stare. While the last few days he’d performed all the necessary tasks like a man nearly asleep, at least he performed them. But he had degenerated from the taciturn, cantankerous patron who brought me into the grass into a husk. I told him the horses needed to rest, to eat, but there was no response; he only sat there, back rigid, eyes locked onto the patch of grass directly ahead of us.
I wasn’t sure what to do, and was weighing the wisdom or folly in trying to wrest the reins from him, when he closed his eyes and toppled over, smacking his head on the bench.
The horses took that as their cue to finally stop. I ran over to him, climbed onto the wagon. He was completely unresponsive when I shook him.
I got a flask of water, dipped the hem of my tunic in it, and pressed the cloth against his forehead and stubbly cheek, but he didn’t stir. Unsure whether to move him or not, I finally decided to try, which proved more difficult than I would’ve imagined, as his body was completely limp, like a drunkard’s. I carried/dragged him into the wagon and lay him down, with a sleeping roll propped under his head. His chest rose and fell, small shallow breaths, but that was the only sign of life. I probably could’ve set fire to his shoes and he wouldn’t have stirred.
I had no idea how to help the captain, so I went back outside to attend to the horses. After grooming one, I checked on him again, but nothing had changed. And nothing changed the rest of the afternoon.
Dusk came on, and he might as well have been a stone effigy. Though I argued with myself before doing it, I finally lit the lantern and hung it overhead. The light coming through the horn panels bathed the interior of the wagon in a buttery glow.
I secretly hoped this blatant violation of his orders would’ve roused him, but there was no movement.
He was still fully clothed, and while I didn’t plan on stripping him down entirely, I unwrapped the scarf from around his neck and removed his leather shoes. Neither action prompted a reaction. Trying to think of what else might make him comfortable, I looked at his weapon belts, and then pulled the long dagger free and set it on a barrel.
I reached out twice to pull Bloodsounder off the hook, but fear stopped me short. I tried a third time, but as my hand wrapped around the handle, Braylar moaned in his deep slumber, a low tortured sound, and his body spasmed until I released my hold.
While I doubted the ugly weapon was the cause of his condition, I had to acknowledge that small possibility. And if that were true, I was left to wonder if Bloodsounder could afflict others the same way it had damaged him. I had no intention of striking anyone with it, but thought that merely holding it could be enough. And that convinced me to stay my hand. I felt foolish, but better foolish than bedeviled.
I loaded the crossbow, set it within easy reach, and sat there, trying to stay alert.
And failed.
I jolted awake when a hand shook me and almost shot a bolt through the roof. I thought Braylar had finally risen, but it took me a moment to realize he was still lying there. I started to spin with the crossbow to face whoever had woken me.
Lloi grabbed the weapon and whistled. “Easy there. I like the holes I got where I got them. No need for no new ones.”
I looked at her and said, rather stupidly, “Lloi?”
She smiled her gap-toothed grin. “Bookmaster.” Then she looked down at Braylar, and her smile disappeared.
I set the crossbow down, and tried to explain, “We were worried, well, at least I was, that a ripper had… that you weren’t coming back. What happened to you? Where have you been?”
She hunkered down next to Braylar and slapped his cheek, not altogether gently. His head shifted position, but otherwise he didn’t move or respond. She asked, “How many?”
I looked at her, wondering if I were still asleep.
“Killed. With that flail of his? How many?”
“Two,” I replied, and then for reasons unknown, repeated it, “two.”
“About four days back? Five?”
“Yes, five days. Well, one didn’t die right away. At least, Braylar-that is, Captain Killcoin-he said he didn’t. That he knew he hadn’t. He thought he died a day or two after the attack.”
She grunted and then lifted his tunic up, looking at his belly and chest. “How long has Captain Noose been laid low?”
“He fell yesterday. Driving the wagon.” I moved closer and looked over her shoulder. “What’s… what’s wrong with him, Lloi?”
She responded not with an answer but with another question, after looking at the two-headed flail and then back to me. “You try to take it?”
I felt like a child caught stealing, though I knew I hadn’t done anything wrong.
“I was going to try to make him more comfortable, so he could rest. But…”
“But he didn’t like that none, did he? Tried it, too, first time he went down like this. Actually got it off his belt, and he started screaming like I was murdering him with something hot and sharp. And he’s not like to give it up more if he’s awake neither.”
I glanced at Bloodsounder and then back to her. As was usually the case, I felt like there was more to what she was saying than what she was saying. “The weapon warns him sometimes. Of violence. That much I get. But the cost seems high. The nausea, the wounds that aren’t his, now this. Why wouldn’t he just be rid of it, Lloi?”
She arched her bushy eyebrows. “Thinking you would’ve puzzled that clear by now. More a matter of can’t than won’t.”
“Can’t?”