Blightborn (18 page)

The creature shoves him and draws something from behind—

An ax. Short handle, its blade like an animal’s fang, the thing spinning in the monster’s hand, slicing the air into crimson ribbons,
swish swish swish
—and Cael thinks,
Why the hell does a monster need an ax?
Then:
Why the hell am I not using my rifle?

But by then it’s too late; the beast is upon him.

The monster brings the ax down—

In the space where Cael once was but is no longer.

He dances to the side and smashes the butt of the rifle forward. He hears the wood crackle and splinter even further, a fact he’s none too thrilled about, but survival means saving himself, not some old, antique weapon of his father’s. He drives the rifle butt forward a second time.

And a curious thing happens.

The monster’s face tumbles off its head.

A mask,
Cael realizes.
They’re wearing masks
.

The smoke parts for a moment, and he sees the haggard face of a man with a dark, patchy beard. The man blinks, looks after his lost mask, then returns his gaze to Cael with a snarl and a sneer.

Cael smashes him in the nose with the rifle butt.

The man’s nose pops like an egg, squirting blood instead of yolk.

Once again Cael’s plan resumes:
Run.

The pain is hot, intense, a carpet of fire ants crawling all over Rigo as rough hands drag him by his arms through the corn—the socket of his arms burn, and every butt-bounce on the hard earth sends one more miserable pulse of pain to the margins of his ruined leg and back.

He tries to cry out, but his voice is weak, a gassy wheeze. And as soon as he makes even that small sound, the faces of those trailing after turn toward him—monstrous faces that he
realizes too late are masks, some rusted, rough-welded metal, some crudely carved wood, all meant to mimic the faces of dogs or wolves. (
Rovers,
comes the absurd thought.
Rovers are real, and they’re men in masks.
)

One of them mutters from behind the Rover-face: “Shut up.”

Rigo doesn’t shut up. He cries out again.

The back of someone’s hand cracks him across the mouth.

Cael darts out through the smoke—the sun seems bright, too bright, washing out the corn in a wave of white. The tip of his boot catches something—a stone—and he pitches forward. His hands stop his head from hitting him. His palms sting. His chest itches, the skin tugging.

He gets his legs up under him. Sees Lane standing there in front of him, his friend’s eyes gone bloodshot, wet with tears.

Lane’s eyes go wide.

Cael follows his gaze.

There. To the far side of the corn. Boats. Ships. A fleet—hell, a whole armada of them. More boats than Cael’s ever seen in one place, hovering over the corn. Black-bottomed pinnaces and cat-marans the color of calves’ blood. And one massive trawler with a wooden wolf’s head at its prow, jaws big enough for both of them to step into and stand in.

The sun almost washes out the flags flapping on long poles.

Red flags with white paint.

The paint shows the eyes, muzzle, and jaws of a beast much like the one at the front of that trawler. The beast is drawn in the middle of a red circle. And it’s then Cael realizes.

Lane speaks it aloud: “The Sleeping Dogs.”

“Raiders.”

Then Lane says something that surprises Cael, even though maybe it shouldn’t.

“They can help us.”

“Don’t. You saw them in there.”

“That wasn’t about us. They know the Heartland; they know—”

“They
know
how to raid. And rape. And kill. We have to go.”

As if on cue, the red smoke parts at the front gate, and men in dog and wolf masks begin stepping out in square-toed, thick-soled boots. Their gloves are tipped with pinched metal—made to look, and maybe
act
, like claws.

“Go!” Cael twists, turns, sprints for the corn.

Lane follows after—

Doesn’t he?

It’s him.

Boyland doesn’t even need the spyglass to see it: the mussed-up blond hair, the pauper’s shirt, those bright-blue eyes catching light.

Cael McAvoy.

They say it was probably Arthur McAvoy who murdered his father. But he figures that’s just the Empyrean trying to pin the crime on the old man so they have something to use against him. Boyland knows the real score. He knows that Cael killed Daddy.

As if to prove it, the sonofabitch has the rifle with him.

I’m gonna kill him with his own gun
. That thought, it’s stark and surprising to Boyland. He’s not sure he ever wanted to kill somebody—really
kill
them, not just beat the booger-paste out of them or choke ’em till they’re gasping and apple cheeked—but there it is. A shining thought, as clear as a sail standing tall above the corn.

I’m gonna kill Cael McAvoy
.

Then I’m gonna get Gwennie back
.

Another glimmering thought:
I love her. I love her more than I love anything. More than this boat. More than Momma. More than me
.

Love and hate.

Two strong tastes that sit bright and bitter on the back of his tongue, and next thing he knows he’s ditching the spyglass and reaching behind him to grab a corn sickle, the blade gleaming along its moon-silver curve. Felicity’s knife, once upon a time.

Before he even knows what’s happening, he’s running.

Hate carrying him headlong into the corn.

Eben watches the thick-necked bull of a boy go charging off into the corn. Then, to his surprise, the girl goes after him—the way she runs calls to mind the galloping of a sick and skinny goat.

Still, some guts there he did not expect from the girl.

Eben feels rage mingled in with his admiration.

He needs to hurt the McAvoy boy. The sins of the father must be paid by the son. But descending into the nest below?

Eben knows, if he goes down there now, he might get lost. Or killed by the raiders.

But the fire burns inside him. His hands tingle; his fingers stretch and flex. A hunger tightens his throat. He wants to kill. He
needs
to kill.

“You hear that?” the drunk asks him. Cozido.

Eben says nothing. He just stares.

“I swore I just heard my boy,” Jorge says, staring off into space, tilting his head. “I swore it.”

“Could be you did.”

“I have to go to him.”

“So you can beat him?”

Jorge gives him a cold, surprised look.

“I heard what the others said. It’s okay. I ain’t gonna judge.”

“I need to bring him home. Make things right.”

“Course you do. So go ahead. I’ll tell the others.”

Jorge nods. He turns to grab his flask sitting on the edge of the boat.

Eben draws his pigsticker knife.

One minute Lane’s behind him and the next—

Cael whirls. Corn on all sides. “Lane?”

Shit!

Did they get him? Did he go back on his own?

Then—Cael hears the crackle of corn and breathes a sigh of relief as he wheels on what he think is Lane coming up but is really—

“Boyland,” Cael says.

There he stands. Not a ghost. Or a projection from one of those hologram theaters. But really here.

“You killed my daddy,” Boyland says, spitting the words like venom.

“What? I didn’t—”

A sickle swings fast. Cael leans back—the blade whistles through the air only inches from his nose, and it lops off the top of a cornstalk at the end of its arc. Boyland lurches forward and slams into Cael as if he’s nothing but one big, giant fist—

Boom
.

They lift up and slam down into the dirt, the corn shuddering all around as if excited by the blood sport.

Cael’s hands paw at Boyland, trying to push him off, but the mayor’s son is strong, even stronger than he remembered, big hands pressing down on Cael’s cheek and pushing his head into the hard ground. Boyland grabs the rifle out of Cael’s hand and tosses it to the ground.

Cael twists his body and manages to lift Boyland. The two start to get up, Cael reaching for his gun, but Boyland brings them both back down again, this time side to side among the stalks.

Boyland’s thumb hooks in Cael’s mouth. Cael bites the thumb. He tastes blood as Boyland howls. A knee slams into Cael’s gut. One hand finds his throat. Closes tight. His vision begins to bruise at the edges—the panic of lost air strikes him in the pit of his belly. Cael thrashes like a cat what just lost his tail to the swipe of a knife—

Cael claws at Boyland’s face. He can’t see. Can only feel. Hair. Forehead.
Eyes
. He digs in—feels the soft eyes start to give—

Boyland roars, shoves Cael backward.

Air rushes in where it had been denied. Cael gasps—

Boyland staggers to stand, knife held high—

A corncob thwacks against the side of Boyland’s head.

He turns. Blinking. A second cob flings through the stalks and pops him dead center in the forehead.

Cael thinks,
Here comes Lane
—

But he’s wrong.

Wanda. Wanda?

Wanda!

Is that even possible?

He thinks:
Doesn’t matter. Don’t think about it
.

All that matters is the rifle.

. . . which Wanda now has.

She fumbles with it and points it at Boyland.

Boyland’s eyes dart between Cael and her. Like a feral animal watching a pair of trappers coming for it.

“We’ve got him, Wanda,” Boyland says. “He’s right here. You’re pointing that gun at the wrong fella. There’s your Obligated!”

“Go back to the boat, Boyland,” she says, hands shaking, tongue nervously licking her lips.

“Don’t do this. He’s mine, godsdamnit!”

“No. He’s
mine
.” Her chin sticks out. “I got this.”

Boyland reaches for the gun, but she jams the barrel forward, jabbing him hard in the palm with it.

“You little—” Boyland promises: “You’ll pay for this.”

Cael gives the mayor’s son a hard shove. “Watch your godsdamn mouth, you big bully,” he says. The crazy thought strikes him:
Because she’s my Obligated
.

Boyland sneers and retreats into the corn.

When he’s gone, Wanda points the gun at Cael.

“Wanda—whoa, hey.”

“You left me,” she says. He can’t tell if she’s mad or sad or both.

“I had to.”

“You should’ve brought me.”

“C’mon, you can see why that was a bad idea—”

“We’re Obligated!” she cries out, eyes filling with tears. But she doesn’t drop that rifle—instead she seems to point it at him with greater intent. “Cael McAvoy, we are set to be married in less than a year’s time. I will be your wife and you will be my husband, and that is Heartland law.”

“Wanda—”

“And you better be nice to me when we are married. I understand you’re a teenage boy in a bad fix, but you could stand to be
nicer
to me.” Again she gestures with the gun. Her finger hovers nearer to the trigger.

“Wanda, c’mon—”

“We got a posse together. You’re wanted! There’s a bounty on you, Cael! Me, Boyland, Rigo’s daddy—we’re here to take you back. You’re coming with me. Right now.”

Her hands shake.

He takes a step toward her. “I can’t do that. I won’t do that.”

“I’ll shoot.”

“No, you won’t. You ain’t gonna kill your Obligated.”

She points the rifle at his leg. “I’ll . . . shoot you in the leg.”

“No medical attention out here. I’ll die.” He reaches gingerly for the gun, a hesitant hand moving slowly, slowly—

Just then, from behind them, back toward the depot—

Lane’s voice. Crying out in pain.

Shit!

Cael sees her gaze flit away from him—

He snatches the rifle from her and takes a few steps back.

As he flips the weapon around, the sights catch on his shirt. The fabric lifts, exposing his stomach, then his chest—

Wanda’s eyes go wide.

He looks down. Sees the fresh green stem poking out from the skin of his breastbone. Two leaves, this time, are slowly unfurling.

“Cael,” Wanda says quietly. “You . . . you . . .”

He tugs down the shirt, suddenly exposed and ashamed.

“Go home,” he says. “You don’t want to be Obligated to this.”

“The Blight. Cael, please—”

“I’m sorry, Wanda. I’m sorry for everything.”

Then Cael turns and rushes back toward the depot, jacking the rifle lever and putting a bullet in the chamber as he runs.

THE DESCENT

BALASTAIR HURRIES UP
the steep white cobblestones of Palace Hill, Erasmus nestled tight in the crook of his neck as the wind kicks up. All around him are the houses of not only the wealthiest among the flotilla’s citizens but also the earliest. Whenever an architect ascends to a Grand Architect and the Empyrean commissions a new flotilla for one to build, the newly minted Grand Architect receives an entire tract of real estate all of one’s own on Palace Hill. Anyone the Grand Architect chooses to bring along is allowed to live here without cost, without care, for as long as the Grand Architect chooses. The people who call the Hill home are the birds on the tallest perch, the bubbles topping a gin fizz.