The Loyal Ones

Ch 21: The Farm

Three sections turned out to be three groups of a hundred and seventy, or five hundred and ten total thralls. Or, about a quarter of the whole unit. And no humans.

"They're sending us on our own?" Red asked, as they picked up their packs. "What about officers?"

Inka laughed, sounding surprised. "The humans stay together."

Dally had told them, and Nessie, and Ansel, to stay with the main group. It hadn't worked. Not even a little bit. The whole pack followed him around, while he collected people that would look for the Brairi. At first the Front thralls looked at him with cold disbelief. Some of them were still binding up wounds or scrubbing gore off their faces. Still, they passed the word. Without Dally actually doing much, the sections formed up with packs and weapons.

Inka had collected Sorrel again, her baby. She was bouncing him in a sling on her back. When Dally had tried hinting she should stay in the main column she laughed in his face. "Brairi don't kill babies," she'd said, and then shown him the belt Sorrel had on. It was five different lucky snake skulls, strung on a leather cord. 'Just in case'.

"So," Dally said, "if there's no humans, who's in command?"

"You, remember?" Inka grinned. "Random male."

That was about the tenth time he got teased about that in the last hour. Apparently Captain picked random males a lot, but he had never managed to choose someone fresh off a railcar before.

Dally snorted. "Fine, yes, okay. Who's auna?"

The Corps word didn't exactly mean 'officer': only humans were officers. And it wasn't just 'oldest', either. Maybe something more like 'respected, longest-surviving person'.

Inka turned and pointed at a female in the middle of a pack near them. "This one, Nedjel." There was something fake about her bland tone, like she was actually glad he'd asked.

The auna was very, very old. She wore mismatched parts of a uniform faded to dull grey, covered by a half-cape of balding seal hide. Scars criss-crossed her papery skin like cobweb, and she carried one of the few remaining twitch-guns over her shoulder. It's glossy shell was stained deep reddish-black from hundreds of layers of polish. Squinting, Dally could see ancient cilia fluttered weakly at the end of the barrel. Still, each piece of her worn gear was perfectly clean, and she packed almost as fast as everyone else.

Now that Dally was watching, he could see the people nearby turning to her for advice. They held up bits of gear for approval, and made respectful signs with their hands.

Dally matched Inka's pace, trying not to smile. "She looks like you."

"She is my grandmother."

"Oh. You must be proud."

"Proud?" Inka's pale cheeks were going red. "I'm just born from her daughter. Listen, Sorrel is crying and goodbye-"