Bloodrush (Scarlet Star Trilogy #1)

Chapter 11 - Of Buffalo and Beans

'The boy. That impetuous little sod, he did it. I think I'm in the house. Smells like dust, sweat, and blood, though that's all mine. This is the first time he's left me alone. He doesn't say much. Don't know how old he is, but his eyes are older than the rest of him, that's for sure. He just keeps staring at me, and I can tell he's drumming up the nerve to ask: What the hell am I?'

13th May, 1867

His feet burned. The miles had fallen away, step by painful step. Miles and miles of sun-drenched desert, flaked and rippled like the puckered skin of some over-baked goldfish, already dry as a bone despite the recent storm.

His knees ached. The poor excuse for a path that they followed wandered between fields of red sand and patches of prairie scrub bristling with twisted cacti. Not a soul walked the path with them, neither ahead nor behind them.

His lips were raw. In fact, the only living things Merion had seen on their silent, wearisome journey were the sort that slithered, or scuttled, or soared on the rising thermals and squawked at the wind. Merion didn't have to look up to know the vultures were still circling above them. He could almost feel their keen eyes on the back of his pink neck; he could almost imagine them licking their beaks and praying to whatever feathery god they believed in for a fatal trip or a sudden and vicious heart attack. Merion would give them no such satisfaction.

His eyes throbbed. If the truth be told, Merion was already doubting his decision to follow Lurker into the wilds. Hell, he had been thinking it since noon, and he wagered it was now closer to three. 

At first he had been terrified. The cold, dark hours of the desert night had been full of squealing and snarling. Shadows had flitted back and forth, just out of reach of Lurker's dusty lantern, far too close for Merion's liking. But then dawn had broken, and what little excitement and anticipation he could summon had quickly been dampened by the ceaseless trudging, the countless stubbing of toes, and the dogged heat.

With every sluggish step, and with every flicker of hot pain that came from his feet, Merion's determination had crumbled. Even the tempting gleam of precious answers was starting to wane. Such was the curse of impetuousness. It goes hand in hand with fickleness. Simply put, Tonmerion Hark was exhausted.

'Why ...' Merion took a moment to gasp as he felt the cracks in his dry lips widen when he spoke, '... on earth do you not own a horse, man?'

Lurker went as far as shrugging. That seemed to be about the entirety of his answer.

'Did you hear me?' Merion thought he heard a sigh.

'Never liked the beasts,' Lurker replied. 'Don't smell right, by my reckoning. Too much blood, not a big enough brain.'

Merion frowned. 'Am I supposed to know what that means?'

There was a familiar squeak of leather as Lurker shrugged again. Merion wondered whether it was too late to turn back. He wondered how angry Aunt Lilain would be, and whether it would actually be better to let her cool down for a few days.

'When do we make camp?'

Lurker turned his head just a little. His dark skin shone with sweat. 'Why? You tired, boy?'

'No,' Merion lied. 'Just don't want to spend another night treading through hell with nothing but a lantern and a magpie.'

Lurker could be heard chuckling. He tugged a hand out of his pocket for the first time in what must have been twelve straight hours and reached under his cloak to the small of his back. Merion heard a metal snap, and before he knew it, Lurker was holding a gun aloft, pointing it at the vultures. They knew well enough to flap higher. The contraption was enormous for a handgun. The thing had six long barrels, all neatly and tightly bound together in a ring, surrounded by ornate steel bands. Where their slick, black steel met the dark wood of the gun's thick handle, a huge hammer sat, gently kissing the backs of the barrels, poised to rear and strike like a rattlesnake.