Part 15

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The onion.  He remembered, with sudden clarity, the way the butcher had cut its tail and Dalen’s tail had been cut in turn.  Some trick of the magic of the depths, linking two objects, so that what happened to one happened to the other.  With the onion, the words had always taken a moment to appear after they’d peeled it, because somewhere, in the river, someone was carving the words into flesh.  This was how Tayla had communicated.

The butcher with the words on its side wasn’t stopping him from reaching Tayla—it was Tayla.

He didn’t slow his momentum; he barreled into her and grabbed her by the nearest appendage—a lobster’s claw.  But when Dalen glanced back at the tunnel he’d entered through, he saw three butchers blocking it, and he no longer had a spear.  They couldn’t escape the way he’d come, but the sound was clearer here, at the mouth of this tunnel.  It was smaller than the others and might stop some of the larger butchers from entering.

He swam for the passage.

Tayla didn’t move.  The eel-head snapped at him, though it could not reach his hand.

Her message rose in his thoughts.  I forget.  I am not myself.  It was her.  It had to be her.  With a frustrated growl, Dalen did the only thing he could think to.  He seized her tentacles and pressed them against his skin.

He sensed confusion and fear, but ignored it.  Through their mental connection he poured his memories, his love, his admiration.

Tayla teaching him to swim, playing diving games with him, poking him in the sides each time he was sad until he couldn’t help but laugh.  He remembered the day she’d come back to the house, her hands scratched and bloodied, but a grin on her lips and the baby bird that would become Beloved in her arms.  Tayla fishing, and tossing him the best of her catch so he could clean them and throw them over the fire.  Winter days, in the dark, spent sitting and talking by the river, exchanging fancies and hopes and dreams.

This is you.  This is who you are.

He waited, holding his breath.

And then a tiny, tired voice answered him in his mind, with Tayla’s cocky flair.  I know.

When he swam for the tunnel, she came with him.

It was slow going.  Tayla could not move as quickly as he could, and she seemed weak.  He needed this passage to open into the river.  He didn’t want to die down here, beneath the rocks and the waves.

They turned the corner and found a dead end.  Behind them, Dalen heard the sounds of scraping as some of the larger butchers forced themselves inside.

Tayla seized his arm with an otter’s paw, and then used it to point upward.

The passage continued straight up.  It was un-lit and narrower still.  From above came the sound of metal striking metal.

They had no choice.  They swam up the tunnel.

Dalen brought up the rear, using his speed to push Tayla forward.  He glanced down only once and regretted it.  Below him, silver light reflected off of glassy, white eyes, pair after pair.  One of the smaller butchers began to follow them, blocking all light.

They swam through the pitch dark, the passage growing narrower and narrower the further they went.  The rocks cut Dalen’s tail, his hands and his ribs.  But the sound of metal striking metal grew louder. 

Tayla stopped and Dalen slammed into her tails.  Too narrow.  He pushed as Tayla wriggled, and hoped that the tunnel grew wider further up.

She didn’t budge.  Something clawed at Dalen’s tail.  He recoiled as far as he was able, his elbows striking stone on either side.  Below him, a butcher snarled.  The scrape of its scales against rock filled the narrow section of tunnel.  He was trapped.

There had to be a way.  Dalen struggled to think as fear choked his breath.  He wedged his hands on one side of Tayla’s body, searching for some give.  Just above her tails, the rock turned to mud.  Hope flared anew.  He scratched and clawed, pulling the dirt loose.  His fingers went numb; he clenched his teeth until his jaw ached. 

Claws sunk into Dalen’s tail, through skin and fat and into flesh.  The pain seared through his body, making his arms weak.  He screamed into the darkness and dug faster.  He’d die before he became one of them—heedless of aught but the bargains, his sense of self subsumed.

The claws tugged, and Dalen kicked harder.  They tore free, shredding the lower half of his tail, and the world became a white-hot haze, all sound fading away.  He was rigid, he was limp, he was drifting through the water curled in on himself.  He reached down to assess the damage, but the movement made him freeze, the pain crawling up his spine and making him gasp.

The butcher growled and again tried to grab him.  The claws grazed Dalen’s feet.

His feet.  The tail was peeling away, the dead flesh dying again.

Tayla.  Dalen scrambled upward, latching onto the rock and finding the place where he’d dug.  He tore at the mud, heedless of any damage he might be doing to his fingers.  The dirt fell away in clumps.

He gave one last, desperate shove against Tayla’s tails.

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The Butchers, The Menders is a completed novella. I'll be posting pieces of it every several days or so!

If you enjoyed this, please favorite! You can follow me on twitter @AndreaGStewart, find me on facebook, or visit my webpage at http://www.andreagstewart.com. I have several projects in the works, and some of my pieces are available or will be available in various online or paper publications.

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