THE FORSAKEN LAND OF GENèSE | LOST KINGDOM

  600

  Solvanel’s chest rose and fell in brief, exhausted heaves. Sweat littered his brow in tight, shining beads.

  His pale white tongue licked the crevices in his cracked lips, reminiscing at the time the mercenaries held his head under a cold, crisp, rushing stream.

  “This is no ordinary thirst,” he whispered inwardly, gasping quietly on the rooftop. He felt withered in the way that plants craved water. Or desiccated in the way that a sinner craved salvation when he was engulfed in the fires of perdition.

  Three days ago, the shepherd woke up in a cold sweat on the hillside where he watched over his pastures of paradise, although he didn’t remember falling asleep. In that dream, he wept for three nights and two days.

  The shepherd wept because his pastures had been overrun.

  It wasn’t a beast with ripping claws or gnashing teeth, growling stomachs, nor eyes that glowed in the dark. No—this wasn’t a beast that sought to eat. Instead, it was a beast that was just as thirsty as he was.

  It was an invasive kind of life.

  Red thorns that crawled over the sunset grass in silent acceleration, weaving themselves through the hills, turning gold into bruised crimson.

  His precious sheep ran at first.

  Barbs punched through fleece and hide, impaling bodies and propelling them into the air upon pikes.

  Sacks of warmth—losing warmth.

  Blood drained in thin, obedient streams down the stems, feeding its growth. The thorns drank until the animals were silent, no longer crying out to a powerless master, leaving the pasture with their shepherd’s silent anguish and his flock’s quiet, expiring breaths.

  And at the end, when the pasture had become a maze of thorns, he saw her.

  A little girl in the middle of a crimson hell, her dead gaze fixed on the empty sky. And a thorned rose held dearly to her chest.

  That was when he woke, minutes ago, in some strange, waterless place, head between his knees while forcing himself to pace his breath on a rooftop beside a stranger. Every inhale took something out of him, followed by razor-sharp pain deep in his lungs, as if they were tightening around thorns that had taken root in their hollows.

  [You have to go back!]

  [I will not leave you here alone!]

  [You can’t stay with me because you promised!]

  In his dream, the thorns smelled of iron and rotting wood.

  [And the vermeille which has already encroached upon a seventh of the earth… What will he do against a plague that rendered the two of us ill? Even worse, he’s already infected.]

  Saint stood up and looked over the edge of the roof. “Silver. That’s what you’re looking for, isn’t it?”

  An-…

  Oscar’s daughter coughed on him at the edge of the cliff.

  Unwilling to come to terms with this fact, he shifted all the blame to the mercenaries. But the truth had come all the way into this forsaken place with a message: she was sick when he left her behind—that little girl was doomed to die from the start.

  “You were talking about it in your sleep.”

  “…what?”

  “If it’s that important to you, we should have enough time to find it. How long do we have left before the comet hits?”

  “…what?” Solvanel repeated. “Yes, I mean—Evermore is slower now. I suspect three more days at this rate.”

  “Evermore? That thing has a name?” asked Saint.

  “Everything has a name, dumbass”

  Okay, that one was intentional. Of course, nobody else had to know that. He probably thought he was doing it on purpose this whole time, anyway.

  Saint gritted his teeth, forcing some level of adult responsibility through them. “Yes, Mr Smartass. I’m asking how you know its name.”

  The crown of thorns throbbed a dull reminder around the shepherd’s temple. “Can’t tell you.”

  Everything has a name. It’s just that some are harder to see than others.

  “You know, you have this thing about you. The way you talk is all poetic and distinguished. But when you lose your cool, you go back to sounding like a kid. Are you doing that on purpose or what?”

  Solvanel smiled weakly as he got up, imagining how funny it would be if the crown throbbed in response to that question, too, as if a greater power wanted him to keep it a secret.

  Locking onto the mercenary flames in the distance, he tightened his grip on the crook. “Stay here. I plan to follow them back to the silver.”

  “Nope. Not before I get you the antidote.” Saint grabbed the end of the stick.

  “I don’t need an antidote,” insisted Solvanel, yanking his keepsake away.

  As he climbed upon the edge, prepared to jump to the other rooftop, two arms wrapped around his chest and lifted him off the ground. “Look, kid. I don’t know what happened to you in the treasury. The instrument that claimed me—there are gaps in its memory. But all I know is, whatever power you think is making you invincible, is the same power that’s going to get you killed. You may come from the same village, but you have no idea what some of those guys are capable of.”

  “Put me down!” Solvanel flailed, fed up with the way these brutes were taking advantage of his size. “

  Saint’s head snapped to the side as an elbow cracked into his jaw. He released the kid and staggered back a few steps, impressed, despite being relatively unharmed, that a tantrum could carry that kind of power.

  “Where were you when I took up sword against the spineless, and then Jonah, you coward?” The shepherd whispered harshly. If he were so much more capable, then he should have been the one to speak up for her. “You have no idea what I’m capable of!”

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  “Exactly. And neither did they,” he responded, massaging the bone. “You got one lucky cut on the spineless before you had to run away. And you were humiliated when Fang started taking you seriously. So, until the two of us make it out of this place alive, keeping you safe is my responsibility.”

  “No! You’re my responsibility.”

  Saint didn’t answer. Solvanel’s cheeks tended to colour when exposed to smug bastards like this one. He cleared his throat, voice dropping a few authoritative octaves. “Keeping you safe is my responsibility, sheep.”

  “Now, now, dreamer.” A voice interrupted. “Listen to what your mommy tells you.”

  A meaty forearm emerged over the lip of the roof, wrapped in coarse red fur that appeared more earned than grown—the skinned coat of some great beast, matted in places, thinned in others, and singed all the rest.

  The lesser giant, the older of the Red Boulder Twins, hauled the rest of his body up the ladder with lazy strength. A head with hair the colour of fresh rust, cropped close on one side and wild on the other, as if he’d lost a fight and never bothered to correct the asymmetry. He wasn't as burned as all the others, but the natural colour of his hair was proof that burning is right where he belonged.

  He straightened his back, rolled his shoulder once, then looked between Saint and Solvanel with a contempt that shone in his yellow teeth. “Or is it yer boyfriend?”

  Jonah’s Hunting Wolves—all seven of them—used to be members of Old Man Fang’s Hunting Dogs before they left the village. Most of these men were skilled enough to be a part of the main formation, the seven men who left daily the safe borders of the fence.

  Few of these mercenaries—Jonah, Albus, Wilhelm, and Sula—were outclassed in sheer skill, having gone on more successful hunts than most.

  But so what if they earned their time with the village chief?

  Hearing that funny accent roll off this traitor’s tongue was like finding his grandfather’s body again.

  ? Paraly—?

  Saint covered his mouth before he could finish the word.

  “D-aw! Relax, kiddo! I ain’t here to hurtcha!” Albus put a hand on his half-exposed red pot-belly and laughed. “I came here with a special invitation. Ain’t that right, Sainty-boy?”

  Solvanel’s eyes widened, inspecting both their flames for signs of truth.

  “Don’t bother.” Saint placed his free hand on the kid’s shoulder before confirming the mercenary’s taunt, taking hold of the young shepherd in advance. “What, you didn’t believe me when I said I’ll get you the antidote? He’s the one who’s going to give it to us.”

  “Hrmph?!” Solvanel threw his dirty hand off, repeating. “What?!”

  "Mm-hmm. I might do." Albus rocked on his heels like it was his own front. His eyes crawled over Saint’s stone-cold expression. He tilted his head. "Hey, didn’t I tell you to bring my little brother? There won’t be no deal if you've killed him off.”

  Saint’s hand remained firm, saying nothing.

  "Good," Albus continued, scratching at his exposed belly. The red fur coat shifted with the movement. "I hate havin' other people wrap up my business.”

  He took a step closer, boots heavy against the rooftop. "But y'know what I did wrap up?"

  His eyes slid toward Solvanel. "That little girl. The pretty little redhead one you been cryin' over?"

  Solvanel went rigid, fingernails digging into his palms. “She had a name.”

  The crook was a soothing voice in his mind, begging for patience, while the crown was a stern demand, promising punishment if his thought became a reality.

  “Calm down, kid.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. The one who wanted a name.” Albus clicked his tongue. “You should’ve heard the sounds she made. Real pitiful. Crying, begging, pleading and all that.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Got old after a while.”

  Solvanel jerked forward.

  “Easy,” Saint warned. His eyes never left Albus. “I didn’t call you up here to listen to you run your mouth. Show me the antidote or get lost.”

  “Oh, this old thing?” Albus rolled a vial between his meaty fingers. “It’s yours if you hold up your end of the bargain. But until then?” He grinned. “I’ll run my mouth however I please.”

  His gaze flicked to Solvanel. “Kind of like that girl of yours,” he went on. “We had her running that pretty little mouth all night.”

  Saint's grip tightened, though whether to anchor the boy or himself, he could not say. His fingers dug into Solvanel's shoulder until his knuckles went pale as bone.

  "Don't," he said. Not a suggestion.

  "Get your hands off me."

  Albus laughed, wet and ugly. "Look at you two." He spread his arms wide. "Go ahead, kiddo. Cast one of your grandmother’s fancy words at me. See what happens.”

  "I'll kill you," Solvanel snarled.

  "You'll get yourself killed," Saint said flatly. "Now shut your mouth."

  "Don't tell me—"

  "I said shut it." Saint's command cut through his retort. "You're still poisoned. If you want to throw your life away? Do it on your own time."

  Albus grinned wider. "Trouble in paradise? That's beautiful, that is."

  Solvanel was shaking now, but whether from rage or something else, Saint couldn't tell.

  “Anyway," Albus said, settling against the lip of the roof. "I'm here about that offer you made, Sainty-boy. The one where you help us with Oedipus's little barrier problem, and we give you the antidote for yer boyfriend here."

  "He's not—" began the shepherd.

  Saint interrupted. "Do we have a deal or not?"

  Albus scratched at his rust-colored hair. "Maybe. Maybe not. Can you get yer little friend here to hold up your side of the bargain?”

  Solvanel would not allow this man the doubt.

  'The enemy of my enemy' be damned!

  The world could be ending; the sky could be the one hunting them. It didn’t matter. A predator was a predator. A protector stood against it. The shepherd doesn’t barter with the wolves for one fundamental reason: the only thing of value in his pastures is the sheep. And in working with the wolves, you are teaching them how to unlock your fence. “I would never strike a deal with people like you.”

  “Figured you’d spout such nonsense. But don’t think of it as helping me. Think of it as cleaning up one of the stains your dear old grandparents left behind.”