Seeds of Rebellion
Page 20
Shocked by the abrupt demise of their comrade, the other men skidded to a stop, looking from their fallen leader to the shadow creature. Jason stared in horror. The black figure did not stir.
One of the remaining men looked jittery—a stout, swarthy guy with youthful features and a stubbly beard. He shuffled sideways and glanced down the road, clearly ready to bolt.
“Stay with me, Vin,” the other man encouraged, tall and gangly with hollow cheeks, gripping a pickax. “Take the sword. We’ll rush him together.”
The bearded man had dropped a short sword when he fell. Vin held a gaff. He set down the iron hook and took up the sword.
“Get out of here, Vin,” Jason advised the stocky man. “This thing generally stays tranquil unless people attack it.”
“Don’t listen to him, Vin.”
“Are you blind?” Jason asked the other man, pointing at the corpse. “Did you see what it just did to that poor guy?”
“You mean our uncle?”
Jason frowned. He held up his hands calmingly. “This demon is no friend of mine. It refuses to leave me alone. If you attack it, I promise you’ll join your uncle.”
The lean man appeared uncertain. “Why lead it into our town? Who would do such a thing?”
“I need help. I don’t even know what it is. I didn’t imagine anybody would try to fight it.”
The tall man glared at Jason. “Our uncle was not about to let his sister become endangered.” His eyes shifted to a point beyond Jason’s shoulder.
Jason glanced at the tavern door. It had cracked open enough to show half of the face of the woman he had confronted. She held a quivering hand to her lips. Tears streaked her cheeks. Briefly she met Jason’s gaze.
“I’m sorry,” Jason said around a lump in his throat. “I didn’t mean—”
Releasing an inarticulate cry, she raced from the doorway to the fallen man in the street and collapsed atop him, shoulders shaking. Jason stared down at his boots, wishing he could disappear.
“Come on, Gil,” the stocky man said, stepping toward the creature, sword raised.
“No!” the woman shrieked, freezing him. “Obey the stranger; leave the demon alone. Help me with your uncle.”
“But—”
“No discussion. Gil, Vin, help me with him.” The grieving woman turned her head to address Jason without making eye contact. “Help yourself to whatever you can find. Forgive me if I do not cook for you.”
The two young men lifted the lifeless bulk of their uncle. The woman gathered the sword and the gaff and the pickax. Jason wanted to express further apologies, but only grossly inadequate words came to mind. They toted the bearded man into the building across the street and then closed the door.
Embarrassed and shaken, Jason entered the tavern. The figure followed him. The common room was empty. Evidently all patrons and workers had vacated the premises.
Jason felt guilty and frustrated. He slumped down at an empty table. He had never thought somebody would attack the creature. Had he suspected something like this might happen, he would have starved to death rather than lead the shadow fiend into this town.
Remaining seated, Jason rounded on the creature. “What’s the matter with you? You killed that guy! He was just worried about his sister!”
The figure offered no response.
“How about you hit him in the leg with the hatchet?”
Again, no response.
Jason rubbed his face. Resisting tears, he tried to force from his mind the shocked expression the bearded man had worn as he flopped to the dust. He tried to forget the devastated sorrow of the man’s family.
Standing up, Jason glowered at the living silhouette. “If I thought there was the tiniest chance of success, I’d wring your neck. This wasn’t my fault. I never asked for some shadow freak to haunt me. You were never welcome. You’re the one responsible for anyone you hurt.”
The words did nothing to sooth Jason’s conscience. It was like scolding a statue.
“I should have stayed away,” Jason grumbled miserably. “I should have known better.” The damage was done and irreparable. He had come here to eat, and despite the tragedy, his hunger lingered.
One table held a pair of plates with good portions of food remaining, as if the meal had been served shortly before the gatekeeper raised the alarm. One plate contained a cooked fish with a couple bites missing and some vegetables that looked like tiny potatoes. The other plate had several gray, curled shellfish; a pool of beige sauce; and stringy green vegetables.
Jason sat at the table. Despite the hassle of eating around all the spiny little bones, the fish tasted good, the meat flaky and soft. Jason ate carefully. He doubted the dark figure would rush to his aid if a bone lodged in his throat. The gray shellfish were rubbery, but not bad when smeared in the sauce. The miniature potatoes tasted a little like dirt, and the green veggies were too chewy, but Jason ate them for the sake of his nutrition. Anything that terrible had to be healthy.
Although the two meals filled him, Jason wandered back into the kitchen. He found a pot containing pink chowder. Sampling the concoction straight from the ladle, he found it was the tastiest food yet, and slurped some as dessert.
After finishing, Jason leaned against the wall, feeling sluggish. How could he go from feeling so empty to so overfed in such a short time? He studied the shadowy figure. How would he get help in Ithilum with this thing tailing him? Tark had expressed that Aram might be reluctant to aid Jason. With the shadowy apparition at his side, Jason doubted whether the man would even speak to him. The whole town would end up in an uproar, and possibly more people would be killed. But what was the alternative? Give up? Jason needed advice, and in spite of the risks, he could think of only one source.
Jason explored the kitchen. One door opened to a cellar, another to the outside, and a third to a spacious pantry with a small window in the back. Jason shut himself in the pantry and sat on the floor, waiting to see if the creature would follow him. It did not.
Jason fished the severed hand from his backpack. He slapped the palm to get its attention, and then began tracing letters with his finger. CAN YOU TALK?
The hand began signing. Jason preferred to write the letters down as they came, to keep a record of the conversation. Lacking writing utensils, he focused on mentally combining the signed letters into words.
You returned to Lyrian through the hippo.
WHAT MAKES YOU SAY THAT?
You got all wet and have carried my hand in the same backpack for multiple days.
One of the remaining men looked jittery—a stout, swarthy guy with youthful features and a stubbly beard. He shuffled sideways and glanced down the road, clearly ready to bolt.
“Stay with me, Vin,” the other man encouraged, tall and gangly with hollow cheeks, gripping a pickax. “Take the sword. We’ll rush him together.”
The bearded man had dropped a short sword when he fell. Vin held a gaff. He set down the iron hook and took up the sword.
“Get out of here, Vin,” Jason advised the stocky man. “This thing generally stays tranquil unless people attack it.”
“Don’t listen to him, Vin.”
“Are you blind?” Jason asked the other man, pointing at the corpse. “Did you see what it just did to that poor guy?”
“You mean our uncle?”
Jason frowned. He held up his hands calmingly. “This demon is no friend of mine. It refuses to leave me alone. If you attack it, I promise you’ll join your uncle.”
The lean man appeared uncertain. “Why lead it into our town? Who would do such a thing?”
“I need help. I don’t even know what it is. I didn’t imagine anybody would try to fight it.”
The tall man glared at Jason. “Our uncle was not about to let his sister become endangered.” His eyes shifted to a point beyond Jason’s shoulder.
Jason glanced at the tavern door. It had cracked open enough to show half of the face of the woman he had confronted. She held a quivering hand to her lips. Tears streaked her cheeks. Briefly she met Jason’s gaze.
“I’m sorry,” Jason said around a lump in his throat. “I didn’t mean—”
Releasing an inarticulate cry, she raced from the doorway to the fallen man in the street and collapsed atop him, shoulders shaking. Jason stared down at his boots, wishing he could disappear.
“Come on, Gil,” the stocky man said, stepping toward the creature, sword raised.
“No!” the woman shrieked, freezing him. “Obey the stranger; leave the demon alone. Help me with your uncle.”
“But—”
“No discussion. Gil, Vin, help me with him.” The grieving woman turned her head to address Jason without making eye contact. “Help yourself to whatever you can find. Forgive me if I do not cook for you.”
The two young men lifted the lifeless bulk of their uncle. The woman gathered the sword and the gaff and the pickax. Jason wanted to express further apologies, but only grossly inadequate words came to mind. They toted the bearded man into the building across the street and then closed the door.
Embarrassed and shaken, Jason entered the tavern. The figure followed him. The common room was empty. Evidently all patrons and workers had vacated the premises.
Jason felt guilty and frustrated. He slumped down at an empty table. He had never thought somebody would attack the creature. Had he suspected something like this might happen, he would have starved to death rather than lead the shadow fiend into this town.
Remaining seated, Jason rounded on the creature. “What’s the matter with you? You killed that guy! He was just worried about his sister!”
The figure offered no response.
“How about you hit him in the leg with the hatchet?”
Again, no response.
Jason rubbed his face. Resisting tears, he tried to force from his mind the shocked expression the bearded man had worn as he flopped to the dust. He tried to forget the devastated sorrow of the man’s family.
Standing up, Jason glowered at the living silhouette. “If I thought there was the tiniest chance of success, I’d wring your neck. This wasn’t my fault. I never asked for some shadow freak to haunt me. You were never welcome. You’re the one responsible for anyone you hurt.”
The words did nothing to sooth Jason’s conscience. It was like scolding a statue.
“I should have stayed away,” Jason grumbled miserably. “I should have known better.” The damage was done and irreparable. He had come here to eat, and despite the tragedy, his hunger lingered.
One table held a pair of plates with good portions of food remaining, as if the meal had been served shortly before the gatekeeper raised the alarm. One plate contained a cooked fish with a couple bites missing and some vegetables that looked like tiny potatoes. The other plate had several gray, curled shellfish; a pool of beige sauce; and stringy green vegetables.
Jason sat at the table. Despite the hassle of eating around all the spiny little bones, the fish tasted good, the meat flaky and soft. Jason ate carefully. He doubted the dark figure would rush to his aid if a bone lodged in his throat. The gray shellfish were rubbery, but not bad when smeared in the sauce. The miniature potatoes tasted a little like dirt, and the green veggies were too chewy, but Jason ate them for the sake of his nutrition. Anything that terrible had to be healthy.
Although the two meals filled him, Jason wandered back into the kitchen. He found a pot containing pink chowder. Sampling the concoction straight from the ladle, he found it was the tastiest food yet, and slurped some as dessert.
After finishing, Jason leaned against the wall, feeling sluggish. How could he go from feeling so empty to so overfed in such a short time? He studied the shadowy figure. How would he get help in Ithilum with this thing tailing him? Tark had expressed that Aram might be reluctant to aid Jason. With the shadowy apparition at his side, Jason doubted whether the man would even speak to him. The whole town would end up in an uproar, and possibly more people would be killed. But what was the alternative? Give up? Jason needed advice, and in spite of the risks, he could think of only one source.
Jason explored the kitchen. One door opened to a cellar, another to the outside, and a third to a spacious pantry with a small window in the back. Jason shut himself in the pantry and sat on the floor, waiting to see if the creature would follow him. It did not.
Jason fished the severed hand from his backpack. He slapped the palm to get its attention, and then began tracing letters with his finger. CAN YOU TALK?
The hand began signing. Jason preferred to write the letters down as they came, to keep a record of the conversation. Lacking writing utensils, he focused on mentally combining the signed letters into words.
You returned to Lyrian through the hippo.
WHAT MAKES YOU SAY THAT?
You got all wet and have carried my hand in the same backpack for multiple days.
