GRANARIA
1:39 PM
Thorn watched as Storm and January crossed the humpback bridge on horseback before following not too far behind. Her horse was just a few feet ahead of the wagon carrying the half-dead traveler. Behind them were her ghosts, the slave master's ghosts, and at least fifty armed Ordizien. Too many eyes.
Waiting for them on the other side of the gorge was Wrath and about three dozen Domizien, all acting reasonably normal in the presence of a traveler. Once in a while, they glanced south, emptiness emerging in their unsightly faces. A welcomed distraction. Storm and Thorn didn't need more eyes on them. The roar of the waterfall prevented Thorn from hearing the words exchanged between January and Wrath, but the mad girl's eyes shifted from Storm to Thorn as her hand rested on the pommel of her sword.
Thorn avoided thinking about her half-baked plan at all costs. It relied on the universe, and she wasn't sure if the universe was on her side, even when she conspired to help her favorite God and their Underlings. That fracking universe couldn’t be trusted; she shook her head and scrambled her thoughts with hard rock lyrics.
They followed the meandering stream, a trickle of water too shallow to jump into and disappear. Around them were small granite houses with their granaries perched atop stone pillars, each wooden door featuring a carved heart. She assumed this was for protection.
Wrath and her demons formed a line parallel to the Ordizien. The horned warrior's eyes were set on Storm, except when she was distracted by a clucking chicken or the sheep bleating farther afield. That's when the ghost of a smile touched her mouth, and her helmet tilted to one side as she followed the animals with her eyes.
The Domizien followed her lead, enthralled by any hint of emotion exuding from her face and body. Wherever she looked, their eyes followed. When she smiled, their crooked mouths curved upward, as if testing the sensation in their dead lips. And when she raged, they roared—hideous and resentful.
The monsters' maestro looked completely at ease as she conducted her gang through a symphony of emotions. Her demons were merely extensions of her emotional music, connected by whatever high or low notes she experienced—any arousal beyond the flat line of their miserable existence.
The poet observed his deranged sister; their flaming hair matched perfectly as they traveled side by side, distant enough to assure Storm's safety. Like the demons, Storm smiled when Wrath smiled; the corner of his eye that Thorn could see was gleaming.
“Further up,” Storm projected his voice, glancing at Wrath, “in Pluriz there are sanctuaries where you can see octopi—eight legs, big eyes, and the smarts of a first-class thief.”
The man, who usually spoke with the force of thunder, now spoke tenderly, unaware of the dark history that threatened his life. He leaned in and smiled. “We can visit, together. Perhaps have some ice cream.”
There wasn't much time to think. Thorn lunged forward, her sword clashing with Wrath's blade just inches from Storm's neck. She slammed into Wrath, and both bodies slid off their horses, landing face-down in the pool of water by the stream.
“You need him. You know you need him,” Thorn shouted, hoping the girl felt she needed her too.
The demons advanced on Storm while the Ordizien blocked their passage, swords clashing and blood staining the pristine water around the stream.
Thorn rolled around, with Wrath's dagger now pressed against her neck; a fine line of blood dripped down into the shallow water. Having lost her helmet in the fall, the young woman stood over Thorn, staring fiercely, her face a constellation of freckles and naïve beauty. Her pouty lips pressed together as her braids hung over Thorn's face.
Thorn flashed a wicked smile, making it hard for Wrath to keep a straight face. In retaliation, the girl pulled back the dagger, preparing to strike while Thorn scrambled to get out of the way. Frack!
“Stop it, Hope. Stop this now!” January shouted in a motherly and commanding tone. Wrath glanced at her, and the Domizien backed away, leaving five or six dead bodies behind. Red and blue, both sides had suffered losses, even if only one had truly been alive. “Aren't you afraid of God? If you kill them now, he'll lose it.”
Wrath stood up, grabbing her helmet by the horns and hiding her face behind the harsh metal. “Why would I be afraid of God? He doesn’t punish monsters; Like…he rewards them.”
Now a handful of Ordizien stood between Storm and Wrath. Storm dismounted his horse and walked over to Thorn, extending his hand toward her.
“What happened to her? What happened to Hope? She hasn’t aged,” he asked as she took his hand and he pulled her up.
Thorn dusted herself off. “Ask your man when you see him again. May I suggest you leave the kid alone before she kills us all?”
Storm's mournful eyes settled on the deceased, reminding Thorn that his weapon of choice was words, not swords or guns. And still, she remained convinced that he was the only one capable of leading a successful rebellion against Up Above.
Revolution was messy, dirty, and political; it was about owning the narrative, not about brute force. To win, they'd need to accept casualties, engage in uncomfortable alliances, play dirty, and persevere at all costs.
Shadow was a fragile and uncompromising fool. He’d lead with love and rather self-destruct than destroy. Following him was madness, even now, when they all lived in the figments of his imagination. They needed a leader who understood the art of insurrection, who knew how to organize and mobilize riots leading with rage, not love.
“March on!” January ordered. “Leave the bodies behind; we don't have time to bury the dead. There's nothing we can do for them and the treacherous lives they've lost.”
Thorn's eyes met those of a Domizien man; the gash from his severed hand was bleeding profusely. His simulated pain felt palpably real, evident in his quivering lips, wrinkled nose, and retracted pupils. It was hard to believe that man suffered no pain when every sense in her body told her otherwise. She’d seen immense pain before and she knew what it looked like.
That's when Thorn's smallest ghost flew through her, kicking, screaming, and giggling. Then a bolt of black thunder streaked across the rusty sky, striking a granary. Rocks and animal feed scattered everywhere, spooking the horses and injuring a few Underlings. Thorn closed her eyes and raised her hand to her neck to wipe away the blood.
“You need to let her go,” someone whispered so gently she failed to recognize the voice. “It wasn’t your fault, nor was it his.”
Thorn held her tongue and opened her eyes to see Storm handing her a piece of cloth ripped from his shirt. For the first time, he looked at her without the ever-present hate in his gaze, and she didn't like what replaced it. No one needed to pity her or her ghosts. “Shut the frack up and stop talking about things you know nothing about,” she said, taking the cloth from his hands to clean her wound.
Spite returned to his face. “He wasn't to blame for every glitch in the platform. You shot him for the crimes of a psychopath. I feel sorry for you, for what happened to your sister, but nothing justifies—”
Blood rushed to her face, hot and deadly. “I killed him because of you.” Who was he to feel sorry for her?
“Wh—what?”
“Your words against him incited me to track him down. You told me he was guilty; no one else did. So don't feel sorry for me or my ghosts. I didn't protect her, but you essentially killed him. But it doesn’t matter. He was already dead.”
“What?” He repeated, as the explosive revelation finally sparked the right memory.
She might as well have gutted the poet with a blunt knife; it would have been less painful.
In the background, Wrath let out a twisted laugh, followed by a scream. Horror, anger, betrayal—all were notes in her mad song.
“Can you two stop squabbling before you get us all killed?” January maneuvered her horse between Thorn and Storm, then mounted it. “Let's go.”
“Water!” the traveler shouted, pushing away the offered waterskins as he repeated, “I need water.”
Storm glanced back at the commotion. “Release him, Jan. Give him a place to...shelter.”
“Don't be weak,” Thorn admonished. “The man is a slave driver.” She scrambled her thoughts and held her breath, hoping she hadn't inadvertently revealed her plan.
“No mercy for those who show none,” Jan declared.
The sky cracked open, a flash of black scars splitting the blue expanse as a powerful rumble shook the ground beneath their feet. They continued to march, accompanied by their ghosts, as the black light grew ever more intense.