Chapter 55 Scythro
Morning comes too soon for my liking.
But then, I’ve never been much of a morning person; I’ve always been a creature of the night.
Nevertheless, the first pink blush of dawn finds me awake, a gathering hue in the eastern sky matched by the intermittent flashings of the Vents to the north. Ghorak still sleeps, and Jean sleeps with him, her little human body enveloped in the Grangorian’s vast green embrace.
His stoner persona may have been a ruse, but the snoring, apparently, was not. It’s a wonder the human can sleep through such a racket. But then, she had a very long and tiring night.
We all did.
The only one who seemed not to be exhausted by it was Venim. The orange-skinned warrior was awake even before me. I doubt if he slept at all. Znthians rarely do.
At the moment, he is repairing his sword.
It is… fascinating to watch.
The glazeblade apparently suffered some minor damage during yesterday’s battle.
A few small nicks along the edge. Barely noticeable to the untrained eye, but it’s enough to ruffle Venim’s scales.
The Znthian is now kneeling, sans loincloth, with the sword laid out before him, and he is steadily stroking his hardened cock with all the focus of a master craftsman.
“What are you looking at, whore?”
The question is spoken with very little malice. Possibly none. It’s always difficult to tell with a Znthian. With Venim, doubly so.
“Merely admiring your handiwork,” I reply.
I am lounging on my side facing him, and I have not bothered to put my pants back on since last night. My admiration is on full display, hard and throbbing. Venim does not look at it however. He is far too engrossed in what he is doing.
The warrior grunts softly as he comes. The tendons around his pelvis flutter deliciously beneath his orange scales.
The fluid that spurts from his tip is almost the same shade as my skin.
It spatters across the edge of the sword like deep blue blood.
Venim spreads it with the ball of his thumb, filling the small cavities in the blade before applying the flame of Ghorak’s lighter.
I watch him a moment longer before turning my attention back to the others.
The sun is now breaking over the mountains to the east. Its light strikes the two sleepers full in their faces, and they begin stirring awake.
At least Ghorak does. The little female is better protected.
She still has the blindfold covering her eyes.
The bandages. More of that material is wrapped around Ghorak’s big hand, covering the wound he sustained yesterday, protecting the human. Good man.
We’ve all got our share of wounds, it would seem. Ghorak’s hand. My forearm where the ashmaw bit me. And Venim, he’s got that little mark on his chest where the female bit him.
And one other I didn’t notice before.
As Venim examines his repairs, he turns his face just so, and the morning light hits the side of his head where the heat from the Vents singed his hair down to the scalp.
I didn’t notice this yesterday, but I can see it now.
A very old and very narrow scar along the side of his skull.
It is too straight to have been made by any weapon.
Too perfect. It looks more like the kind of scar left by a scalpel.
Venim’s words come back to me…
I have no recollection of my life before coming here. None at all. I don’t even remember my real name. I can remember many things, about the universe, about the Empire, about fighting. But when it comes to me, my personal experiences, my life… there’s nothing.
Perhaps he was telling the truth after all. Perhaps someone really did erase his memory.
But who? And why?
Venim’s tongue forks out of his mouth, once, then twice, then his blue eyes widen. He surges to his feet, sword in hand, and turns to face the Vents.
A fraction of a sareth later, I sense it too, not with my tongue, as Venim does, but with my ears, and with my skin. Footsteps. Heavy ones. Something is approaching. Something big.
“Hey,” I call to the others. “Time to wake up.”
Ghorak rises, reaching for his ore rifle. Jean is a little bit slower. By the time she has lifted the blindfold away from one squinting eye, the creature has already come into view. She gasps when she sees what it is.
“My longstrider!” Ghorak exclaims.
He tucks a thumb and a forefinger between his lips and gives a sharp whistle that echoes through the air. As soon as the sound reaches the giant bug, it changes course and comes walking straight toward us on six stilt-like legs.
“Well I’ll be damned,” I mutter.
The four of us pull our clothes on as rapidly as we can.
Then we rush to greet the longstrider. At a command from Ghorak, the creature folds its legs and settles its body onto the ground, chittering softly.
The empty saddle and other pieces of tack are still strapped to its shell.
It is indeed Ghorak’s bug. No doubt about it.
The big Grangorian gives his steed a quick pat on the head. Then he climbs up and begins searching under the saddle.
I glance at Jean. The little human is clothed now, wearing the tattered two-piece garment Venim fashioned from the remains of her bodysuit. Her mask is on too, and behind it, her eyes are glittering in silent anticipation.
“They’re here!” Ghorak says excitedly.
From a hidden compartment under the saddle, he draws out a leather case not much bigger than a large book and opens it. Within are contained dozens of metallic instruments, the purposes of which my simple mind could never even hope to comprehend. They gleam in the Vent-lights like pink gold.
“My tools,” Ghorak says.
Jean stares at him, and her eyes are gleaming too.
“You mean…?”
Ghorak nods, grinning like a boy. “I’ll be able to fix your friend Gerber,” he says. “I won’t have to wait until we’re back to the Weedian camp to get started.”
The human is so happy, she starts to cry. She flings her arms around Ghorak’s big body and hugs him. As much of him as she can hold. Then she pulls back and stares at the crouching longstrider.
“But… how did it find us?” she asks.
Ghorak shrugs and shakes his horned head. “Coincidence, I guess.”
“Or fate,” I suggest. I’m remembering that little voice in the back of my head. The one that implored me to find another way.
Jean seems to like that suggestion. She beams, and her face is just as bright and beautiful as the morning sun.
“Come on,” she says, tugging lightly on Ghorak’s arm. “Let’s get started.”
The Grangorian makes a small noise, and the longstrider rises to its feet again. Then he, the human, and the bug start walking back toward the spot where we left all our gear, including the little broken android.
Only Venim doesn’t move. He’s still staring off toward the Vents, his forked tongue flickering in and out.
“Something the matter?” I ask, too softly for the others to hear.
“I thought I tasted…” He pauses, then shakes his head. “No,” he says. “It’s nothing.”
He turns and follows the others.
After a moment, I do the same.