Dust to Red Dust
I’m ushered outside into the orange sun, towards the Poachers’ holding cart. The Poacher holds me by the wrist, two fingers resting against my skin like she’s taking my pulse, but I know better. One twitch of a finger and she’d inject me with the same sedative that she’d given Hunter.
I don’t fight her, not yet, but do twist in her grasp as we leave the tavern. I watch Tumek lead two robed figures in the opposite direction, scuffling across the orange sand. They’re struggling under the weight of Hunter’s unconscious form, both wearing robes painted with the overlapping cross symbol of NeRaeno. My chest tighten as I realize they’re dragging Hunter in the direction of the citadel’s center spires. It means that this Tumek is powerful, or has powerful friends.
The Poacher stops just outside the holding cart, facing me but not letting go. I stare into her golden eyes, refusing to look away, even as she gives me a pitying smile. “Weapons,” she demands, holding out a hand.
“I don’t have much to hand over,” I reply evenly, shifting my helmet in my arm to reach my belt.
Her fingers tighten on my wrist, and her eyes flash. “I will collect them.”
I instruct her to the locations of my weapons–a dagger and a baton–and she removes them from my person. My strongest weapon, however, she cannot take from me, and she knows it. The energy coursing just under my skin.
“If you cooperate, you might see your friend again,” the Poacher tells me, pushing me into the holding cart.
I bite my tongue and stumble inside, eyes adjusting to the darkness. It’s a covered travel cart with a metal cage door that the Poacher locks behind me. The inside is sparse: a bench on either side and a cloth maroon banner adorned with the Poacher’s six-pointed star emblem across the back.
Two people already sit inside. The first is a bulky creature with a breathing mask similar to Tumek’s, meaning that this air isn’t breathable to them. They keep their eyes downcast, their shoulders hunched. The second is a small form, a child, whose eyes go wide as the moon when I catch them looking at me. The child shivers, their pale, almost translucent skin darkening at the cheeks.
Within moments, the cart begins to move, rolling across the uneven ground, and I stumble back onto the bench.
* * * * *
If I’d had an internal ticker installed, I’d know how much time has passed. But I’ve never been a fan of cyber enhancements, nor seen the need. Not to mention that energy-bearing bodies like mine don’t tend to agree with internal wires and metal.
Eventually a Poacher comes to collect me, a different one than before. This one bears the mark of Coale on his forehead, denoting him as priest. I wonder briefly if they plan on using me in ritual, and then wonder beyond that whether Hunter has gotten himself tangled up in the Coale following somehow. With his track record, I wouldn’t be surprised.
Instead, he leads me to a small room with a dome-shaped ceiling, the only light a circular hole at the very top, too high to reach and too small to climb. The walls are all packed yellow earth, and unmarked. There is no furniture, but he gestures for me to sit. He has locked the door behind him, the key is in his left robe pocket, he carries no weapons but I could stab him in the neck or in the eyes with his own boot spurs if I could get my hands on them.
I relax my fingers, because they have tightened into curls, and I breathe out. Right now I am meant to be Hunter’s driver, or someone equally innocuous. Not a mercenary. We’ll see how long that charade lasts, if at all.
The Poacher’s eyes are set far apart, and he stares at me wordlessly with his golden irises. My sister Murien used to whisper tales at night, one being that a Poacher’s eyes turn more and more gold with every new creature they drain of life. I never believed her, but I almost wish it were true. The real reason, I came to learn, is because the Poachers drink fovva root, which is extremely poisonous, but grants enhanced speed and vision. In just a few years they will have gone mad or blind or both.
The Poacher priest, sitting on the hard ground across from me, holds up his index finger. It hovers between our faces, his eyes unblinking from the opposite side of the room, his face expressionless. I am not familiar enough with the Coale to understand the meaning of this ritual, but I can only assume that it marks me for death.
Energy hums underneath my skin, and I wonder how fast he can really move, how quickly someone else would come running if he cried out.
Suddenly, in a flash as if he were burnt, the Poacher is standing, maroon robes flying around his heels. He still has not said a word, but the finger remains positioned upwards, tilted as if pointing.
I glance up in time to see red dust fall down the hole from above me, polluting the air, as I scramble to put my helmet on. The priest has already fled the room, and the red dust cloud hungrily envelops me.
* * * * *