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Nine
Blaire
I’m moving. Swaying back and forth in a gentle, rocking kind of way. I open my eyes to see the sun high above and the faces of two of Equs’ warriors on either side of me.
It would seem that I am on a stretcher, being carried between four riders, each of whom is lending a hand. I’m surprised they haven’t put me on a cart. That would be so much easier. But I am guessing that there’s a reason they don’t like carts. Or maybe a whole horde of furious tiny reasons covered in branding.
I sit up, to see where I am and what is happening. The landscape is passing us by at a walk, which seems like a really slow and dangerous gait to be in if we are in Eponite territory. Those little fuckers scared the shit out of me. I think they would seriously have burned me if they hadn’t been stopped.
“Lay down.”
It is Equs’s voice that gives me the order. I turn around to see that he is riding directly behind my stretcher, hovering over me like a big furry blue-gray guardian horse angel.
“Where are we going?”
“We’re moving you to the city.”
“I thought you were nomadic. I didn’t know you had a city. Nobody mentions the city?”
“Everybody needs a place to do paperwork.”
I don’t know if he’s serious, or if he just advanced all the way to making a dry joke. Humor hasn’t been his strong suit. It hasn’t been my strong suit either really. I don’t think that’s going to change anytime soon.
“How far is the city?”
“Thirty days and thirty nights of travel.”
“That’s going to take forever.”
“No, it’s going to take thirty days and…”
“Thirty nights. Yeah. I get it.”
I lie back down and let myself be carried. I am not sure that I’m okay, but I’m certain there’s no option but to suck it up and survive this.
Night comes and we make camp. The king tends to me again, with surprising gentleness and care. He is a good nurse, actually. He changes all the bandages over my various scrapes and cuts and makes sure they are not getting infected, though fuck knows what we would do if they were.
“Tell me more about the Eponites.”
“The faction that attacked you is under the control of MacDonald.”
“So they were Scottish?”
“No. They advertised fast food.”
“Oh. Are there other tribes too? Like Amazon, or, I don’t know, KFC? Hah is there an Apple tribe?”
“Yes. Yes. No, and Yes. Only the strongest of brands survived the brand wars which took place in the early years of our founding after the Eponites had split off from the main body of survivors, but before they became what they are today.”
“They told me they were native.”
“They will say anything they feel like saying. The native sentient species of this planet no longer exist. They were absorbed into our bloodlines over time.”
I like listening to him talk, even if what he’s saying sounds like something out of a mad fever dream. I like his voice. I like the way it rumbles through me and lulls me into a state of trusting relaxation which arguably, it shouldn’t. He is a predator king, and he has just one thing in mind for me.
“How did you become king?”
“My people, the Talls, as the Eponites call them, or the survivors as we like to refer to ourselves also formed factions. For generations, we were at war with one another, and with the Eponites. I decided to make it my mission to unite the tribes through conquest.”
“Oh.”
I guess that makes sense. It is the traditional way of becoming king, after all. You don’t get to where Equs is without being prepared to kill. But it’s obvious that he doesn’t kill for the joy of slaughter, or without reason. The Eponites who attacked us deserved death, but he has let them go free to attack again another day. Very magnanimous of him. Or is it?
“Do you let the Eponites run around being vicious little bastards because it keeps your united tribes fighting a common enemy?”
He lets out a low rumbly laugh which carries just a hint of unashamed shame.
“That aspect works in my favor from time to time.”
“A lot of things work in your favor, don’t they.”
“What is that supposed to mean, my fractious little human?”
“It means you’re smarter than you look.”
“That is nothing more than a judgment of and on my appearance. Surprisingly shallow.”
“Is it? Have I pretended to be deep?”
He laughs again, and this time I smile too. Dammit, I do not want to like this king. He is not a good guy, no matter how charming and occasionally merciful he might be. For all I know, he let me get a little bit exploded so that he could have this moment with me - though that would arguably be the action of a complete psychopath, which he doesn’t seem to be. However, now I think about it, most kings have been complete psychopaths. The traits are adaptive to the business of ruling over others.
