The Heartstone Saga, Archibald Bradford [the snowy day read aloud TXT] 📗

Bethany Sinclair and leader of the fake Aegis ordinance disposal team, was staring into the dark and slowly moving water of a narrow creek, its surface sunk deep into the ancient forest’s floor.

After the bloody mess in the desert, and the more recent and even bloodier mess with a patch of Blomma in the primeval forest, he was in a foul mood.

“Boss, coffee.”

Someone nudged at his shoulder, and he looked over to see Joan Dartmouth holding out a steaming metal cup for him.

She’d been working for him ever since she was kicked out of the university in Algrade, a medic by training and an alcoholic by inclination.

Her nose was red from too much drink over too long a time, but even without the obvious signs of her vices she was on a first name basis with every branch of the ugly tree.

He took the drink with a grunt of gratitude, but immediately spat it into the water below when he tasted the liquor in it.

Realizing her mistake she swapped cups with him.

“Sorry, that one’s mine.” He scowled at her, but she was the sort of person who just didn’t care what people thought of her, a trait he usually valued; “Your wife leave you because of that snarling puss?”

“She didn’t leave me.” He growled at her.

“Sure. Sure.” She waved dismissively, very obviously not believing him; “What is it then? You still raw about the flower garden?”

There was little else to do on watch aside from stare at the darkness between the massive trees, so she was mostly making conversation to kill time.

He made a noise of displeasure in his throat as he remembered the prisoners using knives and lost-tech weapons to cut and burn their way through the terrified Blommas’ animated vines and roots, all just to make bloody sport of them.

“It was unprofessional.” He admitted with a steadying breath; “And just plain stupid.”

“You’re worried about those Saenga girls.” She guessed, but he shook his head firmly.

“No, we’re far enough north to avoid their turf. I’m worried about what I don’t know.”

She kicked at the mossy edge above the water, swishing her potent coffee around in her cup.

“And what’s that?”

“I thought it would be obvious: who’s going to stumble on those poor flowers.”

She sniffed and took a long draw from her drink, her eyes darting around the camp amidst the massive trees to see if anyone was listening.

Most of their crew was asleep, save the ones on watch like her and Tristan, while the prisoners they freed from the Trogs in the desert were out to a man.

Like Tristan said, unprofessional.

“They got a few more bodies than us, but our guys still have the better gear.” She muttered towards him, speaking into her cup and keeping her voice low; “Say the word and we’ll cut ‘em loose right now. If we’re quick and lucky it’ll just be knife work.”

Another of the things Tristan valued about the failed medic was her ruthlessness: she wasn’t squeamish about blood, whether it was from patching someone up or from gutting them in their sleep.

He was seriously considering it, even fingering the blade on his thigh as he mapped out in his head exactly how it would go down.

But before he could make the call the camp woke all by itself when one of the sleeping prisoners let out a blood-curdling shriek that even the sacred hush of the forest could not silence.

Thunder, apologizing for lightning.

He and Joan spilled their coffee as they armed themselves and sprinted through the trees and undergrowth towards the commotion.

Soon half the camp was up and likewise armed, watching on as the pair of them knelt at the stricken man’s side.

“What is wrong with him?” One of the other prisoners demanded.

His buddy was writhing in obvious agony, foam frothing out of his mouth.

“Get a stick between his teeth so he doesn’t bite his tongue off!” Joan barked; “Somebody hold him!”

Spurred into action, three of the others joined Tristan in trying to contain whatever seizure had taken the downed man.

Once she’d secured a broken stick between his teeth, Joan peeled back his eyelids.

Only to recoil in horror.

The whites of his eyes were black, and where they should be red with healthy blood vessels they were instead sickly green.

He convulsed again, this time with enough force to cause one of the men to cry out as his thumb was bent too far in the wrong direction, then he went still.

There was a long moment of complete silence.

The shaken medic leaned in again to check her patient, then pulled a flask from her jacket and looked to Tristan.

“Dead.” She said tersely, taking a long pull of the burning alcohol.

He cursed as they looked the man over; she really didn’t need to tell him, because it wasn’t a pretty sight.

His mouth was agape in a silent scream, his tongue lolled out to a grotesque degree around the stick and coated with sickly yellow foam from his seizure, while all of his limbs were broken and angled in impossible ways.

Both of his legs had somehow bent upwards at the knee, then bent again at the shin so that his feet were flat to the back of his calves, sharply broken bones jutting out of his skin. Likewise his arms were both twisted up like bloody and tattered rope, while his fingers looked like nothing so much as braided sticks of flesh.

Several of the people who’d witness his end had to turn away to vomit.

Despite the horrifying scene, Tristan’s voice was level as he looked to the now slightly inebriated Joan.

“How?”

She shifted her neck back to contain a little burp as her booze tried to come back on her a bit, then shrugged.

“No idea. Twist my arm-” She grimaced