The Starlight Lancer

Chapter Seventy-Seven: The Mysterious Village

"The truth is so rarely what we want it to be."

—Former CID Lieutenant Commissioner Albarnim Lugre, in a public apology following charges of corruption

The cold grasp of fear gripped Zaina's heart as her eyes scanned the bodies of their pirate foes. It wasn't fear of them, but for herself—she didn't want to become a person capable of doing something like this, good reasons or not. Still, the sooner she reckoned with the worst parts of the job, the sooner she could do something to change them—maybe. She nodded.

Xyrthe clapped her shoulder. "That's the spirit. Next time, though, try to use your magick. You need a long-range attack of some sort if you want to stand any chance out here."

"Right," Zaina said. "Hey—how did you—I mean, why?"

A smirk came over Xyrthe's face. "Why did I trust you, you mean?"

"Um—yeah."

"Truth be told," her mentor replied, "I didn't. As soon as I saw they only had four biriflers, I knew I could take them myself at close enough range. Though I will say your distraction made it a hell of a lot easier."

Any other time, the compliment might've meant something to Zaina; then and there, amid the carnage they'd caused not minutes ago, she felt nothing.

As if sensing her discomfort with the situation, Xyrthe turned away and said, "All right, then. We'll have plenty of time to think about all this as we walk to wherever Reister Fell's holed up. Come on, now."

Zaina took one last look at the bodies strewn about. Was this truly what being a lancer was all about? That wasn't the impression she'd gotten from Gir on Demelia, but apparently nothing on Kaadu—or in the Nova Rim Galaxy at large—was as it seemed.

With a sigh, Zaina trotted to catch up to her mentor, who had already gone on ahead. Their silent journey in the shifting sands continued anew. For hours they marched on wordlessly. Images of the carnage flashed through Zaina's mind as they went.

Fighting the Eldritch wasn't anything like that. It wasn't better—but it wasn't like—that.

To Zaina, Xyrthe's casual attitude—she had seemingly already forgotten—only made things worse. Still, there was little choice but to carry on with their trek.

Once night fell, Xyrthe and Zaina assembled separate tents. Xyrthe started a fire and cooked a hearty meal for both of them. The hot meal lifted Zaina's spirits ever so slightly, but not enough to keep the images from flashing in front of her eyes every time she closed them to sleep.

Even when she drifted away, night terrors held her in a tight grasp; in her dreams, she wandered about the crashed wreckage of the three transports, examining every corpse strewn about the dune—but every single one was her, killed more gruesomely than the last. Bone, flesh, and tendon all exposed to the desert wind while Xyrthe sat atop a nearby dune, eating next to a fire. Zaina barely slept, and fell back into the same dream whenever she did.

Morning offered little respite. Zaina woke to the smell of fresh-squeezed gamba and some seared dulga meat; she dragged her exhausted self out from her tent.

Xyrthe put a cup of gamba into her hands and said, "Drink up. You'll need a lot of energy today."

Grunting her agreement, Zaina sipped at the dark brown liquid. It was much bitterer than what she made at home, but it would do. A wave of energy struck her brain and propagated from the center outward.

"You feeling all right, kid?" Xyrthe asked.

Zaina's shoulders deflated. "I can't stop thinking about yesterday."