Sand and Blood

Chapter 28: The Offer

Over the centuries, the clans have specialized not only in their powers but what services they offer the world.

—Jastor, A Tactical Analysis of Kyōti Politics

Rutejìmo woke up crying. He could feel the tears running down his cheeks and his chest shuddering with every gasping sob, but he couldn't figure out how to stop. It felt as though his body was disconnected from his mind and he could only listen to himself as he pitifully cried.

He tried to lift his hand to wipe the tears from his face, but nothing happened. He slumped forward and winced as he felt bones grinding. Gasping for breath, he continued to sob as he tried to focus on his chest. It rose and fell with his ragged breathing, but someone had bound his arms to his sides with rope.

There was only one person who would have tied him up: Tsubàyo.

With a struggle, he lifted his head and looked around him. His eyes were blurred from the tears, and a fire in front of him blinded him. He slumped back, hitting his head against rock, and looked up. It took a moment for him to focus on the stars and not the pain of hitting his head.

Moving helped with his crying, and he managed to calm his ragged breaths. He gulped to ease his dry throat and looked back down at his bindings.

Tsubàyo had tied ropes around him: one around the pectorals and below his shoulders, another at his waist, and two on his legs. They dug into his sides, and the pressure ground his ribs together. Morbidly, he focused on his arm. A bruise had already formed on the skin and it was swollen. He concentrated on moving his fingers, but stopped when pain shot up into his shoulder.

Memories of Pidòhu's broken leg flashed through his mind, of the ragged wound and blood pooling underneath. His breath quickened, and he leaned to the side, looking for signs of an open wound. When he saw no puddles of blood or stains on the sand, he let out a sob of relief.

"Please tell me you are done babbling," grumbled Tsubàyo.

Rutejìmo peered across a fire at the teenager on the other side. The shadows cast Tsubàyo in relief, highlighting the scar tissue on the side of his head. He had bruises and cuts on his face. Only a tiny arc of Tsubàyo's glare was visible through Tsubàyo's swollen right eye.

"W-What?" Rutejìmo's voice was broken and raspy.

Tsubàyo shook his head. "You've been moaning and babbling for the last six hours. I thought if I hit you in the head again, you'd shut up, but I was afraid of killing you."

Rutejìmo groaned through a piercing headache and the agony of his broken bones. "Did Mípu get away?"

"Yes, and she took my sacrifice with her."

"Sacrifice?" He let out a sigh. "Pidòhu got away?"

"Yeah, which means you'll be Pabinkúe's sacrifice. You aren't really worth more than that."

He tensed. "Mikáryo?"

Tsubàyo let out a groan as he stood up. "You said three nights, but she hasn't shown up. I've been awake all night waiting for her." He sighed and stretched. "The strange part is that I'm not tired at night. It feels"—he smiled—"good. And I see things I never saw before. The desert is alive, Jìmo, but you'll never find out."

"She won't...." His voice trailed off with the feeling that he shouldn't say anything.

"Won't what?"

"I hope she kills you," he finished uncomfortably.

"Well, if she doesn't come before the sun rises"—Tsubàyo pulled out his knife—"then I'll make sure it will be your last."