Falling Skyward

Chapter Thirty-Five: Death in the Square

Lana felt Dawson's arms fall around her. Only then could she pull in a breath. Suddenly, a feeling of home flooded Lana.

Dawson was so like Gailen it hurt to have him near. Yet all Lana wanted to do was clutch him close and scream or cry the pain she felt. Lana turned into Dawson's chest, grasping at his shirt, holding it tight so his body stayed close to hers. She couldn't let herself cry, yet her whole body shook with the pain.

"Gailen, Gailen," she nearly screamed. "I'm so sorry for leaving you. I'm so sorry I couldn't protect you."

"Shh, shh. It's okay, Lana," Dawson murmured against her hair.

"Please, please forgive me for leaving you. I'm so sorry. I never wanted to." Lana was desperate now—pleading with all her strength. Yet somehow, she knew she wasn't speaking of Gailen any longer.

"There's nothing to forgive," Dawson whispered in a voice felt more than heard. "It's all right, Lana."

Lana slumped against Dawson; her strength nearly depleted.

After a few moments of helpless silence, Taren's voice sliced deeply into Lana's isolation. "Lana, if it's the last thing I do, I promise I will make sure you see Gailen again." Lana lifted her head, meeting Taren's eyes, which had turned grey, like a morning sky dusted with thunder clouds.

"How?"

"The man I'm taking you to, he's found a way to travel that isn't—well, he's found a way between worlds, between space, just like the nightstalkers." Lana shuddered.

"When will we reach him?"

"Three days, maybe two if we're fortunate." Lana nodded her head, peeling her body away from Dawson. She went back over to her horse, trying to conceal how her arms and legs shook as she hoisted herself onto Turnip.

She didn't say a word, and neither did Taren or Dawson as they followed.

*****

When they stumbled upon civilization that evening, the dirt streets were deserted—eerily still and quiet, like a ghost town. As they continued further into the village, a pervading buzz that soon turned into a deep thrumming shook the dirt and their bones.

The frenzy concentrated around the village square, where a man with skin several shades darker than Lana's was stripped naked, bent over a stone. His mangled flesh had gaping, raw gouges oozing ridges of blood.

Two purplish-blue corpses hung from poles, their abnormally large black eyes now vacant, frozen in pain. The bodies, mottled with bruises and scorch marks, were that of a mother and child, their shape so familiar they seemed almost human. Yet there was something markedly inhuman about them, with eyes so dark no iris showed, only endless black. The fingers were longer, willowy, and a black symbol marked their bellies and the inside of their wrists. But most disturbingly, where their mouths should have been laid smooth, uninterrupted purple skin.

A scream ripped Lana's eyes away from the humanoid forms. The man on the stone twisted in pain, his blood-streaked face and terrified eyes staring unseeingly at her. Dawson was already halfway through the crowd, forcing his way to the front, Taren close behind, shouting for people to move out of his way.

A man with a crude, black dagger stood at the head of the crowd, heating the metal once again over the fire. Taren grabbed the man's wrist, wrenching the knife from his hand. Dawson knelt before the tortured man, his face just as twisted by agony. He set his hands on the man's forehead. The violent writhing stopped. The man fell peacefully against the stone as though lying down to sleep.

"How dare you," the man with the dagger spat. "How dare you impede justice. This man is a traitor, and anyone who stands by him should suffer the same fate."

"What has he done? What could he have done to deserve such torture?" Taren yelled, not at the man who spoke to him but the crowd of silent, unmoving people.

"He disobeyed our most honored law. When I was on patrol, I and a fellow guardian caught this man helping these vermin." The man gestured to the mutilated shadoweaters.

"And is there a law against helping a shadoweater?" Lana shivered at the name, looking back at the pitiful bodies hanging in the air, exposed, all their mystery and fear dissipated into revolting vulnerability.

The man's answer bewildered Taren. "There is. Since my grandfather's time, we on the verges have instituted and honored this law. Those who help our enemies are worse than our enemies. They don't deserve the life given them."

Lana saw many of the men in the crowd tense. She clutched at her bow, her heart pounding.

"If you stand in our way, you're nothing better than traitors yourselves," the man with the dagger threatened. Lana saw Taren's hand move to his sword.

Just then, Dawson opened his eyes. Barely contained rage replaced the pain creasing his forehead. "There are no such laws in Altymia, and those who add or tamper with the laws of the land are considered traitors. As Dawson Ethaniel River, son to Thacknell William Debon, and your future king, I command you to stand down. This man has done nothing wrong. These creatures have done nothing wrong. It is you who have broken the law and stand condemned."

Taciturn silence fell over the crowd that had been screaming for blood just moments before. Lana shook her head, disbelieving. Future king? What was Dawson playing at?

"Whose house is this?" Dawson asked, motioning to the nearest cottage. The home was bigger than most, with a wood roof and stone walls rather than the typical wood and straw huts.

"Mine," the man with the ebony knife said, staring disdainfully. Lana edged toward the front of the crowd, her senses afire.

"Open it," Dawson commanded. The man pulled the key from a dull chain around his neck, then stopped, staring insolently. "Open the door now."

Before waiting for a reply, Taren forced his arm against the man's clavicle, prying the iron key from his hand. Lana was feet away as Taren turned to unlock the door. She could see darkness spreading through this stranger's eyes like the bloodshot veins already visible. His muscles twitched in anticipation as Lana fingered the helm at her belt. As the man lunged at Taren, Lana brought down the broad side of her sword, striking him across the cheek and knocking him flat onto the cobblestones. Taren spun around, his sword drawn, his eyes rimmed in white.

"Tie him up," Dawson yelled at the men nearby. "I'll tend to him later." No one questioned the orders.

Lana and Taren rummaged through the man's house, finding clean sheets to create an impromptu stretcher. Dawson huddled over the scarred, broken man protectively. By the time Lana came out of the house, she could visibly see the toll the healing was taking on Dawson—his face grey and haggard.

Lana touched his shoulder. Seeing him so vulnerable, Lana forgot the rank that separated them. Why did she feel so protective of him? "Dawson, stop—please. Is there a way you can take my energy instead of your own?" He shook his head, his lips chalky white.

"There is, but I swore I would never do it again. At least with myself, I can know where my limits are. But another person or creature? That's impossible." Then his voice croaked, "They nearly killed him."

"Zoram will be okay, Dawson. He's strong. He'll pull through," Taren responded.

Lana tried to read the complicated history, realizing sickeningly that Taren and Dawson knew this broken, tortured man.

Lana helped Taren pull Zoram onto the makeshift stretcher and carry him inside the house. Lana started a fire, then went to her saddlebags and the garden to find herbs and roots to make a broth.

Lana needed no commands or instructions. She gathered more sheets, not hesitating to tear them into long strips. She soaked some in a pot of warm water and herbs, and once they were souped in the mixture, applied them to Zoram's torn flesh. No eyelid fluttered; no sigh escaped his cracked lips. Death lingered heavily upon him.