Dusk Territories: Always Burning (17 page)

Surprisingly, they all took it very smoothly. Icing on the cake, everyone just shrugged. Knowing that the man you just spent time in a mangrove alone with was a man satisfied on guts wasn’t assuring. Yet, they didn’t seem to mind. “Well that’s interesting,” was all that Rachel said. Her words spoke for the whole group.

“We can help you find food if you need it,” Emelle said. “He’s responsible for tracking the game around here.” The thin lanky woman pointed to her equally slim husband. He grinned sheepishly. “Everyone swears he’s a mutant or demon of some sort the way he finds animals. But he’s always been like that.”

“Stop it, hun.” Forrest’s face was a bright crimson from embarrassment. “I just know
animals and stuff…” he trailed off.

Emelle kissed off his embarrassment from his face. Juvenico scoffed, heading towards his RV.

“Jealous, Juv?” Graham asked, grinning. He had seen that face before. Plenty of leaving and returning from deployments, he had seen the lonelier men pine for companionship like that. Of course, even after plenty of years of service, that expression had probably settled in his face a few times. Everyone thought that he was impregnable, but there was no man void of matters of the heart.

Juvenico grunted. “I’m not jealous.”

“At least you have a chance at it.”

No one had thought about it, but Graham’s condition ruled him out from any love pursuit. That revelation made the group stiffen with awkwardness. Rachael coughed, trying to ease the knot in her throat and the knot in the air. “Um…let’s get to work guys.” It was a futile attempt to escape, but just what everyone needed to go back to work. The group dispersed in a matter of seconds, just to get away from the talk. Nothing’s better than awkwardness to get people moving.

Graham nodded triumphantly at his success. “
Sometimes, you’re a bastard.”
Marines told him that more than a few times. After a while, he started to realize that was true. He was a hard-ass, jackass, 100% grade-A bastard and he wouldn’t change that for the world.

_

The day drove on, and so did they.

Graham rode with Drifter, Wood, and Heron on the top of the largest wagon. Drifter was always manned with two people at least; Graham never known exactly why. Not until they took the first ride into Rootgrove. The reception was neither warm nor cold, yet reeked with something. He described it in his head as if fear and respect shared a bed, but neither knew who dominated. That led to uneasiness, restlessness to a certain fearful mystique. In some cases, the foolish—on the mask of courage—would challenge the legend for his supplies or his prestige.

But, they didn’t have a guard consisting of some of the best soldiers. Nor could they manage to even defeat him. Drifter had amassed a reputation, not only as a group, but as a competent defender. The people of Rootgrove were smart enough for now, at least thoughtful enough to clear the streets as the man entered. That didn’t’ stop the feeling. Graham knew that something would boil here.
We’re in a pot with the burners off.

The town itself was only about fifty or so wooden and mud buildings. Rootgrove came around into a full circle, the tallest structures being near the center. Walled off by thick stone, it sat on a bend within the much larger and deep St. Mary’s River. Thusly, it was covered by the same canopy, string-leaved vegetation, and horrendously large insects like the mangroves they had trained in. Surprisingly, however, they had developed streets made of cobble and stones. Some streets possessed long black post with dim indigo lights gleaming at the top. The way they glowed almost unstirred Graham. Even Wood seemed to be oddly weary of them.

All of the long roads worked like a web, leading into the middle of the village to a circle plaza. Within the middle was a metal statue of a man with long features, almost hawk-like. His face was pointed, nose sharp, eyes narrow, and limbs long. The statue had captured the man saluting proudly; however the look in his eyes seemed dark and cold. But, as good as the statue was, it wasn’t nearly as striking as the actual man standing at the foot of it.

The Conjurer, people had taken to calling him. He held this territory. The tall man stood proudly, grinning with pearl-white teeth, the only thing truly appealing about the man. His long hair hung around his face, dripping down his eyes. His amber eyes, rimmed with black circles, never left Drifter’s face. The roaring of engines and the rattling of cobble under the crushing weight of the trucks didn’t deter the man. He looked focused, fixated only on Drifter.
He doesn’t want us here. No one does.
If had the chance, he would plunge a knife in the Drifter’s back the first chance that he could get.

Today wasn’t that day; Conjurer knew that all too well.

“Drifter,” Conjurer roared over the engines like a mighty bird.

Drifter gave a simple nod. All of the trucks halted, even a few turned off their engines.

Wood and Heron jumped from their post first, standing sentinel as the Drifter eased himself down. Graham took the rear, gun slung over his shoulder. Heron shot him a look, mouthing a simple phrase: “Stay alert.” As he suspected, Rootgrove was dangerous. He was made of death, yet he tasted it in equal measures in the very air around here.

“It’
s truly a pleasure to see you again.”
Conjurer’s voice matched his clothing, smooth and made of silk. He ran his fingers through his brown hair, trimmed with silver. That wasn’t the only thing laced with silver. “Truly, sir.” He extended his long hand, at an attempt for a handshake.

The two men observed each other silently. Drifter was the first to break the silence. He gave a flash of yellow teeth, chuckling madly. Drifter felt normal sometimes. Other times, the normalcy just stopped. “Pleasure was the word you used last time, Harmon.” Conjurer’s face went sour. “But bygones are bygones, right?”

“Of course, of course.” Conjurer folded his arms, taking on a more serene expression. An expression Graham and everyone else felt unnerved by. Drifter hardly seemed to notice. “What brings you to my corner of the world?”

“Your corner?”

“
My
corner.”

Graham tried to push back his expression of disgust. Wood and Heron did not show such restraint.

“I have two requests.” Conjurer opened his arms to the “city”. “You and your companions can stay here until your business is complete.”

“But…” Drifter drawled, arching an eyebrow.

Conjurer
looked at his fingers, adorned with emerald and ruby rings. “Your tanks must stay outside of the city limits and I’m only permitting a small group to in
vestigate through the Boneyard.”

Everyone looked at Drifter, awaiting his response. The old man stuffed his hands in his pocket, walking around with his cane as though thinking about the possibilities. No one voiced their opinions. Somehow, it seemed out of place, wrong in the grand scheme of things. So they waited. Waited for the white haired leader to speak to agree or deny these terms. “I agree, if I can bargain. You don’t mind me swindling, right?”

Amused by the gesture, Conjurer bowed to allow him to continue.

“My tanks and the scouting party are agreeable, only if you allow me to look at a certain book that I
found
was in your possession.”

“Oh you know about that!” He shrugged, unfazed by the added stipulation. “It has no use to me. Not anymore. You may take it if you like. It has already brought me what I want.” Conjurer clapped his hands together, irises of his eyes staring at Drifter. “Then we have a deal, Mr….. It’s a shame you know my name and I do not have a clue of yours. Mr. Drifter would do. Do we have a deal, Mr. Drifter?”

The deal was already forged and set. This was just a commodity, a ploy of mutual trust. Trust wasn’t there, just a temporary agreement. Drifter played the part better than an actor, despite that. “Of course. Of course, of course.” This time, he extended his hand.

“Good that we have met to an agreement.” Conjurer took his hand firmly, releasing in less than a second. “I’m sorry to cut this short but I have other business to tend to. If you excuse me.” He turned on his heels, heading down the largest pathway of the city, green silk robe flying behind him. He was happy; everyone saw it in the way he walked. That man was vile, and a vile man happy was worse than a snake bite. Somehow, they were equally as poisonous.

Graham touched the end of his gun. That man has probably killed thousands of innocent people to get here. “I don’t like him.”

“None of us do.” Heron gave her best impression of a frown, which in fact, wasn’t that different from her normal expression.

“Then why did we just let him deal his way to a tactical advantage?”

Drifter stroked his beard at the question. “Sometimes, my boy, you have to let the small dog act like the big dog. Everyone go get ready. Graham, choose a group.”

“Choose a what?”

“Potatoes in your ears? You’re going to the Boneyard.” Drifter tapped Graham on the head with his cane. “Remember, trust’s a concept boy. I happened to have little for Conjurer.”

“You think it’s a trap?”

“Of course it’s a trap, Corporal. That’s why I’m sendin’ a bear, a slim undead bear. Now get to it, our pursuer has made a deal with Conjurer and I plan to find out while you retrieve the contents of the Boneyard.”

More of this Graham heard, the less
he liked it. “What am I looking for?”

“A cache of some sort. It’s important. Trust me. In the meantime, I’m going to go find some cheese. Wood, come my boy. We’re going on an adventure for cheese in this town.”

With not even a second thought, Drifter and Wood detached themselves from the group, heading in the direction of some of the larger buildings of the settlement. Graham stood, watching them walk away. He was really going to do this. He was really just going to leave him with that vague of an assignment. Retrieval and extraction missions weren’t out of his resume, but really? This was going way over the top.

“Best not to think about it,” Heron warned. “The more you think about it, the more insane it looks.”

“I see that now...” Stunned, Graham turned towards the caravan. “I’m going to go prepare.”

Hell, that’s where they were going, he knew it. Right now, they were headed right into the gates of hell with nothing better than a flashlight and some hope.
A bumpy ride. Better bring something.

_

They’re here already, so the game will start soon.

Celine took another sip of tea from her thermos, staring at the large bunker before her. Among the muddy marsh, thick trees, and circle of bones, the stone building was completely camouflage by the very landscape itself. It wasn’t a site for a large battle. Something important was in there. They might not notice the gravity of it, but it is one of the keys to stepping back to the past. They needed to figure this out or things might get worse. Much worse.

Her mind sung whispers into her head. Take what’s inside, keep it for the sake of what you hold close. She could. Morality stopped her, she knew what was right. It would just alter the course, change things that doesn’t need to be changed. For now, she will sit outside of the game and occasionally help each player, equally, with tips.

She took a deep breath. There was one player that she hadn’t met.

Celine knew of him. That wasn’t a warrant of anything. She knew a lot of things. He had just arrived in the Dusk Territories, with two other companions. She had only seen him briefly as he entered the Boneyard. In that small moment, she felt something. His very force, his very person was stained with blood like a murder in the snow. His very aura felt cold, cold enough for her to shiver when she saw him dismount his buggy, and enter into the bunker.

Listening to an off-tune piano
, Celine thought. That was how it was seeing the man walk and lead his men. He had killed before. Not like Drifter’s nephew, who killed violently at a snap. No, he did this on an almost regular occurrence since he was of age. Now, he is going to be caught into a battle that he did
n’t even plan to be in.
A cornered beast is the worst kind of animal.

Celine knew that they couldn’t die. She couldn’t allow any of them to die this early. Graham, Wood, Ragnar, River…this man, they are all involved into something bigger. But, she didn’t know if she could stop it. She pursed her lips. Complications have gotten to know her really well these past few months. There were so many variables and not enough sight. She wasn’t worried about this new player; her worry lied in the players on this board already.

Snap.
The breaking of wood tore her from her thought. Celine turned sharply. River and Ragnar had arrived. However, they weren’t alone. She trekked through the mud, to get closer. The sight was something she wasn’t quite expecting.

With River, Ragnar, and the return of Beastmaster, they had other soldiers. Foot soldiers, dressed in all white body armor and gas mask with blue lens, were accompanying them.

She froze, dropping her thermos into the mud.
They
were not supposed to be here. Her throat went dry, despite her expression keeping the form of cool and collected. She had known they were in the area, but River wasn’t crazy enough to strike a deal with them, right? No. Of course she was. It had to be the Conjurer’s doing. He was the only person that could have contacted them…

The Ancestors were here…and there was a Son in Rootgrove.

“Damn,” Celine said, dryly. Complications had indeed made an ill-friend with her.

10

Bloodstain

“There are two types of battles. The first is easy to see because it’s bathed with blood. The second, however, is much more subtle. Words are bloody in their own right.”

Wood didn’t like this place. He could smell the blood in the air, lingering above Rootgrove and nestling in clouds. He knew this because he had smelled this fragrance more than enough times, whether it was his or someone else’s. The town looked as pretty as a post-apocalypse city could be. For many people, those who didn’t know better would even assume that it was safe. But it wasn’t. People often connected locked doors and pretty scenery with safety.