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Chapter 17: The Seedwind
Part 5
It had taken some urgent convincing from Atrocity to get Turner to go along with it, but in the end he understood that this was probably their only shot. Assuming Roddem wasn’t up to something.
Frix certainly hoped not, since they had partially rearmed him. Roddem wore the disabled crossdart and a shortsharp, and held one of the hammers. He was in the rear. Between them walked Atrocity and Turner, hand in hand, their subtle energy focused on the newest member of the group. All the other weapons and projectiles, including the crossdart’s firing mechanism, were stashed under their relatively loose clothing.
They marched right through the front entrance of the bay. The building was hollow for the most part. One big, long cavern. He understood, in a strange, certain way, that logs came in raw on one side and left refined or carved from the other. He could see what looked like raised work platforms at several intervals. The roof was open as Atrocity had mentioned. One huge continuous slot along the top let the flat white foglight in.
Thin walkways ran flush to the walls, occasionally crossing over the expanse. There were three levels of them, the crossovers seemingly occurring at random. It was an artificial canopy to match an artificial forest.
Mossa’s advance unit made full use of them.
There were four crossdarts and four slingers trained on them as they moved into full exposure. He saw all three of his Seedwind. Former Seedwind, he supposed. Swinn refused to meet his eye, keeping his weapon pointed at the witches. Dreff was unreadable, but his slinger was pointed at Frix’s skull.
Their little group came to a stop as the unit spread itself out above and around them.
“You see it, further back?” Atrocity murmured, keeping her eyes low and her free hand out. Turner was less subtle, staring upward this way and that.
Frix saw. It was a weird silver contraption, maybe about as wide as a small meeting tent and half his own height. Its overall shape reminded him of a skipping stone: fat and squat. Except it was too ovaloid to be a perfect stone, plus, if it was anything like the ones he remembered from the bridge, they grew spiky legs when they moved.
There was a crunch as Mossalea dropped from a low catwalk. She uncurled herself from her landing squat, slinger harnessed.
Frix’s heart did a somersault; the last time he seen her was on their beach. Her face had been soft and inviting then. Now, as she strode towards him, all he saw was her war mask.
She stopped and stood several paces away.
They looked at each other for what seemed like an age, so long that someone from the catwalks shouted, “Mossa!”
Slow as a sunset, she shifted her stare from him to up and beyond, to where the voice had come from. Frix didn’t recognize it who it belonged to, but he did recognize the way she cocked her head and widened her eyes: it meant, ‘Is there something you need help with?’
It must have worked, because now she looked back at Frix.
After another long pause, she said, “What have you gone and done, Frix of Bit?”
“They’re killing them, Mossa. I saw them. The berserkers.”
“No one would have died if you hadn’t interfered.”
“Do you really think so?”
She looked away for a second, chewing on her inner cheek. Then back at him. “Let me see your chest.”
“My… why?”
“Let me see.”
He looked around at the unit, somehow feeling embarrassed, even at a time like this. He pulled away his strings and popped the snaps, careful to keep his movements slow. The clothing fell away, and Mossa took a step forward, her features relaxing as she looked over the scars.
“Just as advertised. But it looks several weeks healed,” she said.
“Yes,” said Frix. “Thanks to the townspeople the Head of Spark is out there murdering.”
“These your friends?” Mossa nodded to Turner and Atrocity.
“They’re… related.” Frix didn’t know what else to say. He began to refasten.
“Is my sister here? She’s just a kid!” Turner said. Frix saw the weapons tense up above.
Mossa regarded him for a moment, then shook her head. “You’re the only ones to come here.”
Turner swallowed and let out a shuddering breath.
“They’re the ones from the bridge, aren’t they?” Mossa said.
“Yes,” answered Frix.
“And you, Roddem. Where are the rest of your men?”
Roddem cleared his throat. “I had to send them back. Injuries. They, uh… we were under prepared for these three.”
“And you convinced them to walk right in here?”
“They knew they had nowhere else to go. The town is ours. The pincers are past this point by now.” His tone became a mocking one. “I think he was hoping you’d show some mercy.”
She didn’t smirk at that, and Frix thought he saw something painful in her gaze. She looked at the ground for a moment, then took out her shortsharp. It was longer than most, about the length of her forearm. She walked close to Frix, holding the weapon loose by her side. The unit above shuffled and fidgeted. If it wasn’t for Mossa, they’d’ve probably rebelled and fired by now.
Frix said, “Mossa, you have to know, I’m—”
“Yeah, honeysuckle, you’re sorry.”
“It’s all wrong.”
“I don’t know what to think,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “Don’t tell these idiots that.”
He resisted the urge to grin. How he had missed talking with her. This was probably the last time. A wave of depression swept over him.
She must have seen it on his face. “A rot-worthy deal you’ve got yourself in.”
“It’s not great, no,” he said.
“So your plan was, what? Roddem never captured you, c’mon. And I doubt those witches are carrying food satchels under their clothes.”
This time he did smile. “Stalling. You going to help me or what?”
“Are you going to endanger my unit?”
“Yeah.”
She toed at the floor and placed her hands on her hips. Her sharp’s blade stuck out at a funny angle. “You make my life complicated, Frix.”
“Not on purpose.”
She looked up at her crew. “Roots group! Get down here and secure them. All of them. They’re the Head of Spark’s prisoners now.”
“Hey, what?” said Roddem.
“I don’t trust you, sentry,” Mossa said.
Frix turned and did his best to give Roddem a meaningful look by widening his eyes. Turner was strange and serene, holding onto Atrocity’s hand, eyes half-lidded. There was no light in them. Atrocity herself stared right at Frix. Her lips moved. He thought they said ‘soon.’
Roddem sighed, lowered his crossdart and let it drop to his side. There were several more thumps as four of the people above dropped down.
Mossa drew near, standing so close that he could see the dark flecks in her eyes.
“I can’t help you Frix,” she said, in that low, low whisper. “But I can’t send you back either.”
He nodded, tingles beginning to crawl up the back of his neck. The four unit members switched their ranged weapons for melee, and prepared restraints.
Mossa’s mask broke for a second, her eyes misty and far away. “You come back, okay? You come back to me.”
“I’ll come back,” he said.
And so he wouldn’t have to watch her heart breaking, or feel his, Frix closed his eyes and said, “Turner, Atrocity? Are you there?”
“Frix, we’re there.”
He opened his eyes, knelt, and looked up at Mossa. “I’ll come back.”
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