Westhaven by Rowan Erlking (ebook audio reader .txt) 📖

as quickly as possible to avoid being seen as lazy.

“…west. The one those humans saw had white skin. White.”

“Are you certain? And his face?”

The private shook his head. “I don’t know. They said he looked human except for his blue eyes.”

“It is impossible,” the other said, appearing rather annoyed. “If Camus died, so would Cordril. For pity’s sake, a white skinned man with blue eyes coming from the west with vengeance against Camus and all his posterity sounds more like some urban legend. The ghost of Cordil haunts us. Nonsense.”

“They didn’t say he was a ghost,” the other private replied. But he seemed spooked. “They said he was a demon, and he wasn’t alone. There was more than one.”

“More than one? How many?”

“Three.”

The water dripped in a puddle around the tires. He knew the general would get mad if any of the mud stuck to the tires, and as a dragonfly zipped over, drawn to water, the boy immediately hopped to his bucket to wring out the rag.

The boy’s eye caught on the driver. He walked from the village proper towards the inn, leading a young woman with a tight grip on her forearm. The driver’s other arm was around her waist, and the driver’s head close to her ear, hissing like a snake through his teeth. His words to her were undoubtedly threatening. The woman’s eyes were wide with horror.

Closing his own eyes, the general’s slave shuddered. He knew where the driver was taking her. He knew what would happen to her. And he could do nothing but wash the general’s automobile. The terror on her face was as real as pain the boy felt inside, knowing she would be facing his master who had an insatiable lust for beautiful women. Her panic he could feel, even as her feet dragged in the dirt. The driver’s feet dug in with each step, pulling her forward.

It was going to happen again. The villagers would gather together with what weapons they had, most likely just farm tools. Then in a heated fury to stop the consuming passion of a demon of power, they would storm the inn and try and save their young ladies.

There were times he wished he could shout at the general and tell him why the villagers rose up to kill him at the last few places they had been. The old demon seemed to get more paranoid with each day, always assuming that the villagers were insurgents bent upon his destruction rather than fathers and mothers and brothers and cousins of the girls that he had taken for pleasure. Hearing their cries, seeing their homes burn, watching the soldiers shoot and kill people who wanted only to protect those they loved, sometimes he just stopped up his ears and ducked into the rumble seat, sobbing.

Five years working under the heel of that demon. Five years of carrying his bags, cleaning his shoes, washing his cars, delivering his messages and packages, taking his beatings and feeling the constricting iron the demon had put around his ankles squeezing tighter and tighter, pinching his bones until they ached—and there was still no way out. The world under the Sky Child rule would be civilized and have technology, as the humans crawled into the cracks and cowered under their deadly touch. He watched it, wishing the legendary Kitai warriors would come back and save them.

“Please, no!” The woman recoiled from the doorway, looking once to the boy for help.

But seeing him in his pitiful state, she knew she was already beaten. The driver hauled her in the rest of the way as she sobbed. They were inside the inn going up the steps. The boy lifted his head, wishing he had been braver, wishing he had been stronger, wishing that he were free to chase in after them to free the woman and help her run away.

Across the way, through the constant hum of the cicadas in the summer heat, he heard a villager mutter, stomping his feet towards the inn. Then the boy heard a scuffle. He turned his head to look. A young man, a strong man that perhaps worked as a woodcutter or carpenter, was struggling against the holds of two of his friends. A third stood in front of him to block his way with a hissed warning of what would happen if they interfered with General Gole.

General Gole. The general’s slave blinked at the sound of that name. It had been ages since he had first heard General Winstrong called that. He had first heard it from the rebels that he and his grandfather sold arrowheads and swords to. Everyone around the lakes had adopted it. Someone from the north must have come south. In very many ways, the boy hoped they had. He hoped that those in the north were there to let the southerners know how dangerous going up against General Winstrong was.

“What is taking you?” The driver had come out on the porch again, his hands set on his hips.

Surprised that he had let his thoughts drift to daydreaming, the general’s slave rushed to wash the rest of the vehicle.

“Don’t expect to be fed if you lollygag,” the driver said, and he walked away.

The three men managed to drag their friend back into the village living area, though their companion was sobbing, angry, and likely to sneak off for a piece of the general anyway when no one was awake to stop him. But the boy knew if he tried it, the man would be dead by morning. That man connected eyes with the general’s boy, clenched his teeth and turned.

The murmur of the soldier’s gossip barely shifted. Most of the soldiers now talked about going to Harmas where the women were looser and there were plenty of distractions in the social scene. But whenever the gossip turned to those things, he closed his ears and stuck to task. His father’s voice echoed in his head as his conscience, reminding him of better things he ought to be doing with his time. He washed the car and then dumped the water into a run-off ditch. Then he sat in his usual spot at most places, on the stoop of the inn with his shoulders hunched and his head facing the ground.

As the sun lowered in the sky and the air cooled some, the screams of an innocent girl entered the air like the sharp shriek of a bird. The boy covered his ears until the cries died down into sobs. Lowering his hands, the boy returned his finger to the dirt where he had been drawing one of his father’s old trademark designs they put on their swords. He rubbed his swollen ankles where the iron squeezed. It didn’t do any good to say they were too small. The general would call it insubordination and beat him. He only hoped he would not be beaten because the pain slowed him down.

“Do those hurt?”

The boy lifted his head. Looking at who had spoken to him, he stared. It was not a Sky Child, whoever it was.

Glancing around to see if anyone was watching him, soldier or servant, the boy shrank back. The general’s soldiers were standing near the vehicles several yards away. They were not paying him any attention. The servants were indoors cooking up supper for the inn patrons. They were practically alone.

The boy glanced up again and nodded.

“Not allowed to speak?” the man asked. He wore a floppy hat that covered a good portion of his face. Under that he had a beard and tan skin. His brown eyes shone as they looked out. Strapped under his vest seemed to be a hunting knife.

Shaking his head, the general’s slave lowered his eyes. If the general or even the driver saw him with such a man, he’d be killed.

“I see.” The man peered around the front of the inn, possibly checking for those watching. Then he crouched down to look at the boy’s swollen ankles. “I could break them off, and you could run away.”

The boy’s head popped up again, his eyes going wide.

“You’d like that, right?” the man asked.

But the boy only shook his head, trembling as he whispered. “No. They’ll shoot me if they see me run, then drag me back so the general will beat me.”

“The general?” The human sounded like he almost laughed. “You’re General Gole’s slave?”

Cringing, the boy nodded, lowering his head and hunching his shoulders more.

“How long?”

The boy closed his eyes, fighting the tears. “Five years.”

“Hey! What are you doing?” A soldier shouted.

“What’s your name, kid?” the man asked, ignoring the Sky Child soldier.

Hearing the stomping feet, the boy froze, his mouth open.

“I said hey! Get away from that kid!” the soldier stomped over. “Do you want to get shot?”

The boy ducked down, covering his ears.

He heard a loud crack, then another, and then another.

Lifting his head, opening his eyes, he looked to where the man had been standing. But instead of seeing a prone human body as he had expected, he saw the man standing there with two pistols. The pistols smoked.

The general’s slave jumped up and rushed backward to the inn wall. He stared wide at the gunman’s face as the man winked at him.

“I’ll see you around, kid.” The man stuffed one of his guns into a holster that had been covered by his coat, and ran off—but not before shooting holes in the tires of the general’s car.

The soldiers around the inn opened fire at him, but the man escaped into the trees and was gone.

“What happened?” The driver ran out, grabbing the boy first before screaming at the dead soldiers lying in the dirt. He jumped back into the boy who also stared at the bodies.

Three shots. Three dead. Blinking, the boy looked to where the man had run off.

“What happened here?” The driver rounded on to the boy and grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking hard.

Opening his mouth, the general’s slave choked on words, afraid of what he ought to say.

The stern protocol-minded lieutenant grabbed him. “Forget this! I’m taking it from him.”

He set his hands against the boy’s face.

“The general won’t like it, you messing with him,” the driver said.

“Interrogation is a waste of time,” the lieutenant said then nodded. “And I got it.”

He let the general’s boy go, dropping him. The boy panted hard, unable to move. He stared up at the wood of the porch overhang. Only a few times had a Sky Child drained out his thoughts and energy, but each time he could feel death reach out to stroke him, calling to him with a name he barely remembered.

“The kid doesn’t know him. The man had a hunting knife the kid noticed. The man asked questions, offered to free him, and then shot the three soldiers when they tried to stop him.” The lieutenant peered down at the boy’s ankles. “That and the kid’s ankles are hurting him.”

“Oh, so he’s complaining about that again, huh?” the driver said.

Narrowing his blue eyes at the driver, the lieutenant said, “No. The kid doesn’t dare. I’m saying it. Those irons are too small for him. Tell the general he needs new ones.”

Stepping back, the driver lifted his hands up. “I’m just his driver. You can tell General Winstrong that he was wrong if you want, but I’m not going to take his wrath by saying something that he is going to read as insubordinate.”

The lieutenant sighed and shook his head. “Isn’t there anyone he’ll take advice from without thinking someone is undermining his authority?”

“You mean besides the Sky Lord?” the driver asked dryly.

Nodding, the lieutenant glanced at the boy. He was staring up at them both, shaking with terror that he would get beaten that night. 

“Yeah. Besides him.”

The driver shook his head. “I don’t know. Maybe another general or a doctor.”

“A doctor….” The lieutenant nodded to himself. “Ok. I’ll arrange it. There’s a doctor in Barnid I can arrange to casually glance at the kid and remark that he