The Journey of the Marked (The Miyran Heir Book 1) (18 page)

Aston, Kenrya, and Chimsey tended
to the old man’s wounds. The rizon hindered their efforts by hurling themselves
across the safe path from time to time in a desperate effort to knock more prey
into the water. Though Henry’s injuries were severe, the bleeding slowed
sufficiently that they were able to tend to his wounds and bandage him.

From the wagon, Prizene collected
the little shivering animal, which definitely matched the description of a
flibbit that she learned in class — such a very rare species. The flibbit,
stretched, was no more than six inches tall with short brown hair and long,
floppy ears. It looked at her with its deep brown eyes and nestled into her
hands. She looked at the injury on its hind leg and hoped they could stop the
bleeding soon.

By then, the others not tending to
Henry had regained their composure and were watching Prizene with the animal. She
turned to find them staring at her with looks of disbelief.

“What was that?” Tip asked. “Don’t
get me wrong, you stopped the rizon, but my hearing won’t return to normal for
days.” He flicked his head and rubbed his ears while saying this.

Prizene laughed. “My mother — well,
my stepmother — calls it screeching.”

“Well, whatever it was, it was
amazing … and painful,” Azetan added.

Prizene smiled proudly and carried
the little flibbit to Kenrya for treatment.

With the injured man tended to and
lying safely in the wagon, and the flibbit treated and nestled in Prizene’s
arms (as it refused to stay in the wagon), everyone returned to their positions
and the party started walking again, eyeing the dozens of water creatures
lining each side of the path. Soon, they reached dry ground and could move a
safe distance away from the wetlands. They set up camp, two of the men standing
guard, and the others wearily crowded around the campfire.

“How is he?” Prizene asked Kenrya,
nodding toward Henry.

“He lost a lot of blood and his
scars won’t be pretty, but he should live. We’ll know for certain tomorrow,”
Kenrya replied. “How is your new furry friend?”

“He keeps shivering,” Prizene
noted, showing the little flibbit to Kenrya.

“What is it?” Tip asked.

Prizene pursed her lips in
annoyance. “
It
is a flibbit. We studied them in class.”

Eros added, “I thought they were
extinct.”

“Thought to be,” Kenrya replied,
“but no one knew for certain. I’ve never seen one, but it does look like the
pictures I’ve seen of a flibbit.”

Kenrya called to Aston and asked
him to look at the animal. Aston’s gasp was audible. He quickly called the
other men over and they all stared in awe at the little creature. In years
past, the flibbits numbered in the thousands across the western woods. Over the
years, the Graeliths and other attackers hunted them to near extinction. Aston
explained his belief that the purging of the flibbits was another ploy of the Tyrnotts,
as the flibbits were loving creatures who supported the Miyrans. The men
discussed the facts they knew of the little animals and agreed the shivering
meant the animal needed nourishment. The men scattered around the area looking
for linoya, a bristly plant whose root was the primary source of nutrients for
a flibbit. The men returned a short time later with linoya plants dug from the
ground, their hands bleeding from the thick, protective needles that grew on
the plants.

Aston chopped off the roots and
prepared them in short sticks. He held one out to the shivering animal in
Prizene’s lap. At first the flibbit showed no reaction, then its nose started
to twitch; its little brown eyes opened and spied the linoya root. The flibbit
snatched the piece of root and gobbled it greedily. With the root gone, the
flibbit stretched as much as its injury would allow and curled up in Prizene’s
lap. Within seconds, it was fast asleep. Prizene rubbed its head and, as the
animal slept, she opened her front jacket pocket and placed the little animal
inside. Within seconds, a soft, muffled snoring was heard from the little
flibbit.

“I still can’t believe we risked
our lives for such a little animal,” Azetan remarked. “Near extinction or not,
how could this pathetic little creature help the Miyrans?”

Prizene straightened her back and
gave Azetan a condescending look. “Flibbits can be very fierce and dangerous. You
should fear him!”

Tip snorted. “Fear that?” he asked,
pointing to the little lump in Prizene’s pocket. He made a show of trembling,
“Ohhh, I am so afraid!” Azetan laughed; Eros shook his head.

“I’m telling you, they’re fierce,”
Prizene said firmly, “and we need to give it a fierce name.” She held her hands
up like claws and bared her teeth. “Something that will strike terror into the
hearts of others.” She looked at Kenrya for support.

“Not my area of expertise,” Kenrya
said with a shrug.

Eros pitched in, “Well, Humans have
animals we call dogs. Sometimes they’re given fierce names, such as Killer.” Prizene
shook her head, then waited expectantly for more suggestions. Eros
concentrated, then suggested, “Butch?” Still a “no” from Prizene. “Spike?”

“Spike!” she exclaimed. “I like it.
Spike it is.”

Tip rolled his eyes and Azetan
almost did the same.

After eating, the group sat around
the fire telling stories again, while two of the old men continued their watch
at the edge of the wetlands. This time, the marked ones joined in with their
own stories. The old men seemed to enjoy Tip’s adventures in mechanics, such as
the time he accidentally blew up one of the neighbor’s wagons while repairing a
transport vessel’s engine.

One of the old men said, “‘Tip’ —
interesting name, young man. Any special significance in that name?”

“Not that I know of,” Tip replied. “My
father liked names starting with the letter T, I guess. My older brother’s name
started with T, too.”

Aston scratched his chin and said,
“‘Tip’ is not a name that makes me curious, but ‘Eros’ is. I’ve never heard
another Human with the name. I asked Henry yesterday and he agreed the name
wasn’t common.”

Eros hesitated. His mother’s love
of Human history had branded him with an unusual and slightly embarrassing name.
Maybe he could avoid the details. Eros explained, “One of my mother’s hobbies
was Human history. She spent hours reading electronic archives brought from our
home world. She chose a name from our history.” He waved his arm dismissively,
hoping they would assume it was nothing important.

“Eros was a famous man then?”
Kenrya asked.

“Well, not exactly.” Was there any
way to stop this? He scratched his head, shrugged, and fiddled with his shoes. When
he looked up, they were watching him, waiting. He swallowed slowly. “In the
early years of the Humans, there was a group that worshiped multiple gods, god
of war, god of water, god of the sky. She named me after one of the gods.”

“The god of what? Of war?”

“Um ... no,” Eros mumbled.

“I couldn’t hear you,” Kenrya
prodded. “The god of what?”

Eros gave her an exasperated look. With
obvious irritation, he said, “Love and fertility.” He closed his eyes and
waited.

The group remained silent for a few
moments, then Tip howled with laughter. The laughter spread and in a short time
the whole group, except Eros, was laughing hysterically. Tip popped up, ran his
fingers through his hair in a mock-sexy pose, and said, “Look at me, ladies! I’m
the god of love.” He rubbed his hands down his chest and started blowing kisses
at Prizene and Kenrya.

The laughter grew louder and more
raucous as Tip’s antics continued. Then Kenrya pointed out he was also the god
of fertility.

Tip started shaking his hips, while
dancing in a circle and singing lustily, “I am the god of fertility. Oh yeah. The
god of fer ... til ... li ... ty!”

By this point, Eros could no longer
keep a straight face. As Tip hammed it up even more, Eros joined in the
laughter.

As they retired for the night, everyone
was still giggling. Disturbing images of the water creatures had been replaced
by Tip’s spontaneous performance.

Eros took the early watch. He
grabbed his bolas and relieved the old men standing guard by the water’s edge. They
certainly moved slower than the marked ones, but having them as guides across
the safe path had saved time, and possibly lives. Eros nervously rolled the
bolas in his hands. He hoped they were still well ahead of the Graeliths, for
surely the Graeliths would take vengeance on the old men for helping them. He
scanned the far side of the wetlands and stifled a shiver.

Mirna helped Tren finish packing
his knapsack. They climbed down the stairs to eat breakfast before Tren left on
his journey. News had reached them regarding a Plinte girl slaughtered by the Graeliths.
She would be honored in Banston. With the hope Tip was alive and knowing the Plinte
kept informed of the happenings in the city, they agreed Tren should travel to
Banston to seek news of their son’s whereabouts. As many would visit Banston to
pay respects to the girl’s family, Tren could easily enter the town without
raising suspicion.

After breakfast, Mirna walked Tren
to the electronic barrier. They embraced and she made him promise to be careful.
He beamed, pleased to see the optimistic smile he knew so well. He kissed her
forehead. Then he signaled the gate keeper and started the long walk to the
transit station.

Jurf woke early the day he planned
to depart for Banston. He wanted to leave the day after helping the marked ones
escape the city, but after discussing the plan with his mother, they agreed he
should wait a few days to minimize the cost of staying in Banston. He hoped
Prizene and the others had discovered the mechanism to disable the gate or
found another path to the forest beyond. As memories of the poor slaughtered Hurfen
boy weighed heavily on his thoughts, he didn’t dare walk near the opening to
the west. He had wanted to tell the boy’s family, but his mother advised
against it. Unfortunately, many in the community believed the Tyrnotts did no
wrong and besides, they didn’t know whether the boy’s family was loyal to
Anyamae. While guilt gnawed at him, telling the boy’s family could backfire and
bring the Tyrnotts’ wrath to his family’s door. He couldn’t risk the danger
that posed to his mother and sister.

The mere fact that there was no
news regarding the capture of the marked ones relieved him considerably. Indeed,
the Tyrnotts and Graeliths would have widely advertised the capture of the
group. He smiled as he thought of Prizene, so beautiful and kind. He hoped one
day he would meet her again and be able to share tales of great glory in his
position among the undergrounders. Surely that would impress her!

He discussed his plans the night
before with his mother. While she refrained from outwardly dismissing his plan
as unrealistic, she spent considerable time asking him to convince her that
this was the best decision for him. Hurfens were not weak, by any means, but
they received little respect from other species and his mother was concerned
Jurf would not be readily accepted by the undergrounders. After several hours
of discussion, her doubts dissipated and she gave Jurf her unwavering support. With
any luck, he could discover news of his sister, though hope of her survival had
long ago faded.

Jurf packed lightly for his journey
to Banston — in part to avoid suspicion he was a marked one joining the Miyran
warriors and also due to the lack of clothing and possessions he owned. His
mother, with the help of his lowly wages, provided enough food and creature
comforts for the family. They never went without, but she lacked the funds to
provide for any luxuries for her children. His father had died in a factory
accident shortly after his youngest sister was born, and Jurf had abandoned
school at a young age to help support his family.

At breakfast Jurf joined his mother
and little sister, Jenda, the baby in the family. He spoke sharply with Jenda
about the Tyrnotts and made her promise not to go outside their home by herself.
He also encouraged her to use the rooftop passages as frequently as possible,
again to minimize chances of being discovered by the Tyrnotts. His mother had
lost one child already and the second was leaving home, losing the third would
be more than she could bear.

With breakfast finished, he hugged
his mother and sister and bid them a hearty and optimistic farewell. Joining
the undergrounders could be dangerous, he admitted, but he would easily be able
to return home for visits. He gathered his pack and the food his mother had
prepared and left for the city’s main transit station, due north of the
marketplace. Yesterday, he had told the diner owner that he needed a few days
off, which meant he didn’t need to stop on the way to the station.

As Jurf walked through the little
alleyways, a sense of renewal and purpose coursed through his veins. The sun
shone brightly today and, even in the smallest of alleys, the sun’s warmth
seemed to penetrate the darkness. The walk lasted no more than an hour, as Jurf
skirted through several lesser-known alleys, reducing his travel time
considerably.

As he exited the alleyways near the
marketplace, he passed a young couple. He gave them a boisterous hello. They
seemed taken aback, gave him a quick nod, and hurried by him. That was odd. As
he continued on, he noticed the other shoppers also appeared more tense than
usual. The air seemed to grow heavy and the hope he felt only moments earlier
now began to wane.

Jurf walked across the northern
part of the marketplace to the ticket booth and received a nervous look from
the ticket seller. “Where you going?” the man asked with a shaky smile.

“Banston,” Jurf replied. “Is
everything all right? What’s going on?”

The man started to key in “Banston”
to the electronic machine, then stopped at Jurf’s questions. He looked at him,
glanced nervously around, then looked back. “Is anyone else nearby?” he asked.

Jurf peered around the booth and
the other areas less visible to the ticket seller. “No. I don’t see anyone.”

“By orders of Nord, transit tickets
must be refused to any marked. Selling a ticket to a marked one is now a
criminal offence. Quick, show me behind your left ear.”

Jurf turned his left side toward
the man and lifted his hair.

The man sighed in relief. “How old
are you, son?”

“Seventeen,” Jurf replied. “I’m too
old to be marked.”

The man wiped his forehead. “So you
are, so you are,” he replied. “I never refused a ticket to anyone before. My
daughter is just fifteen and I worry every day as her birthday grows near. I
wish there was a way to stop it. I’d rather have a disabled child than a marked
one.”

Jurf nodded his head in agreement
and understanding. Again, his thoughts turned to Prizene and the others.

“Still,” the man continued, “many
tickets have been purchased for Banston the last few days. The funeral of that
poor, young girl will be a grand affair. I heard she was in some sort of
accident. Is that why you are going to Banston?”

“Yes,” Jurf answered slowly. He
fiddled with his hands to buy himself a little time. He was confused by the
man’s story, as Prizene had told him the girl was killed because she was
marked, not due to an accident. Perhaps others didn’t know the real story. He
would keep that information to himself, then. To help put the man at ease, he
recited the story that he had prepared in case he was asked: “My uncle believes
witnessing the funeral will ‘help make me a man,’” he quoted comically. “I
think he’s mistaken, but as I’ve never traveled to Banston, I thought the trip
would be a new adventure. Besides, we need new tools for repairs in our
neighborhood. I’ve been asked to negotiate for those while I’m there.”

The man smiled and nodded. “I think
your uncle may be more clever than you think. The trip will be good for you,
son. Just keep the hair pulled back from your left ear, so no one mistakes you
for a marked one. You could easily pass as sixteen.”

Jurf thanked the man for the advice
and paid for the ticket. As he had never ridden a transport before, the man
explained how they worked and to which platform he needed to go. Unfortunately,
Jurf would need to wait a couple of hours for the transport. The man gave him a
small pot of water for free, apparently feeling sympathy for him. Jurf thanked
him again and took the steps up to the platform. As he reached the top of the
stairs, two Graeliths blocked his path.

“Excuse me,” Jurf said dipping his
head politely. “I need access to the platform for my journey to Banston.” He
tried to smile casually, but his heart started pounding.

The Graelith on the right snarled
nastily and demanded, “Show us the left side of your head, and be quick about
it!”

Jurf turned his head, allowing them
to see the left side and, using a shaky hand, pulled his hair back. The Graeliths
verified no mark was present and grunted for Jurf to pass. He thanked them
politely, then walked as casually as he could toward the correct platform,
feeling their eyes burning a hole in his back. He found a seat out of their
view and waited.

Once his transport arrived, he
boarded it and scanned the aisles for an empty seat. The ticket seller’s
information regarding the number of travelers to Banston had not been
exaggerated, as few seats were empty. Jurf spotted one beside a man probably of
the same species as Tip. The man was soft in appearance with full, fluffy brown
hair ending in yellow tips. Yes, he definitely reminded Jurf of Tip. The other
available seat was next to a large, female Skurk with a scowl on her face and,
as Jurf drew closer, penetrating body odor. She flashed Jurf an inviting smile,
unnerving him completely. He walked quickly past her toward the other empty
seat by the man with the yellow-tipped hair. The man kept staring out the
window, never acknowledging Jurf’s presence. Keeping his backpack in his lap,
Jurf braced his hand on the seat in front of him as the transport started, and
then took a deep breath to steady himself for his first journey outside the
city limits.