Out here, the heat was enough to suck away the moisture from a man?s skin in the space of a few seconds. The ground was baked dry, the brush as brittle as tinder and any breath of wind which stirred the dust felt as if it had drifted off a furnace. The air shimmered like a harem girl?s gauzy veil, warped the world beyond it so that static landmarks seemed to ripple, their distances imprecise. Mesteno would have died out there, once upon a time, but he?d learned the ways of the Dry under a lover?s tutelage, returning to it often enough without him, of late, to become confident in the intricacies of survival.
He veered away from the suspiciously furred cacti, which, up close, wore a jacket of swarming spiders ready to leap. He avoided too, the tiny mounds in the sand which might conceal a sheltering snake?or the delicate formation of crystalline rock known as desert roses.
Once upon a time he?d lain there belly down in the dust, the sun prickling at his shoulders as Samiel taught him how to tell one from another, watching his obdurate attempts to claim one of the exquisite little structures with unconcealed amusement. Less amusement, when Mesteno had presented it to him, for it had been Saint Valentine?s Day. Neither man had troubled themselves with the giving of gifts, and instead of partaking of the city?s commercialised celebrations, they?d escaped to where they could roam the wilds on horseback, abandoning responsibility for trouble in one another?s company. For all the sweltering heat, such an excursion had been a breath of fresh air, had made the day something worth remembering again, after so many years of what had ultimately been unnecessary efforts. Attempts at romance where he never quite seemed to grasp how it was done.
He?d been out there for half a day, setting off while the sky was streaked gaudily in half a hundred shades of dawn light, finding his way out to the guesthouse where the proprietor had told him, tiredly (and perhaps with a carefully concealed sympathy) that she had seen nothing of the desert man, and tossed him an apple from last year?s harvest. Sam had been fond of the orchard there, been content in his rooms above the stabling before he?d made the decision to put down roots.
From there, he?d followed a route the Arabian he rode knew as well as he did, and they?d loped along at a lazy, rocking horse canter while Rhy?Din?s winter chill ebbed with the shifting lands around them, that tell-tale distortion which marked the passing from one realm to another. The heat had pressed in, and all the smells of the Dry had come with it. Scorched stone and dust, the sulphur stink of the pools they?d explored, the scent of old death when they travelled past the small, sunken, bleach-boned carcass of a dead fennec fox. It was almost noon by the time they?d trotted down into the rocky little canyon, the shade of its high walls and the broad but slow-moving, shallow stream keeping the air a few degrees cooler.
He?d dismounted then, checking cautiously for any lurking threats and trusting the horse?s nose to warn them should a Sand Lion come stalking. Further downstream, the chatter of bird call was sing-song, rather than alarm shrill, and the water appeared clear of any debris which might come carrying unwanted parasites. Safe enough, he decided, to linger here and do as he?d intended.
The skull was colossal, large enough for two men to sprawl upon side by side. It jutted some twenty feet up out of the rocky wall, dark instead of pale, smooth either by nature or by centuries of weathering. Upon finding it they?d speculated over the nature of it, for this was clearly no creature designed for life upon the land, rather some predator of the oceans, something primeval and of the most base instincts. It might have been a great presumption to dare state that last, but this was no ordinary archaeological find. Even now, millennia since it?s death, it exuded the very same ill that it had incapacitated its prey with; fear.
It kept the birds well away, and he?d never witnessed anything else living that would willingly come close. But it did not keep him away. The ancient pulse of its power was little more than an unease compared to what it must have been once, a shiver along the spine with an anxiety low-lit in the gut, not a terror to send a man fleeing with his bowels turned to water. So up he climbed, preferring bare hands and feet over anything he could not feel his way in, and descended from above the protruding skull to drop down atop it, instead of trying to slither over the slippery dome where he might as well have been trying to scrabble at glass, for all the opportunity for grip it gave.
There was a bag slung over his shoulder, dust stained to ochre and fraying over the woven straps, and he let it slide down one long, wiry arm, carelessly disentangling it from clinging strands of hair - dark as aged blood and light as burnished gold, every shade in between tangled in great, snaking lengths that he hadn?t bothered to bind back. Sam had always preferred his hair loose. Sitting down with due caution for the slippery surface of the skull, he spread his knees wide and flattened the soles of his feet for purchase, as he went digging into the bag for the tools he needed.
?S?Gem?s birthday soon,? he spoke aloud to the empty air, but softly, as if daring to break the silence might wake the colossus beneath him. ?I thought I?d make use of our friend here and make her something with an edge. Don?t worry though, I won?t take much.?
Further down the gulley, the stream spilled out into a waterfall, and the land below was one of the Dry?s few, true treasures. A delicately balanced, rare strip of life which had seen the men exploring like a pair of Adams in Eden, respectful of a beauty which hid as much potential for danger in the bite and sting of the unknown inhabitants, as it did for indulgence. Both had been astounded that the valley had not been discovered by the local tribes, who might have left their mark upon it, swarmed it like locusts and moved on again. Then they?d found the very skull he was sat upon, protruding like some grisly warning, tasted the fear it bled into the surroundings like a dark miasma, and taking old superstition into consideration, had known why their little haven remained untouched.
Trying to remove the ancient remains would have stolen the protection, thus he was not greedy in what he chipped away with the spell-hardened tools. Nothing else had sufficed to even leave a scratch, but here he persevered, hammering a slender line into the dark bone with a precisely angled chisel.
?She?s havin? a baby. Asked me to be it?s Godfather. Thought you might find that funny. Oh an? she?s getting? hitched to that Ezekiel of hers. He?s a good guy. ?Bout the only one s?ever seemed to fit right, you know??
He was answered by nothing more than distant bird call, the soft scrape of the Arabian?s metal-shod hooves on the stone as the animal drowsed in the cool respite.
Undeterred, he continued his work, stoop-backed, the pebbling of his spine and its laddering of crude, steel D rings shoving barbarically through the thin fabric of his shirt. The tearing left by Aoife?s barbed wire was healing neatly, did not trouble him, but he kept the scabbing which ringed his wrists hidden by long sleeves, as if reluctant even out here, for them to be on show.
?She asked about you,? he told the man that wasn?t there. ?But she?s not the only one that has. I lied to Viki. Told her y?were still around, but I gave up pretending. I was never very good at deceivin? people. Yeah, so I told Gem the truth and she was asking me what I?d do. Women do that, don?t they?? Wryly questioned, with a sickle sharp smile that looked resigned. ?Won?t let a subject lie. Gotta make you think about the sh*t you don?t want to. Like Paige tellin? me I need to get laid.?
When didn?t he, more to the point? Abstinence had never been his strong point.
?S?fine though, my wrist can take the abuse just as well as you used to.? Lost in memories of a most pleasant nature, he worked, and the hammer struck the chisel smoothly, a predictable staccato rhythm which had the bone split beneath it, but did not crumble it like rock.
?She said a year,? he added, later when the chunk was almost cleanly cut, and a pause had been necessitated by a tumble of hair which threatened his eyes. ?Like the way people mourn. I don?t think I like that,? low and confidential. ?I mean, even if you did just decide to up?n leave me, I wouldn?t want you dead for it. And I don?t want to think you?re dead, either. Wouldn?t I have felt that, anyway??
Wishful thinking, idiot, the pessimist whispered, and outwardly he appeared to snarl at nothing.
The afternoon was spent searching, much like the day which followed. His excursions took him progressively further, saw the dust ingrained into each little crevice of the skin and the silvery hide of his horse as earth-stained as his clothing. Finding the desert man had become something of an obsession, a spur which cut more deeply with every day of his absence, because if he were not dead, and if he had not simply left, he was somewhere lost or harmed. The simple potential for that scenario outweighed any personal concerns or bitterness.
One day, he?d find the bastard. Then he?d decide whether he wanted to kiss him or kill him.
He veered away from the suspiciously furred cacti, which, up close, wore a jacket of swarming spiders ready to leap. He avoided too, the tiny mounds in the sand which might conceal a sheltering snake?or the delicate formation of crystalline rock known as desert roses.
Once upon a time he?d lain there belly down in the dust, the sun prickling at his shoulders as Samiel taught him how to tell one from another, watching his obdurate attempts to claim one of the exquisite little structures with unconcealed amusement. Less amusement, when Mesteno had presented it to him, for it had been Saint Valentine?s Day. Neither man had troubled themselves with the giving of gifts, and instead of partaking of the city?s commercialised celebrations, they?d escaped to where they could roam the wilds on horseback, abandoning responsibility for trouble in one another?s company. For all the sweltering heat, such an excursion had been a breath of fresh air, had made the day something worth remembering again, after so many years of what had ultimately been unnecessary efforts. Attempts at romance where he never quite seemed to grasp how it was done.
He?d been out there for half a day, setting off while the sky was streaked gaudily in half a hundred shades of dawn light, finding his way out to the guesthouse where the proprietor had told him, tiredly (and perhaps with a carefully concealed sympathy) that she had seen nothing of the desert man, and tossed him an apple from last year?s harvest. Sam had been fond of the orchard there, been content in his rooms above the stabling before he?d made the decision to put down roots.
From there, he?d followed a route the Arabian he rode knew as well as he did, and they?d loped along at a lazy, rocking horse canter while Rhy?Din?s winter chill ebbed with the shifting lands around them, that tell-tale distortion which marked the passing from one realm to another. The heat had pressed in, and all the smells of the Dry had come with it. Scorched stone and dust, the sulphur stink of the pools they?d explored, the scent of old death when they travelled past the small, sunken, bleach-boned carcass of a dead fennec fox. It was almost noon by the time they?d trotted down into the rocky little canyon, the shade of its high walls and the broad but slow-moving, shallow stream keeping the air a few degrees cooler.
He?d dismounted then, checking cautiously for any lurking threats and trusting the horse?s nose to warn them should a Sand Lion come stalking. Further downstream, the chatter of bird call was sing-song, rather than alarm shrill, and the water appeared clear of any debris which might come carrying unwanted parasites. Safe enough, he decided, to linger here and do as he?d intended.
The skull was colossal, large enough for two men to sprawl upon side by side. It jutted some twenty feet up out of the rocky wall, dark instead of pale, smooth either by nature or by centuries of weathering. Upon finding it they?d speculated over the nature of it, for this was clearly no creature designed for life upon the land, rather some predator of the oceans, something primeval and of the most base instincts. It might have been a great presumption to dare state that last, but this was no ordinary archaeological find. Even now, millennia since it?s death, it exuded the very same ill that it had incapacitated its prey with; fear.
It kept the birds well away, and he?d never witnessed anything else living that would willingly come close. But it did not keep him away. The ancient pulse of its power was little more than an unease compared to what it must have been once, a shiver along the spine with an anxiety low-lit in the gut, not a terror to send a man fleeing with his bowels turned to water. So up he climbed, preferring bare hands and feet over anything he could not feel his way in, and descended from above the protruding skull to drop down atop it, instead of trying to slither over the slippery dome where he might as well have been trying to scrabble at glass, for all the opportunity for grip it gave.
There was a bag slung over his shoulder, dust stained to ochre and fraying over the woven straps, and he let it slide down one long, wiry arm, carelessly disentangling it from clinging strands of hair - dark as aged blood and light as burnished gold, every shade in between tangled in great, snaking lengths that he hadn?t bothered to bind back. Sam had always preferred his hair loose. Sitting down with due caution for the slippery surface of the skull, he spread his knees wide and flattened the soles of his feet for purchase, as he went digging into the bag for the tools he needed.
?S?Gem?s birthday soon,? he spoke aloud to the empty air, but softly, as if daring to break the silence might wake the colossus beneath him. ?I thought I?d make use of our friend here and make her something with an edge. Don?t worry though, I won?t take much.?
Further down the gulley, the stream spilled out into a waterfall, and the land below was one of the Dry?s few, true treasures. A delicately balanced, rare strip of life which had seen the men exploring like a pair of Adams in Eden, respectful of a beauty which hid as much potential for danger in the bite and sting of the unknown inhabitants, as it did for indulgence. Both had been astounded that the valley had not been discovered by the local tribes, who might have left their mark upon it, swarmed it like locusts and moved on again. Then they?d found the very skull he was sat upon, protruding like some grisly warning, tasted the fear it bled into the surroundings like a dark miasma, and taking old superstition into consideration, had known why their little haven remained untouched.
Trying to remove the ancient remains would have stolen the protection, thus he was not greedy in what he chipped away with the spell-hardened tools. Nothing else had sufficed to even leave a scratch, but here he persevered, hammering a slender line into the dark bone with a precisely angled chisel.
?She?s havin? a baby. Asked me to be it?s Godfather. Thought you might find that funny. Oh an? she?s getting? hitched to that Ezekiel of hers. He?s a good guy. ?Bout the only one s?ever seemed to fit right, you know??
He was answered by nothing more than distant bird call, the soft scrape of the Arabian?s metal-shod hooves on the stone as the animal drowsed in the cool respite.
Undeterred, he continued his work, stoop-backed, the pebbling of his spine and its laddering of crude, steel D rings shoving barbarically through the thin fabric of his shirt. The tearing left by Aoife?s barbed wire was healing neatly, did not trouble him, but he kept the scabbing which ringed his wrists hidden by long sleeves, as if reluctant even out here, for them to be on show.
?She asked about you,? he told the man that wasn?t there. ?But she?s not the only one that has. I lied to Viki. Told her y?were still around, but I gave up pretending. I was never very good at deceivin? people. Yeah, so I told Gem the truth and she was asking me what I?d do. Women do that, don?t they?? Wryly questioned, with a sickle sharp smile that looked resigned. ?Won?t let a subject lie. Gotta make you think about the sh*t you don?t want to. Like Paige tellin? me I need to get laid.?
When didn?t he, more to the point? Abstinence had never been his strong point.
?S?fine though, my wrist can take the abuse just as well as you used to.? Lost in memories of a most pleasant nature, he worked, and the hammer struck the chisel smoothly, a predictable staccato rhythm which had the bone split beneath it, but did not crumble it like rock.
?She said a year,? he added, later when the chunk was almost cleanly cut, and a pause had been necessitated by a tumble of hair which threatened his eyes. ?Like the way people mourn. I don?t think I like that,? low and confidential. ?I mean, even if you did just decide to up?n leave me, I wouldn?t want you dead for it. And I don?t want to think you?re dead, either. Wouldn?t I have felt that, anyway??
Wishful thinking, idiot, the pessimist whispered, and outwardly he appeared to snarl at nothing.
The afternoon was spent searching, much like the day which followed. His excursions took him progressively further, saw the dust ingrained into each little crevice of the skin and the silvery hide of his horse as earth-stained as his clothing. Finding the desert man had become something of an obsession, a spur which cut more deeply with every day of his absence, because if he were not dead, and if he had not simply left, he was somewhere lost or harmed. The simple potential for that scenario outweighed any personal concerns or bitterness.
One day, he?d find the bastard. Then he?d decide whether he wanted to kiss him or kill him.