ronan-riggs1629621678 Ronan Riggs

Beginning a story set in a fantasy world, with technology similar to the 1890s. The story aims to show a disconnect between nations that rely on magic for warfare and those that rely on technology. The first chapter is finished and I am looking for feedback to make it better and continue, if its worth reading.


Fantaisie Fantaisie historique Déconseillé aux moins de 13 ans.

#Fantasy #inkspiredstory #Magic #war
0
1.6mille VUES
En cours - Nouveau chapitre Tous les dimanches
temps de lecture
AA Partager

The Stranger

The stranger coughed loudly, the sound tearing at the back of his throat, and vomited hot blood onto the ground at his feet. The red liquid oozed into the soil beneath him and made a wet noise as he staggered forward. Mud clung to the bottom of his boots as he moved, leaving a trail of bloody footprints behind him. He coughed again, quieter this time, and clenched at his stomach. He inhaled sharply before doubling over and throwing up. Still bent over, he shuddered before falling to his knees.


Doran ran to the man before his face hit the ground and caught him. Holding the man close to him, Doran walked away from the spot of red land. He laid the wounded man gently onto the ground, tilting his head to the side so he wouldn't choke. Every part of the man seemed to be bleeding. Even though he had held the man for only seconds, Doran was covered in blood, his nose full of the sweet, coppery smell. It stained his clothing, seeped into his pores and burned at his skin, unnaturally hot. Scanning over the man, Doran felt his throat and stomach clench as his body started to vomit. Painfully, he forced the sensation away, and moved his right hand over the stranger, feeling for any injuries. The man’s body was covered in wounds of varying severity. His face had several cuts, with one dangerously close to his left eye, and the last two fingers of his left hand were missing. The stumps weren’t bleeding, and both of his hands were cold to the touch.


Fearing he would die, Doran frantically unbuttoned the man’s jacket and strange, thin cloak that hung around his neck. The garment was short, just reaching the man’s waist on either side of his body and not covering his arms completely. Doran threw it behind him and pulled the jacket open to inspect the stranger’s chest. Underneath the jacket he was wearing a thin shirt. Doran thought it was white, but it was so torn and stained that it really could’ve been any colour. The man’s jacket and trousers were in better condition. Tinged a dark burgundy in large patches they were certainly ruined, but Doran could see they were a light sky blue and the jacket had several insignias sewn into it. Quickly, Doran tore away the remains of the undershirt, getting a clear view of the man’s chest. A large slash, running from the left collarbone to the right armpit, dominated the man’s body, drawing Doran’s attention away from the multitude of smaller lacerations. It was deep, possibly it reached the bone, but was not bleeding heavily. The slow bleeding and cold limbs worried Doran. He had seen many of the village’s watchmen die of blood loss.


When his hand ran over a bullet hole Doran started. He had assumed the man was a victim of a gremlin attack, but those monsters couldn't use firearms. Doran silently thanked the gods for that and stood, removing his shirt. He cut it into long strips using his hunting knife, mourning the loss of the soft fabric.


Bandage the wounds, he thought, you can worry about how he got them when he survives. If he survives.


The strips of cloth were not ideal, but they were the best that Doran’s shaking hands could make. He bandaged some of the smaller injuries first. He knew that he should priortise the larger wounds, but he couldn’t bring himself to look at the man’s chest again. The bandages quickly turned red and gained enough heat to burn his fingertips. Doran winced in pain, but continued. Even though they were soiled and tattered, the bandages made looking at the man possible. Doran's stomach was settled, and he no longer had to fight to keep his insides relaxed though the metallic smell of blood still hung heavy in the air.


Doran crounched and was shocked to see the man’s eyes were open and staring up at him. They were a light grey-blue, almost matching the colour of his clothing, with flecks of darker shades. Blood from one of the cuts on his face had seeped into his left eye and tinged the orb red. Both were unfocussed glazed, staring miles into the sky. Doran wondered if the man could actually see him at all.


“Not very respectful to the dead,” the man whispered, letting his head fall to the right. His voice was strained, hoarse and his words almost gibberish, partnered with the blood gargling in the back of his throat. A drop of blood ran out of each of his nostrils and down his cheek.


Doran shifted and turned to look in the same direction. He already knew what the man had seen, but he looked anyway. Silently, they both stared at the mound of bodies. Next to the corpses was a wide, shallow pit and a hill of freshly dug earth. The pit was half full with bodies, lying in awkward, bizarre positions. All of them were stiff, pale and bloodless. Doran flushed with shame and looked at the ground. When the man’s left eye turned to meet his, Doran grimaced and looked into the distance. He could just make out The Wall. It glimmered and dazzled in the afternoon sun, refracting light onto the dark mud at it’s base. He would’ve thought it beautiful if he didn’t know what lived beyond its confines.


“There wasn’t time to dig separate graves. Especially this close to The Wall” Doran mumbled


No reply came from the stranger and when Doran finally looked down again, the man had closed his eyes. His face moved in pain as Doran placed his hands on him, but he made no sound. Doran lifted the man onto his back, laying the body along his shoulders, just under his neck. It felt to Doran as though he was carrying a recently slaughtered pig.


When their bodies made contact both men screamed, and Doran nearly dropped the other man but his muscles tensed in agony. He fell to one knee and let the stranger gently slide from his back onto the ground. It felt as though a thousand ants were boring into Doran’s flesh where the man’s body had touched his own. The blood that was still on Doran’s skin continued to burn him. Tears filled his eyes and he dug his hands into the dirt and he threw handfuls of mud onto his back, hoping it would absorb the blood or at least some of the heat. Until the pain was bearable, Doran remained couched down, sticky, salty tears running down his face, mixing with his sweat and running into his mouth. He almost couldn’t bear to touch the stranger again, let alone carry him all the way back to town. Doran winced as he rose, stretching his sore skin and aching muscles. He had been burying the bodies since this morning. Digging the pit alone had taken half of the day. He retrieved the man’s cloak and pulled it over his head. It was cool against his inflamed skin, leaching some of the heat away from him. But he could feel it clinging to the burns, the fabric merging into the delicate flesh below that his skin used to protect.


Buttoning the tight colar of the cloak around his neck, Doran returned to the man. He was in worse shape than before Doran had tried to move him, and some of the bandages were already coming loose, but he was still conscious and jerked slightly as Doran stepped close. Breathing deeply, Doran crouched next to the man and lifted him off the ground. His blood didn’t seem to be as hot anymore and only made his arms tingle where it touched him. Still, Doran made sure that the cloak covered the entirety of his upper back before he placed the man on his shoulders. The stranger let out a small whimper of pain, but didn’t have the strength left to scream. Doran winced and bared his teeth as the man pressed against his wounds, but the memory of the burns made the pain small in his mind. Feeling the warmth of the man's body through the cloak, Doran began the journey home, painful step after painful step.


The sun was beginning to set when Doran was close enough to see Firthon. The city was situated at the base of Mount Averoth, surrounded on all sides by a high stone wall. The mountain's peak rose high into the sky above the city, dark and looming. Mine entrances dotted the face of the mountain, black spots on the gray rock. No miners were there now, and the lamps that dotted the wooden paths up to the mines would soon be snuffed. A few metres in front of the base of the wall, trenches circled the city, deep enough for a man to hide within. Layered around the city, the trenches were dotted with sandbags and weak wooden structures. A few men meandered around them with bright torches, but the trenches were relatively empty.


Seeing that the gate hadn’t yet been closed for the night, Doran plodded forward, cold without a proper shirt or cloak to cover him and the man’s half-cloak did little to stop the wind harassing his bare skin. He walked until they reached the edge of the first trenches. The deep pits were connected to one another, allowing for soldiers to easily move around them during a defense. Doran slid into the trench, the slick mud giving under their weight, and began to walk the familiar route through the streets of the trench to enter the city.


The trenches were slightly flooded, like always, and Doran could feel the wooden floor boards that ran along the ditches sink into the mud beneath him when he stepped on them, and struggle to free themselves when they no longer bore his weight. He had fought in the trenches a few times alongside the city’s garrison, but only against the beasts from beyond The Wall. Since the garrison and citizens like himself maintained the trenches, they were ramshackle and neglected, only used to fend off monsters that managed to get past The Wall to the North, a relic from a fearful past. Doran knew that during the Elven Invasions trench warfare had been key in man’s victory against the magical creatures, but when the civil war had begun the trenches became a new kind of hell as technology surged forward. He didn’t envy the men who had fought in the war, most of them were no longer whole.


Doran marched onwards until he reached the gate. In the darkness he passed through without being stopped by any lookouts. Once in the city, he darted into an alley and made his way towards the only person he thought could save the stranger.


The healer’s home was on the northern edge of Firthon, close to Doran's own house. When he was a boy, Doran had been told that the witch used to live in Count Vistas’ estate. She had been the personal healer to the Count and the watchmen, rewarded for her services with a lavish lifestyle. But, over a decade ago she had been forced out. Though the watchmen were still the most frequent visitors to the witch, they were also the ones who complained the most about the fumes that came from her home. Guards had been found unconscious while on duty because they had spent too much time in whatever gases she made, so Count Vistas had sent her to live with the commoners.


The miners and other residents could rarely afford her services, but Doran knew she could work miracles and had saved many men from the black lung. The coal mines were dangerous places, and many died from the work. Doran's nose started to itch and burn before he reached the door. The air around the building was a gastly mix of chemicals, urine, animal blood and charring brimstone were the few odours Doran recognised. The smell wasn’t helped by the cart full of manure parked nearby, which was piled high and buzzing. The stranger moaned in Doran’s ear. Whatever made the smells must have been seeping into his wounds.


With a huge force of will, Doran started to walk faster, unsure how long the man would have to live. He reached the door and smacked his head into the wood. His eyes had begun to water due to the fumes outside, and when he knocked the door tears fell gently out of them. There was movement inside the house, but the door remained closed. Doran shifted the man on his back and knocked again.


After some time the door swung open. A young woman stood in the doorway, in an improper state of dress. She was wearing only a loose fitting robe, the material thin and all the curves and points of her slender body were exposed for him to see. Her raven hair hung to just above her shoulders, leaving her breasts uncovered and visible. She folded her arms over them and stared into Doran's sore, half-closed eyes with her own bright violet ones. Her full lips were pursed and pulled down into a slight frown and her thin eyebrows pulled close as she scowled. She looked at the ground self-consciously. Doran would have been embarrassed too if he had the energy. But he did not, no blush came to his face, his voice did not stutter and his eyes did not wander. He looked at the woman and spoke softly.


“Katrina, is your mistress here?”


“No,” Katrina replied slowly through tight lips, her eyes sharp with irritation, “She wasn’t expecting patients so late. Neither was I."


"What are you wearing?” she added, curiosity edging past the anger and embarrassment.


“He needs help,” Doran said, ignoring her question. He moved past her, their bodies brushing together. He heard her gasp, but ignored the sound. Katrina was not the healer he had been looking for, but she was all he had.


Inside the home, Doran found he was able to relax, letting his tense muscles unclench after the long day, and when the blood flowed back into them, he realised how cold his arms and legs had become. A fire blazed gently in the furnace, giving some light to the dark room. It was very dim inside the building and he kicked objects that were on the floor as he walked, sending them skidding along the uneven boards. He reached the small cot that he knew the witch would put patients on and dropped the man onto it. Doran stood straight and stretched his back. His burnt skin felt like it was going to tear as the muscles beneath it moved, and he winced when his injured fingertips touched anything. The half-cloak sent a chill into him where the cold fabric touched his body, soothing the irritated skin but making him shiver.


Katrina flowed past him and knelt next to the cot. She began to examine the man with a careful, practiced precision, beginning with his face. She pushed some locks of his long hair away from his face to get a better look. Doran hadn’t paid attention to the man’s hair, but now he could see that it was shoulder length and light brown, matted into clumps that were held together with dried blood. Katrina ran her fingers around the man’s face, tracing the wounds with her fingertips. His face crunched into a scowl but relaxed after a few seconds. Katrina turned to Doran her expression grave.


“He's in a lot of pain. First we need to clean him. Help me take off his clothes,” she said.


Doran didn’t question her, stepping forward to help. First, he unbuttoned both the man’s jacket and trousers. He pulled the jacket open, exposing the man’s torso and started to work his arms out of it. Katrina didn’t seem shocked by the man’s condition, examining his body and removing the shoddy bandages Doran had applied with tense, efficient movements, but Doran could see her brow furrow as she exposed the wounds. She ran her fingers over the smaller cuts, mumbling to herself, but simply looked at the largest one. Wincing at having to use his fingers, Doran unlaced the man’s tall boots and slid them off, followed by his trousers. He felt some of the blisters year apart during the action, leaving patches of delicate skin where they once were.


Lying on the bed in his underwear the man looked frighteningly fragile; he was thin and pale, his skin like ivory. Doran folded the man’s clothes into a neat pile. The jacket rested on top, with its insignias shining proudly. Looking closer, Doran saw they were sewn with silver thread, but he could not recognise the symbols. On the right label was a single edged blade piercing a great tree and in a circle on the left breast of the jacket, the head of a stag stared proudly at Doran, its face heavily scarred with deep black lines. The stage reminded him of the animals used to identify different branches of soldiers, but did not resemble the wolves that identified a member of the city watch or the hawks that decorated the soldiers of the Count’s own garrison. He placed a hand on the jacket, running a finger on the rough thread and studying the insignia.


Suddenly, something small and hard struck the middle of Doran's back, pressing the cloak against him. He cried out and fell to the floor, tears blurring his vision. He had almost been able to ignore the aching when he had been carrying the man, the purpose of the task focussing his mind, but now he could only feel the agony spreading from his back. Eyes closed, he stayed crouched on the floor for several moments, crying hot tears.


Grimacing, he stood again and turned to see a shocked Katrina. Her left hand was raised in front of her, shaking, and her right arm supported a basin of clean water. She raised an eyebrow and Doran exhaled loudly and shook his head. He stood and took the basin off of her, turning away. His back throbbed angrily from the spot where she had hit him.


He walked back to the man, grabbing some clean rags from a table on the way. Using them, he started to clean the stranger, beginning with his legs. The man’s feet were dirty and blistered, turning the water a dark brown as Doran cleaned. Once the feet were clean he emptied the basin and filled it again with clean water. He didn’t know much about caring for the injured, but deaths caused by infection and disease were common for soldiers and he had been taught at a young age to be wary of dirty water. While Doran scrubbed the man’s body, Katrina would change the water when it became too bloody, in between examining the wounds. The ones that she touched stopped bleeding and some of the smaller cuts closed on their own. Working together they had the man cleaned and ready to be bandaged in less than an hour.


Katrina wrapped linen bandages around the smallest cuts and sutured the larger wounds using a curved needle before covering them, forcing the wounds closed. Her short hair billowed around her as she moved. Doran was impressed. When he had found her instead of the witch he had worried she would not be good enough, but she proved him very wrong. She moved with intent, none of her speed coming from panic or worry, only experience and skill.


Bandaged and clean, the man seemed in a much better state, despite his injured condition. His face was handsome, with short coarse stubble on his cheeks and around his mouth. Most of his wounds were no longer bleeding, and blood no longer seeped out of his nose or mouth. The bandages on his chest were soiled already and some on his upper arms and legs were slightly stained. She assured Doran that the internal bleeding had stopped as well, not that he had the knowledge to dispute her.


"You're good at this," Doran said running a finger along a stitch, some playfulness breaking through the exhaustion he was feeling, "you weren't this skilled when we were children."


"Well, some of us have higher aspirations than gravedigger,"


"The gravedigger," Doran rebuked flatly, "no else will do it."


Doran turned back to the bed and looked down at the man. Katrina had tied the man’s hair in a short ponytail, gathering the bangs away from his face and neck. No longer held by blood, the hair was soft and straight, the exposed roots dark against his pasty skin. Thin but deep, a scar ran from his right temple to above his hairline, leaving a triangle of bald scalp around it.


There had not been any bullets inside his body, and only a few exit wounds, confusing both of them. On the bed, the man was breathing steadily and some colour returned to his cheeks. While it was reassuring to see the chalky colour banished from his face, the change made it obvious to them just how gaunt he was. His cheekbones poked out of his thin face and they could see his collarbones and ribs pushing against his skin. Dark bags clung to the bottom of his eyes and his bottom lip was split. With the other more serious injuries Doran had not noticed that one, but it gave the man an almost childish look, like he had fallen carelessly in the fields. Doran rested a hand on the man’s forehead, and found it neither warm nor cold but some tepid temperature inbetween. He left a bloody print when he drew his hand away and looked down, paying attention to himself for the first time since he had found the stranger.


Doran was still wearing the man’s half-cloak, which was coated in dried blood, with scarce patches of light brown. His arms were likewise stained and much of the hair stood on end, solid and hard. His hands were mostly clean, but trails of clear red water ran from his arms down to his fingers. The nails on the ends of those fingers were dirty and chipped. Blood and mud made the underside of the nails a dark brown, and that dirt spread to whatever his fingertips touched. His fingertips were raw and blistered, some wet where blisters had burst during the journey. He knew his back would be similarly affected, feeling where the cloak was stuck to the popped sores on his skin.


Allowing the fatigue of the day to finally reach his body, Doran dropped his head into his hands and swayed, legs nearly giving way. He turned to look at Katrina and smiled apologetically, only now realising how she must have felt seeing him like this with a half-dead stranger. He started to speak but she interrupted him.


“You should wash up too, and then you can explain,” she said, shooing him gently away from the bed. She led him to a polished metal basin set into a wooden table. Behind it rested a large silver mirror.


Carefully, Doran unbuttoned the cloak he was wearing and pulled it over his head, the material cool and smooth as it passed across his face. He held it for a moment, studying the garment, before dunking it into the basin of water. The liquid was icy cold, and he gasped in pain when his sore hands plunged into it. Blood from the cloak diffused into the water around it, quickly turning the liquid a light, clear red.


Leaving the cloak in the basin, Doran brought his hands to his waist and unclasped the buckle of his thick leather belt, pulling it open and setting it on a chair behind him. On the right side of the belt was a holster made of the same dark brown leather, with a heavy revolver tucked inside. The grips were light oak and the frame dark, weathered steel.


Also hanging from the belt, in a scuffed black scabbard was his sword. The hilt had a thin leather wrap, round pommel and straight guard. The metal gleamed, light shining off the surface.


Doran returned to the tub of water and, ignoring the fact the liquid was almost opaque, he cupped his hands and splashed it against his face, rubbing with his hands to get the dirt and blood out of his pores. Doran felt his mind beginning to wake up again, pulling free of the thick, dark cloud of fatigue that had settled over him while he had journeyed to Firthon. He was suddenly very cold without the cloak covering him, and shivered roughly, splashing red water onto the mirror and floor. His shaking hands became tangled in the cloak, dragging it around the water in the basin.


He caught the neck of the garment in his right hand, feeling the metal buttons sewn into it. Holding on in his fingers he brought it up out of the water to get a better look. It had been hidden by blood but Doran could now see that it was a round brass button, with an unfamiliar letter etched into the shining metal. He dunked it back into the water and watched the liquid run out of the rune when he raised it up again. The symbol was made of two straight lines that had been carved deep into the soft metal. The main line of the run was long and vertical, offset slightly from the centre of the button. At the midpoint of the first line the second started, cutting diagonally to the right. Doran studied it for a time, not sure what the equivalent would be in his own letters, then moved along to the next button on the cloak. It too had a letter engraved into it, distinct from the previous.


He was following the lines on the third button, some strange splicing of the letters ‘d’ and ‘t’, when a hard knocking on the door broke his concentration and pulled his mind back to his aching body. The sound was harsh and made his forehead throb loudly. Katrina was looking over the stranger and made no move to come to the door, so Doran went to it. The knocking came a second time before he had opened the door, so when it did swing open, Doran was cringing from the pain pressing the inside of his skull.


Standing there was a Captain Marius Brachus, smiling widely in what Doran assumed he thought was a suave expression. To Doran the large grin looked too strained to be charming, like he was looking at a particularly appetising piece of meat.


Marius was older than Doran, but still young, with a smooth complexion and clear face. Some freckles dotted the bridge of his nose and the area under each of his eyes, but the skin was free of blemishes. Looking at the fair skin, Doran was suddenly very aware of the darkness under his own eyes. Pale brown hair spilled over his forehead and shoulders in clean, curving waves, framing his face and drawing attention to the sharp lines of his jaw. Above each of his bright, blue eyes was a neatly trimmed eyebrow that arced precisely along the rim of the socket. Doran could describe him with no word other than beautiful, though it left an ugly taste in his mouth to call a man such. He had no scars on his face and his hands were smooth with trimmed nails. The only marring on him was a missing front tooth, the small black gap seeming infinite and vast against his precise features.


The smile left his face as he studied the shirtless Doran, his eyes turning hard and cold and his eyebrows moving down as he scowled, his forehead creasing deely. Slowly, carefully, Marius's right hand moved to his hip and came to rest slightly away from his body. Doran kept looking into Marius's eyes, but in the edge of his vision he saw the unmistakable glint of metal and a brown lump attached to Maruis’s thigh.


With his left hand, Marius shoved Doran hard in the middle of his chest, sending Doran stumbling backwards and out of his way. Doran staggered and regained his balance, but Marius had already moved into the hut, out of his line of sight. Holding his anger down, Doran turned and found himself looking down the barrel of a gun. Marius had drawn his revolver and levelled it at Doran’s head, finger on the trigger. Doran could not see whether or not the weapon had been cocked.


“If you’ve laid a hand on Katrina, you won’t see another day,” Marius said, his voice cold and flat, but Doran could see anger smoldering in his eyes. A muscle in his face twitched, lifting the edge of his mouth into a twisted smirk for a moment.


“Sir, it’s not like that, I just-.”


“Just what?” Marius said, cutting Doran off, his voice low and furious, “ I sent you to bury the dead from yesterday’s attack, yet I find you here half naked and blood-stained.”


Dorain remained still, switching his gaze between the gun and Marius’s eyes. Cautiously, Doran raised his hands, keeping them open. Cold water ran down his arms from his hands, leaving winding red-tinted rivers on his pale skin, as though all the veins in his arms had burst at once. He kept looking at Marius and lowered his head slightly, trying to show he meant no harm. The gun didn’t move, but drew circles in the air as Marius’ arm shook.


“Captain,” Doran said softly, “I was burying the dead but a man appeared. I’ll return tomorrow and finish and deal with any wolves or other vermin.”


“You didn’t finish burying them?” Marius asked, ignoring Doran’s mention of the stranger. Disbelief and fear ran over his features before he could stop them, “Do you have any idea what those bodies will attract? Wolves will be the least dangerous!”


Doran knew that. The valley he had been turning into the communal graveyard was within a mile of The Wall, and he had seen signs of creatures clawing at the earth the last few times he had been sent out. He told himself that it was wolves, wild dogs, a mountain cat, but he knew that the culprit was from beyond The Wall. Once he had been brave and angry enough to follow the trail the creatures left behind and found himself at the foot of the barrier. The sound of dozens of pattering feet and high inhuman giggles had stifled the fire inside him and sent him running back to Firthon.


Marius was clearly having similar thoughts, his rage pouring out onto his face, displaying a deeply furrowed brow and tight grimace. He raised his thumb and pulled back the hammer of his revolver. It clicked as it moved past the half-cock position and again when it was fully cocked.


“You’re a damn fool. We have a hard enough time fending the beasts off as is. I trust you to keep those bodies safe and stop them bringing those things here!” Marius said, his voice gradually rising to a yell. Katrina appeared besides the two of them, her mouth open in a shocked expression.


“Marius, that's enough,” Katrina said, stepping up to The Captain. She was shorter than him, eyes level with his jaw, but stared up at him defiantly. Marius glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, but didn’t turn away from Doran. She placed a hand on his arm but he pushed her away roughly, making her yelp in surprise.


“The men are talking, Katrina,” Marius said, and looked like he would say more but he was stopped when Katrina’s hand smacked hard against his cheek.


The sound of the impact was like a piece of meat being thrown onto a cutting board. Marius bit his lip and blood spilled out the edge of his mouth. Katrina’s nails scratched at the end of his eyebrow as she slapped him and scraped away a portion of his fine skin. His eyes widened with shock, staring down at Katrina, and his hands clenched involuntarily, the left forming a tight fist and the right squeezing down on the trigger.


Quickly, Doran stepped forward and grabbed Marius with both of his hands. His left went to the revolver, grabbing the cylinder of the weapon. One of his fingers moving into the space between the frame and the hammer and Doran winced as the piece of metal snapped forward and bit into his finger. His right hand went to Marius’s left wrist and held it firmly in place, the fingers digging into the flesh. Marius struggled once to free himself but was unable to get out of Doran’s grasp. His rage burnt down into embers but didn’t entirely disappear and his face grew red with shame. He spat blood and spittle into Doran's face, but got no reaction from the other man.


Katrina put her hand against his face gently, and wiped a dribble of blood from the corner of his mouth. At the gesture, Marius relaxed, and dropped the gun. Doran held onto it and, letting Mrius’s other arm free, took it in his right hand, his thumb dancing on the now uncocked hammer. Katrina led Marius further into the hut and next to the cot that held the stranger.


Doran followed, looking down and examining the revolver. He thumbed a small switch and the frame broke open, the barrel and cylinder of the weapon falling forward while the handle stayed in place. He reached out with his left hand to stop the bullets from flying out of the gun, the small lumps of metal flung backwards by the spring loaded ejector, and snapped the revolver closed again. He felt stupid for leaving his on his belt in the other room when he’d answered the door, but was relieved that he hadn’t needed it.


Letting the others continue without him, Doran moved back to the table with the mirror, and put Marius’s gun down next to the basin. He splashed the dark water from the basin onto his face And rubbedr the spit away. The blood he could deal with, but the saliva made his skin itch intensely.


Reaching down Dotan lifted his belt off the chair he had dropped it onto and strapped it back around himself. The familiar weights of his sword and gun comforted him, as though he had put a blanket he was particularly fond of around his shoulders. Having the weapons brought his mind back into sharp focus, and he walked quickly back to Katrina and Marius.


Looking down, adjusting some of the bullets that were held in loops on the belt, Doran walked into the back of Marius and almost drew his own revolver. But when he looked up Doran saw that Katrina was still standing with the other man, both unmoving stone, looking over the cot. Slowly, his hand hovering beside his revolver, Doran moved around them, then stopped. A shudder ran through his body, his right hand jerked out and knocked a china mug onto the floor where it shattered into many pieces.


At the sound the man moved his grey-blue eyes to stare directly into Doran’s. The man no longer lay in the cot. He had sat-up and begun to pull his bloodstained jacket back on when they entered the room. He was sitting on the side of the cot and had put on both his tattered trousers and gun belt, though his feet were bare and blue against the cool floor. His holster was empty, the weapon next to him on the cot. It’s design was unfamiliar to Doran, and he couldn’t see if it was loaded or not from his angle. When he finished putting his jacket on, the man let his hands fall to his sides, the right landing next to his gun, but he didn’t pick it up. Doran’s hand flew back to his gun and he started to pull it from its holster when the man surprised him again, and he let it slide back into its home.


The man was smiling at them, his teeth an off-white that contrasted with the paleness of his skin and the bandages, and held up his hands. Each of his scarred fingers shook at a different pace, distracting Doran. He focussed and looked into the man’s eyes, but found only one dark pupil facing his direction. They seemed to move with a slight independence, as if they had each been distracted by a different shiny jewel. Strangely, so strange that Doran thought he might be seeing things due to his condition, it seemed that the eyes showed different emotions from each other. His left could be hard and studying, while the right was bright and happy. Both though, were bloodshot, the red vessels small and sharp, marching towards his milky blue retenas.


With what looked like a huge effort, the man breathed in and spoke to them. His voice was light and fleeting with an accent that was unfamiliar to Doran. He held the vowels longer than he should have, and emphasised the wrong parts of words.


Several times, he managed to say half of a sentence before closing his eyes hard and baring his teeth. Each time he did this, Doran would again half draw his revolver, but every time, before he managed to pull the weapon out completely, the man had recovered. The man muttered to himself angrily, with what sounded more like growls than words.


Eventually the man was able to speak a sentence, and after watching him struggle to say it for so long, Doran chuckled at his words.


"You have… my shoes?" The man asked in his odd, lilting voice, and pointed at his feet.


23 Août 2021 18:22 0 Rapport Incorporer Suivre l’histoire
0
À suivre… Nouveau chapitre Tous les dimanches.

A propos de l’auteur

Commentez quelque chose

Publier!
Il n’y a aucun commentaire pour le moment. Soyez le premier à donner votre avis!
~