PULL ME UNDER - Bonded By Blood - Five

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Five

A week later and it was time for a good scrub—they needed it, and they needed some time away from each other. First things first. The clan took their strange clothes and marched them to a tub of steaming water. Tanner was feeling a bit better. A bit. Well enough as he and Lauren stood naked, wind-whipped and embarrassed, he was wondering which hands would be scrubbing him. A circle of slave women (he ranked each: her, I hope. Or her. Not her. And so on.) But the women had a mission, and that was to get every bit of foreign stink off them. Tanner wished the blonde one was there to have trouble with his fly again, but he supposed she had better things to do with her time.

One of the girls took his denim jacket, his favourite jacket, and in his shock he found the energy to howl and dive for it before she could dunk it in any hot water. “Battle jacket. Raw denim,” he spoke plainly, as if they knew what that meant. It was a precious thing, priceless and inexplicably so, the sleeves honeycombed from wear, and just like how they adorned themselves with trinkets, he stamped it with all his favourite bands and it had stains that brought back his best memories to look at them, old and new. That was his jacket goddamnit and they could fuck off from it, though he kept that to himself once she understood his reverence for it, bobbing her head in apology.

Lauren laughed at him, while a haggard middle-aged woman with pursed lips scrubbed her raw. “It stinks,” she said, “let them wash it.”

“Never!”

“You’re dumb.”

“You’re a bitch.”

The laundry girl was smirking at the two of them. With his arms up getting scrubbed by a plump old woman he returned her smirk, toothy and dumb, Lauren wasn’t wrong. “What are you smiling at?” he asked the laundress. She smiled broader and blushed at his wink, returning to her wash. The woman behind pinched him hard on his bum and he shouted in surprise, which earned more giggling from everyone.

“You better behave, young man,” the soapy woman at his back warned with a playful lilt.

“Tanner? Behave?” Lauren snorted. “I should tell them how much of a shit you are.”

He exaggerated his words, all theatrical. “I can’t help it. I see beautiful women and I—”

“I don’t want to hear about it!”

Oh, he had an idea what to say, but he only had to part his lips and she already knew.

“I swear to God you speak to me again before this bath is done I’ll belt you right in the face!”

The two older women were still laughing as they fetched the rinse water.

“Try it!” Tanner said.

“I should!”

Hair clean and combed, plaited down his back like the other men, he almost fit in, if he weren’t so sick-pale. He still lacked appetite, still had some pains, but maybe it was all in his head and that same head kept recycling every horrible thought whenever his eyes closed. Any pill-sized pebble looked good enough to crush. Wasn’t this what he had set out to do? It sucked. It was the worst idea he ever had. And Lauren was on a constant grump. They were both detoxing in their own way and he didn’t begrudge her an attitude, not really, unless it was funny to poke at her.

Fresh clothes, traditional costume—though to the clan it wasn’t a costume, Tanner had to correct himself regularly, since everything hadn’t quite settled in his head. Black leather boots, woven belt, and billowing striped pants for Tanner, red leather slippers and plaid skirt for Lauren. No shirts, which had Lauren befuddled by the custom of the higher class showing themselves off while the underclass had to cover up. Tanner then pointed out, being honoured guests with no shirts, it meant they were in the upper class and she shut up. This wasn’t their world to ponder. Lauren had always been sun-averse, the red burn was fading to a bronze kiss, and slowly she would blend in, too.

And like nothing, camp was disassembled, onward through the prairie. The two of them were invited to be more social, though most folks still kept their distance, it all seemed a bit begrudging.

At one stop, tents was still being set up, there was a hush through the camp that made Tanner uneasy. No one explained what was going on. Lauren crept to the door of their tent, Tanner soon beside her to watch the quiet commotion. One of the warriors passed by with a bow in hand and quiver of arrows. Then another passed, and a third—a stream of men with murderous intent. They all had chalk-painted patterns on their skin and big nasty weapons, all got on their horse-things to the sudden beat of drums, and took off over the hills, whooping and whistling.

Something deep inside Tanner was awed and envious at the sight, so primal and threatening, and he thought to himself how badass it would be to ride off like that, not thinking that some of those warriors would wind up dead and he didn’t have any idea why they were riding off over the hill anyway.

***

Lauren clutched the flap of their tent at her nose, as if to hide, but still enticed by the sights. The warriors came back, wounded and laughing with stolen animals in tow, some wargame had been won. And some deep, uncivilized urge, bubbling up through her objections to the scene, it had an effect, a tug in her abdomen to catch the eyes of Red Armband as he passed—lifted mask showed his clean face but for spatters at the eyes. Under his chin was drenched in red, chalk paint in an abstract rinse.

The other women all ran up and threw themselves at the victors in cheers and kisses. Tanner joined her at the door of the tent, stuck his fingers in his mouth and gave an ear-shattering whistle, but Lauren just sat there with a perverted ache between her ovaries. It was very exciting, if incredibly stupid, to see them all ride in, a cloud of testosterone making her melt against her better judgement. But when had her better judgement ever been loud enough?

A great feast, words shouted in thanks to their gods and lucky spirits. The pair invited out with big grins. Tanner ate a good amount, which was hopeful. Lauren ate like a bird, nerves fluttering her stomach, still not used to them being so hospitable. Through gossip she heard the man she sprayed was named Orman, and just then he looked at her with insult on his face. Still, after all this time. It was starting to really piss her off. Any elation she had felt that day was squashed the minute she noticed his glare.

“Are you both royalty, where you come from?”

Lauren almost choked as a skinny black-haired girl sat next to her, holding out a horn of beer for Lauren to take, which she did, grateful for the distraction. “Excuse me?”

“You’re both so… your hands are so soft. Are you royalty?”

Lauren shook her head. Her mouth, hidden by the rim of the horn, twitched into a grin. “I wish.” Though, having electric lights and cars made them pretty royal by comparison, to think on it. The beer was primitive and thick, a strange mouthfeel at first but easy to get used to.

“I suppose even if you were you wouldn’t tell me. We shoot Kings for sport.” The girl winked and downed her own hornful, and Lauren, feeling warm and welcomed, knew they were best friends now.

“What’s your name?”

“Ansa.” She licked the foam from her lip with a smile. Brown eyes with a bewitching splatter of gold, and a subtle perfume like a warm spice that only hit Lauren as the wind gusted between them. She looked genuine, at ease.

Music started from somewhere, strumming and singing, and the girls decided to follow the noise, dipping their horns as they passed the barrel, beer dripping down her elbow as she sipped. Tanner was already lounging down on a braided rug over the dirt, and Lauren kicked his leg to get him to make space. Ansa sat on the other side of him, and Lauren gave encouragement with a look. Ansa leaned into Tanner. They weren’t royalty, and they weren’t prisoners, and they weren’t slaves. They were in limbo, so they might as well get cozy with these people, after days of feeling isolated it was a welcome change in Lauren’s spirit.

“Tanner,” she whispered, watching the old man in a brown tunic strum a three-stringed thing, a lute or guitar, she’d never seen an instrument like it. “Why don’t you sing?”

“Now?”

“Now!”

“No!”

She elbowed him in the rib and he giggled through a wince.

“Pussy!”

“Are you a good singer?” Ansa asked, voice creamy as she addressed him.

“My throat is too dry.”

“Bullshit.” Lauren finished her horn and took his mug, since he let it sit untouched, took a sip. A happy buzz just blooming, only to see Ansa’s eyes go wide over Lauren’s shoulder, and Lauren turned with the mug still in her mouth. Red Armband. That goddamn tug again, and she had to convince herself he was revolting, even as his musk blew over and her veins moaned.

Tanner lurched to life, though it was clear that Tanner wasn’t the one Red Armband came to talk to. “Dude, how can I convince you to take me with you next time you charge off like that?”

“Excuse me?” Both Lauren and Red Armband had a mix of horror and amusement, the question shot at Tanner’s moronic face in unison.

“Can you ride?” Red Armband asked. The old man’s song changed from morose to depressing in the background.

“No,” Tanner answered with a laugh.

“Then you’ll stay behind with the women.”

The air itself vibrated with the sting. Tanner was just amused and pressed on, still smiling crooked. “Show me how, then.”

Red Armband looked stern for a moment before the night cracked with his laughter. He had a grand laugh, rare to hear and worth the wait. “Your sister needs to come with me,” the reason he had sauntered over to them. Ansa’s apprehensive aversion made Lauren think this was a big deal, and her stomach fluttered with fresh worry.

“Why?” Tanner asked.

Ansa covered her face.

“Because.”

“Well, Lauren, I guess you better go with him.”

It was difficult to resist punching Tanner right in the nose as he reclined again, hands behind his head, the broadest grin of the evening on him knowing how much Lauren hated being spoken to like that. Because. She narrowed her eyes at her brother and he only grinned broader, somehow. She stood, brushing her skirt, and followed Red Armband—trying to ignore how his muscles flexed as he moved, how the firelight played off the beads of sweat and blood and dirt, and worried at the white wrap at his forearm with the red seeping through.

“You need to clean Orman’s mask. And you need to do it now, before we have any more raiding to do. None of them have been able to scrub it off.”

“I told you, it’s permanent. You’d have to sand it off.”

“Then get to it.” The lilt of his voice as he held out the mask had her miffed. He gestured to a group of sack-cloth wearing slaves with basins of soapy water and desperation in their eyes. Guilt, then, to think that she had done something so wrong to these people, had broken some terrible taboo. But Red Armband was about to walk off, and she panicked for words.

“I don’t know your name, chief.”

“Ddun,” he didn’t turn to speak, “but I’m not the Chief.”

***

Tanner noodled on the instrument the old man had been strumming, called a “balaik,” to figure out how to make the notes he wanted, metal frets marked by dots of abalone under his fingers as he slid them along the waxy catgut. Low sustain, suited fast strumming. Fat, triangular body. His eyelids were heavy and he hummed lazy to match the notes he plucked, chords attempted. Still on that same mat he had claimed hours before, a couple extra pillows to recline on that someone had brought for him. Ansa was generous with her attention but she had long gone to bed when he didn’t reciprocate. Not that he didn’t want to, she seemed nice, pretty, but as much as he joked about it, there was no energy for that sort of strenuous activity.

Content with the stars for company. The faintest crackle of fire complimented his noise, a crying baby, an animal call. The night air chilled, but he didn’t mind. There was no sleep for him, anyway.

He had never been so comfortable.

***

Lauren’s hands were raw, muscles sore. Headache from eye strain in the torchlight as she scrubbed the paint off. Her only tools were handfuls of grit and a stone, and the mask looked worse than if they had allowed it to be a bit shiny, in her opinion. Now she dragged her feet in exhaustion with the mask in her hand, not sure what to do with it, until she passed a white tent with the flaps still open and warm lamplight stretched. Inside were two men sitting and talking low. Orman and Ddun, and they both paused mid-sentence to see her standing there, holding the mask out with a tired nod. “Done.”

Orman looked a lot like Ddun, and she wondered if they were related; only, unfortunately for Orman, he didn’t inherit the handsomer quirks. Jaw a little narrower, nose a little broader and flatter. But his eyes on her didn’t make her feel very welcome, all icepicks, not how Ddun looked up at her, all curious, some drunk. She was ready to throw the damn mask. “Well, bring it here,” Orman said.

She bowed low to enter the tent, her hair tumbled lose from the braid. It smelled like men in there. Orman grabbed her wrist instead of the mask. The Bic pen flashed in her mind.

“Orman, leave her be.”

“Why should I?”

Fire swelled in her guts, triggering her fight-or-flight. “Listen to Ddun, he’s smarter than you.”

“Ah, a little viper, aren’t you?” Orman let go of her wrist with a subtle throw, took his mask.

“You got me.”

“Go to bed,” Ddun told her. She did. Tanner was still out by the fire and she had the space all to herself, and she stretched out luxuriously.

Ansa brought breakfast, at some point Tanner had come back to the tent and was asleep. Lauren knelt to wake him—she hadn’t seen him so peaceful in ages, decided to let him rest. Ansa sat with her, and they ate in comfortable silence. Greasy sausage, tasted like smoke.

“Where are you guys headed?” Lauren asked as she chewed.

“What do you mean, where? Nowhere, everywhere. We don’t keep permanence. That’s for the other folk.”

Lauren sighed, a lump in her throat. She coughed. “I’ve always wanted to just wander.” There were times in her life where she would get lost in her own imaginary worlds—but hadn’t that wish come true, now?

“Well, it’s not completely aimless. We head where we need to, where there’s good pasture. You really don’t understand us Dvarri, do you?”

Lauren shook her head, inexplicably ashamed. “Why does no one here believe us? We’ve tried over and over again. We aren’t from around here.”

“You speak our language, though.”

“I don’t get it either.”

All the women gathered together to salt meat and spin thread and all those other things that Lauren never had to learn how to do, and she felt useless. She helped milk the little cows and then she sewed patches on clothes and that was what she was best at of all the chores. She was accused again of being royalty and she was starting to think she should just lean into the myth, if it weren’t for Ansa's joke.

Orman came to her while the dew still stuck to the grass, with a false-friendly air, and invited her for a walk. She wanted to tell him to piss off, but didn’t say anything at all, unmoving, needle and thread in hand. Ansa’s face blanched, and Orman’s jaw clenched from under the tilted-up, ruined mask, but he didn’t move. “Walk with me, please.”

Something about the “please” made her throat clench. Ansa took the bundle of sewing and Lauren noticed a spot on the inside of the mouth slit that she had missed—kept it to herself as she walked beside Orman. She didn’t like him. She didn’t like his smell or his posture and she didn’t like his haughty attitude. But he was also a high-ranking member of the clan, as all the warriors were, and she didn’t want to offend him. Not unless she had to. She wished she had Tanner’s pocket knife, though she didn’t know why. She just didn’t like him.

“I wanted to clarify some things with you.” He dragged his heels.

“Like what?”

“You’ve given me terrible luck.”

Sorry.

“I couldn’t go on the raid, everyone thinking they’d be cursed with it, too.”

Terrible.

They were past the tents now, heading for a stretch of grass and rocks. The scent of flowers on a gentle breeze, little white fluffs sticking in her hair. A sharp pebble through her sole ruined the serenity of the scene, and she hobbled to a nearby stone and sat, investigated her heel. Just a bruise. Orman loomed over her to speak. “I can’t help that you’ve bewitched me. Even though you’ve humiliated me and cursed me. You’re beautiful.”

She choked down puke. “Thank you.”

“I think you’ve got magic in you and you don’t know it. I want that magic.”

“Take your mask off,” she said. Just to see if he would.

He lifted it up, there was his sleeplessness painted under his eyes, and a fresh bruise near his ear that wasn’t there when she delivered the mask—or maybe she just didn’t notice in the dark. His eyes glistened and burned and a familiar chill went up her spine to see that intent for pain—he looked just like Duke.

***

“Tanner!”

At first a dream, but it became real—he bolted upright, blankets falling. Air sucked through his teeth—Lauren. Outside the tent, clothes all jingling with urgency as they ran towards something, and he heard his name again, shrill and desperate. It was Ansa coming to the tent to fetch him.

His vision tunneled and he reached for the closest thing, anything to use as a weapon, an energy in his bones he hadn’t felt in a long time. The balaik—no thoughts, it filled his hand.

Ansa led him to the edge of camp—Lauren cried out in harsh chokes. Blind to anyone else, deaf to everything but his pulse. Silver-mouth—Orman, folks were shouting—hunched over Lauren with hands at her neck, her skirts at her waist.

Balaik met skull, wood-splinter and discordant plunk of every note. He had Orman’s attention now, blood-shot eyes. Lauren coughed and sobbed as Tanner lunged, fists planting hard, knuckles cracking on impact but he was rage-numb.

Orman clocked Tanner on the jaw—dirt at his back, pinned by Orman, wrecked mask held high, antlers as weapon.

A shadow behind Orman distracted Tanner long enough to get his windpipe crushed—just as quick, the hand released off Tanner’s neck and Orman was purple and sputtering through swollen lips—Lauren had taken the strings from the broken neck of the balaik and was garroting Orman with all her strength.

The crowd watched breath-held, as Orman gargled, disgusting grape, bruised hands grabbing at the strings—but they were so tight he bled, no chance to grip.

No one stopped Lauren, and Tanner suspected it was the cold glaze over her too-wide eyes that kept everyone away. That strength in her five-foot-five, hundred-twenty pound body came from some delirium that even Tanner couldn’t match. She only stopped when Orman’s hands fell and he began to twitch—the body sank.

Lauren wasn’t finished. She took the mask in both hands, Tanner had rolled Orman off, his popped eyes stared unresponsive at the sun—she plunged the antlers into the bastard’s guts, the crowd gasping in unison. A second stab, white-knuckled, and even Tanner was stuck frozen to see his sister shake with adrenaline.

But then she weakened, and Tanner leapt to catch her.

Grandmother pushed through the crowd.

The pain of Tanner’s bruises finally registered in his brain. Lauren covered her face to sob, his arms protective around his sister—it was his turn to shush her and give comfort. She stammered, “H-he wanted to s-steal my magic. He wanted to steal my magic!” It made no sense.

“Tell me, what in the name of the Sky Father happened here?” Grandmother asked, walking stick pointed at Orman.

Nostrils flared, Tanner looked down to the corpse and back to the old woman, what a stupid question. He steeled himself to answer as calmly as he could, but acid spilled instead. “He didn’t ask permission. What’s it look like?”