“No.” It was the most infinitesimal whisper. “No.”
The world blurred as the glass-and-timber coffin lid lowered.
At the boom of the lid shutting, his eyes also shut.
The lights went out.
CHAPTER SEVEN
white fur pricked up at the top, about where Po guessed he had ears. He stiffened in her hands and leaped from the mare, galloping off into the corrugated landscape of dirt, rocks, pieces of faded pink linen on poles, and scraggly trees. The kicked-up dust remained, a faint trail in the still air.
A day ago they’d left the shadow of the mountain, and John was no longer sure they were following the Storyteller’s route. If Ruff had been following him by scent, that scent had decayed. The critter had been looking unhappy and sniffing at the air in all directions.
At times, Po carried him before her, on Pearbottom’s saddle—for John had relented and was letting her ride by herself, though at first he’d retained a lead rein connecting the two horses. Pearbottom was the name she’d settled on for this placid horse with the large rump, and a day of negotiating terrible terrain had been exhausting.
It was why, she assumed, John had left her alone. She’d thought he would drag her into his sleeping roll, but he had not. To her chagrin, she’d almost wanted him to. Until her morals coughed and pointed out that was not princess-like.
She raised herself in the stirrups to peer after Ruff. He had vanished.
“I do hope he’s okay.”
“Oh, he will be.” Ruth paused beside the mare to also peer outward. “He’s a floof machine, and those are tough.”
“That is a breed?” she asked. “Of something?”
“Yes.” Ruth swung and bestowed a smile. “It’s a breed of rabbit. They are one-owner-only types. Fiercely loyal. I’d say he likes you, but something is pulling him onward.”
“He seeks this Storyteller, John thinks.”
“Hmmm. A kidnapper isn’t the sort a floof bonds with. Perhaps he killed Ruff’s owner?”
“Oh?” She followed the logic and ran into a wall. “Then why does he chase him?”
“To gnaw out his throat? Nibble on his heart? Use his entrails for a burrow? Never annoy a floof Machine. They are ornery. They are teeth, fur, and attitude.”
Po’s eyebrows were still up in an expression of extreme astonishment, when a cry of what sounded like joy climbed into the dry, blue sky.
“Yesss! Yes, yes, yes! I have it!”
Along with Ruth and then John, who pulled Rocky’s head around, she scanned the horizon.
Ahead the countryside was undulating, with added rocks and mounds. Some combination of dryness, temperature, and poorness of the soil had created a land where no one bothered to farm or to graze livestock.
Fifty yards away, a dirty, pink parasol popped up, like a flower blooming out of season, or a surreal eruption.
A startling development, Po decided.
What did yelling and Ruff running off have to do with a pink parasol?
The parasol began to journey toward them, bobbing and swaying, then a large, scarred man appeared beneath it. She lowered herself to the saddle again, gathering the reins. Was this something to worry about?
Ruff was running at his heels, or was it her heels?
No, it was too craggy and well-muscled to be a woman, though she couldn’t figure out what she was seeing until he surged from the thin line of grass, spilling onto the road and staggering as if he’d missed his footing—not surprising, that. The road had more holes than road.
He was tall, though a couple of heads shorter than Ruth. Not a giant, not as broad as her either, but a big man.
His face slipped into a stunned sort of frozen state, as if he’d not realized they were watching, and the man looked from John to Ruth to Po.
“Greetings!” he exclaimed. “I haven’t seen anyone for a week.”
She wasn’t sure what he was, due to the right half of him being made of something resembling metal, except that his face still moved when he spoke. From the long sleeves of his faded shirt, one arm emerged as a fleshy hand, the other was dull metal and it clasped the parasol’s handle. His metal half-mouth, cheeks, and eyebrows moved.
If his right leg were metal, she couldn’t tell, due the boots and the pair of brown pants concealing them.
Po kept cataloguing.
One fleshy normal eye. Brown iris, staring at her.
One metal socket gleaming, empty and eerie.
From beneath his beaten straw hat ventured half a head of tangled russet hair.
Where hers was scarlet, his qualified as rust-brown, and it flopped about like dead tentacles.
What are you, was the question on her tongue. It would be rude to say that, so she stayed silent.
“What in the name of several Hells are you?” John drawled, leaning forward in the saddle. “And why’d you scream?”
Ignoring John, Ruth inclined her head at the half-metal man. “My name is Ruth, good sir, I am a dwarf giant and banished from my tribe, as I suspect you must be also. You are a cyclan warrior? Perhaps we can exchange stories as we sit and eat a snack with you?”
“I am that, yes. I’m called Shades,” he said slowly. “That is quite a kind invitation. To answer you, sir.” He nodded to John. “I found my eye today, after searching the battlefield where I lost it for two years. Today is a day to celebrate. I am indeed a cyclan warrior. Or I should say, ex-cyclan. I’m a peaceful man, I promise you.”
“Uh-huh. Then, I guess we can sit with you.” John swung a leg over the saddle and slid to the ground. “I think we’re all ready to rest awhile.” He skewered Po with a glance. “Dismount.”
Absentmindedly Po nodded, being occupied by both this new person and Ruth.
Ruth was a puzzle.
