Mercy (Deridia Book 1)

  Copyright © 2016 Catherine Miller

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1534985603

  ISBN-13: 978-1534985605

  For Boy, who always kept me watching and reading all things fantasy. Engage!

  Table of Contents

  First Contact

  1. Offer

  2. Walk

  3. Bruised

  4. Consummate

  5. Learn

  6. Pleasure

  7. Leak

  8. Payment

  9. Narada

  10. Young

  11. Guilt

  12. Poison

  13. Vigil

  14. Liable

  15. Explore

  16. Raw

  17. Birth

  18. Heal

  19. Vow

  20. Journey

  21. Reconcile

  22. Counsel

  23. Decide

  24. Parting

  25. Treaty

  26. Mercy

  27. Prim

  Also by Catherine Miller

  First Contact

  The air tasted strange upon his tongue. The sky had turned a deep ochre, the forest silent of the usual hum of life.

  The stillness unnerved him.

  He should have gone with his brethren. The warriors, with faces tight and drawn, had buckled their weapons and departed the village, the great plume that reached from the Wastes and deadened the sky requiring investigation.

  And yet, he was ordered to remain. He had apprenticed as a healer, as had his father before him, and that knowledge could not be risked—not when he had yet to choose a successor of his own.

  At the moment he regretted his reticence, as now it meant he could not face this unknown enemy with those of his kin. The treaty with the Vashtni was tenuous, but thus far had proven true. And they possessed no such weapon that would be able to turn the sky and sour the very air he breathed.

  He drew a little closer toward the Wastes, never leaving the protection of the trees. Okmar would be furious at the distance he had travelled already, demanding he remain within the confines of the village, and defend their young if necessary.

  But the still billowing smoke unnerved him, a foreboding urging him to disobey when likely he would know a harsh punishment for his selfishness. A healer was allowed a modicum of autonomy—the very nature of his trade demanded it. But an outright defiance…

  His gaze shifted sharply from the desert beyond when a slight groan issued from his left, and he drew his blade, silently navigating the underbrush as he drew nearer. The groan became more of a sob, and he forced his breath to remain deep and even, his hands allowing not even a tremble at his yet unidentified foe.

  The being was not what he expected, when at last he caught sight of it.

  He noticed the blood first, red, and vibrant over pale flesh. He almost thought the creature dead already, if not for the sounds it emitted. It must not be functioning properly, as it did not seem to change colours to provide sufficient camouflage—he spotted it readily.

  Any of the warriors would have been able to skewer it quite easily, without exerting even the least effort.

  The sobbing continued, and he noticed the crooked nature of its legs as the creature tried to drag itself along the forest floor. His head cocked slightly to the side, attempting to determine if they were meant to appear in such a manner, or if this was yet another injury.

  Tradition would dictate he act swiftly, ending its suffering cleanly and perfunctorily.

  And yet... he was curious.

  Its flesh appeared pliant, far more like his own than the exoskeleton of the Narada or the harsh scales of the Vashtni.

  It truly was a pathetic sight.

  He took an additional step forward, desiring a closer look, when wide green eyes landed upon him, immediately filling with fear.

  Not an unexpected reaction. He wondered vaguely at its sentience. It appeared to be wearing clothing of some sort, though it was torn and ragged in places. Inadequate. Hides and leathers were far more efficient, and they proved invaluable during the cooler seasons.

  It made the possibility of some form of higher intelligence even more unlikely.

  Except that it continued to stare at him with those eyes...

  And then its mouth began to move.

  “Please, I need help... our ship crashed and I think...” it looked down at its legs and then back at him. “I think my legs are broken.”

  The words—for there was no doubting that the lilting tones were in fact some rudimentary form of language—meant nothing to him. Yet still it persisted, tears beginning to well as frustration gave way into despair, likely further prompted by his refusal to release his weapon from his careful hold.

  It did not seem particularly dangerous, but many of the species of his planet were poisonous, and he would remove its head from its shoulders before he succumbed to such a cowardly death.

  He studied the creature more closely, trying to ascertain more about its race. He was not so arrogant as to assume he had seen all that his world had to offer. He travelled little, and mostly from necessity, and he was not one of their traders. Perhaps they were cave dwellers; that would explain the paleness of its skin, wholly inadequate a protection from the double suns. It could be lost and in need of aid, but traditions still mandated that he end its life without intervention.

  His knowledge of medicine belonged to his people and was to be used therein. It was an insult to use it otherwise.

  And yet...

  He could admit he was tempted.

  Its features held a softness to them. The scalp was covered by a long mane, a strange counterbalance to her features. His people did not know the troubles of such things, their heads absent of such a nuisance—an invaluable asset as their skin melded with their surroundings to hide them from enemy and prey alike. Not completely, but he could not imagine attempting a hunt without such an ability.

  He took another step forward, and the being continued to stare, a look of resignation about its features.

  It was a small thing, really, almost resembling one of their young in stature. And if he had to suppose at its sex...

  Female. With her large, wet eyes and mane that served no useful purpose. It did not seem possible that the men of any race could be so soft in manner—not when death was imminent.

  She was still bleeding.

  “Please, don’t hurt me. My ship crashed... we were just trying to find Deridia IV.” She glanced around her surroundings, her shoulders shuddering under the weight of her hurts. Or he presumed so. There were few females of his close acquaintance, and they were not prone to tears. Though if she was a female of his people, he would already have given her a sip of steeped manta root to soothe some of her pains.

  He had no such thing on his person, nor would he be permitted so use it on one such as her.

  “I don’t think we made it.”

  And still her words continued to hold no meaning.

  He continued to watch her quietly, indecisive. Tradition differed sharply with conscience, as it often did for him. His people were strong and noble—feared by those that would oppose them.

  But at times like these, he questioned their ways. Was there no place for mercy?

  Except, he was not trained as leader.

  He was simply a healer.

  And, if her legs were truly as broken as they seemed, perhaps it would be kinder to end her suffering before she faced starvation and death from being unable to care for herself properly.

  He had a duty to his people.

  He looked down at his blade, honed and carefully sharpened to prove swift and deadly, and the calm of decision overcame him.

  And he took a final step clo
ser to the female, her eyes wide with knowing.

  And she screamed.

  Thirty Orbital Cycles Later…

  1. Offer

  Rykkon did not relish these missions. He understood their purpose, but the long trek from their village to Mercy was long and tedious, and the constant reminder of how little his brethren appreciated his company was grating.

  But long ago they had come to recognise the necessity of a healer when they approached the human colony, and therefore he was tolerated.

  But not welcomed.

  Never that.

  Which made it all the more necessary for him to foster additional skills to make his presence all the more valuable.

  He adjusted his coverings, the heat from the Wastes never seeming to dim, no matter how many times he made this cursed walk. But it kept his flesh from succumbing to the burn of the suns, though his every exhale trapped more warm air against already irritated skin. It did even less for his temper.

  “We are close,” Kondarr announced unnecessarily. Rykkon forced his eyes to keep from rolling, aided by the sudden wind that forced his inner eyelid to extend to halt the dust from impeding his vision.

  There were seven in their party. Enough to carry the goods to trade with the colonists, and, more importantly, enough to defend themselves should they form a misguided revolt. There had been one such episode many cycles ago, but they had been remarkably well behaved since his people had reminded them of precisely why they lived.

  Only upon their good graces.

  The oasis was a thing of beauty when contrasted with the Waste surrounding it. White sand bled into green when the springs nourished the ground, soil and life nourished where else there were merely leagues of nothingness.

  It was a fine prison for these people that could not quite be trusted. They knew nothing of how to travel here, and they could not cross the deserts, not with their meagre provisions.

  Mercy, his people called this place.

  He had heard the tales since boyhood.

  Of the warriors who had found their paltry group, disoriented and many injured as they wandered through the sands, their flesh already pinking beneath the suns. They claimed to have come from the sky, but they had no wings, nor had any of his people ever seen any of them possess a skill that suggested they could levitate. But they were allowed some secrets. They could not leave where they had been escorted.

  And when they had begun to trade meats and goods for the hasart beetles native to the desert, it seemed a beneficial accord between their peoples. Rykkon tired of treating the wounds that came from collecting the little beasties when members of his tribes still attempted their capture—fingers nipped and swelling from the poisons secreted from their bellies. But when crushed, they formed a fine dye that the females treasured, and so without doubt some would venture into the Wastes. Inevitably, they would have to be found and brought back to the village, at great inconvenience to the hunters, and he was not at all sorry when such thoughtless practices ceased in favour of practical trade.

  There were more dangers in the Wastes than beetles.

  One of the humans spotted them as they neared, ceasing all movement for a moment before running, a horn sounding not long after.

  Their arrival was always greeted with such ceremony.

  He kept toward the back of the group, adjusting his coverings when they neared the oasis. The trees offered protection from the oppressive sunlight, the pool of water cooling some of the air enough to be quite pleasing. At least in contrast to their walk.

  He frowned as a man approached. They typically dealt with the same individuals, the rest hiding away in their huts until their camp had been vacated by his kind. Their leader was useful enough, always respectful and precise while managing their dealings.

  This man, however...

  He stood a slight ways off, his gaze showing an unchecked hatred for the approaching people. Rykkon, nor any of his kin, truly cared. As long as they behaved, and brought the beetles when necessary, there need not be bloodshed between them.

  “When will you lot finally piss off and leave us be?”

  Kondarr’s head turned quite deliberately to face the man, his eyes narrowed. The words may hold no meaning for him, but the tone suggested nothing other than insult.

  “What does he say?”

  The first time any of them had spoken to him directly this entire journey.

  But he could not refuse to answer simply out of spite.

  He hesitated only briefly. The words he knew, but the context seemed strange, and yet that was nothing unusual. He had learned to simply infer what meaning he could—his people would never know the difference.

  “He would like to know at what point we will leave. One presumes he is thinking of a more permanent removal.”

  Kondarr’s eyes narrowed, and he stepped nearer to the man, the company following close behind. They moved as one, here amongst potential threats. Even Rykkon knew the sense in that.

  The man had an even more haggard appearance than the others, his clothes haphazardly patched and torn at the seams. His hair was long and tangled, almost resembling that of their females. Rykkon very nearly touched his own head to ensure that it remained perfectly smooth.

  Kondarr’s eyes were narrowed, and he made to draw his short blade when they noted a woman by the man’s side.

  “James, be quiet, they’ll hear!” She looked at the approaching company with obvious trepidation, but the man—James, evidently—merely waved off her concern.

  “Like they can understand us without the translator.”

  Kondarr drew the knife, and balanced it deftly between his fingers, watching to see if his little display garnered any respect from James.

  It did not.

  The woman backed away, clutching at one of their young. “Go get Prim. Now!”

  Rykkon did not know what a prim was, and he pondered if it was worth mentioning.

  Kondarr’s pointed glance in his direction indicated that he expected a translation.

  “The boy is fetching something. I do not know what.”

  Anger darkened his features. “A weapon?”

  Had he not already stated that he did not know?

  “Perhaps.”

  “Draw!” Kondarr ordered, all reaching for their blades and awaiting further command. Rykkon did so as well, unwilling to risk any of their lives with his uncertainty, though he did not relish the thought of killing any this day. “You dare to insult us?” Kondarr addressed the man, stepping forward and bringing his knife down in a smooth arch. He did not draw blood, his hand holding it steady against James’s unprotected throat.

  Fool. What did he think would happen?

  As a healer, Rykkon could appreciate that this man did not seem wholly healthy. There was a yellowing to his eyes that was uncommon to the colonists, and his hands shook, though the defiant look in his eye would suggest that it was not from fear.

  “Do your worst, mongrel. Think it would be any less than you did to my wife?”

  Rykkon’s brow furrowed at that, and he rubbed at his ridges to soothe them. No emotions—something that his kin did not seem to struggle with containing, while he felt like an unpractised youngling when his expressions came unbidden.

  He did not recall any harm coming to their females for some time—at least, not while he was a part of the trades.

  But he could not enquire further—not when he was ordered to keep his knowledge of the language secret.

  The boy returned, not clutching a weapon in his hand, but the hand of a female.

  Prim was a name?

  He expected an outcry, for her to plead and beg for the life of the man beneath Kondarr’s blade, but she merely took in the scene with somewhat dull eyes. “What did you bring me for?” She glanced at them. “Did they ask for a witness?”

  He realised now that the female next to James was older. Was Prim one of their offspring?

  “No! Stop them!”

  Prim withdrew her hand fr
om the boy’s apparently tight grip, not drawing closer as she took in the entire exchange. “How? And for what purpose? So they can kill me too?” Her shoulders heaved a little, dropping down just as quickly. “If they want him dead, they’ll kill him. Nothing I do will change that.”

  The calm way in which she stated that somewhat rankled Rykkon. She clearly had no intention of intervening, not even for one that was likely kin. Odd, and rather shameful.

  He gave the human male another glance.

  He did not find him to inspire any great protective feelings in him either. Kondarr could end his life cleanly, and that would put an end to the entire business.

  It was simply strange to see one of their females agree.

  Finally, their leader hurried forward, the strange device in his hands that took in their words and produced a tinny variation of his own. It was imperfect, some meanings lost, but it worked well enough. It once had seemed as magic, but he supposed as with many things, familiarity takes away some of the mystical enrapture with time.

  “I’m sorry to keep you,” Desmond remarked, his eyes darting over to his people with a shake of his head. “I have been ill.”

  The healer in him prickled, wanting to know more details, but he remained silent.

  Kondarr did not release James, nor did he draw away the knife, but he made a quick gesture with his unoccupied hand to have Desmond bring the translator closer so he might be heard. “This man insults us. I will remedy his mistake by taking his tongue.”

  When the words reached his ears, Desmond paled, his eyes going wide as he shifted nervously. “That would... James can be... You have to understand, he hasn’t been quite right since his wife... died.” Evidently, since she had been killed, and by his people, but nothing more was said on that subject. He made a quick gesture toward Prim, urging her forward. “Collect your father and take him home.”

  Desmond received the same incredulous glance she had given the female who had sent for her. “They do not appear ready to release him.”

  Desmond gaped at her, his expression darkening. “Now, look here, I know things have been difficult, but you’re a member of this community—a colonist— and we protect our own. So go and get your father and we’ll have a talk later.”