The two of them began walking without sparing me another look.
I glanced down at the man again, though I was careful not to linger on his innards. He shared Lloi’s dark coloring, both in skin and hair. Feet, sandaled; legs, bound in strips of felt wrapped tight; chest (what I allowed myself to see), once housed in a breastplate of dark gray leather that had been slashed open; left arm, still clutching a long wooden shield that had been flung wide; his spear is a few feet away, just outside the dried blood that coated the grass in all directions. He had a gray helmet that bore a striking resemblance to a bowl and was obviously fashioned out of the hide of a beast like the one also dead nearby. His eyes stared up into the cloudless sky, mouth still open in an unfinished scream. A fly traipsed across his lips and I turned away to find Braylar and Lloi before my stomach betrayed me again, my feet heavy as I dreaded what else they might be investigating.
They were standing on either side of another dead body, though this one was thankfully face down in the grass. For a moment, I feared Braylar meant to turn him over with his foot, shuddered, and began to avert my eyes.
Braylar saw, smiled quick and small. “No matter. Dead is dead. So, Lloi, you have my attention in full. Tell me what happened here.”
“Wasn’t here. But I can hazard a guess or two.”
“As could I. But I’m hopeful yours will contain more insight.”
Lloi pointed back where we came from. “That beast back there, what my people call a rooter, it-”
Braylar interrupted. “No longer, Lloi.” She looked confused until Braylar clarified. “They haven’t been your people for some time.” Surprisingly, this was said somewhat gently, less a reprimand than a reminder.
Lloi pulled her misshapen hat off her head. “Nah. They’re still my people, even if I’m not theirs. Can’t help who you are, Captain Noose. Can’t help it none at all.”
Braylar looked poised to argue, but conceded the point. “As you will, Lloi. Continue, then. What of the beast?”
“Called a rooter, on account of it eating not much more than roots. But mean as spit, for all that-can crush a man easier than I can crush a flower. Usually hunt them with a small party, like this, though I’m guessing they wished they’d a brought a bigger one right about now. But here, they got two chariots, probably four or five men, and-”
“Two? Where is the other, then, and those that rode on it?”
Lloi waved away a big fly. “I’m coming to that, short. Get there faster, you just let me.” She set the hat on her head and adjusted it, but I couldn’t fathom why-it was only a different kind of shapeless now. “Trails and ruts say two chariots, four, maybe five men. They hunt this rooter to ground, I’m thinking. Wasn’t expecting them to be this close to the road, but I’m guessing they followed that old devil away from a herd, he led them on a chase outside where they meant to go. You notice the skin? Thick. Tough to kill a rooter with spears. But worth it, if you can manage. So they chased, finally made the kill back there.”
We followed her back toward the chariot and dog. “Looks like they set to butchering when something took them unawares. Guessing the two we got dead here, they were carving the rooter. The other two or three, back over here with the chariots. Must have been when they heard it.”
She didn’t elaborate as she walked around the perimeter of the scene, her hand grazing the tops of the grass.
Braylar snapped, “What, pray tell, did they hear?”
“Ripper come on them. Looks like it attacked near the chariots first.”
I said, “Ripper? Let me guess. On account of it eviscerating everything?”
“If that word means ripping, then yeah, on account of the ripping. Biggest killer on the plains. Vicious bird, taller than a man on horse, and faster too, least in short bursts. Quicker and meaner than anything you ever see. No wings to speak of, but rippers got arms with long claws. Hook their prey still when they shred it with that massive beak of theirs. Eat ferrets, groundhog, gazelle, pretty much whatever else it come across. Loves horse. They usually steer clear of men and dogs, though, least of all, when in number. Can’t rightly say what it was doing here. Could be it had its eye on the old rooter, too, got territorial. Could be its stomach was just that empty. Guessing it came on them unawares. One wagon had time to cut loose. But those poor bastards, looks like one tried to run, the other tried to fight. Either way, dead is dead.”
Braylar dropped his hand to the flail on his hip and scanned the horizon. “Thank you for advising me to don armor before leaving the wagon. Most kind.”
“Wouldn’t help you none, if the ripper come calling. Steel armor would’ve surprised it some, true enough-not much of that out this way-but just would’ve taken a chunk from somewhere that didn’t taste so steely. You ever see a ripper up close, pretty much the last thing you ever see, no matter what you’re wearing. Unless you’re sitting in an iron box. But we got a real shortage of those around here too.”
She looked off across the grassland. “Ripper didn’t stay here long, guessing it took off after that other chariot. Guessing there’s another scene played out just like this one, some miles away. Guessing the ripper’s getting its fill right now, else it would’ve run back here already, before the scavengers come calling. That’s what I’m guessing.”
Braylar turned and began walking back towards the wagon, rather quickly. “Next time you’re tempted to lead us to a ripper’s trencher, think better of it, Lloi.”
We got moving again. Though it could’ve been my imagination, Braylar seemed to be snapping the reins with more enthusiasm. He asked Lloi to sit alongside him on the bench and began shooting volleys of questions at her, all dealing with what she saw while scouting. Particular tracks or trails, the locations of rivers or dried river beds, outcrops, likely spots for ambush, other signs of the Grass Dogs, rooters, or rippers.
A small cluster of strange trees appeared off to our tight. The trunks were incredibly thick-wider than three stocky men standing shoulder to shoulder-but they were also very short, no taller than our wagon. The branches were stout, too, comprising a dense canopy of foliage with prickly looking leaves. I couldn’t imagine many trees surviving the wind on these plains, but these appeared oddly suited to the task. It was only a small cluster, though, the trees huddled together, and they quickly disappeared.
We were now truly in the wild. If there was any doubt, Lloi leading us to the ripper’s bloodbath confirmed it completely. We were deep in the wilderness, in the middle of the alien Green Sea, far from anything or anyone familiar, and I was as afraid as I’d ever been in my life. I should’ve heeded my mother’s advice. Even if she was wrong about most everything else, she was absolutely point on when it came to avoiding the Syldoon.
Lloi and Braylar alternated watch during the night. I volunteered to help and was equally relieved and insulted when Braylar said they wouldn’t trust their lives to my vigilance.
Lloi was gone with daybreak, if not before. I didn’t see how she could spend half the night on watch and then a full day scouting ahead or behind us, but her endurance didn’t seem to flag at all.
After we set off, the wind picked up considerably, turning into a roaring, howling thing. Braylar pulled his scarf up to his eyes to keep the grit out of his mouth and nose. I tried asking him a question, and he swore repeatedly and told me to be silent, as if I were in league with the wind.
When we finally halted for the day, the wind hadn’t abated at all. We ate and I attempted to sleep. But between listening for Lloi’s return or the ripper’s approach, it was largely a restless night. Lloi didn’t return. But at least the ripper didn’t either.
The next day was much of the same. No reprieve from the wind. No sign of Lloi.
After feeding the rest of the horses, Braylar saddled Scorn. As he was getting ready to ride off, his crossbow and quiver on either side of the saddle, I asked him what I should do if the ripper showed up.