Thank you all for the reviews, and for voting in my poll. Here's part five of the series, hope you enjoy it. Please review, I'd love to hear your thoughts.
Basta hated himself.
He hated himself; possibly more even than he hated Dustfinger, and that was the most he had ever hated someone, though now those feelings were caught up in confusion and memories and dreams, heat and blood and not-hate. He hated himself more than the little boy inside him – betrayed and caged and forced to watch his master die, his master who had mentored him, nurtured him, and had cast him aside – sometimes hated Capricorn, though that, too, was laced through with the love of a child, lost without a father. Hated himself more than Mortola. Hated himself more than that damn Silvertongue, and more than that maid and that wife of Dustfinger's, more than the two's children together.
Basta hated himself at this moment, because everything, everything came back to this damn fire-eater and now he couldn't stay away.
He was alone now, alone and lost without Capricorn or, as had always come with Capricorn, a purpose. Basta had nothing at this moment. Perhaps, had he allied with the Magpie, things would be different. But they shared a mutual hate now, her for his part, as she perceived it, in her son's death, and he for her wicked manipulations and her assumption that she could just stand up in Capricorn's place now. No one would be equal to his old master, not least the old hag who had borne him.
Basta could never work for her anyway, even if he wished to; she would have him poisoned three days in, slip a liquid into his food or sprinkle a powder on his clothes.
It was, then, to his great regret that he had discovered for the first time, in the months leading up to the fight in the clearing, exactly what Dustfinger had felt for the past ten years. Loneliness; longing for a world that was quieter, deadlier, and much less bright. Basta felt itchy in this world once without Capricorn, squished into clothing too small for him, into a place where he felt stupid and separate because he couldn't read and had only limited knowledge of the technology.
Before, in the nine years Basta had lived in Capricorn's company, he had enjoyed the world, though from behind a curtain. Capricorn's mere presence allowed Basta to pick and choose what parts of this new world he wanted to accept, and not since that first horrible, confused night, had Basta felt so lost, uncertain. He had been dropped into the river without knowing how to swim and was left to try to keep himself afloat purely on instinct and chance, and Basta had finally begun to understand why Dustfinger had always ended coming back to them. It didn't matter that he had hated them all, and been afraid of them, and knew he was likely to get hurt or killed every time he returned to Capricorn's village; Dustfinger had longed for the familiarity, had not been able to stomach the world without it for long.
Basta felt the same way.
It was why he had tracked down Dustfinger, hunted him until he finally found him, just in time, in that clearing, surrounded by several of what must be Mortola's men, trying to get to his little marten. Basta had never entertained any thoughts of doing anything but killing Dustfinger, had never thought of what he would do after the fire-eater had perished: merely concentrating on the goal, the purpose it gave him, killing Dustfinger.
But now he had failed, and with no one to blame but himself; and for the first time knowledge was dawning on Basta, that even should he track Dustfinger down a second time, this would only happen again. Now those shady dreams were no longer dreams, midnight memories fresh in his mind, not needing to be warped to press that familiar ball of horrible heat low in his abdomen.
Basta knew the taste of Dustfinger's tongue, and unless it was in a moment of the heat of rage, he knew he could not kill him, no matter how he longed to.
And oh, how he longed to.
Basta, in the hours following Dustfinger's march from the hut, had stabbed the wall, had fumed and kicked the ground, had imagined death upon death upon bloody death for the man. He had hated Dustfinger with all of himself, hated until he was quivering and lost inside the flames of that hate, until his vision darkened and all he could see was Dustfinger before him, broken and bleeding, pale and unmoving.
Basta went to sleep with those images in his mind, dreamed about them, and woke in the morning to look at the wall and be choked with the fact that Dustfinger had walked away.
Dustfinger had kissed him back, had put his hand on Basta's shoulder, Basta knew this – but he had still walked away and somewhere under the fury, Basta was bone-achingly saddened by this knowledge.
And he hated himself for it, because the sorrow, the rage over it, the wanting that had caused this whole mess – they were all just different components of the need that stabbed through him and directed his feet towards the door, out into the woods, to follow Dustfinger's trail.
Basta had never been good at tracking, not the way Dustfinger was, but that didn't mean anything; no one was the same as Dustfinger in this way, and Basta was surprised to find that Dustfinger had left clear signs of where he'd been. Either he wanted to be followed, he was in such a hurry that he just didn't care, or he'd forgotten stealth altogether.
Basta did not hope for the first option, he was sure it wasn't the second option, and he knew to expect the third.
It was that need, anyway, which hovered around him like a fog, perverting the very air he breathed until he followed Dustfinger, half a day behind, without even knowing what he would do when he caught the fire-eater, or even if he wanted to. Each moment was a shock, twisting from death to the not-death that had occurred in that hut, the not-death that had built forever, and still haunted his dreams, though now it bled out into the day as well.
Basta paused in the fateful clearing, looking at the man lying still on the ground, and wondering if the other three had told Mortola what he had done yet. He also wondered how the old crow would interpret it: thinking she no longer had to hunt down the fire-eater because Basta had clearly finally made good on his threats, or focusing on Basta killing her own slaves to save Dustfinger.
He didn't hope anything, so he didn't hope that she would think he'd killed Dustfinger. Just as he knew that he wouldn't come to save Dustfinger's life again, wouldn't relive this whole scene, should she hunt him down again.
Over at the base of a tree, half-under a root, there was a small shape; one Basta only noticed because he had stood almost on top of it, circling the clearing for signs of what direction Dustfinger had gone.
It was a marten, small and curled up, dark body looking limp and lifeless. Tiny horns glinted, wet with blood.
Basta's mind flashed back, without his control, to the hut.
"Dead," he had said casually, and Dustfinger's breath had caught, just as Basta's did now. His head dropped, hazy in Basta's mind, even as the knife-wielder kneeled down into the soft moss, feeling dew stain the fabric over his knees. His eyes had closed, he had shrunk down in size, wrong and empty; Basta's fingers reached out, hesitated, brushed over wet fur, touching Dustfinger's face, agonized and all new.
Dustfinger had lost all hope when he had heard of this little creature's death. Had collapsed, emotionally if not physically. Had become vulnerable, had become open to attack, to Basta's attack.
His hand lifted, he relaxed into the touch, and the knife clattered forgotten from Basta's hand.
Basta's fingers paused, then returned, smoothing down soft fur, the kind of soft that any woman would value on a scarf, any man on a hood. They dipped under, nails tugging into the ground, catching on dirt, and lifted; a tiny body (much smaller than it had ever looked when bouncing around on Dustfinger's shoulder, chittering angrily, biting Basta) rose in his hands, settled on his lap.
Dustfinger's laugh, bitter and quiet and empty, echoed in his ears.
Basta closed his eyes for a long moment, breathing in the scent of blood in the valley, holding his enemy's companion tenderly, trying not to think of anything at all.
He failed, when his fingers registered the warmth under them, and he opened his eyes, peering down. Not once since he had said them, did he doubt his words; why would the marten have survived? The mere fact that it had lived for over ten years now was a miracle, and he had seen it lying limp and still. Why – how could it live?
But it did.
As Basta examined it carefully, he saw the tiny eyes were open, the mouth following, hissing at him with such familiar hatred he had to suppress the urge to laugh. Even too weak to move, bloody from some unknown injury strong enough to have kept it away from its master a whole day and a night, the marten recognized Basta, and strained to bite his hand.
Something in the world righted, and Basta stood.
There was something wrong with the creature, (what, Basta didn't know, that had always been Dustfinger's territory, animals and the forest) that much couldn't be denied – no more than it could that he was fatally flawed, needing Dustfinger, needing a purpose, needing the fire-eater for more than reasons of hate or fear or even simple lust. He needed him, it was as simple and complicated as that, and Basta knew now that Dustfinger needed this marten.
"Dead," he shrugged, and for the first time yet, he saw Dustfinger shut down.
Basta might be insane, or at the least very confused. He was the bad man of this story, he knew that, and by all rights, he ought to stand up, leave the marten on the ground. He ought to lift his boot and bring it smashing down, shattering a small skull, crushing those glinting teeth. Ought, if anything, to bring Dustfinger the horns, to add them to his necklace of charms and wear them proudly when he carved his mark into the fire-dancer, spattering blood over yet more ground.
Basta knew this, and perhaps that was why he sliced a small strip from his shirt, and used it to wrap up the marten. There were places, once he reached a town, where people did nothing but tend to injured animals. It would not take much to heal this small creature, surely – Basta was rich, in the way that only a merciless assassin, armed with a knife, could ever be, and payment would not be an issue. Not in these small towns by the coast, where it had only taken him and three other men to instill utter fear and compliance in the heart of everyone present. Yes, people in this world might flaunt their technology, brag about their advancement and civilization – but the fact was that all of them behaved the same with his knife to their throat.
This settled, Basta turned back to the hunt. Mortola's men had disappeared somewhere into the woods; their trail was not difficult to follow, as they were not from his world and had never learned the art of stealth. He could probably overtake them, kill them all before they reached their mistress, but what would be the point? With no news of her success, she would simply begin again. Instead, Basta resumed his search for Dustfinger's tracks, treading carefully through the leaves, one hand occasionally twisting in the fur of the marten that now lay curled in a makeshift sling about his neck, ignoring its efforts to nip him through his shirt.
He found it, finally, heading towards what Basta only took a moment to confirm was the direction of the closest small town. It was less obvious than the fire-eater's previous steps, but still far clearer than ever before, and Basta's face grew into a grim smile.
The need was still there, soft and hard, glittering and burning in his chest, enslaving him and driving him on; but in with it was a determination, knife-sharp and shining dully in the eyes of the small animal in his arms.
Basta may need Dustfinger, in ways that he knew he would no longer be able to control or even understand.
But Dustfinger needed Gwin, and Basta had him; he held Dustfinger's hope in his hands, and it was only one step from there to his heart, to holding the fire-eater's beating heart in his calloused hands. He did not know what he would do then – if he would squeeze it slowly, watch the blood dribble out from his fingers, crush the life from Dustfinger and leave himself alone in victory; if he would cradle it tenderly, as he had held nothing but his blades before, care for it and try to understand or nurture the flame growing steadily inside him (Basta hated fire, feared it).
But he would have it. Basta might not have a plan, but that did not matter. He had power now, power over Dustfinger and over the need inside of him, and with that power came a purpose.
And a purpose was more than enough for Basta.