In his spare time, Haru wonders about their cargo.
There's a lot of it—spare time and cargo alike. He glances over his shoulder. Right now it's right behind him, massive and square and all covered up in canvas, lashed to the cart beneath it by yards and yards of rope like a small moveable building. Sometimes Haru swears he can hear it sloshing, but he can't imagine why anyone would hire a bunch of mercenaries to haul a big tank of water across the desert, even if people in this nation do say that water is valuable as gold.
Well, whatever. He's not getting paid to know what it is, just to guard it. Whatever it is, he wishes they could move it a little faster. At this rate, he'll turn twenty before they see the capitol's gates again.
Haru knows he's still young, but he can't help feel ing that he's running out of time. This is the twelfth job he's taken, and he hasn't come a step closer to seeing it.
Ocean.
This time, he'd been so sure. All the whispers about an expedition to Ocean, all his rushing to join the group, and for what? A month and a half of mind-numbing travel—in the wrong direction. He hasn't even seen Jethuba, the supposedly impenetrable wasteland barring mankind from the legendary land of endless water. By the time he and the other mercenaries had met up with the company, they were well into the known lands, crawling homewards to the capitol. And he probably won't even get to see that; they'll likely get paid off at the gate, because capitol folk don't like to mingle with blood-dealers like themselves.
His grandmother had always called mercs that. She'd be so disappointed.
Haru's thoughts are arrested by a shout from the caravan leader. Already, the sun is falling earthwards in a shower of flame. He sets off to help make camp.
()
Only one fire is allowed, and that hidden like some great secret behind an elaborate blind of thick cloth. The mercs grumble amongst themselves and make their beds in the sand, cooling rapidly under the moon.
For his part, Haru can't sleep. Maybe it's the memory of his grandmother. So small, smaller still in the grave. He'd cried that night, despite himself. Three days later, he packed his things, said goodbye to the bewildered schoolmaster, and set off onto the high road towards Mushara. He never arrived. Someone had picked a fight with him at an inn along the way, over what he doesn't remember. He'd roundly defeated him and gained himself a broken nose and a job.
That was nearly three years ago. The nose healed, the jobs kept coming. Now he circles the binding pole, checking the feedpost of the riders' camels. They're ugly things from afar and stink to high heaven up close, but Haru has never encountered another species as hardy. These have gone weeks without water, and still have days before their next drink. He pets his on the nose. He's taken to calling her Tooth for her massive overbite, nasty even by camel standards. She chomps at air, tossing, and almost gets his finger. Haru withdraws his hand rapidly—he likes all his limbs attached, thanks. "What's wrong?" he mutters. Tooth stomps the sand, hooves clapping the ground like dinner plates. He grabs her reins, but she flicks her head away, growing low and guttural.
"Hey, Tooth-chan—"
Her scream sounds nearly human. Haru falls back in alarm, hand leaving the reins. It's not just Tooth—all of them are stomping, now, panicking.
Trying to calm them down, Haru peers into the darkness. Nothing—no lights, just the ever-present rasp of sand on sand. Utter quiet, for a desert.
A blast of wind. Something bowls past him; he falls to the ground, hyper-aware of trampling limbs, too thick and fast to be a camel's, crossing near over his face. Sand-wolves, he thinks for a moment, but no—too tall, and that's a whinnying cry, not the howl of a dog, and a rider silhouetted against the sky bright with moon. Eyes like steel, wisps of red hair escaping from a long scarlet scarf wrapped around his face.
Not sand-wolves—worse. Bandits.
He shouts without thinking, slides his shortsword from his belt. He can't count them, weaving in and around the edge of the caravan like a long black viper, near totally silent. They can't just make off with the cart, he thinks; it's too heavy. Which leaves only one option—total slaughter.
There's a rider dismounting next to him, running for the tent. Haru chases after him, fleet-footed in the sand, dagger raised.
He's a foot short of sinking it into the man's back when the man turns suddenly and literally grabs Haru's fist. His wrist turns sharply as his body continues to pitch forwards, sending a sharp bolt of pain reverberating up his whole arm. The man, just a pair of green eyes peeking out from beneath ornately patterned cloth, tightens his grip, and Haru swears he feels bones turning in his hands.
He lets go of his weapon, and simultaneously manages to kick the guy's scabbard loose of his belt, sending it flying somewhere into the dark. At least they're both disarmed this way. The man pitches forward, temporarily off-balance, and Haru manages to land a blow to the back of his neck that simultaneously makes Haru's hand ring with pain and completely fails to knock out his opponent.
Christ, Nanase, great job, he thinks, springing back and raising his fists. Do pick the guy built like a wall. He doesn't know the first thing about fist-fights, but he guesses now is as good a time to learn as any.
The other guy isn't attacking, just circling Haru warily. Waiting it out, Haru guesses—counting on his fellows to finish up their job and then come for Haru.
He darts in, hoping for a hard straight blow to the solar plexus, and misses. Despite his size, the guy is fast. Haru manages to dodge three bone-shattering punches, and even deliver one or two of his own, before the fourth catches him straight in the face.
Staggering, Haru blinks. Blood spews from his nose and his head is full of constellations. He tries to sort out what his next move should be, but he can't feel which of his limbs is where.
He seems to hear someone calling "wait!" but it already sounds muffled and thick, and when the next blow sinks into his jaw his hearing goes altogether.
()
He wakes up to a small hand pinching his shoulder. Someone's gabbling away in a high-pitched voice, at once sharp and muffled.
"You see… shape of… deltoids! Deltoids!"
The hand moves to his arm. "And… triceps… wonderful, aren't they?"
"Sure…"
A child? It can't be.
He groans. Raising his eyelids feels like pitching a heavy tent. The hand pulls abruptly away. Wincing, Haru forces his eyes open.
His vision is all weird, too bright on the left and oddly dark on the right and blurry altogether. He tries to sit up, but pain cracks bright like thunder through his head and he falls back down, gasping.
A hand—a different one, broad and bubbled with calluses—pushes down gently on his forehead. "You might not want to try getting up for a while." A man's voice, lilting with accent—a Hoetian, maybe? "Your head's kind of messed up right now." Haru shifts, blinking rapidly, trying to level out the halves of his vision. He notices his hands are tied behind his back. Ah, the bandits. His vision is clearing. And this man was—
The guy whose fist is the last thing Haru remembers squats in front of him, hand on his forehead.
"Are you okay?"
That's some kind of question to for you to be asking, is what Haru means to say. What comes out is a sort of wheeze. He can't see himself, but his accusatory glare probably emerges pretty limp as well.
"You didn't knock a few screws loose, did you?" comes a voice—a girl's voice—behind Haru. He squeezes his eyes shut and open again, as if they have any bearing on his hearing. That can't be right.
"I didn't mean to!" The man turns back to Haru and waves his hand in front of his face, looking genuinely alarmed. "Do you understand me?"
"I sp-speak Common, you idiot," Haru manages to cough, and flinches, expecting a belt across the face or worse. But all the guy does is sort of pat him on the side of the head, looking relieved. "He's all right, Gou."
"That's Captain Gou to you." Nope, thinks Haru, still off—the voice still sounds female, and Gou's definitely a guy's name.
"Sure, whatever you say. Gou."
"You—"
It takes him a few seconds to place the face that sweeps into his field of vision, if only because the last time he saw it was from behind a long scarlet scarf. But those steely eyes are the same.
"You're a girl," he wheezes.
The girl—and she's not even a woman, she's young, can't be older than Haru—sighs. "Why is that the first thing everyone says?"
"I mean, you do kind of keep it a secret."
"Rhetorical, Makoto. Rhetorical."
"Sorry."
"Where… 's everyone?" slurs Haru. "What'd you do?"
"He doesn't sound so good," says the man—Makoto. "I'll go get some water."
"Relax," the girl says to Haru. "Your transport buddies are tied up where we left 'em, with plenty of water and headaches to spare till another caravan or the guard gets there."
"You think the guard will come?" asks Makoto.
"I hope not, but Sane and Kuzu had a pretty late start. I don't know if they'll be able to catch them."
So it looks like a few of theirs were able to escape. Haru can only hope they get away successfully. Makoto returns, angling the lip of a gourd towards Haru's mouth. "Open," he commands, so gently that Haru sort of just obeys. "Swallow. There you go."
"You feel bad, don't you," accuses Gou.
"I can't help it!"
"He's not a very good bandit," comments Haru.
"Don't say that to someone who's feeding you water. That's rude," replies the girl.
"I'm saying that because he's feeding me water."
Makoto laughs. He also doesn't stop offering Haru water. "You picked a mouthy one, Gou."
"I don't care if he's mouthy," she retorts.
"Oh, right, you only care about the—" Makoto makes a vague gesture encompassing his entire upper body and winks at Haru. Haru suddenly feels rather threatened. She doesn't look like a cannibal…
Although she is considering him quite appraisingly. Haru becomes suddenly and violently aware that he's shirtless.
Together, they look down at his chest.
Gou sighs. "The male physique," she says contemplatively, "is one of the wonders of the world."
"Up there with the pyramids?" asks Makoto.
"Who cares about the pyramids? Do the pyramids have biceps?"
"I think you're missing the point."
"Well, I think you're missing the point."
"The pyramids have a point," says Haru softly.
"What?"
In lieu of answering, he lies back down. He's feeling dizzy again. Great. Not only has he been captured by a bandit outfit, but it's a bandit outfit led by a possibly hormonal girl who's ogling his clavicle and a man who nurses his knock-out victims with his iron fists. And he might be concussed.
It could be worse, he tells himself. They could've slit your throat and left your body in the sand like your average band of criminals. Instead—
Instead, a small hand pats his left pectoral reverentially.
Haru can't help rolling his eyes.