Page 213 of Mates for the Raskarrans #1-6

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Sam

I gasp as Dazzik raises his knife to the big guy, Basran, hot terror flooding me, memories of Gregar’s tribe fighting with the Cliff Top guys rising in my mind.

The savage brutality of that short clash.

And the numbers were much more even then, Gregar’s tribe the weaker side, but so close to their village, they knew back up was coming soon.

Dazzik stands alone. Alone at the centre of this room, surrounded on all sides by Basran’s tribe.

No, not alone, I think. He’s got me.

Basran gives a low, unconcerned laugh, drawing his own knife. It’s bigger than Dazzik’s, the blade gleaming white and decorated with carved patterns. Dazzik’s blade is already stained red with blood, and he shifts it in his hand, adjusting his grip.

Basran says something as the two of them start circling each other. I don’t understand him, but I know a goading tone when I hear one.

Don’t be stupid, I think to Dazzik. Don’t fall for that sort of thing.

Dazzik responds, his voice calm. Then, with a sudden ferocity, they’re on each other, a tangle of limbs and knives, green skin blurring together so I can’t tell which limb belongs to who, and whether either of them has the upper hand.

Then, as abruptly as they came together, they’re apart again. Basran swipes a hand across his mouth, brushing away the blood from a split lip. Dazzik spits a gob of red on the floor before baring bloodied teeth.

It’s a brief respite. A heartbeat before they’re on each other again, and the temptation to pinch my eyes shut is overwhelming.

I don’t want to watch, I don’t want to see the moment Basran’s blade scores Dazzik’s skin.

But I force myself to watch. Dazzik is fighting for his life, and he’s fighting for me. I’ll watch every awful second of it.

The first serious blow lands a moment later, Basran’s blade slicing into Dazzik’s thigh.

His trousers take the worst of it, but red blood marks Basran’s blade and starts to seep into the split leather.

Dazzik snarls, and fear slices my heart.

Basran is taller, broader across the shoulder.

His thighs are twice the size of Dazzik’s, and he’s been sitting here in this warm, dry building, while Dazzik has run days through the rains after me.

Basran has every advantage, and he’s just drawn first blood.

Basran knows he’s won a victory here, too. He rises to his full height, smug smile in place as he says some other goading thing to Dazzik. I see my mate’s control teeter on a knife edge, but he holds himself, doesn’t allow himself to rise to it.

Basran snarls, and then they’re at each other’s throats again, grunts and thwacks and the wet sound of blood echoing around the room.

Dazzik is so bloodied already from fighting his way in here that it’s hard to tell how badly he’s wounded, but when they break apart again, Basran isn’t unmarked.

A bright red line cuts across his chest, seeping into the pale fabric of his top.

He rubs at it with a palm, and I think he looks a little uncertain as he raises his knife to Dazzik again.

This time when they clash, it’s even more brutal than before. Fangs and claws and knives slash and slice and bite into skin, blood splattering across the floor. There’s no pause between blows, no moment to catch their breath, just a constant vicious struggle for supremacy.

One where every second that passes, Basran gains a little more of an upper hand.

I look round at the other raskarrans in the room.

Mean Face is nowhere to be seen, and the others all teeter in place, eyes wide as they wait to see how this unfolds.

I half expected them to swarm Dazzik the moment they had the chance, prevent the need for their chief to fight, but they don’t even have weapons at the ready. None of them are braced ready to fight.

There’s some rule of raskarran honour at play here, I think, but Basran doesn’t have any honour.

He might not have been the one to steal me from Walset’s camp, but his tribe did that for him.

They were out raiding supplies from another tribe, fighting and stealing.

That’s not the raskarran way. As tribe chief, he should have been the one keeping his tribe on the right path, but he hasn’t, and besides, I’m not raskarran, anyway.

So I feel no guilt in my heart as I dart out from behind Jestaw, grab Basran’s tail as it flicks in my direction, and pull as hard as I can.

Basran yowls, more out of surprise than pain, I think, but I unbalance him, his next step not landing where he meant it to.

More importantly, he looks round, fury written in his features as he sees me.

I give him a defiant look. And the second he takes to scowl at me is all the opening that Dazzik needs.

The blade pierces from Basran’s back right through the other side, bursting out of his stomach.

Dazzik holds him close as he struggles for a moment, then Basran goes limp, all the fight leaving him.

With a gentleness Basran doesn’t deserve, Dazzik lowers him to the ground, pulling out the knife with a sickening squelching sound.

Blood, thick and dark, dark red, starts to pool around Basran’s body, his skin going pale.

He takes a last rattling breath, and then he’s gone.

Dazzik rises, and he’s a terrible sight. Covered in blood and grime, his hair and clothes wild, his eyes burning with the adrenaline of fighting. The cuts on his face twist his features, hardening them, and as he looks around at the raskarrans remaining, they shrink away from him.

“Gavas,” he says, his voice low, commanding.

It’s as though the raskarrans are struck with electricity. They jolt into action, some of them looking round for things to grab, others just running straight for the exit. They flood out of the room in a matter of moments, and then it’s only me, Jestaw, Basran’s body, and Dazzik.

Dazzik.

With a whimper, I run to him, bounding over Basran as I throw myself into his arms. I hear the clatter of a knife dropping as he scoops me up to him, and it doesn’t matter that he stinks of blood and sweat, that I can feel the grime soaking through my clothes.

He’s here and he saved me and I’ve never been more happy to be held in someone’s arms in my life.

“Nhi Sam,” he says, voice hoarse, his fingers trailing over my hair.

“Dazzik,” I whisper.

It’s too much for my poor, battered lungs.

They tighten in my chest immediately, and then I’m bent double, coughing and hacking until I’m breathless, panic rising in me as I try to force myself to breathe slowly.

To stay calm. Dazzik’s expression is aghast, but he acts quickly, soothing his hand over my back and whispering things to me in a calm, steady voice.

I listen to that sound, breathe in his calm and out my fear.

It’s going to be okay. Everything is going to be okay now we’re together.

Jestaw says something low and urgent, and I hear footsteps hurrying away from us.

A moment later, a canteen is being pressed into my hand, and I sip on it slowly, expecting the bitter wash of the berry water.

But it’s just water. Blissfully cool, soothing water.

But no berries. Nothing to help me heal.

I don’t even know if the berries would be strong enough to help me. They can’t cure everything, or the sickness that swept through the population years ago would never have taken hold. But I hoped I would at least be able to give them a try.

Dazzik snaps something harsh sounding. Jestaw’s next words are obviously an apology.

I wish I understood them, wish they understood me.

I hope Dazzik saw how Jestaw did his best to protect me.

Even though the moment we entered this room, he handed me straight to Basran, I’m still grateful for the kindness he’s shown me. I wouldn’t want Dazzik to hurt him.

Things feel a little soft, a little spongy. I’m awake, but my body doesn’t seem to belong to me anymore. I can’t feel the edges of it. Which sucks, because Dazzik is holding me, Dazzik has me pressed all up against him, and I want that. I want to be in his arms.

Then he stands, and we’re moving, and I’m really not too sure what’s happening.

Are we leaving this place? I kind of want to have a look around.

Mercenia has a building here, that means they’ve been on this planet’s surface, not just flown past it on their way to Alpha Colony.

They might know that we crashed. They might know that we’re still here, still alive.

That feels like something I should be warning the others about.

If I ever get to see them again.

Then I’m being set down on a bed. One of the beds in the rooms on either side of the tunnel. The mattress is thin, the furs Dazzik tucks around me stinky, but I’m so, so tired, I struggle to care.

“Dazzik,” I say, and I meant to ask him to stay with me, to wrap that big body of his around mine and hold me close. But my tongue isn’t mine anymore either and my eyes are so heavy.

The only thing I can do is give in.

I wake some hours later, the back of my throat burning, my lungs achy and tight, but my head clearer.

My whole body is stiff as I sit up, and I’m cold.

I wrap the gross furs around me, trying to stave off the chill.

But I’m not sure I’m actually that cold.

Memories of Dad in his final days come back to me, how I tucked him up in his scratchy blankets and mine, but he still shivered, even though his forehead was hot to touch.

I raise a hand to mine now, but it just feels the same. Probably hot all over.

I step out into the corridor. The entrance door is jammed open at the other end, bright light coming in from outside. I wonder if it’s still the same day, or if I slept through the night and into morning again. Time has little meaning at this point.

The corridor is clear. Dazzik has been busy, removing the bodies. I can see a rusty smear across the floor where some blood has been spread, but there aren’t any dead raskarrans for me to trip over as I make my way towards the canteen at the end of the corridor.

It’s a military base, I think. A Mercenia military base smack in the middle of the forest. I know because we stayed in a similar one in the couple of weeks between winning the lottery and leaving the planet.

Two weeks of prep for long haul space flight.

Training videos that went right over our heads, but hot meals in the canteen three times a day that we could all appreciate.

As I step into the canteen, I can almost see past the mess - the overturned furniture, the remains of a fire, the crates stacked with raskarran supplies - and into those days.

The girls in their jumpsuits, all of us too thin, hardly believing our luck as we were served a properly cooked meal on a tray.

The officers travelling with us grumbled about the food, but for us it was the best thing we’d ever eaten.

I remember sitting across from Ellie, the two of us with a fine layer of soft fuzz growing on our shiny scalps. The instant bond between us, forged by our days in the food sector. Being hopeful about the future for the first time in my life.

“Sam.” Dazzik’s voice draws me back to the present. I turn and find him standing in the entrance to the canteen, soaked to the bone. He looks better, despite being drenched, and I hope that means he got some sleep while I was dozing, too.

“Dazzik,” I say, smiling at him. I manage it without coughing, though my breath still rattles all the way down my lungs every time.

He’s cautious as he approaches me, dropping down into a crouch as he reaches my side so he doesn’t tower over me quite as bad.

He reaches a hand to my temple, brushing my hair aside to check on the wound there.

I’d almost forgotten about it. It feels like that head injury happened a whole other lifetime ago.

I see the way his jaw grits, and I know he’s angry. Angry that I was hurt, angry that none of the other raskarrans thought to take care of me. It’s amazing how much of his thoughts I can read in his face.

His face that isn’t the same as it appeared to me in the dreamspace.

The marks I took for cuts yesterday are actually scars.

Old scars, by the look of them, his skin puckered and shiny at the edges of them, no sign of redness or swelling that would suggest he got them in the last couple of days.

I raise a hand to his cheek, brushing my fingers over them.

Claw marks, I think. Some other raskarran did this to him.

Dazzik’s eyes shutter, and he turns his face away from me, his shoulders drawing tight. I drop to my knees so I’m below him once more, then slip myself into his arms, nestling tight against him as I wrap my arms around his neck, pressing a kiss to the scarred side of his face.

I don’t care. The scars don’t change a damn thing. He’s still gorgeous to me.

A shuddering breath escapes him, and he rises to his feet, drawing me with him, carrying me back to the bedroom I woke in.

There, he sets me down on the bed, drawing out a canteen from his pack.

This time, when I take a sip, the bitter berry flavour is there, and I grimace even as my heart leaps to taste it.

I drink as much as I can, before allowing Dazzik to draw me back down into the bed, his big body curled around mine just as I wanted.

His hand brushes over my hair, then down my side, soothing me to sleep.