The Last Lowlander

Book 2 Chapter 1: Peloji

In the woods about a mile away from the road, Peloji tightened his boots just as sweeping darkness descended on the forest. He detected the faint scent of the sea which meant he had crossed and was now at the base of the inland mountains.

His clothes – trousers and the smart looking shirt he had stolen from a rich merchant's son – were wet. His gloves were wet. His hair was wet. His crotch was chafing. As he fastened his boots, he grunted in pain, a trench foot laceration was infected. The pain was worse that night than the previous. He stood and slid his arms into the sleeves of his coat, brushed the insects off himself, and went to a rock about a hundred yards from where he slept. Under the rock was an abandoned den that Peloji had used to store his box. He gently pulled it from its hiding place and placed it in a pocket a concubine from St. Highcorp had sewn inside the coat just above the hip.

The crickets had found their rhythm, screeching in sweeps. Peloji trudged between the trees. The air moved through the forest with struggle, often seeming to come to a halt and then move on. Somewhere beneath all this sound, the rumbles of the sea waves crashing. When he lifted his foot, his boot would pop out and make a loud noise and when it came down again it would squish and mud would envelope up to the ankle.

Peloji came to a cliff. It was just above the canopy of more forest below and he could see for miles along the tops of the trees. The moon had fully risen. The leaves were moving, but the details were washed in the moon blue. A road cut through the forest like a giant serpent's track. Peloji followed the trail with his eyes and looked at it a long time.

A non-human cry came from the woods, and he kneeled instinctively, clutching his handcannon inside his coat. The butt was made from cherry wood and an intricate dragon tail was carved into the base of the grip up to the barrel where the engraving changed from wood to steel and the head of the dragon flared at the barrel's end. He'd taken it from his dying father during the civil war, who took a round to his chest and fell from his horse into the mud. Peloji had run back to him and saw him clutching it to his chest like an effigy. Hackit, his father called him, let me die in dignity. But Peloji reached down and yanked it from him and threw his knotty and ruined spear atop his chest without a word. Then he re-joined the battle.

He searched the canopy for movement. Then another cry rang out and it dialed in where Peloji searched. He noticed a small light emanating from deep in the thicket. It snuffed out, then reignited, then disappeared again, only to reappear in a different location. Peloji gripped his pistol tighter and closed his eyes. Then he crept down the side of the cliff, working his feet into holds and wincing each time. When he reached the bottom of the cliff face, the noise repeated which caused Peloji to kneel again and squint his eyes. He could see the light more clearly, now. From where it emanated, Peloji calculated it was a mile perpendicular from the road and decided to shoot the gap between them.

Twenty minutes into his march, the light hadn't faded like before nor had it moved. Sounds of scraping and sawing between the cries. He started to make way for the sound from where he was. He kept a methodical pace as he silently grasped around trees and squirmed his way between them. When Peloji was close to the scene, he drew the hammer back on his handcannon and held still and looked.

A lamp hung from a low branch on a nearby tree. A figure dressed in a freshly killed carcass hunched over something that was concealed by shrubs and grasses. A voice came from the darkness and then another figure emerged. He held a blood-soaked blade which dripped on the foliage. Peloji closed his mouth tight and breathed as quietly as he could through his flared nostrils. The first figure took the blade from the second and did something out of sight, but the same yelp from earlier came. Some squishing and grinding sounds again, and the first figure withdrew and held up an organ to the second. With the organ came the smell of rank blood, as though it was mixed with curdled milk left stewing in a pot overnight.