Bloodrush (Scarlet Star Trilogy #1)

Chapter 12 - Spit and Vigour

'I don't know how long it's been now. A week? Two? The boy's found his tongue, but mine is still dry as parchment. Hurts to speak, and he doesn't understand my scrawling ...'

14th May, 1867

It was early when the sun arose to burn the cold of the night away, to chase the timid mists back into the splintered ground, far too early for Merion's liking. He cracked his eyelids open a smidgeon and winced as the brightness made his eyes hurt. This desert was insufferable.

'Mornin',' muttered Lurker. Merion could have sworn that he hadn't moved an inch in the night. He was exactly as he had left him: sat cross-legged, head down, and busy with Merion's shoes. Lurker was just about finished with them. Now, in the morning light, Merion could see the results.

Two patchwork shoes of borrowed leather and brightly-coloured cloth sat side-by-side in the red sand. His own shoes had been cut and ripped to shreds, spliced with a pair of what Merion would later learn were called noa'sins. Shohari shoes. Lurker had even managed to save some of that velvet lining, putting it to good use around the heels. They weren't what Merion might have chosen for walking down the cobbles of Kensing Town, but he—along with his battered and blistered feet—was very grateful for them.

'You made those for me?' Merion croaked, his throat raspy from his deep slumber. He had slept like the dead.

With his thumb and his blade, Lurker cut free the final loose thread. He flicked it into the fire and sighed. 'Done,' he said, then tossed the shoes to Merion, who caught them awkwardly.

The big man didn't look like the sort of man who was fond of sleep (the black rings around his deep brown eyes were testament to that fact), but Merion had to ask. 'Were you up all night making these?' he enquired.

Lurker shrugged. 'Way I see it, I can sleep when I'm dead.'

The logic was brutal, but sound. Merion shrugged right back and turned the shoes over in his hands. They were rough; Lurker was no tinker, but they seemed solid enough. Merion gently slipped them on to his aching feet, biting his lip as his blisters complained. It was painful, but he managed it. The shoes were tight, but for some reason that felt like a good thing.

Merion said as much. 'They're tight,' he remarked, but then realised his manners. 'I mean, thank you, Lurker.'

'Welcome,' replied the man. He was sat with his legs drawn into his chest, his thick leather-clad arms resting on his knees.

In truth, Merion was not accustomed to random acts of kindness, especially from a man such as Lurker. Merion did not know quite what to offer in return besides a few spare socks or a handshake, so he decided to show a little interest in the man.

'So I take it Lurker isn't your real name?' he asked.

Lurker's stare moved to the ashes of the dead fire. 'No, it ain't. But I don't mind it. Suits me, so Lil says. I'm more Lurker now than anybody else.'

Merion nodded. Lurker's matter-of-fact way of speaking was strange, but Merion found that he couldn't help but agree. There was a wisdom that emanated from him, and Merion was fascinated by it, perhaps because on some level he knew it was a wisdom born from toil and hardship, from struggle and tribulation. There was a deep and dark history behind those brown eyes, behind those scars, and Merion was suddenly very eager to dig it out.

'So, what is your name, if you don't mind me asking?'

Lurker scratched his grizzled chin, his nails rasping on his wiry stubble. It was clear he wasn't one for laying his cards out for all to see, but he answered all the same. 'Well,' he said, 'ain't nobody asked that in a while. I used to be called John, John Hobble. Before some whiskey-sick rail worker accused me of lurking in a saloon one day. It was busy. He was loud. Name kinda stuck. Don't go to many saloons no more.'