Chapter 1
The screams had finally died down.
A dozen or so tiny voices, all in different tones, had pierced the otherwise calm night, ricocheting through the thick brush of the woods. Hours had gone by, the haunting, ethereal sounds serving as a form of mental torture Migs never knew could exist.
It was hardly how he would have pictured his last night alive.
Not that he’d thoroughly planned his demise, but given his grim situation, his mind wandered down less than cheery avenues more and more. Death was a terribly permanent state unfitting his nomadic lifestyle; whatever came after couldn’t have left room for anything of interest. His imagination was the last stronghold for an ounce of excitement, be it in death or life. It was something that couldn’t be taken away from him no matter how many times he had to nurse a broken body. Closing his eyes, he would allow the image of his final moments to flood in and keep him focused on something.
Yet despite being surrounded by friends long deceased in his mind, his reality would simply never be able to substitute what his heart desired. For starters, he wanted to be a lot warmer; shivering at this point just seemed to add insult to injury.
For another, he wanted to see the stars.
Despite all the grief they had given him and so many others, they still offered a curious beauty, a mystery he knew would remain unsolved within his lifetime. Yet overhead, dreary, grey October clouds were all he could see. Over the past few weeks, the air had slowly grown colder, the weather slipping into a crisp autumn. Ordinarily, this wasn’t such a bad thing; it meant sitting cozily fireside with family, something he loved doing.
The crackle of the fire echoed off the cave’s stone walls, its flames too far away to heat his skin. It only kept the collection of foreign mercenaries warm. They left Migs at the mouth of the cave, hands bound behind him, to pray his bloodied long-sleeved t-shirt would keep him from freezing.
“How’s it going over there, pansy?”
Migs looked up at the man standing nearest the fire. His rounded, burly shoulders reminded him strongly of a boulder, giving a troll-like impression. Like the others, he had the luxury of wearing a coat fitting for the weather, but hadn’t had the kindness to give him one.
“Fine, thanks,” he answered. “You?”
The man’s lip curled at the unexpectedly cheery answer. His look of disgust gave Migs satisfaction.
“Idiot.” The brawny man sat down next to his comrades, shaking his head.
No one else spoke. Only the pops and crackles of burning wood filled the chilly night air. Embers rose to the skies, only to die once they hit the bottoms of the maple boughs.
Though the stars remained hidden, Migs counted himself lucky. He was, for the most part, in one piece. And that was more than a lot of his friends and family could say.
“Have those things finally shut up?” asked another mercenary. Her quiet, annoyed voice sounded weary and sleepless.
The previous night had been filled with frantic cries, impressing Migs as squirrels practising for choir. Odd thing to imagine, but with nothing to do for days, he’d given his imagination free reign.
The alternative, something he had considered but hoped was not the case, rotted a hole in his gut.
“No idea why Helios wants them,” another mercenary commented. “Much better off dead.”
Squirrels could be considered pests, better off dead...
The woman shrugged uninterestedly. “Testing?”
Animal testing is common enough, right?
“I don’t see how. They were eggs when we found them.”
Migs’ heart sank. Rodents didn’t lay eggs. And while the sounds might have passed for some sort of otherworldly bird, he now knew what was in the wagon.
As if on cue, another sharp note rang out from the canvas covering. The horses looked over nervously, shifting on their legs as though they wanted nothing more than to flee.
Other notes joined in slowly.
He had counted perhaps six or seven individual voices before, but this time, Migs heard far more. Their haunting, out of sync screams hit tones and levels that sent shivers down his spine. Looking over at his captors, it seemed to have the same effect on them.
It always did.
“You could always leave them behind,” he suggested hastily, trying his best to tune out the sound. The more he listened, the more he visualised their hideous bodies. “It’s safer for everyone, right?”
It was, Migs felt, a reasonable suggestion. The others hardly looked like they agreed.
The woman stood, a disdainful snarl on her lips. “You must have no idea how much they go for. Alive. How much they’re worth.”
“I don’t, but I also know it’s hard to spend money when you’re dead.”
One of her comrades barked out a laugh. “That afraid of them, are you?”
The sensible part of Migs’ brain told him to remain silent. It wasn’t a common thing for him to listen to it, but he wasn’t exactly treading familiar waters.
“Better get used to them. You’re in the wagon with them when we ride into town tomorrow, traitor.”
A few cackles erupted from the man’s entourage. They chuckled, their gales sounding forced as though laughter could really take the edge off being near the creatures.
It never did.
Of course, Migs thought with a sigh, closing his eyes. Perhaps if he truly was blessed with the gift of luck, he wouldn’t make it to the town by sunrise to face whatever punishment awaited him.
Then again, being called ‘Lucky Migs Luiz’ had never made much sense to him anyway.
By the time the sun’s rays pierced the canvas of the wagon’s cover, Migs was fairly certain he hadn’t slept one wink the entire bumpy ride down the neglected asphalt road.
Backed into a corner, he’d kept as vigilant as his exhaustion allowed, ensuring the creatures stayed far enough over there. They’d continued their odd screams on and off throughout the journey, but hadn’t shown any particular sign they knew he existed.
Stomaching a peek every now and again, he determined being covered in all manner of filth and contained in what looked like a milk cart didn’t provide much comfort. The mercenaries hadn’t spared any exaggeration when they said the things had recently hatched; many of them still had bits of dissolving eggshell on their heads, abdomens, and tentacles. Being coated in what he guessed was amniotic fluid, or their version of it, meant the dirt from the wagon clung to them without mercy. On a normal day, they were unsightly to behold.
This made them even more vile to look at.
And yet…
They were by no means related to birds. There were no beaks or feathers to be seen, but their talons and fleshy wings did remind Migs strongly of a hatchling budgie or two. He had never owned one himself, but he knew enough about the old practices of keeping useless pets to make the comparison. Though their necks were stout, they seemed to lack the muscle development to fully keep them upright, especially through all the shivering they were doing. It gave them a strange appearance of a bobbling-headed baby, drool gathering at their mouths as their eyes struggled to focus on things.
Then again, they were babies, no matter how deadly they would grow up to be. It was an odd thought, and an even more peculiar time for him to feel compassion. But while he wasn’t particularly sure of whatever it was that inspired the action--insanity, empathy--Migs still felt compelled to comfort the things.
It had been ages--longer than he cared to admit, certainly--since he had heard the song, but he did his best to remember the lullaby his sister had loved so much.
“Los pollitos dicen
Pío pío pío
Cuando tienen hambre
Y cuando tienen frio.”
Maybe it was just that his singing was off-key, tone deaf as he was, but the creatures seemed to be more interested in him after his verse. Their milky eyes didn’t quite focus on him, but they seemed more aware of his presence than before. For a brief moment, Migs paused, his icy breath hanging in the air as he watched their reactions.
They quieted a little, and that was enough.
“La gallina busca
El maíz y el trigo
Les da la comida
Y les presta abrigo
Bajos sus dos alas
Acurrucaditos
Duermen los pollitos
Hasta el otro día
Cuando se despiertan
Dicen ’Mamcita,
Tengo mucha hambre
Dame lombricitas.’”
Maybe it was just that his singing was so awful that the ugly politos had died. More than likely, it was the cold weather that had taken away their chance. Either way, Migs was appreciative that their cries had stopped, that their tentacles no longer circled around one another, spreading slime amongst themselves.
As much as their lives didn’t affect him, giving them that bit of comfort had been the right thing to do.
His suspicions that they entered town started when the bumpy road smoothed. The lack of uncomfortable jolts every few minutes made it a lot easier on his tired shoulders, neck and sore butt. Without a visual, he had no confirmation. There was no street sign for him to gather information, and certainly no welcome party.
A donkey brayed in the distance. Soon after, a farmer yelled at the ass to get it together and pull the cart. Migs happily pictured the donkey admirably refusing to give into its owner’s whims simply on principle. It was a short but simple exchange that brought a grin to Migs’ face.
Today was scheduled to be terrible, but that didn’t mean every aspect of it had to be.
“The fuck are you smiling at?”
A mercenary’s head popped in through the canvas cover. Deep purple bags under her eyes suggested she had slept just about as much as he had.
“Oh, you know. Stubborn asses.”
Cocking an eyebrow, she looked him over with disgust. “Is that going to be you?”
“What?”
“Is that going to be you?” she repeated, glaring down at him.
He noticed she was careful not to step into the wagon’s trunking area; despite him being tied up and helpless save for a mean insult or two, she clearly wasn’t taking chances with him or with the creatures.
“Maybe. I’m feeling… lucky today,” Migs answered, delivering her his A-game smile.
She rolled her eyes before returning to the front seat. “Right.”
As they rolled along, the sounds of rural outskirts transformed into a more urban feel; children laughing on the streets, vendors calling out to passers-by to buy the latest hand carved toys or pocket knives.
Migs couldn’t be sure, but some sounded like the offers came from the same merchant.
The louder it got, the more he could tell they were nearing their destination. It seemed fitting of the really old times, where people gathered in a public square for a good old-fashioned beheading. Nothing brought together the rich and poor, families and acquaintances closer than public execution.
People had such a thirst for violence it seemed almost strange humans had gone so long in their history without it.
By the time the wagon came to a stop, he heard excited whispers from the townspeople. Shuffling closer to the canvas, he tried to look through the material, to see if the view provided him any insight into what fate awaited him, or even what resources he had at his disposal.
It wasn’t unheard of for someone like him to slip away at the last moment.
Surviving bullshit thrown his way was often his forte. It was what had earned him the moniker that taunted him more often than not. But when he heard ‘Lucky Luiz’ whispered by some kids, his heart sank.
If they knew who he was, they more than likely knew to cross all their Ts and dot all their Is when it came to bringing him in. Although he was a little chuffed that some random town had indeed heard of him and his infamous level of luck, he knew it almost certainly meant he was going to be royally screwed.
It made his situation all the more grim.
Turning to the creatures in the corner, he sighed. “Wish me luck, little politos.”
Among the few that remained stagnant, the largest of the tentacled monsters rose its little head slowly. Its vertical nostrils flared, taking in his scent as its eyes blinked out of sync. It was far weaker than it had been, and certainly more silent.
Still, despite its fate looking just as grim as his, it fought to keep conscious.
“Thanks little guy. You too.”
