24: Blood Mesa

When Fletcher woke, he found himself alone in the tent. Sitting up, he drew a paw over the top of his head, smoothing the disrupted fur. It felt odd, staying out in the wilderness; fully cognisant of the fact he might never again sleep amongst the Midnight Meridian circus troupe. Counted in full, his time with them had been only a minute slice of his whole life, but he felt those few months contained more valuable experience than his entire life. He'd felt and done more in that small time with Miss Meridian's show than ever before, and had seen more of the world than his father would have ever allowed him. He felt a great divide between the Fletcher Fulbright locked away in Gallentry, and the Fletcher Fulbright he was now. Even the name didn't properly suit, heralding a more embryonic version of his self. He almost didn't know who he really was anymore, that was one thing he'd certainly lost. Under Baron Fulbright's thumb, there was a clear beginning and end to who he was as a person. But now? Leaving Gallentry had shone a light on just how many gaps his personality had, and in turn he'd borrowed so much from those around him he was no longer sure what was his; he felt like an amalgamation, a Frankenstein monster born of Thume, Lyric, and Narem. He longed to be simply left alone, to sequester himself away from the world and conclusively answer the question;

Who is Fletcher Fulbright?

But there were more pressing matters at paw. He climbed out of the small tent on all fours, seeing Narem by the fire, the morning fog reluctantly beginning to clear. Lyric was apparently still asleep, and Fletcher realised it was earlier than he'd first thought. In the distant pale sky he saw a Pneumavulture, soaring on the currents, it's glorious five-metre wingspan held against an underserving backdrop. He thought about Thume's suggestion – moving to the far west and making a living off the land, surviving as hunters or pest control. It wouldn't be bad, he supposed.

“Hey." Fletcher said, sitting across from the sombre leopard. Narem had retreated into himself following Nobu's death, as he explained it, the two had been nearly inseparable before, and now he was simply spinning in the wind.

“Hello there." Narem replied, a soft smile at the edge of his lips. It had been only five days since the massacre at the circus grounds; three were spent mourning with the others, and two had been careful and methodical travel. Lyric estimated another two days before they reached Blood Mesa, at which point they'd wait and observe before deciding the next move.

“How do you know, that the one responsible for Ursula will be there?" Narem asked softly. “How do you know he was responsible at all?" It wasn't the first time Narem had expressed the sentiment.

Fletcher sighed, wishing he smoked. “What happened to her… it's exactly the kind of thing this Beau Riddon gets his kicks from. According to Lyric, he loves it, and he's compelled to keep doing it. Blood Mesa is home to Oracen Drast and his cult, the Children of Nihil. He's using them, but we're quite sure Riddon is a sort of protégé for Drast. He's trying to draw Lyric out, or maybe he hoped the Zoran would kill us."

“But your father sent the reptile, no? How do you know they were together? He wasn't part of this gang or the cult."

“Well, yes…" Fletcher paused. “But it's too convenient, we get pulled away from the circus by something that Beau knew would tug on Lyric, right as that Zoran bastard attacked. I ain't certain how they met, but either way…" He remembered Dopesmoker, on his knees, gasping for something to breathe.

“I see." Narem flipped over a small throwing knife in his paw. “Do you think we'll really stop Riddon?"

“It's not just about that." Fletcher replied. “We can end Sleep's production, and stop this cult from killing any more people. That poor boy in Bantam, the people they took on the way…" He shook his head. “These people can't be allowed to exist, it's that simple."

“Seems a bit naïve." Narem chuffed. “I mean, what is the end goal? Rid the world entirely of evil?"

“No, but there'll be a little less in the world afterwards, and I reckon that's not so bad. Drast and Riddon, they're the kind of eels what know how to stay away from the law, they know how to operate between lines, how to cross borders and use Baron politics to shield themselves."

“We'll do it, because it has to be done." Lyric said from the darkness, stepping out from the tree line. “And if not us, who?"

“I see." Narem stared at the ground, his expression unreadable. It hurt Fletcher to see him in so much pain, the leopard had once been so full of energy, and to hear his voice devoid of it's usual mirth… it struck a chord of distinct wrongness in Fletcher's brain.

“I thought you was still asleep." He said to Lyric, watching the steely-eyed jackal approach the fire. He dropped three small bundles wrapped in burlap, before drawing a cigarette and lighting it in the flames.

“Nope." He mumbled. “We need protein, three feral rabbits ought to do us for a day or two."

“What are the odds we would find one another?" Narem asked, glancing between them all. “I mean, people like us… men who like the company of other men."

“Makes perfect sense t'me." Lyric said, dropping to a knee and pulling out a knife. “Freaks belong in the circus, where else would we go?"

“We aren't freaks." Fletcher said firmly. “There's nothing wrong with us."

“Sure there ain't." Lyric chuckled, already working at skinning one of the rabbits. “Ask anyone." Fletcher glanced away.

He was tired. Tired of feeling different, tired of losing people, tired of getting something only to have it ripped away again. He just wanted to rest.

“And what if we can't destroy Telos? You think'a that?" He asked. Lyric shrugged.

“We will."

“But Dead World junk s'often made of weird metals. Don't forget it survived hundreds of years buried underground before the old Archduke found it."

The jackal sneered, annoyed by Fletcher's questioning. “If we can't destroy it, then we bury it again. Somewhere it'll never be found, in a volcano, or down a sunken ravine. We make sure it can't be used." Lyric said this matter-of-factly, as if it were no bother to destroy, move, or hide a centuries-old piece of hyper advanced technology.

“Can we fight off the whole cult?" He continued. “What if Riddon's gang is there?"

“They ain't." Lyric replied. “Sultan's Curse went West, doin' some kind of deal with folks down in Quindon, accordin' to some people I spoke t'back in Firebrand. And as for the cult, I reckon if we deal with Drast, we won't have to do much fightin' at all."

“Head of the snake." Narem said.

“He'll be right in the middle. No way they ain't gone' protect their glorious leader." Fletcher added. “So how we get close?"

“We've got an advantage, that they there think us lot done and dusted. At the least, they figure we'll take our time regroupin', only lunatics with a death wish would attack after what we got dealt." Narem laughed at that, catching Lyric's eye.

“We could surrender." Narem added. “Folk like that usually ain't good at resisting a good chance to sermonise, might take us right to him."

“Maybe if it were just Drast." Lyric admitted. “But with Riddon there? That man is a bad seed, and I ain't makin' any gambles on what he might do."

…

It rained the next night.

“We're a few puddles short've a lake." Lyric said, cursing as thick globules of mud squelched beneath his boot. He shook his head, tiny droplets of rain falling from the brim of his hat. “Fuckin' southern weather."

“I had a bit of a wander up ahead, it ain't lookin' much better for miles. We're stuck with what we got." Fletcher called, pitching his and Narem's tent. Narem watched him absently, a small bag of feed he'd been giving to the ferals clutched in one paw.

“Lyric…" He added, blushing slightly as the jackal looked to him. “Yer tent is shit. There ain't nowhere round here you're gonna get a dry night's sleep." The two looked around the small clearing, and saw the cat was right.

“Oh, it ain't so bad." The jackal replied uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck. “I'll hike up on ahead a ways, dig in there."

“It's no better ahead!" Narem said, glancing at Fletcher, watching the coyote grunt as he strung up the last guy line, securing it to a tree root half-underwater. The leopard walked over to Lyric, standing barely more than an arm's length from him. “And we should stick together, in case something is to go wrong."

“You're bunking with us jackal!" Fletcher said, slapping Lyric on the back as he passed by, making for the fire. The three ate their meagre dinner portions of leftover rabbit and foraged roots, before clambering into the tight canvas tent together. It was really made to only fit two, but if they all squished up together, it worked. Fletcher laid in the middle, with Narem's paw wrapped around his stomach, the leopard's warm furry body pressed tight against his own. Lyric – oddly - did his best to remain a gentleman, and kept a few inches between him and Fletcher, but the coyote reached over and took his paw, pulling him back into the pile. The three slept contently intertwined like that, with Lyric snoring softly, and Narem occasionally waking with a short exclamation, only to resecure his grip on Fletcher and fall back asleep.

The three refrained from discussing it on the morrow, but nevertheless there was an unspoken agreement that that was how they would camp each night until the journey's conclusion. The final night before reaching the Mesa, the large geographical hump looming ominously in the distance, Narem took Lyric by the paw and tugged him along. That night the leopard was the one in the middle, with Fletcher and Lyric squeezed either side. It was intimate and easy to understand, and Fletcher felt a safety amongst the two that he'd never found before. He loved them both, and he hoped that one day he could be with them both physically as well as emotionally.

There would be time for that later, however.

They made camp roughly three kilometres from Blood Mesa, tucked behind a small group of trees, eating meat they'd cooked the previous day. The Mesa was huge, intimidatingly tall and wide, the land surrounding it cleared of anything save the grass. Fletcher saw rickety makeshift stairs had been constructed roughly every hundred metres or so along it's rim, to make climbing the thing an easy chore.

Even if they had an armada, attacking it with a full-front assault would be nearly impossible, and the three discussed it at length. Mostly Fletcher made suggestions while Lyric shot them down, with Narem occasionally chiming in with small comments. A fire wouldn't work, as there was too much risk of stranding themselves on the Mesa with no way out. Whatever happened they'd likely have to get out quick, and while it seemed possible to go up or down without use of the scaffolding, they didn't like the chances. At the same time, if any large force decided they would take the mound, the cult could simply destroy the stairs and cut off their assault options, limiting the opposing force to one or two direct approaches, and denying them any kind of height advantage. The side opposite to where the trio were huddled had a narrow, winding natural passage that led from the soil to the top, but trying to attack through such a devilish pathway would be suicide. The thing was a natural fortress carved by God, and short of a protracted siege out had no true weakness. Lyric guessed it was about seventy-to-eighty odd metres tall, with the surface area of the top being close to that of a medium-sized town. Cheap wooden ramparts bordered the edge, with tiny flaps built into them for riflemen to poke out and fire through. Within those walls, the Mesa almost was a small town unto itself. The structures were mostly tents of varying sizes, but a few unconvincing wooden buildings stood, most notably a kind of chapel close to the centre.

“That's where Drast is, obviously." Narem said, watching as Lyric drew a makeshift map of the place; based off the top of the structures they could see poking over the walls. His paws were stained black from the charcoal, and the drawing had already begun to smear on the cheap paper, but it otherwise served its purpose.

The jackal pointed to points across the map. “We've seen no water bein' brought through, so they must have access to that. This place weren't chosen by accident, Drast is doin' something here, he's buildin' himself a new empire."

“You think he'd ever try to push on a Baron?" Narem asked. “We're pretty far from Firebrand, but this is still Kallinger Province, Baroness Ylara still holds over these here lands."

“I'd wager he already is." Fletcher added, leaning back. He kept pulling his rifle apart and then immediately rebuilding it, a mechanical kind of meditation. “You think there aren't cultists in the city too? You think a manipulator like that doesn't have his claws dug into every damn pie he can reach?"

“If Thume's being truthful, he was once friends with an Archduke. That sort of connection don't just happen." Lyric said. A moment of contemplative silence passed, followed by a short hiss as Lyric struck a match, lighting his cigarette and exhaling. “This man, he's one of the most dangerous in the south."

Fletcher nodded his silent agreement, watching Lyric carefully. He knew the jackal expected to martyr himself, and while Narem didn't seem to have something quite so refined, he was a long way from fighting for his life. The two saw this as their end, a fitting close to the loops of violence their lives had been. Fletcher denied it; he wouldn't allow either of them to die, the three still had a life to build together, a life free from all the hatred and anger.

He loved them, and he couldn't bear to see them die.

The three watched as a procession of cultists, twelve men and women, all dressed in robes adorned with bones, made their way towards the Mesa, passing close by the little tree-line hiding spot. A daisy-chained line of twenty shackled people waddled behind them. The bodies were emaciated and scarred, most in little more than filth-drenched trousers. An older wolf in the back tripped, and Fletcher looked away as one of the cultists walked over and kicked him until he stopped thrashing.

The others didn't even react. Fletcher thought, watching as they unchained the still man, leaving him in the dirt. They weren't shocked, this is normal – this is their life now. You keep walking or die.

“What are they to do with them?" Narem whispered, startling him. He hadn't realised the leopard was watching too.

“I'unno." Fletcher said. “It ain't good though; crucifixion for some, all a show playing at Drast's grand mysticism. Others'll get fed to the Serpent Vessel, offerings for Telos. The rest will be slaves I s'pose, who y'think built them walls?"

“That is awful."

“These folk are living in the dark ages." The coyote slid his rifle's bolt back into place with a clean snick. “They worship death, wear bones, they built a damn castle, there's something not right with their heads."

“What's the…" Narem frowned. “What's the goal here? This Drast character, what is he doing with the likes of Beau Riddon, why does he keep capturing slaves?"

“Knowledge, the more forbidden the better." Lyric said, squatting down next to the two. “Men like that accrue the lost and damned souls of the earth, holding them like pieces on a chess board. Gets 'em hard. He wants to know every fuckin' accursed secret that Project Ouroboros had hidden away, and he wants to use every wicked and vile piece of Dead World technology to do it. Ideally, I reckon he fits to become something close to unkillable, a Godhead."

“Y'think?"

“I know." Lyric said slowly, his words like ice. “I've seen men like this my entire life. Men like Riddon, like that Zoran bastard, men like the Baron of Vellem, or even Fletcher's daddy – small, insignificant worms that somehow manage to crawl to the top of the fetid pile, and think that gives them the right to inflict whatever cruelties they have perceived they endured on the rest of the world. They ain't got no feelings, and they act compulsively. Deep down I think they hate bein' alive, and they want others to join them." He stood, dusting himself off.

“I don't know how we are to take it." Narem said softly. “You said it before, the place is a fortress."

“I have thoughts." Fletcher said. “It ain't unlike Vellem. We got out alive by causin' so much mayhem and mischief that the guards didn't know what to think. By the time they caught their hats from spinnin', we was in the wind."

“We already decided." Lyric said firmly. “Setting fire to the place will just trap us up there. There's that trail out the front, but I don't want to put our backs to them in a blind like that."

“But I'm sayin', we could set the slaves free." Fletcher replied, standing and slinging his rifle over one shoulder. “We sneak in just before dawn, when they're at their tiredest. Break the locks; they don't even know we're there. We get to Drast and Riddon, do what needs to be done, and get out." Lyric looked to the Mesa, considering.

“It is the only feasible plan we've come up with so far." Narem said softly. “Short of poisoning their water supply, what else is there? And this way we give those poor bastards a fighting chance."

The jackal remained silent, and Fletcher knew he was silently hating Oracen Drast. Hating the apocryphal temple he'd built for himself, hating what he'd done, and hating how well defended he was. What he said aloud surprised them all however, and judging from his expression, that included Lyric as much as the other two.

“I carry love you both."

“Oh." Narem said, his jaw falling. “Well, I… I ain't never thought…" He and Fletcher exchanged equally shocked looks.

“I apologise Narem. Truth be… I's always resentful of how happy you seemed." Lyric said, looking to the leopard. “We're probably about to die, only seems right you should know."

“Lyric…" Fletcher said, stepping behind the jackal and wrapping his arms around his waist. He buried his snout into Lyric's shoulder, inhaling his rustic scent, recalling the stolen clothes he'd gotten off into so long ago.

I can't lose you. He thought, ears threatening his eyes.

“If you have to, you two are to get y'selves out over me. Y'hear?" Lyric said firmly. “I ain't been given much beside misery in this here life, and I ain't given much back in turn. Least, if this worthless account called Lyric Tellurian can amount to somethin', it's you two bein' able to live free."

“We would not leave you." Narem said.

“I ain't sure I'd be strong enough." Fletcher added, his heart in his throat. It wasn't supposed to happen like that, they had to be together, they had to get out, to be free of the shadow looming over them all.

He imagined how good it would feel, to lie in the sun with the two men, living in a world free from Riddon and Drast.

“It don't matter what either yous want. You leave me, if you have'ta, get each other out, I'll die happy." The jackal inhaled deeply, held the breath, and let it out again. “Drast and Riddon in the ground, you both safe, that's all I ask."

“Well." Fletcher said after a moment, his stomach in knots. “Hopefully it ain't gon' come to that."

“We'll see." Lyric replied gently. “I'm fixin' for bed either way. Tomorrow's our last day, we prep, and then we go and cut off Drast's head."

Narem went still. “Is that necessary?"

“Figure'a speech." Lyric chuckled, turning away and making for the tent.

The three slept in their small pile yet again, paws run across their bodies, nothing off limits to explore. It wasn't a sexual event – they were all far too tense and emotional for anything like that, but there was nonetheless a strong link of intimacy between them. They slept nearly nude, and again Fletcher found himself overcome with a strong sense of calm. He wished they had gotten through the bullshit earlier, and just done it this way to begin with. He truly loved both of the men equally, and he felt they cared for him in turn as much. The bond between Narem and Lyric was still new, and rooted in it's infancy, but it could grow with time. Since leaving the circus, the two had found a mutual respect for one another, and Narem had seemed to find his once-buried feelings for the jackal resurfacing. Fletcher was without a doubt the thing that bound them, but they still found comfort and love with one another.

Fletcher woke alone however, and when he clambered out of the tent, he was immediately met with the barrel of a shotgun. He looked up to see seven men dressed in bone, two of which keeping Lyric and Narem on their knees, wicked and pale blades put to their throats.

“Alright-alright, don't be hasty now." A calm voice said, as a lanky Opossum came forward slowly, paws held before his stomach, fingers intertwined. Unlike the other robed cultists, he was dressed in normal leather and cotton attire, a revolver tucked at each hip. Beau Riddon grinned, and Fletcher imagined it being the last thing Ursula had ever seen. “Let's not anyone lose their head."