Callisto

The Chainmen (pt. 1)

"Chief," a voice whispered. "I mean, Rain-Born, get a load of this."

She had heard what he had in the dim dew that had settled over the dead world at twilight: the rattling of something heavy. The grunts of pain belched from unwilling throats. And the crack of something singing through the air to pierce broken, blistered flesh. She had put it down to a dream she had as she caught up on some sleep before they headed back out on their journey. But now she knew it had been real. She heard it in the shaking voice of the ordinarily confident dog.

They had company.

She immediately awoke and stood to the left-hand side of the window beside Jespar, motioning for him to stay down and keep quiet. She peeked through what remained of the moth-bitten curtains and saw them: five standing at the foot of the ruined statue. Two women, three men. She registered numbers before anything else. It was part of the hunter's intuition that had helped her survive thus far.

But then she looked closer and saw that these were not normal humans. They were the realization of one of the stories she had heard. This was a story she knew only too well.

Chainmen.

One woman stood at the head of the pack, gnarled grey hair clinging to her scalp, observing the area through two glass spectacles that adorned her eyes and whistling some tune Rain-Born had never heard. Beside her, another woman and man held the heavy chains attached to the necks of two men who seemed barely human. They staggered behind the trio as they made their way around the statue, their forms gaunt, emaciated, bruised, and bloody from head to toe, with pieces of shrapnel embedded in the small folds of their ribcages. These skeletal beings shambled to keep step with their masters – heads bowed and eyes staring at the grey ground that their blistered feet trod on. The three at the front wore long trench coats and black gloves, and their partially shaven heads bore witness to the fact they had been caught in many a rainstorm in these lands. The one at the front – the woman – fingered her glinting spectacles and then turned to face her comrades.

They began to converse.

"Bastards," Jespar whispered. "Listen, now's the time to leave. We can be out the back and down the alley outside in ten. Then we're home free."

Rain-Born didn't move. Something about one of the slaves stopped her. She could not quite place it, but something about the face of one of the men gave her pause.

The woman barked a command at one of her companions, and he drew something long and thin from under his cloak that made Rain-Born's eyes shoot open.

He carried a deathspitter in his hands.

He checked the chamber that held the evil fire within his weapon, then stood behind one of the shaking slaves. He beat the back of his head with the butt of the gun and watched him fall to his knees. Then the woman – evidently the leader of the chain-bearers – bent down and said something to the kneeling captor before slapping his face and letting him fall. The other slave merely kept his eyes on his toes.

"Let's go," Jespar kept saying beside her. "We can't take them on. It's two vs. three, and I'm not sure I even count as a full body."

Rain-Born was too preoccupied with the beaten slave. His matted hair and rotted flesh told her nothing of his heritage. But her eyes did pick out one thing. It was something only those of her tribe would know even from such a distance: the wing-shaped tattoo on the male's left cheek.

It was the tattoo of a farmer—one of the Hanakh.

The three slavers were laughing at him, writhing there on the ground in agony under their firm grip. He struggled against their chains meekly and received another blow to his forehead for his troubles.