webnovel

Lost

The straw-filled mattress was firm beneath Cita's legs, and the wall was solid against his back while sunlight streamed through the unshuttered window. A small table bore a pitcher and basin, as well as a cloth folded to the side.

Cita blinked and listened to a quarrelsome bird outside.

A dark shape moved across his line of vision, and Bilal stopped next to the bed.

Cita turned toward the somber face.

"Are you back, boy?" Bilal asked.

Cita sucked in a deep breath as if awakening. 'Back from where?' He looked around the unburned room. He frowned. Why would the inn have burned?

"I'm not a boy," he answered, surprised by his voice's rusty sound.

"Come and wash up. The barmaid will be here soon with our meal." Bilal interrupted Cita before he could get lost again in thought.

Cita nodded and wiggled off the bed. He walked to the table and poured some water into the washbasin.

Bilal kept a careful distance and took a seat on a tall stool.

Cita felt the familiar watching-not-watching gaze as he splashed the cool water on his face. He pushed back his long sleeves and froze at the sight of a blossoming smudge on his right arm. The imprint of four fingers and an opposing thumb glared in red, surrounded by a deepening purple. 'That's fresh. Less than an hour old.'

***

A hand gripped his arm, the nails sinking into his bare flesh. Hot breath hissed in his ear and a suffocating weight pressed against his back. Another hand wrapped around his waist, urging him up.

He moaned and tugged at his arm. His muscles didn't respond. The grip tightened, rolling him face up. His unfocused eyes stared at the suited figure, its face cloaked in deep shadow.

There's no face. Why is there no face? he wondered. A manic giggle escaped his lips on a trail of drool. A bottle, half-filled with electric blue liquid, lowered toward his mouth. "Let's top you off, shall we?"

***

"Cita? Is something wrong with the wash water?" Bilal's deep voice broke into Cita's consciousness, and a soothing blue haze obscured the memory.

Shaking, Cita scrubbed his hands and forearms before grabbing a worn bit of toweling and drying gingerly. He turned back to Bilal.

"Uh, what do I do with this," Cita trailed off, pointing at the dirty water.

"You can toss it out the window," Bilal instructed as he inspected each of his blades.

Cita frowned, fingering an empty sheath at his belt. His stomach snarled as he tossed the water out.

"Hey, Bilal — where are my things? Did I leave them somewhere? And what are we having for dinner?"

Bilal looked at him, head cocked to the side. There was a cheerful knock on the door before he could reply.

Without waiting for permission, the door swung open to allow a thin blonde woman to spin into the room bearing a tray. The savory aromas of roast meat and fresh bread swirled through the enclosed area.

"Heya, sorry for the delay — the bar is crazy busy today! But the pork roast is fresh off the spit and —"

Cita's gut revolted. He spun to retch what little his stomach held into the washbasin. As he continued to dry heave, Cita heard the door open and close again. The scent of roasted flesh persisted until Bilal placed a short cone of smoldering incense next to the washbasin. Soothing lavender warred with the smell of cooked meat. Gradually, it overtook the room, and Cita was able to still his stomach.

Cita braced against the table, every limb shaking.

Bilal reached around him, emptied the basin out the window, rinsed it, and dumped it again. Gentle hands coaxed Cita away from the table and back to the bed.

Cita shuddered at the touch. 'Just put up with it. It doesn't mean anything.' Once on the bed, he curled into a miserable ball, well-clear of Bilal's hands.

"I take it you don't eat meat?" Bilal murmured as he scooted the table with the incense closer to the bed.

"I … no?" Cita shook his head, trying to dispel a hazy image. As much as he burned to remember his past, whatever smoldered at the root of that reaction would drive him insane.

"Once your stomach settles, I'll go ask for some bread and cheese."

Cita squeezed his eyes shut. 'You're so weak, and you're punishing the guy that saved you because of it.'

"No," he said aloud. "Go eat downstairs. Or eat here, and I'll go … somewhere else. You shouldn't miss out on the roast because of me."

The room darkened as a disdainful specter rang through Cita's head. *Go somewhere else? Really? Where else can you go? You don't know this place. You can't do anything right.*

Cita shivered and curled further into the bed. He heard Bilal's fingers drum on the table and could picture the narrowed golden eyes without opening his own.

'What does it matter to him if I eat now or later, anyway? I'm nothing to him — just a passing curiosity. I could drop off the face of the planet, and it wouldn't affect him!' Cita tamped down the lick of temper.

"Very well," Bilal conceded after a time. "Stay here and rest. Once we've eaten, we should go to the harvest market. It will be a good place to trade in the furs from the Infected swarm and resupply."

Cita buried his face in the patchwork quilt that covered the bed. 'Don't think. That's all. It doesn't matter, anyway.'

"Cita." Bilal's voice drew Cita back to the present.

He looked up. Their eyes met.

Bilal continued. "We are in the township, ruled by Lord Blaah, which is a few hours from the field where you fought the Infected."

Cita nodded. 'It didn't take too long to get here, even with my ankle and … did we take a break at a creek?' He frowned, retracing the day's steps. 'We got up and packed, and then walked. And walked. And I fell down the hill, right?' He rubbed his forehead. 'Didn't I? '

"Because the swarm was so close, we need to report it to Lord Blaah," Bilal said, interrupting Cita's thoughts again. "You will need to tell your story."

'Me? Talk to some lord?' Breathing fast, Cita opened his mouth to protest.

Bilal cut him off. "Only the story of the swarm. I will be there, too, and tell my part. But he will need the most accurate information to plan his defenses."

Cita swallowed and looked down. Images danced across his closed eyelids. Wandering on the open plain, unsure of where he was, where he was going, or how he would get there. The first Infected had popped up from the tall grass as if spontaneously generated. He shuddered. I was lucky.

"Whatever. Fine." 'Just go along with it. Maintain the status quo.' Apathy dragged at Cita's limbs.

"... thank you."

Cita heard light footsteps crossing the room.

"Jas povtorno nema da uspeam."

[I will not fail again.]

The strange echo fell on top of Bilal's muttered words and didn't quite drown them out.

Cita twitched and opened his eyes. 'What was that?'

The door closed behind Bilal. Indistinct voices came from the hall.

Cita stared at the foggy piece of mirror hanging from the washbasin's table. Fiery red eyes looked back at him, but the hazed glass made them appear dead. He shuddered and turned his face into the quilt.

'What am I doing here? Some stranger found me wandering on the plains, and the first thing I do is follow him to a hotel room?' Guilt and nausea warred in Cita's stomach. 'And now I can't eat meat? What about hamburgers? What about pepperoni pizza?'

"Okay. Breathe. First things first," Cita whispered to himself. He rolled over, searching the room. A familiar red-orange glint caught his eye, and he slipped from the bed to grab his long-bladed dagger. The weight in his hand eased the tightness in his chest as he padded back to the bed and curled up again.

"Second thing — where the heck am I?" He looked out the open shutters. Thatched roofs rose above brown brick buildings. Curiosity drew him closer, luring him from the safety of the blankets until he was leaning on the wall next to the window, peering out. Dust rose from the packed-dirt street as people — men in loose shirts and trousers and women in pants or skirts — strolled and chatted. Trouser-clad figures with sweat-stained shirts and broad straw hats pulled handcarts loaded with uninteresting produce and intriguing parcels. Laughing children, dressed akin to the adults, darted between the slower-moving figures.

A furrow grew between his eyes as an image overlaid the town.

**

Filth-crusted cobblestones streets lined with Victorian-era townhomes, their bricks crumbling as they lost the battle against time and weather.

"No, not like that," the scornful voice called. "Like this!" Greasy hair flew as the tiny figure demonstrated a knife-block. An oversized tunic and breeches held up with a knotted piece of rope obscured all hints of gender, and the timbre of the voice was indeterminate.

He tried again to mimic the move, this time fumbling so badly he dropped his blade. It landed in the muck. He picked it up with a grimace and gingerly wiped it on his worn pants.

"That's not right," his teacher pointed out. "If you'd let me show you —" Slender fingers reached toward his grip.

He jerked away and said, "No. I've got this. One more time."

His teacher, one dagger-wielding hand on a hip, scowled. "Yeah? Prove it. Or you owe me an extra glass on the archery butts. And I get to use your bow."

"What good will that do?" he scoffed. "You need to figure out how to use your recurve, not my compound."

In a blur, his teacher had him disarmed and planted on his back. He gasped for breath, focusing on the cocky grin as his teacher leaned against the far wall.

"Not fair," he said.

"Fights aren't fair. Forget your fancy tournaments and learn that fast. Or die faster."

**

He blinked, and the vision faded, leaving him searching the street below for a familiar figure. The dagger's wire grip bit into his palm before a wash of blue fog drowned the memory, sealing it beyond reach. He looked out at the prosaic town.

"It's not familiar. And it's nothing special. Bilal said it had a market, though," he mused. "That sounds interesting." He ran a finger along the dagger's edge and watched a thin bead of blood well up. "Still sharp, just like she said to keep it." He frowned. "She?"

New stuff spliced with old - flashbacks are set off by ** line breaks

REALLY wish I had my italics ...

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