Hera by Chrystalla Thoma Page A

sat, left hand pressing
against the wound, the cold metal barrel of the gun held against
his right thigh.
    “Hey, you,” a man’s voice said from
behind.
    Clamping his jaw, Elei lifted the gun and
turned to point in the general direction of the voice. Cold wind
blew his jacket hood back, allowing him a wider view. The man
appeared at the right periphery of Elei’s tainted vision — a splash
of red. He went still when Elei cocked the hammer. The click rang
too loud in the quiet.
    “Calm down, will you,” the man said, raising
his hands. “Just checking on you. You’re bleeding all over my
boat.”
    The boatman . Elei let out a breath and
lowered the gun, but didn’t click the safety back on, just in case.
The cold breeze ruffled his short hair and water splashed and
murmured. The low hum of an engine set his teeth on edge. What was
he doing in a boat out at sea? He prodded his memories, but came up
blank.
    Cronion beat at the back of his eyeball like
a hammer. He forced his tense muscles to relax and rubbed his eye
with his thumb until the dull ache eased. This time, when he
blinked, he saw the surface of things, his unfamiliar surroundings
— the wet prow, moonlight glinting on metal benches like the one he
sat on, yellow lifesavers underneath them. The boatman stood by the
rail, dressed in shabby trousers and a pale yellow shirt, watching
him from under his dark cap. The light from a lamp set on a bench
pooled around him. The sky stretched naked above, night-black and
starry.
    The boat rocked and listed. His legs slid. He
was falling.
    He threw his hands to the sides, to find a
handhold, the gun screeching against metal. His fingers caught the
edge of the bench. He clutched it, the deep, sharp pain in his side
squeezing the air from his lungs, and he bent over, panting.
    Broken pieces of memories rushed back with a
deafening roar. Shots fired. Running through the streets. The
docks of Ost.
    He was crossing the straits between the great
islands.
    Shivers crawled up his spine. He lifted his
hand and stared at the blood on his fingers. He’d been shot, but
couldn’t remember who’d done it.
    Elei groaned to himself. He laid his gun — an
antique, semi-automatic Rasmus — on his lap and wrapped his arms
around himself, tucking his icy hands under his armpits; hoping
fervently this was nothing but a dream, and knowing he just wasn’t
that lucky.
    “Hey.” The boatman approached him, stepping
over the benches with his long, spindly legs. Red color flashed
over his heart, pulsing with each beat.
    Elei straightened with a wince and raised his
gun. It seemed to have grown heavier; he could barely lift it.
“What do you want now?”
    “We’re almost there.” The boatman’s voice
resonated with a hidden growl. When he raised the dakron lamp, its light revealed a leathery, deeply lined face and bright
blue eyes. “Better get ready to jump, do you hear?”
    “I heard you.” Elei kept the gun leveled, his
arm muscles straining. Where in the hells are we? Cold sweat
sluiced down his back. His nostrils flared and his body tensed with
the urge to run. Run where? He was in a boat, for all the
gods’ sakes, and yet he knew that even here, in the openness of the
sea, he couldn’t afford to relax.
    Holstering the gun, he struggled to rise but
his damn legs cramped and resisted. Shivers danced down his spine
and adrenaline made his blood pump faster, so it trickled down his
side, scalding his chilled flesh.
    “Hurry up, boy,” muttered the boatman and his
hand closed around Elei’s arm like a band of steel. “We can’t
linger here.” He hauled him up as if he weighed nothing, the
movement sending sharp claws of pain deep into Elei’s side.
    Hells . Elei gritted his teeth and
refused to make any sound as the boatman dragged him to the rail
and left him there, the boat rocking with the movement. Muttering,
the man went back to his steering wheel and navigated the boat
through the dark waters.
    In the distance,