Chapter 15: The Union of Northern Isles

The history of District 4's warehouse weighed on Ash in the evenings. Most of the city was a ruin, stripped of the glory and pride granted by artists and dreamers, leaving a legacy of labourers and engineers. Walls held back the forests, and pre-Schism aqueducts transported the river to his doorstep, at least for now. Accomplishments he had neither the lifespan, nor mathematical understanding to truly appreciate, and even those fought a losing battle of attrition with water and wind.

But sometimes, when light cut through the windows, the warehouse glowed, and Ash felt the artists’ hands. Whatever drove the ancient builders, they’d protected this place from the elements for millennia with stone so durable it must’ve been forged with magic. The dome ceiling sat atop a second story, and just below that lay the first row of windows, now little more than holes with rounded edges. Every inch below the windows was filled with segmented shelves, built directly into the walls, circling the building in evenly spaced platforms with rough one-foot indents.

The second-story floor was a wide swathe that followed the walls, bordered by a stone railing that overlooked the lower levels. Initially, Ash suspected the wide floors were for wagons, but placing stairs between levels restricted access, meaning anything stored here was managed by hand, and the extra floor space likely held something that disintegrated during The Schism, or rotted to nothing in the age that followed. The ground floor was similar to the one above; windows and shelves accompanied by a wide platform hedged by a rail. This rail overlooked a final subterranean level, where, in addition to wall shelves, stone blocks fused to the ground ran down the building’s spine, each with shelves of their own.

It was a staggering amount of room, constructed with the purpose of holding a vast amount of items with a specific size, born from a mindset that whatever they stored here was too important for the space to ever accommodate something else. When Ash stood above, staring down with sunlight to his back, he felt a fraction of the passion this marvel’s architect must’ve had. Whether a grand community centre for festivals and celebrations, or a private treasury for some long-forgotten queen, it was clear this place once held meaning.

In the two weeks since Khukri brought him, Ash couldn’t ignore that spark. He’d still harvest the day’s crop in the morning, then visit Mistress H at midday to examine the girls and siphon their light into bags of seeds, then return to plant and water the next day’s crop. Any free time was spent scrubbing away dirt and debris tracked in by countless critters over the years... at least when Khukri didn’t need his attention. He’d started as a matter of comfort, cleaning areas of the ground floor where they’d rolled in stacks of bamboo boxes, but his scope kept expanding. Time and sunlight were limited though, and he didn’t dare push himself to exhaustion, so the cavernous warehouse remained mostly unclean, despite his best efforts. Even if he somehow managed to remove the dirt from every wall and corner, it’d still only be a chasm of empty shelves, devoid of whatever truly made it special. Still, he hoped the long-dead artists would’ve appreciated the effort.

There wasn’t anything to harvest today, and Ash had simply chosen to work here for the pleasure of its morning light. Khukri sat on Dad’s old trunk, bandages littering the floor. Ash stayed on a crate opposite her, focused on his work. “I’d say you’ve made a full recovery,” Ash said, nudging the fur aside to find another length of goldenrod thread.

Khukri shifted excitedly in place, grinning as her tail flicked wildly. “Does that mean I can finally go swimming?”

Even with all her fidgeting, the arm remained perfectly still in his grasp. Ash’s scissors slid along her skin, catching the knot before carefully slicing it clear. He chuckled, set the tool down, and pulled the thread through, marring her fur red with beads of fresh blood. “Yes, you can go swimming. Don’t go climbing the wall again, though. I’ll make you a ladder. I don’t think I have enough thread to patch you up if you fall.”

Khukri’s head cocked, ears flicking sporadically. “Can’t you just make more? You made some from the fluffy white plant.”

“Cotton,” Ash reminded her. “And that’s different. That stuff’ll make you sick, so we need special thread made by bugs. I can’t grow that, and it’s expensive.” He pulled the bloody thread clear, dropping it into the pile of red-stained silk. He grinned, examining his handiwork before running his fingers over Khukri’s head and scratching behind her ears. “There’s a good girl! All done.”

She wiggled her head, growling affectionately as she slid from the trunk to her knees and pressed her face into his stomach. Ash tensed slightly as Khukri’s arms wrapped around his back, though he relaxed as he continued to pet her. The past two weeks were a testament to Ash’s luck and a condemnation of his bias. Khukri apparently knew so little about farming that when the time came to use Dawn, she hadn’t even questioned it. Moreover, she’d become so playful and affectionate, spending enough time with him that he recognized subtle differences between her growls.

Intellectually, Ash understood Khukri was only being nice because he owned her. The implicit threat of violence made any sort of meaningful friendship impossible; likely that was the entire point of requesting to be treated like a beast. His parents always told him a healthy relationship was based on trust between equals; even though Mom owned the farm and was physically superior, she’d never talked down to Dad. Still, in moments like this, when Khukri’s infectious happiness rubbed off on him and let him smile despite everything, it was easy to forget.

When he gave her a small pat, Khukri pulled away, offering an earnest smile. “Thank you, Master. What’s next?”

A sigh escaped Ash as reality returned. They were well into their third week, and the timetable wouldn’t wait. He’d left an easy trail for Via to follow. Without the massive influx of people here for hunting season, she’d have found him already. She probably kept in port, vigilantly watching those who left, probing the outpost with a few dogs searching for his scent. By the twelfth week, hunting season would end, and Ash’s camouflage with it. Time wouldn’t wait, no matter how pleasant.

“The next step starts tonight,” Ash said, helping the wolf to her feet. “I have an open account at one of the outpost warehouses. We’ll transport everything I’ll need there, so I’ll be ready to make my move.”

Khukri’s eyes glimmered with curiosity as she nodded, reaching for her shirt.

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“Wait.” Ash swallowed a lump as he grabbed her wrist. “Tonight, we’ll be where Issac can see, and that means we have parts to play. I’m an idiot, these clothes work for me, but you? You’re my bodyguard; you’ll need armour.”

Khukri nodded, offering a sly grin as her arm dropped. “Master? My armour’s back at camp. Will you be walking me back topless?”

“That armour’s too damaged,” Ash explained. “I’ve got another set in that trunk that’ll help set a more official tone. Go ahead, give it a try. ” He let go, stomach twisting as he turned away.

A moment later, the latches clicked, and the lid creaked open. “Master... where’d you get this?” When he didn’t answer, Khukri moved closer, hind claws clicking against stone as she approached. “This armour’s made of abyssal drake leather. How...”

Ash stilled his nerves and turned, spurred on by her silence. The iridescent black scales shone in the sunlight as beautifully as the morning Sari’d worn it. Khukri’s bloody arm held the bulk of it, leaving her other free to pinch the hood between her thumb and forefinger, examining the bloodstained padding.

“Did this belong to the last girl? The one who attacked you?” Khukri asked, lowering her voice.

That was shockingly astute. Ash hadn’t even mentioned the attack since early in the first week. His eyes fell, hiding from hers as he watched Khukri’s bloodstained fur cradle Sari’s ineffective defence.

I’m sorry.” Khukri folded the hood, turning sideways and lowering her head. “Are you sure you want me to...”

“Yeah,” Ash said quickly. “Yeah. You need to look the part and that... abyss stuff, that’s expensive?”

She nodded, confirming his suspicions. It was the logical conclusion, given how different Via and Sari’s armour was from the typical hunting slave. When Khukri’s pants slid to the ground, Ash skirted around her and busied himself with moving barrels to the cart. The first few were easy, since he could roll them on, despite their weight. After tying those down, he eyed the next bunch, remembering the familiar disappointment of his limited physique.

“How do I look?” Khukri came within a few feet, shimmering black scales contrasting sharply with white fur. Sari’s heavy pearl-handled blade sat sheathed across her stomach, though he could feel the wicked edge from here. Shadows fell across Khukri’s face, leaving gleaming blue predator’s eyes beneath the hood, forcing Ash back a step as she approached.

“Terrifying,” he confirmed, desperately searching for the mask to hide his tightened throat and racing heart. Funny, he’d worn it so often it’d been like a second skin, yet he couldn’t remember when he’d last put it down. His breathing slowed as he fell into the familiar pattern, plastering on a pleasant smile. “It’s perfect.”

The hood lowered, stirring his insides as Khukri came closer, hands raised. “I’m not her, Master, it’s still me.”

“I know,” Ash chuckled, unable to pull his eyes from Khukri’s vicious curved claws. “Come on, help me get these barrels up. We’ve got a bunch of trips to make.”

* * *

Normally, Ash avoided the outpost, limiting contact to visiting Mistress H for his daily blessing. He’d kept Khukri at camp for that, preparing lunch to maintain her energy between farming sessions. Back then, people barely noticed him, but a cartful of goods and a hunter in fancy armour quickly changed that. Everyone turned their eyes Khukri’s way, stirring a mixed pang of pride and jealousy in his chest.

With most goods safely stored in the warehouse, and all his fees paid, the next phase was ready.

“Master? We passed The Lodge. That’s probably where Issac will be.”

Of course he would, but that’d definitely get Ash killed. “You’re a hunter,” he explained. “You find targets and take the fight to them. It’s how the strong fight. Weak people like me? We need to set traps and lure targets to where we’ve got the upper hand.”

Khukri hesitated, glancing at The Lodge as the cart rolled away. “Where do you have the upper hand against a man like Issac?”

Ash grinned, locking onto an open field across the street from the buildings. Hunters got the most money and attention, this place was built for them, after all, but a camp this size didn’t run on hunters. It needed cooks, sewage workers, material processors and cargo transporters, along with a hundred other tasks the hunters never saw. These were Ash’s people, and those that didn’t go directly to their camp after work didn’t retire to The Lodge. They came here, to this. A dirty patch of land filled with boxes and debris where they could talk to their friends and play cards before deciding what to eat and if they’d hit a bar before bed.

The men here were a motley crew of ages and races, connected only by the navy coats and pants of the Direwood Syndicate. Some laughed, some complained, some stared vacantly into the sky and ignored those outside their groups. Whatever helped them relax. “There.” Ash said with a grin.

Khukri hesitated, eyes falling across the workers. “We’re going to meet Issac... there?”

The cart rattled as it bounced from the road into the worker’s resting area, causing several to look up, then jump to their feet as they caught sight of Khukri. Ash parked his cart next to a group of middle-aged dogs, stepping away to introduce himself. The oldest moved to meet him, a grey dog with loose skin that folded around his head and flowed into long sloppy jowls, clenched around a cracked, smoking pipe. “Yeah?”

“Hi.” Ash smiled, extending a hand. “My name’s Ruari, I’m representing a conglomerate of farmers from Tythic, the ‘Union of Northern Isles.’ And you?”

The man stared at him, then looked to Khukri before pulling the pipe from his teeth and shaking Ash’s hand. “I’m Bill. I grind meat into sausages. Can we help you with something?”

“I hope so,” Ash said, firmly shaking Bill’s hand. “See, the UNI shipped a bunch of stuff up here, but since we’re not suppliers, the Direwood Syndicate won’t buy it. So, I’m declaring today the first night of the ‘fuck you, make the UNI a supplier’ celebration, and selling mugs of ale, and pipefuls of tobacco or marijuana for two florins. Would you happen to know where I can set up?”

At the bars here, a mug of ale went for somewhere between seven and ten florins. Suppliers had to brew it, ferment it for weeks, then ship it here and give the seller a cut. Conversely, Ash had grown wheat on his second day for Khukri’s bed, and harvested the yeast. Over the next weeks, he’d mashed several plants into wort, then dropped that in a barrel with a fistful of yeast and hit it with Dawn. Unlike seeds, which needed water and sunlight to grow, certain plants, such as mushrooms, lacked those restrictions. Yeast only needed to eat. Food went in, alcohol came out, and when it ran out of things to eat, it started eating the yeast around it like an endlessly liquored-up ouroboros. Locked in a barrel and forced to reproduce at a hundred and twenty times the speed, that made a lot of alcohol, very quickly. No shipping or handling required.

“Two florins?” Bill asked.

Ash nodded. “Two florins.”

“What kind of weak pisswater you selling for two florins?” Bill asked, causing his friends to cringe and throw nervous looks Khukri’s way.

“You got a mug?” Ash took the tin cup the man offered and dumped the water out, then tapped the barrel and poured him an ale.

Bill sniffed it, sipped a mouthful, swished it around, and swallowed. His tongue ran along his gums, pushing his lips out as he puckered them thoughtfully. Finally, he grunted. “Not as good as the stuff at the bar, but it’ll get the job done.” He handed his cup to a friend and shifted the pipe to his free hand before slapping two iron coins into Ash’s palm. “Okay...what kind of wood shavings you trying to pass off as tobacco?”