Oswin Merrick's Arc

Chapter 8 of 9

By midday the beetle slowed. Its legs dragged, and its shell had lost its shine. The parrot rode limp on Oswin's shoulder, feathers dull. Both had crossed the bog and hadn't rested since. Ahead lay days of uncharted forest, and Oswin carried no food, no water, no fresh gear. He stopped on the trail and faced the truth. "We don't make it like this," he told Garret. "Not the beast, not the bird, not us." Garret pointed through the trees. A low building sat in a clearing, its metal walls weathered but sound. Pipes ran along the roof. Small windows caught the light. "A research post," Garret said. "Someone stocks these for the field. Might have supplies." Oswin tried the door. It swung open. Inside, shelves held dried rations, coiled rope, and jars of clean water. He filled a sack. Then he found a bin of red-capped mushrooms, bright and fresh. The beetle loved them; he'd seen it feed on the same kind near the bog. He gathered an armful. "Someone lives here," Garret said, low. He nodded at a cot, blankets thrown back, a lamp still warm. A gloved hand caught the doorframe. Mara Blackwell stepped inside. Oswin knew her at once — the thief who'd tracked them from the workshop, the one he'd fooled with a torn scrap of map. Her tools hung at her belt. She didn't reach for the knife this time. "You," she said flat. She looked at his full sack, then at him. "You're not raiding me for the disc. You're starving." "We take what we need and go," Oswin said. "Take it." She stepped aside from the door. "I'm done chasing you." Garret frowned. "Why?" Mara pulled a folded paper from her vest and dropped it on the table. Copied rim symbols — the same bearing Oswin carried. "My client didn't need me anymore," she said. "There's a man named Harlan Voss. Collects relics. He got the next disc's bearing three days ago. Bought it off someone at the workshop." She shrugged. "He's ahead of you now. No point stealing a map to a place someone already reached." Oswin held the mushrooms against his chest and felt the news land. Not a race anymore. A chase from behind. "Then help me," he said. Mara laughed once, short. "No. But I'll tell you this for free. Voss travels heavy. Wagons. He'll take the wide ground." She tipped her head at Oswin's jacket, thick with maps. "You go where wagons can't." Oswin loaded the sack onto the beetle and fed it the red caps. It ate, and its legs steadied. The parrot took water and lifted its head. He had his supplies. He had a route no wagon could follow. But a stranger was already deep in the forest, closer to the next disc than he was. Oswin turned toward the trees and started walking.