The Archivist by Tom D Wright Read Free Book Online

most dying men can hope for in this world.

Chapter Four

    I lean back against the stony wall outside the cave and keep an eye on Danae as she sprawls on the ground, pouring her grief out over her father’s body. Mostly she buries her wails into his chest, but every now and then she pauses to raise her tear-and-blood streaked face to examine him. She gently touches his cheek as if she hopes she is somehow mistaken, and he might wake up. She is not.
    I am not an unfeeling brute, though I have been called that more than once. I am just a brute that intends to remain alive, and someone needs to stay alert to our surroundings. This is not the first time I have been surrounded by fallen friends and foe, nor is it likely to be the last. Emotions are a luxury I cannot afford while on a retrieval.
    Hindsight, as they say, is always clearer. The setup I first suspected when I walked into The Broken Mast now clicks together. I let Danae have her sorrow right now, but she will answer for some things later on.
    The sun is halfway to the horizon, and already the heat from the sunlight is fading. The fall equinox is still a few weeks away, but the days are definitely getting shorter, so we are not going anywhere until morning. I do not intend to shiver all night in a dark, cold cave.
    I rise and examine the fallen bodies of the goons and Disciple. The techbot did quite a job on them; I gather up half a dozen scattered pieces of their bodies. A quick search of them for anything useful reveals no valuables, aside from a small, bloodstained note tucked into the true believer’s vest pocket. I unfold the scrap of crudely-formed paper.
     
    Bring the unholy artifact back to the Great Temple. Avoid any damage to the artifact lest it release a great evil that defiles the earth and taints your soul.
    - EV
     
    Nothing in the scribbled message gives me any clue as to who or what the initials EV might refer to. Probably some sort of group or sect within the Disciple bureaucracy. The Archives is woefully lacking Disciple intelligence, but then again they fanatically destroy anything we might be interested in, so they have not been a particular focus.
    I fill the Disciple’s rucksack with body parts and tell Danae I will be back soon. She gapes at me blankly for a moment, as if puzzling out who I am and why I am there, then nods as her head droops again. The real danger in this wilderness lies at my feet. These bodies are going to attract every hungry carnivore in these hills. She will be fine for a few minutes.
    It takes a couple of trips to drag the carcasses several hundred yards downhill. The thugs were probably just hired mercenaries, so I do not give them any special treatment. The Disciple, however, I position the way they like to bury their dead.
    On one of my few incursions into Disciple territory, I watched them bury one of their own facedown to Mother Earth, pointing east with his hands folded over his heart. This acolyte did give me time to make my peace, so I return the favor and lay him to rest with his one remaining hand on his heart, and the staff at his side.
    Since no one had enough consideration to bring even a folding shovel, the best I can do is to cover them with dead brush and some fallen limbs. It may be a token effort, but it is certainly more than they would have done for me. I trudge through the trees back uphill to check on Danae.
    At first I think she has fallen asleep, but as I approach she glances at me and wipes her grimy face. She sits up slowly when I crouch down next to her, and regards me with red, swollen, lost-puppy eyes. At the moment she is definitely not the woman she was this morning.
    “What do we do now?” she asks quietly, with a hoarse voice.
    “What I always do, take it one day at a time. Or in this case, one night,” I tell her gently. Then I point toward an overhang behind her, jutting out over the recessed hollow which funnels into the cave. “I need you to gather some firewood and stack it up