[Barsoom] A Boy And His Thoatling, Part The Second

[we_dont_fly]

It's just before nightfall when the Thark hunting party returns to the ancient ruins known as the Old City. The settlement, once full of grand buildings with huge columns and broad paved plazas, was now home to the Thark Clan of Barsoom's green men. Since the war between Helium and Zodanga had ended, the Thark had taken their place as the biggest, most stable clan in the South under the guidance of the strongest tactician and most feared warrior in the entire Warhoon.

Tars Tarkas paces the stones in front of his encampment. The women have tried to bring him water, to bring him food. He will have none of it. If Dejah Thoris thinks he kidnapped one of her people, she will raze this place to the sand to get him back. The boy must be returned home and in one piece.

How in the seven hells they got separated, he has no idea. One moment he was riding and that stupid magical pocket universe opened up and swallowed him. The thoatling followed them through, and the crechemate* that had bonded to the little one almost stomped the boy into a grease stain. When they'd ran, Tars had watched the sky open up and swallow both boy and thoatling.

It had taken him half a day to make it back here, and the moment he did, he'd sent out riders. If he didn't return soon, he was going to have to swallow his pride and contact Helium. They would lend flyers to the search. Hopefully the boy had survived the night.

Alone. On the Warhoon. With only a thoatling to keep him company.


The cry goes up from the perimeter and ripples through the settlement. One of his lieutenants comes running through the crowd.

"Riders! And they have the boy! He's alive!"

"Praise Issus. Bring him here to me. He is to be treated with respect. Else Helium will see us ended."

"As you will it, my Jeddak! Right away!"


*Thark have words for mother and father. They just don't use them in polite company.

Comments

[hate_gettin_older]

He's quiet as she talks, half-jogging to keep up with her long strides (and Tars's, ahead of them).

"All right, yeah," he says slowly, "I get that."

[we_dont_fly]

Sola turns back to look at him, slowing her steps so he can keep up. "How much do you know of Barsoom, Sark-Iljat?"

[hate_gettin_older]

"Not fuckin much," he mutters.

And what he does know, from Dejah, doesn't seem to fit with how they do things here.

[we_dont_fly]

"Hmm. Well, you have survived your first night and found your way back to camp. So long as you do not start a war before Tars takes you back, you should be fine."

She may be joking. Maybe.

[hate_gettin_older]

Edgar flicks a glance up at her face, and risks a grin.

"I'll do my very best not to," he promises.

[we_dont_fly]

They emerge into the main feast hall and a cheer goes up at the Jeddak's return. Sola points that Edgar should follow, and she excuses herself.

"You will sit at my table, Sark-Iljat." Tars greets his men and exchanges grips with a few of his lieutenants. Every one of the warriors watches Edgar as he passes by, and Tabras calls out a greeting.

[hate_gettin_older]

The cheer startles him, but he recovers quickly and makes his way across the feast hall in Tars's wake as nonchalantly as though he belongs there, even raising a hand to wave to Tabras in response to his shout.

"There anything I should know about the order here?" he mutters to Tars as they sit down.

[we_dont_fly]

"The strong lead," Tars says, flopping down onto a pile of furs and smiling up at the serving women as they bring a huge platter of something that's clearly roasted meat.

"Show no weakness, Edgar. And if you would, I would be grateful if you do not usurp my position here. At least not today." He shoots a wry grin at Edgar.

[hate_gettin_older]

He grins back. "No starting a war, no usurping your position, got it."

And snags two slices of the meat as the platter passes him, right after Tars takes his portion.

[we_dont_fly]

Tars nods, short and sweet, and digs into his meal.

There's a disturbance at the far edge of the room. Voices raised, someone or something seems to be shoving its way into the room. A group of men start shouting and kicking, and the crowd gathers closer to see what the commotion is.

"What is going on?" Tars calls out.

A pitiful WONK! rises above the din.

[hate_gettin_older]

Edgar chokes on a mouthful of meat, swallows hastily and scrambles to his feet on the bench to try to get a better view.

[we_dont_fly]

Tars stands as well, keeping one eye on Edgar and one on his men. A few of the warriors fall back out of the scrum and spill wine over themselves. Someone reaches for a long gun.

"This thoat has lost its mind!" Some one called out from the crowd.

WONK! Nitwit lowers its head against the blows raining around its horn buds, and tries to shove its way through the mass of bodies. It's not making very good progress, and with each passing second, more of the warriors start aiming vicious kicks at the young thoat.

[hate_gettin_older]

"HEY!" Edgar's shout is loud enough (and piercing enough, by comparison to the voices of the green men) to cut through the noise. "What the fuck are you doing?"

He's got one foot up on the table by now, braced to leap.

[we_dont_fly]

A couple of heads turn, but there are probably thirty or forty warriors crowded around Nitwit. The little beast falls to his knees under the rain of fists and broken crockery.

"Go." Tars says, his voice sharp. His voice carries across the room as well. "Go and get your thoat, Sark-Iljat."

[hate_gettin_older]

Before the words are quite out of his mouth, Edgar's gone -- in one leap that carries him over the heads of most of the crowd, only to collide with the shoulders of one warrior standing over the little thoat, with one foot drawn back to kick.

Standing on one foot means that warrior can't regain his balance after the impact, and he and Edgar tumble to the floor in a tangle of mismatched limbs.

Edgar's the first to regain his footing, and stands braced in front of Nitwit. "All right, y' bastards," he snarls, "you want to beat on something smaller than your own selves, do you? Fuckin try me."

[we_dont_fly]

Tars does not surround himself with fools. The tackled warrior starts to go for a blade until he saw the look on Edgar's face. In a heartbeat, there's a gap forming around the human and the thoatling.

Nitwit pushes its way to its feet and shoves its face into Edgar's hip, grumbling under its breath. I thought you'd left me! I thought you were gone!

Tabras stepped through the crowd. "Your thoat -- she thinks she should be here with us, celebrating your victory. What say you, Sark-Iljat?"

[hate_gettin_older]

Nitwit's a she? is his first off-balance thought, but it's sidelined rapidly; he pats Nitwit's leathery back by way of reassurance, thinking hard.

"Tars Tarkas," he calls out in turn, "would I be right if I guessed that you don't generally allow thoats in here?"

[we_dont_fly]

"No, Sark-Iljat. Thoats drink too much wine. And they shit on the floor."

His remarks are met with a wave of raucous laughter. Tabras looks at Edgar and nods at him with a wry grin.

"You want to put her back in the pens outside?"

[hate_gettin_older]

"Well," in his most offensively reasonable voice, "that might make a bit more sense than kicking her ribs in for the fun of it, don't you think?"

[we_dont_fly]

Tabras's eyes narrow but he says nothing. He points and a path to the outside clears. The other warriors are similarly silent. It was said that Dotar Sojat had a soft spot in his heart for the great beasts. It was also said he could kill a man with a single blow, bare-handed.

None of these men wished to try out the legend and see if it was based in truth.

[hate_gettin_older]

It only takes Edgar a moment to realize they mean him to put Nitwit back in the pen, and another moment to wonder whether or not that's meant as some kind of elaborate insult, and to decide he doesn't really give a shit.

"Right then," he says flatly, and then raises his voice again. "If you'll excuse me for a few minutes, Jeddak?"

[we_dont_fly]

They assume the beast will listen to the great warrior, if she won't listen to them.

Tars nods and raises his hand in salute. "She will be a fine mount some day, Sark-Iljat. She has heart!"

[hate_gettin_older]

"That she does," Edgar agrees, and pats Nitwit's flank again. Not so much brain, maybe, but definitely heart.

"All right," he murmurs to the little thoat, "come on, this way," and nudges her along with him in the direction of the door.

[we_dont_fly]

Nitwit frowns at him. It may not look like a frown on a human face, but he gets the distinct impression that she's not happy with him. She takes a few nudges to get moving again, but she seems to know exactly where she's supposed to be going.

And she grumbles at him under her breath the entire way back. The thoat keeper is in the process of repairing the pickets she slipped under and laughs at the two of them as they walk up.

"She is going to be a handful, that one. Far too clever for her own good." The Thark pushes himself up to standing, his expression far less bellicose than most of the warriors Edgar has met. He extends a hand, in the American fashion. "I am Majat Mataseen. I am pleased to meet you, Sark-Iljat. It is not every day one meets a descendant of Dotar Sojat."

[hate_gettin_older]

... you know what, he's just not going to argue with that one.

"Pleased to meet you too," he says, reaching up to return the handshake.