“Not to worry, old friend.” I take hold of the man’s hand. “Didn’t I save your life the day you fell from the pitch? This should be relatively simple to fix, provided you help me in return.”
I grab the broken finger and twist violently. The big man opens his mouth to let out a scream. My other hand flies, slamming fingers into a pressure point in his neck. Now he cannot scream. He cannot move anything but his eyes and still feels everything.
“Carrick, you’re going to cause an accident. I don’t care how, but within the month, Bruul Vaarkson will find his way here. I don’t want him dead. I want him here, alive, in need of medical care. Do you understand?”
Carrick glares at me—go fuck yourself, Leontes.
I understand his reluctance so I twist his finger some more. “This is a relatively simple request. I’ve saved your life, and I’ll save your finger now. It will be good as new. And if you help me, there will be a reward. Agree? Blink once for yes, twice for no.”
He blinks once.
“Good.” I tap the inside of his forearm just below the elbow, cutting off pain to his hand. “I’m going to reset the bone. You should feel nothing.”
He looks scared and confused. There’s an audible snap as I reset the bone. I reach into the small medical cabinet and find two small slats of coral to fashion a rudimentary splint.
“I’m going to release you. You’ll have full control of your body again, but your hand will be numb for the next ten or twelve hours to help you sleep and heal. You will not speak of our conversation to anyone.”
His eyes dart back and forth nervously. Then he remembers, once for yes, twice for no, and blinks.
“Good.” I tap his neck.
He scrambles away from me. “Witchcraft,” he mutters. “Like the old man.”
“Within the month, Carrick,” I say.
“It’s true what they said—you killed the monster of the Citadel, didn’t you?”
“Within the month,” I repeat.
Carrick rushes through the porthole and out of the hut. I take a deep breath.
No going back now.
The days pass even more slowly as I wait. I stew in my anger, pressing it down, letting it simmer. Carrick’s reneged on the promise, I think. I’ll have to kill him. I’m ready to lash out at anyone, anything. I’ve taken a step, but I want the thing finished already. I want to see my father’s eyes when he’s forced to face me. I meditate on the image every night; I chew on it every moment while stitching a laceration or resetting a bone.
My healing gains the trust of the men and sparks their fear. Carrick has been sworn not to talk, but rumors of my stealing Faria’s mysterious skills abound. Coupled with Goth’s death, I’ve garnered a mystique. In the Wendigo, fear equals respect. Those who before would avoid me out of disgust, now do so out of a weird deference. I am not content with this, though. I want true power. My soul aches for it.
“Don’t be anxious, Edmon,” Faria counsels. “There’s no way to hasten what’s coming. The opportunity will find you.”
Before the month is out, there’s an accident in the mines. A small avalanche injures several Haulers, including Bruul Vaarkson, and the grizzled, stinking bear of a man slides into the healer’s hut.
“Well, if it isn’t old Baldy Patch and the Black Tattoo. You’re moving up in the world, eh, sweet thing? You two would make a popular aquagraphic comedy duo, you know that?” The big Nightsider grins crookedly. “The boys insist I have you look at the old ankle. Just don’t try nuthin’ indiscreet with those delicate hands of yours, Baldy Patch. The Warden has my back and so does my gang.”
I kneel and take hold of the man’s knee. I press into the pressure point in his thigh.
“Hey, you . . . hey, it doesn’t hurt anymore,” Vaarkson says, astonished.
I gently remove his boot and roll up the pant leg, revealing the purple swollen shinbone. The fracture is not compound or broken through the skin. Perfect. This won’t be too complicated.
“It’s broken,” I say. “I’m going to reset the bone.” There’s a crack of ligaments and tendons as I place the bone into position. I reach into the medicine cabinet and pull out a sea-sponge liniment. I wrap the thick leg in the wet cloth, which hardens into a cast upon contact with skin.
“You should take easier duty for the next few days. By then the cast should be strong enough to bear weight. It’ll naturally fall off once the bone’s fully healed.”
Vaarkson smiles slyly. “Well done, Little Baldy.”
“And now for payment.” I stare back.
“Oh?” he mocks. “Little Baldy wants another roll in the ice?”
“You once asked for an alliance,” I say calmly. “I accept. I’ll ally with the Haulers and serve only them.”
“Is that so?” His wiry eyebrows arc with interest.
“If the Haulers follow me as foreman.”
His shocked face bursts into laughter.
“You’ll be leader in name and wear the tattoo of the black fist on your neck, but you’ll take orders from me,” I say with deadly seriousness.
His face turns hot. “You insolent—”
My fingers tap a pressure point on his knee, releasing the flow of energy I’d diverted. Pain floods into his leg. He howls and grips his shin. “You son of a—”
“Give me control of the Haulers or die.”
Vaarkson stands even in his pain. He’s too weak to attack, but he rages just the same. “You’ve signed your warrant, Baldy Boy! Only one way to become foreman—kill the foreman of your assigned gang in a sanctioned duel. Wendigo code!” The rules of Combat echo even here, I think. “Challenge me, and you’ll know pain!”
“Face me now then,” I respond calmly.
Of course he does not. The disgusting lump slowly moves to the porthole.
“Coward. I’ll be waiting when you’re ready,” I say. “By the way, Bruul,” I call out as he goes. “You’ll never be able to ‘claim’ anyone ever again. I’ve seen to that.”
He looks at me with confusion, then spits venomously into the fire as he exits.
“Nicely done. Your next move?” Faria asks from his corner.
“Speak with Jinam Shank,” I reply.
The bait has been set. The trap must be sprung.
I wait weeks. So does Vaarkson. His leg heals, and I make myself more visible in the Wendigo. I take my food from the Ration Bar, I walk among the camps at night, and I make circuitous routes through the shantytown, always taking the same path home. I’m flaunting my reputation recklessly, daring him, but I no longer see predatory hunger in the Hauler foreman’s eyes. Instead, I see fear, and I smile to myself.
I’ve taken his sexual function from him. Men are so easily disrupted. He feels helpless and unsure without it. He’ll find other ways to dominate his men, other outlets for his cruelty, but soon his terror and anger will get the better of him. I’m ready.