"Yes, I think so, but not badly. I think I've hit my head, but apart from that a few bruises and..." He looked again at the crumpled groundcar, uncomfortable meeting the gaze of his rescuers. "Word of the Prophet!" he spat. "Damn it. What am I going to do with this?"
His oath brought a hiss from one of the Atavists, and Sandon cursed himself for stupidity.
"I apologize, I didn't mean to..."
"We understand. You are confused. The Prophet has blessed you with good fortune. It could have been much worse." This one was older, his voice deep and full of authority. He stepped closer, reaching out with one hand. Sandon took a step backward, but the Atavist held up a reassuring hand. "We cannot leave you like this. You must come with us."
The third member of their group nodded solemnly. "Yes," he said. "The way is clear. My animal can carry you to where you need to go. We will accompany you."
"But I...no. Thank you all the same, but it's too far."
"Then you will come with us."
Sandon rubbed at his face, trying to get rid of some more of the dust as he thought, but his thoughts were a little confused. "Really. I'll find my way back to the Principate." That seemed like the best solution.
One of the two Atavists glanced at the older one. The look did not go unnoticed, despite the situation, and the fuzziness in his head. Then the older one spoke.
"No. We don't know if you are able to travel. Taking a blow to the head is unpredictable." He peered in closer. "The bruising and the cuts do not look good. It would be far better if you came with us. Far better. We have a healer among our group who can see to your injuries. Our healer will make sure you are well, and then we can be assured that you can continue your journey safely. This is our duty as written by the Prophet, and it would be wrong for us to let you go on your own." The other two solemnly nodded their agreement.
Sandon peered back at the Atavist, but the concern seemed genuine, as much as he could read on the man's face. He looked down at his hand. Yes, he was bleeding. He dabbed at his face. In truth, he did feel a little unsteady. Besides, what could he do back at the Principate? He no longer had the authority to requisition a new groundcar, or the authority to demand assistance to clear the current one. Better to do as they said, for now. He sighed and nodded slowly.
"You're right. Again, I thank you."
"There is nothing to thank us for. It is our duty. To be able to fulfill that is thanks enough."
As they walked toward the waiting padder, Sandon looked at his companions. Each wore an identical drab homespun robe. The leather sandals were all similar as well. The older man, clearly the authority in the group, wore his hood over his head, concealing most of his features. A full beard trailed from beneath his face, shot with gray and white. Virtually nothing distinguished the other two. They had their hoods thrown back and they wore their dark hair long. They walked with strong, straight backs. One of them turned, caught Sandon looking and nodded. His face remained impassive. It was as if the nod recognized Sandon's scrutiny and accepted it, nothing more. He handed Sandon a piece of cloth, and Sandon used it to dab at his face, and then hold it to his cheek.
What was it that motivated these people? What sort of life was it that they led? He'd never really paid them much mind before, except as the object of jokes, or something to scorn. The Atavists were simply always there, on the periphery. Their lifestyle was something that people generally would rather forget, particularly in Clear Season where the general population tried to keep the necessary deterioration to simplicity well away from their minds. The enforced Return brought about by the inconstancy of Storm Season was bad enough without dwelling on it. Why somebody would willingly wish to eschew the comforts that modern society brought escaped him. Technology could not be such of an anathema, surely? Perhaps he would have an opportunity to discover more wherever they were about to take him.
