He wondered if he had the guts to use it.
16. STOP THE BLOODY CART!
THEY ENCOUNTERED ENEMY FIRE a mile or so out from the mystery building.
At the front of the cart, Ember hung on next to Hannar-Ghan. The big caster sat in the small box seat, as if he were driving an old-fashioned stage coach, hands occasionally slapping at the ropes looped around the tireless Ocara that pulled them. Not that his urging made them run any faster. Junn-Kri sat at the back, feet dangling over the side, munching on one of several pies he’d packed for the journey. Squeezed into the middle, Lor-Qui scribbled yet more incantations into his notebook, while a wedged-in Roon-Kotke stared out over the sideboard, watching unknown birds soar in an unfamiliar sky.
The ride was far from smooth. The cart evidently wasn’t designed to hold five people and, as the wheels juddered over the gaps between the roadway’s huge stone slabs, the whole vehicle shook, rattling the squad like dice in a cup. While the Kajjon built ‘big’, they didn’t build ‘comfortable’. The word probably wasn’t in their vocabulary. He’d need to ask Lor to learn the truth of it. But at least it had become cooler as the cart bounced along behind the two hacked conjurings. Ember was glad of the breeze and of the chance to rest his aching legs.
As they picked up speed, the true shape of the distant building became slowly clearer — a vast fortress, built from golden-coloured stone, its Spire-high walls square-edged, segmented by towering semi-circular bastions. It was a design that made it look like five smaller castles laid out in a row, jutted up against each other like books on a shelf. As impressive as it was, there was no beauty to it. Typical of a Kajjon creation, practical and relentlessly functional. Yet you had to admire its scope. In its heyday, it must have been home to hundreds of people. Perhaps thousands. Now it looked quiet and dead. No flags flying, no smoke rising, no signs of life.
The perfect place for the Kajjon to hide a Great Weapon.
Drawing ever closer, Ember could see that the huge stronghold straddled the roadway, which seemed to end in a large gate with huge wooden doors. Another high wall, with perhaps another roadway built atop it, emerged from either side of the building, stretching away into the trees.
It wasn’t until they hurtled even closer that Ember realised it wasn’t a gate he could see on the road up ahead. A jolt of fear spasmed through him.
“We’ve got to stop,” he announced over the rattle of the bouncing cart.
“What?” Roon-Kotke yelled back. “Why? We’re making good progress.”
“Drawbridge ahead.” Ember jabbed his finger towards the fortress and a smaller stone gatehouse that lay some distance before it. Not the front gate at all. He felt annoyed that he hadn’t spotted it before. “And it’s raised. This Kajjon road is about to end in a big d—”
He didn’t get to finish the sentence. The word ‘drop’ caught in his throat as a bright light flashed from the roof of fortress and a bolt of Fura fizzed out across the sky. He watched it, quickly assessing its trajectory, ready to jump if it looked like the Fura might hit them. Although that would mean abandoning his gear, losing the cart, and hoping that the tumble wouldn’t kill him or break any bones. With two Ocara out in front, they were moving surprisingly fast.
As it turned out, the shot was poorly aimed. Too long. In fact, the Fura blazed overhead high enough that Ember couldn’t even feel the heat of the blast. Perhaps it was a warning shot? If not, whoever had fired it hadn’t taken into account the double-quickened movement of their cart.
That wouldn’t last.
“Stop!” Ember cried out.
Another flash, like the glint of sunlight on polished metal, and another gob of oconic fire spat out from the top of the fortress. Ember winced, expecting a near-miss. But this shot overcompensated for the first, landing well short of the rumbling cart, flames blooming bright ahead of them, spilling across the road like water from a dropped jug.
“Hells!” Roon-Kotke yelled. “Lor! Stop the bloody cart!”
Hannar-Ghan returned fire, loosing a crackling Fura of his own towards the building. Behind him, Lor-Qui yelled one of his command phrases, a string of Kajjon words that Ember didn’t recognise or understand.
But the two Ocara kept running, the cart still rattling towards the gatehouse, its raised drawbridge and what would be an inevitable, terrifying plunge to the ground below. Ember was starting to wish that he’d fixed the brake.
Another Fura burst in front of the speeding cart, closer this time, annihilating a chunk of the wall in a blazing burst of stone and grit.
“Lor!? Why are we not slowing down?”
“I don’t know,” Lor-Qui snapped, clenching his fists. “They’re not responding to my commands. I…”
“Dispel them!” The Corporal shouted back. “If the Fura doesn’t get us, we’re fast running out of road!”
“I don’t understand why it’s not working.” Lor-Qui prodded at his notebook, the pages flapping in the wind. “It should be working! Maybe… Maybe it’s all the noise. The wheels on the road, they… Hang on...” Lor-Qui clambered forward. Ember grabbed him by the shoulder to stop him from falling. The combat-tech wobbled, but quickly found his feet. He yelled the command phrase again.
The two Ocara continued running.
Lor-Qui howled in frustration. “It’s still not working!”
“Perhaps you’re not doing it right?” said Hannar-Ghan.
“Of course I’m doing it right!”
“We can cut them loose,” suggested Ember. He drew his sword, hanging onto the cart’s wooden sideboard with his other hand.
Hannar-Ghan fired again, a wayward blast, the big caster’s aim skewed high by an ill-timed judder of the runaway cart.
“Do it!” Roon-Kotke shouted.
Ember swung his old sabre, slashing at the ropes connecting the cart to its striding Ocara. The first rope frayed, but didn’t break, held together by twisted fibres that stretched but stubbornly refused to snap. He hacked at the rope again, as another burst of fire thumped into the roadway ahead, gouging a hole in it the size of a Yarborough saloon table. “Dammit!” he shouted, as the rope snapped, the cart’s left front wheel dipped into the crater, and several things happened all at once.
Junn-Kri tumbled off the back of the cart with a scream, disappearing from view. Ember barely had time to grab onto the sideboard as the front wheel buckled, spokes shattering, metal groaning. The cart tipped over sideways, balancing briefly on two wheels before succumbing to the pull of gravity. It crunched heavily onto its side, the impact throwing Lor and Roon-Kotke clear. Ember didn’t see where they went either. He was too busy hanging on by his fingertips, pulling himself up onto the sideboard (now a ‘top board’) as the cart scraped sideways, the remaining Ocara still pulling the cart forward, metal-rimmed wheels grinding over the stone, sparks flying.
Only Hannar-Ghan remained aboard, caught up in a tangle of rope, unable to wrestle himself free. Ember glanced ahead. The gatehouse was uncomfortably close now, he could see the huge chains holding the wooden drawbridge up. No time to cut the second Ocara free, so he hacked at the rope holding Hannar-Ghan prisoner. Once. Twice. Hannar-Ghan yelling at him to be careful each time he swung the blade. Three times. Hack after hack. The screech of the cart on the stone, the cracking and splitting of wood. His fourth slash sliced through the rope but the momentum of the swing pitched him forward, falling along with Hannar-Ghan, hitting the bottom of the cart with his shoulder before bouncing clear.
He landed hard and fast, banging his knees on the stone, jarring his other shoulder, knocking his head, rolling over and over before he came to a painful stop in a cloud of choking dust.
No time to feel sorry for himself. As Ember struggled to his knees, another Fura blast landed with a thump, shearing the empty cart in two, sending a wheel spinning off over the edge and splinters of wood into the air. He ducked, hands over his head. Had he been closer, he would have been shredded by the dagger-sharp debris. Through the smoke, he could just
make out the one Ocara still attached to the cart, obediently pulling its shattered remains along the roadway. He couldn’t see the other conjuring. Cut free of its load, he guessed it was somewhere further ahead, running headlong towards the open drawbridge.
He looked around for Hannar-Ghan and could just make out the still form of the big caster lying behind him. Still clutching his sword, he crawled back towards the Sergeant, blood on his hands, not sure if it was his, body protesting with every painful movement. Hannar-Ghan lay unconscious and Ember slumped down beside him, body wracked with pain from gashed head to potentially broken toe. They were in a poor position. Stuck out in the open. An easy target for whoever was firing at them from the fortress. Ember cursed his luck. In hindsight, maybe he should have turned Su-Zo down and struck out on his own. He might have made it overland to Mulai. Might even have got into the Watcher’s tower to plunge his sword into Mordume’s murderous chest.
Ember wiped grit from his face and watched the cart disappear over the edge of the road, plunging through the gap in front of the raised drawbridge. He was lost in a strange land, his squad mates were scattered (maybe they were dead), someone was trying to kill him and his rib felt like it was broken. He also realised that he’d lost his bow.
“Great,” he said with a wince. “Just bloody great.”
17. MAYBE WE CAN CUT A DEAL?
THE INTRUDER STIRRED. Stone watched her jerk awake and instinctively reach for her lance. He smiled at her surprise to find the weapon missing, noted the confusion on her face when she realised her wrists were bound behind her. He’d tied the stiff, mud-stained rope tight as he could, hoping it hurt.
“Looking for this?” Stone held up the woman’s lance. A plain weapon, no markings or engravings bar the stamp of Tooler & Lang, the company that had forged it.
“What happened?”
“You fainted.”
The intruder blinked. “Must have passed out.”
“Fainted,” Stone repeated.
The woman sneered back and tried to lever herself up. Stone watched the sneer droop into a frown when she realised her ankles were also bound with thick leather straps, a pair of old horse hobbles left behind when the stables closed. No escaping them. Maybe the woman knew it too. For instead of struggling against her bonds, she slumped back against the wall, letting out a sigh. Then she laughed, long and loud.
It was Stone’s turn to frown. “What’s so funny?”
The woman shook her head. “This. I’ve evaded Justices, casters and bounty hunters the length and breadth of the Empire. Beyond it too. But I never imagined that I’d get nabbed by a ten year old boy.”
“I'm nine.”
The woman ignored him, gently patting the wound on her side. “And it seems you bandaged me up? Stopped the bleeding too.” She looked up again. “Not a bad job either. Where’d you learn how to do that?”
“Watched my father dress the wound on a horse once. Same principle.” Stone watched the woman test her bonds. “And if you want it to heal,” he added. “You’d best lie still.”
“What’s your name, pup?”
“You can call me Stone. And I ain’t no pup.”
“Well, Stone, you appear to have saved my life. I’m not entirely sure why, but you have my thanks. I suppose that by Ocosconan tradition, I owe you a blood debt?”
“You don’t owe me anything. I lifted your purse as payment.” Stone held her leather money bag up and shook it, jingling the coins inside. He’d already counted them. Eighteen crowns, one half-crown and four pennies. “This ought to cover it.”
The stranger laughed again. “A fair price. Take it.”
“I’ll be having your lance too. For the inconvenience.”
Stone smiled. Assuming at least thirty crowns for the intruder’s lance, another thirty for the Mulai weapon he’d snagged, together with the money in the purse, it meant another seventy-eight crowns towards his mother’s fund. That would bring the total to one hundred and eighty-three crowns and change, only forty-one crowns short.
So close. It gave him a chill just thinking about it.
“Maybe I underestimated you,” said the woman. “Get me a drink of water would you?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No. You ain’t a guest here, miss. You're my prisoner.”
“Ha!” The woman shook her head again, wriggling her shoulders in a forlorn effort to get comfortable. “Yes. You got me. But what are you going to do with me?” She fixed Stone with a hard stare. “Don't rightly know do you? Can't move me. Not on your own. Besides, I'm of a mind not to be moved right now. Could make it real difficult for you… Maybe I need to rest up a while. Just like you suggested… I don’t think you’ll rat me out. Don't want anybody finding this little hidey hole of yours. Won't kill me neither.” The stranger sniffed loudly, dismissively. “You ain't got the balls for it.”
“There's always a first time.”
“You're all talk, pup.”
“You’re the one who’s tied up.”
“Aye.” The woman nodded. “I’ll agree that my position ain’t the strongest. But I’ve been in worse scrapes than this. Tell you what… How’s about we return to your earlier offer. You said you could help me…”
“I had to say something. You were going to kill me.”
“For which I’m truly sorry.” The woman shuffled around to face him. “But perhaps we can put that behind us. Establish a little trust. I know your name, but you don’t know mine. I’m Mila. And yes, I find myself in a spot of bother. Maybe you can help me after all. Maybe we can cut a deal?”
“I don’t want anything from the likes of you.” Stone almost spat the words. “You talk of bounty hunters and cuffers. Someone is obviously after you. Why else would you be hiding out here? I’ve got enough problems of my own. I don't want to get caught up in yours. I just want you to leave.”
Mila gazed at the shelves where Stone kept his meagre possessions. “So what are you?” she asked. “A thief? I’m a thief too. Of sorts. All I’m asking is that you help a fellow hoister out.”
“I’m no thief.”
“No? Then what is all this stuff?”
“Things I can sell.”
”Ah, so you're a gutter-boy. No... Judging by that basket there and all this rope, you’re a scrapper. A muck-raker. Am I right? I think you said you work down by the river…”
“I'm a businessman.”
“Is that so? Well, little Stone, how about this for a bit of business…? I’d like to buy my freedom from you. How much might that cost me? Name your price.”
“I’ve already taken your money.”
“There’s more where that came from. I have wealthy employers.”
Stone’s resolve weakened.
“How much more?”
“Ah, now you’re intrigued. Can’t blame you. I would be too in your situation. How much do you want?”
Stone turned away. Only forty-one crowns to go. Plus whatever dumb extras Fowley had cooked up since he’d visited his mother last. Perhaps this was his chance. His salvation. No more working the river. No more trudging through the sucking mud. He could ask for one hundred crowns. Or two hundred? Dealing with the stranger wasn’t illegal, was it? It was just business. Stone’s mind whirled. How far could he push the woman? Three hundred crowns? Four? She was obviously desperate. But then so was he.
“Five hundred crowns,” he said at last.
Mila whistled. “That’s a lot of money.”
“You said name a price. That’s my price.”
“What do you need it for? Your family? Where are they?”
“That’s my business. Can you pay it or not?”
“Yes, I can pay it. I haven’t got that sort of coin on me, as you already know. But I can get it. Just as long as you do something for me.”
Stone shook his head. “I ain’t taking those straps off. Not loosening your ropes neither. You stay like this until you get me the money.”
“Fair enough
, pup. I’m in no position to argue am I? But if you want your money, I need you to carry a message to the people I work for. I’ll write it down for you if you have paper and pen.” Stone shook his head. “Then you’ll need to memorise it. And… You’ll need to wear my hat. Go on. Take it... My friends will recognise it as mine. It will let them know I’ve sent you.”
Stone edged forward, watching Mila closely. He snatched the peaked cap from the woman’s head and retreated. “Alright,” he said, pulling the cap on. It was a little loose. “What’s the catch? Where do I need to go?”
“Old Lanridge Street. Number twelve. Think you can find it?”
“I know it.” A short cobbled street, if memory served. Squat, two-storey houses left and right, plain and unpainted, ordinary and unremarkable. “How do I know you’ll keep your end of the bargain?”
“You don’t. But what choice do you have? If you want that five hundred crowns you’ll do as I ask. Besides…” The woman wriggled again, straining against the ropes that bound her hands together. “I ain’t going nowhere am I? So, how about that drink of water before you go?”
18. HOWLING MONSTERS
EMBER PULLED THE LANCE from his back, feeling the tingle of oca inside it. Ahead of him, chunks of the cart burned, black smoke rising into the sky. Sooner or later (and he hoped it was ‘later’), the Fura blasts would be coming his way.
No time to waste. He twisted the fifth chamber on his lance to uncap the Wall binding he always stacked there, speaking the words of the priming verse as soon as the blackiron casing clicked open. He heard the familiar sigh of an oconic weave building as the binding took, thickening the air in front of him until it formed a glassy barrier, wide as the road and twice as high. Tendrils of smoke swirled inside it, trapped beneath the surface.
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