“Tallyho!” someone shouts to the west of us.
“The boat’s docked,” Samuel says. “Keep pressure on that leg, Heidi. We’re almost there.”
He slaps the reins against the donkeys’ backs, but they don’t move any faster as we crest the top of the rise. I push my left hand against the wagon floor and raise my head to see what lies in front of us.
The road coasts downhill for thirty yards, flattens out for another five, and then ends abruptly at the edge of a long wooden dock a few yards wider than the road. The dock is made of thick planks and rests on pillars as wide as the cypress trunks that hug the edge of the river. At the end of the dock, a huge white boat is tied to a pillar, ramp lowered for us to enter. There are two decks that wrap all the way around the ship. The lower deck has doors every five yards that lead into the ship’s interior. The upper deck is lined with trackers, each carrying a crossbow aimed straight at me.
No, not at me. At the trees beside me.
They’ve seen Quinn moving through the cypresses, just like I have, and they’re going to kill him the second he gives them a clear shot.
I press my arms against the wagon floor and pull myself to the side of the wagon until I’m free of Samuel’s weight. Scanning the trees to my left, I look for the shadow that moves water-quick through the twisted branches. For the boy who time and time again has saved my life even when he didn’t owe me a thing.
“Get down,” Samuel barks.
A whisper of sound—the barest brush of a boot sliding against a branch—floats from the tree closest to us. Samuel jerks his head up at the same moment that the mossy fringe along a branch trembles.
He shouts, “Target, my ten o’clock, seventeen yards. Destroy!”
“Quinn!” I scream. “Down!”
A slew of arrows fly from the boat, arc swiftly, and slice into the trees.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF–NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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CHAPTER FOURTEEN
RACHEL
“Shoot again!” Samuel shouts. His hand digs painfully into my shoulder as he orders Quinn’s death. I turn on my heels, leaning into the arm that holds on to me, and punch him in the face.
He won’t let go of the reins, because getting the wagon onto the boat is his first priority, but he should let go of me to protect his cheekbone—it’s instinctive self-defense. He doesn’t. Instead, he absorbs the blow and then gives me a look that makes something deep inside of me shiver.
Any hope that I might one day count Samuel as a reluctant ally shrivels beneath the scathing contempt on his face.
Behind me, more arrows slam into the cypress tree. I twist my head around, frantically scanning the ground for Quinn’s body. He isn’t there. I look at the tree, at the arrows buried in its branches, terrified that I’ll find him impaled by one of the weapons.
He isn’t there, either. Or if he is, he’s still hidden behind drooping moss and bright-green leaves. I scan the pale trunk and the dark forest floor for patches of blood, but I can’t see any.
A hand wraps around my hair and jerks me to the wagon floor. I land heavily on my injured arm, and swallow against the bile that rises to the back of my throat as pain screams through me. Sweat beads along my upper lip, and my breath comes in short, harsh bursts as Samuel leans over me, his dark eyes pitiless.
“Whoever is in those trees speared Heidi. I don’t allow those who attack my people without provocation to escape alive.”
The wagon picks up speed as the donkeys hurry downhill. The momentum drags me forward, crushing me against the front of the wagon. I meet Samuel’s gaze.
“He did have provocation.” My tone is as pitiless as his. “You kidnapped me. Ian, whom you’re so loyal to, killed innocent people—including children—instead of confronting the person he felt had wronged him. Any violence at this point can be traced straight back to Rowansmark.”
“No.” He slaps the reins, and the wagon barrels down the slope. “The violence can be traced back to your leader, Commander Chase.”
“He isn’t my leader.” I twist my hips and try to pull my knees toward my chest, but Samuel’s grip is relentless. “He’s cruel, and he’s a coward, and he deserves to die. I hope I’m the one who gets to kill him. But the Commander isn’t in those trees. You’re trying to kill a boy who only wants to save my life.”
My words are falling on deaf ears. Samuel glances at Heidi, who lies in stoic silence at the end of the wagon bench, her eyes closed and her hands pressed hard against the bloody wound in her thigh, and then scans the forest again. Beneath us, the wheels bite into the wooden planks of the dock, and the dirty-fish smell of the river swamps me.
The wagon rocks gently to the left, as if all of the crates within its bed suddenly shifted to one side.
Or as if someone just leaped onto the left edge of the wagon’s back step.
Quinn is on the wagon.
My heart pounds wildly as I see the realization dawn on Samuel’s face as well. The anger in his eyes blinks out, replaced instantly by detached ruthlessness.
I twist my neck, trying to see the back of the wagon, but all I see is the side of the bench.
I haven’t watched Samuel fight, but he’s a tracker. He’s going to have the same efficient, powerful technique that Rowansmark trackers are known for.
Quinn is efficient and powerful, too. Maybe they’re evenly matched in strength and prowess. Maybe not. But Quinn won’t take another’s life. He’ll fight to incapacitate or disarm.
Samuel will be fighting to kill.
And the dozen trackers standing guard atop the boat’s upper deck will be ready to assist him.
Samuel lets go of my shoulder, grabs my hands, and loops the reins around my wrists so tightly, I can barely feel my fingers. The agony spiking up my right arm is nearly unbearable. I jerk against the strips of leather, trying to loosen them enough to get free, but he’s left me no leverage.
“Get us onto the boat,” he says.
I clamp my jaw against another wave of pain, and tug harder at the reins. I have to free my hands while there’s still time to help Quinn. The donkeys squeal in protest, and the wagon wheels slow.
Samuel pulls a dagger from his boot. “Go ahead and stop the wagon, Rachel. You’ll simply make it easier for my men to aim their arrows.”
Without another word, he grabs the bench, vaults over it, and heads toward the back of the wagon.
Toward Quinn.
Bending my face toward my hands, I yank at the reins with my teeth. The leather tastes like salt and dirt. My teeth ache as I arch my back and pull as hard as I can.
The reins won’t budge.
The wagon shudders, and something big slams into its bed.
Quinn? Samuel? Both? I have no idea. I’m useless sitting here trussed up like a boar about to be cooked over a spit, and the wagon keeps moving closer and closer to the boat. I have to cut the reins before it’s too late.
My fingers, numb and swollen from lack of blood, fumble as I reach for my knife. The wagon shakes again, and someone grunts. My fingertips brush the knife hilt, but I can’t grasp it. Gritting my teeth, I find the hilt again and shove my hands farther into my boot.
This time, I wrap the fingers of my left hand around the hilt and pull. The weapon slides free. I push the hilt firmly between my feet, grip it as tightly as I can with my boots, and start sawing the reins against the blade.
Something crashes behind me. Seconds later, the wagon’s canvas covering rips—a rough tearing sound that turns my blood to ice.
Nothing cuts canvas that swiftly except a sword. The only person in the wagon bed who has a sword is Samuel, which means Quinn hasn’t been able to disarm him, and now Quinn is fighting an opponent of equal skill in a small, contained area with nothing between him and a sword but his wits and his speed.
I saw the reins against the knife as fast as I can. The leather snags the blade and
then slips, and I wince as the steel slices into my skin instead. Blood wells, slicking the leather, and I look toward the sky before the sight can remind me of pressing my hands to Oliver’s neck. Of trying to seal the wound I made in Melkin’s chest.
I don’t have time to be distracted by ghosts. I have a friend to save.
The knife wobbles, and I push my feet together to hold it steady. Someone shouts from the boat, and I hear the steady slap of boots on the dock coming closer and closer to the wagon.
The trackers aboard the boat have sent help for Samuel. If I let another tracker join the fight in the wagon bed, Quinn won’t make it out alive.
My breath heaves in and out as I desperately yank the reins against the blade.
“Break, you stupid piece of leather. Break!” I haul back, and the leather snags again. This time, the knife bites deep. A small tear slowly widens as I pull with all my might. With a snap, one of the reins splits completely. Quickly, I shake my hands, and the rest of the leather loosens around my wrists.
Another crash shakes the wagon as I grab the reins with my good hand and pull myself onto the wagon bench. Ian is rushing down the dock toward us, his face set in grim lines. His sword is already out.
Desperation churns through me. The second he sees Quinn, he’ll know what Samuel has surely already figured out: that the only way Quinn could have survived the fight with Ian four days ago is if he’s wearing armor, and that stabbing him in the chest is useless.
They’ll be trying to cut off his head.
My muscles tighten, and my vision narrows. Ian isn’t going to take anyone else from me. I may be too weak to join the fight, but that doesn’t mean I can’t change the odds. All I have to do is give Samuel and Ian something more important to think about than killing Quinn.
Something like trying to keep me in custody.
Something like trying to save their own lives.
Starting with Ian.
“Run!” I lunge to my feet and slap the reins against the donkeys repeatedly. They squeal and jerk their ears flat against their heads, but another few smacks gets them moving. Fast. The wagon careens down the dock as the donkeys race to get away from the lashes.
Bracing myself against the lip of the wagon, I lock eyes with Ian, drag the reins to the left, and aim the wagon straight for him.
Seconds before the donkeys can crash into Ian, sending him beneath their hooves and the steel-rimmed wheels of the wagon, the animals swerve sharply, throwing me against the bench as I struggle to keep my balance.
Apparently, donkeys prefer not to trample humans. Lucky for Ian. Not so lucky for me.
I clutch the reins in my hands, but I’m no longer in control of the wagon. No one is. The tiny sliver of dock between Ian and the river isn’t big enough to give the donkeys anywhere to go. I have a split second to drag in a breath, and then we plunge over the side of the dock and into the river.
With a tremendous splash, the water swallows us and flings us downriver. I let go of the reins, blink my eyes until I can see in the hazy, dirt-filled water, and push off from the wagon with my feet. Beside me, Heidi lets go of her leg and struggles feebly against the river’s current. She’ll be okay. Ian is about to dive into the water, and I bet most of the other trackers will follow suit. They’ll be looking for me, but if Samuel’s loyalty is any indication, they won’t leave Heidi behind to drown.
I hope they rescue the donkeys, too.
The current pulls at me, but I kick against it and grab the side of the wagon as it sinks slowly toward the riverbed. I wish I’d thought to reach for my knife as we went over the side of the dock, but I didn’t, and the water has surely stolen it by now.
Working my way along the side of the wagon, using my left hand and my feet, I pray Quinn is still alive. Maybe going into the river gave Quinn an opportunity to disarm Samuel in the confusion.
Or maybe it gave Samuel the opportunity to kill Quinn, instead.
My pulse slams against my eardrums, and my lungs feel strained. I can’t hold my breath much longer. Grabbing the jagged tear in the canvas, I pull it open and look inside.
It’s empty.
Someone wraps an arm around my waist from behind and pulls me away from the wagon. I whip my head around, and something hard dissolves inside my chest when I find myself face-to-face with Quinn. His shoulder-length dark hair swirls around his golden face, and his eyes burn into mine. Relief gushes through me, loosening the knot of fear in my chest, and I grab onto him like I never plan to let go.
He nods once as if to tell me he’s found me, and that I’ll be okay, then jerks his head toward the dock, where a small gap of air hovers between the top of the river and the bottom of the wooden planks. My lungs are throbbing now, begging for me to take a breath. I kick my legs, struggling to move forward, but my right arm makes it difficult to swim against the current.
Quinn wraps his fingers around my left wrist and moves through the water with the same effortless grace he uses on land. I kick my feet to help propel us along, but he’s doing most of the work. My lungs ache with the need for air. Just when I’m sure I’m going to have to let the gritty water gush down my throat, we surface beneath the dock.
I gasp for air, and when that doesn’t satisfy my aching lungs, I gasp again. Quinn’s chest is heaving as well. He keeps his fingers around my wrist as boots race down the dock and men jump into the water. Judging from the length of time they swim away from the dock before plunging below the surface, the current has dragged the wagon a good forty-five yards from where we first went in.
Close to the shoreline, the donkeys’ heads bob as they swim for dry land. Someone must have cut them loose. I hope that someone also pulled Heidi to the surface.
“We can’t stay here,” Quinn says quietly, scanning our surroundings. “They’re still searching for you by the wagon. We can use the confusion to swim beneath the dock until we reach shore and then run into the forest.”
Above us, more boots tromp down the dock, but these men don’t jump into the water. I meet Quinn’s eyes and slowly shake my head.
We can’t get away. If we try to escape into the forest at the edge of the dock, the men above will see us, and I’m in no shape to run away. Worse, they’ll see that Quinn survived the fall into the river, and they’ll hunt him down as well. I can tell by his labored breathing that he still hasn’t recovered from the smoke inhalation he suffered in the fires Ian set. He won’t be able to outrun healthy trackers either.
Our only option is to swim to the opposite shore, something that would be difficult to accomplish even if we weren’t also trying to hide from any trackers who remain stationed on the boat’s upper deck. I can barely swim on my own. The weight of the armor and my useless right arm make it impossible to fight the current for more than a few seconds. Quinn would have to pull me, and it’s clear that pulling me once has already taken a huge toll.
We can’t get away. But Quinn can. He can make it to shore undetected. Especially if I provide the distraction. If they think he’s dead, they’ll stop hunting him.
Besides, I have to go to Rowansmark. Quinn will understand. He’ll have to. I can’t turn back now.
“Rachel.” Quinn’s voice is hushed. “We can’t stay here.”
I meet his eyes. “No, you can’t.”
Something like fear flashes across his normally stoic expression, and the grip on my hand becomes almost painfully tight. “I said we. We can’t stay here.”
Splashes and shouting echo across the river. I guess they’ve realized I’m not near the sunken wagon.
“I can’t swim to safety,” I say, and he’s already shaking his head.
“I’ll pull you.”
“You can barely pull yourself.”
“I can do what needs to be done. Trust me. Please.” His voice is still hushed, still barely a whisper above the slap of the river against the pillars that hold the dock in place, but there’s an intensity to it that pulls at me.
I understand that intensity.
That need to fix something because if you don’t, it’s one more failure to shackle you to the darkness you’re trying to outrun. I raise my injured arm and press my hand to his cheek.
“You don’t have to save me, Quinn.”
His eyes are desperate. “Yes, I do.”
I shake my head. “I don’t need to be saved. I’m choosing to stay here. To get on the boat. I’m choosing this, Quinn. I want you to leave me behind.”
“Why?” The harsh emotion in his voice, so rare for him, makes me ache.
“Because James Rowan has the ability to summon an entire army of the beasts. An army. You can go back to Lankenshire and warn Logan, but I still have to go inside, find the stash of weaponized tech, and destroy it because otherwise, we’re never going to be out of danger.”
A donkey brays from the shoreline, and I glance over my shoulder to see trackers swimming toward the animals. More trackers are heading back toward the dock. We have less than a minute before they’ll be close enough to see that Quinn is still alive.
I turn back to Quinn. “Go. I’m not going to lose another person I care about. You’ve saved me several times already. It’s my turn to repay the favor.”
His jaw flexes. “You don’t need to save me.”
“Oh, so now you’re the only one with the right to make sacrifices for your friends? Don’t be insulting.”
“Don’t be stubborn.”
“I don’t think I know how to be anything but stubborn.”
He looks at the approaching trackers, and sinks a little closer to the surface of the water. “I can’t just leave you.”
“You have to. You once told me there was a difference between being a weapon and being a warrior. And you showed me that sometimes doing the right thing costs us almost everything.” My hand lingers on his cheek for another second, and then I drop it and step back, my feet sinking in the rough silt beneath me. “I’m choosing to be a warrior, Quinn. I’m choosing to do the right thing. You of all people know better than to say I shouldn’t do what needs to be done.”
Deliverance Page 11