The Rogue Retrieval

by Dan Koboldt

  If the negotiations went sour, Logan and Kiara and the others would be like fish in a barrel.

  He stashed his mule in a secluded spot and hurried down the incline. Tried not to dislodge any more gravel than necessary. He picked up snippets of the conversation over the comm unit. The demand for money. Kiara’s refusal. Logan and another man shouting. Then they started shooting.

  Damn it.

  He was fifty yards away now, close enough that they’d hear him if he was careless. He checked to be sure his sword was loose in the scabbard. He crouched low as he moved. The moss-­covered stone gave a good, quiet grip. In another minute he was level with the smugglers and running hard.

  The nearest bowman had nocked an arrow; he went to draw. Quinn raised an arm when he ran and made a throwing motion. A fireball streaked from his palm. It expanded as it flew, enveloped the archer as he drew again. God, the gel-­fuel is really something. The man was on fire instantly. He screamed something terrible, took a step, and fell into the canyon.

  Two swordsmen were running for the far end of the canyon. Out of reach. The other bowman was the real threat. He was closer, but on the far side of the canyon. Quinn tried to lob another fireball, but the elemental projector was out of juice. It sputtered just enough to catch his own cloak on fire.

  Perfect. He kept running.

  How far across is that gap? It couldn’t be more than five yards. He probably shouldn’t think about it too long, so he ran and jumped. His boots caught the rim. He tumbled over, hit the ground hard. The bowman started to turn. Why didn’t I draw my sword first? Damn. He tried pulling it loose. The man had an arrow nocked. He turned and drew in a single movement. Quinn fumbled the projector controls but shot a jet of air . . . which is what he wanted. He aimed low. Dirt and pebbles flew up into the archer’s face, blinding him. His arrow flew over Quinn’s shoulder.

  Quinn’s sword rasped out of the scabbard. The bowman clearly heard it, as he tried to bring up his longbow to block a downward slash. But Quinn used the sword like a crossbar instead, and shoved the man as hard as he could. He tumbled over the edge.

  The other two were nearly to the mouth of the canyon. Quinn ran after them. He closed on one of them, the man who’d been doing the negotiations. They must have taken a lot out of him, because he’d slowed to a walk and was huffing like an asthmatic.

  Quinn forced himself to slow. He stilled his breathing and slipped forward, stalking quietly up behind him. Thought he could do it, which is why he wasn’t ready when the man suddenly turned and lashed out with his sword. Quinn backpedaled and scrambled back. He barely kept hold of his own blade.

  “Going to hit a man in the back?” the smuggler snarled. He had no front teeth, and spoke with a kind of hiss. “Only a fool attacks downwind.”

  Quinn scrabbled away across the rocks and regained his feet. The man came at him. Logan’s warning kept flashing through his mind: a twelve-­year-­old with a sword could gut him like a pig in a fair fight.

  This was definitely not a twelve-­year-­old.

  The man jumped forward and slashed at him. Quinn knocked the blow aside, racking his brain for a way to tip the odds in his favor. No magic, no prep, and no plan.

  I’m in trouble.

  At least this one wasn’t as strong as Logan. During all their practice sessions, the man had pounded on him relentlessly. It wasn’t just how good he was, but how devastating the blows felt even when Quinn was able to block them. The smuggler seemed less threatening by comparison.

  Still, Quinn danced back from his next cut; dodging was easier than parrying—­another bit of Logan’s wisdom. Then he attacked, though not as fast as he could. No need to give away the sword’s advantage just yet. The man parried easily. His counterattack nearly took Quinn’s arm off at the shoulder, were it not for the hidden armor.

  His arms were starting to feel leaden. And no matter what, he was definitely outmatched. He had to finish this.

  He made another slow attack. The smuggler blocked it with contempt, and attacked again. He got a piece of Quinn’s side, this time. Hurt like hell, but didn’t cut him.

  Thank God for alusteel.

  Quinn made another attack, the same overhand slash he’d done two times before. The smuggler snickered as he went to block. But Quinn spun it and made a low side-­hand slash instead. Both hands, swinging as hard and fast as he could at the knees. The sword shuddered as his blade cut through sinew and bone. The man cried out and went down, his leg fountaining blood.

  Quinn didn’t linger to see if he died.

  Logan didn’t know what had happened to the archers . . . and he didn’t really care. All that mattered at the moment was escaping this death trap of a canyon. The lieutenant was nearly caught up to him; behind her came Thorisson—­still alive, it seemed—­Chaudri, and then Mendez. Thirty yards to the mouth of the canyon. Twenty yards. He pulled gently back on the reins, slowing the mare to a trot. He wouldn’t put it past the smugglers to have a few men out here, to mop up anyone who made it through.

  He drew his sword, and signaled for the others to do likewise. The hilt felt good in his hands. He wouldn’t mind having the crossbow as well. But it was tough to crank from horseback, making it the wrong weapon now. That was a point he’d have to make to the engineers—­if they got out of this mess alive. At the mouth of the canyon he spurred his horse so that he came out at a good clip. A harsh landscape greeted the end of the canyon: boulders and piles of dead trees that could hide dozens of enemies. He checked back over his shoulder for movement on the cliffs above the canyon’s mouth. Nothing there, but that didn’t mean they were clear.

  And there was still the matter of a man catching on fire with no explanation. It was helpful, surely, but there was no proof it was meant to help them. Wish I knew what that was about.

  Kiara rode out, her saber at the ready. Thorisson was right on her six. For once, the infuriating calm was gone from his face. He looked haggard. Going through that with your hands bound would have been no picnic. Logan nearly felt sorry for him . . . but not quite. Mendez and Chaudri seemed hale, though Mendez was favoring one shoulder.

  Logan brought his mount to a halt, ten yards from the canyon egress. “It almost looks—­”

  A shrill whistle cut him off. Logan spun about, just in time to see five men with hooked spears emerge from the rocks. They wore brown-­and-­gray cloaks over ring mail. The pole weapons had a good reach and were specifically designed so that they could stab or pull a rider from a horse with equal ease.

  Son of a bitch.

  This was the sharp end of the stick—­literally—­and they’d ridden right into it. Two more swordsmen were climbing down behind them, cutting off any kind of retreat. Not that he’d consider riding back into that death trap.

  “Logan, find a weak point,” Kiara ordered.

  Logan made a quick circle, careful to keep out of range of the hooked spears. Every smuggler was armed and armored. None of them even blinked when he came near. They had the scarred, dead-­eyed look of veterans. He rode back to the group.

  “Not sure I see one, Lieutenant,” he said.

  “Suggestions?”

  “We could engage them, but I don’t like the reach of those spears,” Mendez said.

  “Give me a weapon,” Thorisson whispered.

  It reminded Logan that they’d stashed the firearms deep in the saddlebags. Kiara’s orders. Seemed foolish now.

  Kiara looked to Logan. A security question, so it was his call. Another fighter would be useful, he had to admit that. But only if he could be trusted. Which this Swedish bastard could not.

  “Never going to happen,” Logan said.

  The men with hooked spears approached warily. They were twenty yards out, closing the vise around them. No one spoke. The time for negotiations had ended.

  “Let’s use the horses,” Logan said. “Stick together, try
to break through the line somewhere.” Knowing that they’d probably lose a ­couple of ­people, but what choice did they have?

  As he readied himself, though, there came a noise from the cliffs, above and behind them.

  “Watch the cliffs!” Logan hissed. Damn. If the archers showed up, that would be that.

  Quinn drew his hood and stood on the cliffs above the canyon mouth. Rocks and gravel tumbled down the slope, and alerted Logan to his presence. The smugglers had every route covered, and they weren’t screwing around. He maxed out the volume on his voice amplifier.

  “Leave them be!” he shouted.

  The smugglers hesitated, and looked up at him while his voice echoed down the canyon. He had to show them something. But the elemental projector was empty, and the microfan out of juice. He had nothing. The smugglers started to move again, and he knew he’d failed. That Logan and Kiara and Chaudri would die. And I probably will, too.

  The defeat was a weight that pressed on him. Something fought it, though. A part of his core that just wouldn’t give in. It pushed away the despair. Welled up inside of him. His skin tingled all over. It felt alive, it felt wonderful.

  Most of all, it felt powerful.

  Logan stared up at the hooded figure. He held a bloody sword in his hand. That wouldn’t be enough.

  “Last warning,” the man thundered. A tempest of wind buffeted all around him, though he seemed not to feel it. He lifted his sword, blade up. “I have the powerrrrr!”

  Blue lightning shot from the tip in four directions, sizzling and crackling in the air. They all flinched away from it: Kiara, the smugglers, everyone.

  “A magic user,” Mendez whispered. “God help us!”

  “Gods help us,” Chaudri muttered. But she couldn’t stop staring at the man above.

  Logan shook his head. He couldn’t believe it. There was just no way.

  Apparently the smugglers couldn’t believe it, either. The two closest to them shared a look and backed away. The rest took off running. They melted into the rocks and were gone.

  Logan waited until they were well out of earshot before he started laughing.

  Kiara looked at him strangely.

  “Logan, what the hell?” Mendez demanded.

  Logan caught his breath. “Didn’t you ever watch He-­Man as a kid?”

  “Never heard of it,” Mendez said.

  Of course he hadn’t. He’d grown up in Cuba. “Chaudri?” Logan asked.

  Chaudri just stared at him.

  “Lieutenant?”

  She shook her head. “She-­Ra. What’s going on? Do you know him?”

  “We both do,” Logan said. He cupped his hands and shouted, “Bradley, get your ass down here!”

  “Who is this Bradley you speak of?” the voice shouted down. “He certainly sounds handsome.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Chaudri said. “It’s Quinn!”

  “Sorry I’m late,” Bradley said. He had that infectious grin on his face. “Did I miss anything?”

  “I work on my poker face as much as anything. Magicians can’t afford to be surprised.”

  —­ART OF ILLUSION, MAY 17

  CHAPTER 24

  HIDDEN THINGS

  Quinn was surprised at how happy it made him to see them again. Logan, Chaudri. Even Kiara. Logan introduced their companion—­a Latino guy named Mendez—­who had the look of a soldier. Quinn offered him a friendly nod. Thorisson was there, too, with his horse lashed to Kiara’s.

  “Who’s that?” Quinn asked. And how did he get here?

  “Prisoner of war,” Logan said. “Don’t talk to him.”

  Quinn might have said more, but Thorisson caught his eye and gave the tiniest shake of the head. It put him off. He felt like he should say something, but how in the hell would he explain it? They’d probably just hog-­tie him, too.

  “Get down here, Bradley,” Kiara said. “We need to clear the area.”

  He shook his head, trying to clear it. “I have to get my mule. It’s stashed on the other side of the canyon.”

  “Leave it.”

  “Be there in a minute,” Quinn said. He ducked back from the precipice.

  “Bradley!” she called.

  He ignored her. He wasn’t about to leave his mule tied up where it would starve, or be sniffed out by wild dogs. Strange as it was, he cared about it more than a little bit. Spend so much time talking politely to an animal, and you were bound to grow attached.

  He found the mule where he’d stashed it, and rode down through the canyon of death they’d created. He tried not to look at the bodies. It was one thing during the heat of battle, but it was quite another thing now that the fighting was over.

  I killed ­people.

  The fact that it was him or them didn’t matter—­the corpse of the archer he’d burned was still smoldering. He nearly vomited when he ran past it. The rest of the way, he held his breath.

  He rejoined Kiara and Chaudri on the other side. The lieutenant told him that Logan and Mendez were scouting farther down the trail, to make sure that there weren’t any more smugglers.

  “Please stop here,” Quinn told the mule. He patted its flank as he said it; the animal complied.

  “Bradley’s deigned to rejoin us,” Kiara said over the comm unit. She fixed him with a frown.

  Quinn shrugged. It was all he could do not to look at Thorisson.

  “We’re half a click up,” Logan said. Quinn could hear him again; his comm unit must still have some charge left. “Can you ride to meet us?”

  “On our way,” she said. “Bradley, I want a full debrief once we’re out of these mountains.”

  “Oh, I look forward to it,” he said. He had plenty of news, but hadn’t yet decided how much to tell her. He’d figure that out when he got a good night’s sleep. The day’s exertions had taken a toll on him.

  And now I know what Moric goes through, I guess.

  She prodded Thorisson with the crossbow. “Let’s go.” She glanced back at Quinn’s mule. “I hope that thing can keep up.”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  They set out in front; Quinn fell in behind them, beside Chaudri.

  “Sweet Gods, is that a Tioni mule?” she asked.

  “It is. You really do know everything about this place, don’t you?” Quinn patted its neck, feeling a twinge of fondness. Without the sure-­footed beast, he’d probably not have made it this far.

  “I do my best,” Chaudri said. She rushed on. “I’ve read something about them, and I very much hope that you can confirm it. Is it true about the manners?”

  “One hundred percent,” Quinn said.

  “Ha, ha! I knew it.” Chaudri’s grin wide, joyous. She looked like a kid opening a birthday present.

  “So,” Quinn said. “I couldn’t help but notice that you don’t have Holt. What happened?”

  “We met with him in Valteron City,” Chaudri said. “It was . . . well, it was quite an experience.”

  “How was he?” he asked.

  “In a word? Sublime.”

  “I guess he didn’t want to leave his new gig to come home, eh?”

  “He declined the lieutenant’s offer.”

  God, would I have loved to be a fly on the wall for that meeting. Just to hear someone tell Kiara “no.”

  Quinn couldn’t ignore the underlying tension when Chaudri talked about him. Not just with the scholar, but with the lieutenant as well. She sat stiff-­backed on her mount, shoulders almost hunched. It was apparent the failed mission didn’t sit well with her. And Chaudri, well, she was a mix of emotions. Half admiration and maybe half chagrin. Holt sure had a polarizing effect on ­people.

  Logan and Mendez trotted into view, signaling the all clear. The mountains were dropping away behind them; only foothills remained. They must have reached the unoffi
cial end of the smuggler’s pass. That, or the smugglers had decided not to press them further.

  The whole lightning-­sword display might have had something to do with that.

  Felara’s air temperature had dropped another ten degrees since they’d first come through the gateway. The cold forced them to make camp earlier in the already-­short day. Kiara consulted her map a few times, then directed Logan down a faded trail off the smuggler’s road. They found a dilapidated log cabin; it looked to be a hundred years old—­and in Alissia, that meant rough.

  “We’ll camp here,” Kiara announced.

  “Doesn’t look like it’ll offer much shelter,” Quinn said. Even so, he was grateful. He’d been dozing off in the saddle. The sleep was like a gravitational force, pulling his eyes downward. He wouldn’t have lasted much longer.

  “Looks can be deceiving, Mr. Bradley,” Kiara said. “You above all should know that.”

  Logan kicked aside some old planks and pulled away some undergrowth. Beneath lay a pair of cellar doors in near-­perfect condition, and a numeric passcode lock. “This is one of our hidey-­holes,” he said. He ducked inside. Quinn heard a spark, and soon warm lantern light glowed from within.

  Quinn tied his mule to a cleverly disguised hitching post. “Stay here, please. Try not to get eaten.”

  He hurried down the steps to a room below, and was surprised to find it was quite a bit warmer than the Felaran outdoors. The cellar was also larger than Quinn’s apartment back in Vegas. Five oil lanterns hung around the main room, which was twenty by twenty feet. They stashed Thorisson in a lockable storage closet so they wouldn’t have to watch him. Quinn was still unsure whether or not he should mention knowing him. How exactly am I supposed to bring that up?

  Storage bins lined one wall, and Chaudri was already raiding these for food. There were medical supplies as well, so Kiara ordered Logan to sit down so that she could examine his back where the arrow had struck him. Chaudri, too. She’d already patched up Mendez’s shoulder—­he’d wear the arm in a sling for a day or two.