by Don McQuinn
Helstar was nowhere to be seen.
Her search was interrupted by Dodoy’s sharp cry.
In the dim light from above, Lanta saw the warman standing by the gate wheel. For a moment, she thought he’d frightened Dodoy away. Then she realized the man held the boy under his arm. The thin, bony figure hung brokenly.
Lanta turned to run. A second warman was waiting for her, sword drawn, teeth bared. Lanta drew herself erect. “Put away that weapon. I am Church. No one dares strike me.”
The sword held true. “No more. The Harvester said.”
The warman carrying Dodoy joined them. He gave the boy a shake. “He won’t give me another scare.”
His partner made a snorting noise. “You’re lucky they came back.”
“It was the only chance I had. They were already out of the gate when I woke up. If I’d called in an alarm, everyone’d know I was asleep. Anyhow, I told you this one’d never leave the other Priestess. Two fingers on one hand, they are.”
“Lucky,” the other said, turning to push Lanta toward the castle.
They stopped at the door leading into the castle. The overhang of a roof created a pocket of pitch darkness. Lanta’s guard fumbled at the door handle. She turned to find Helstar doing something behind Dodoy’s captor. The bearded smith appeared to be casting a spell. He raised his hands over his head, then crossed them at the wrist. He held short sticks in each hand. Flipping both hands forward, he kept the wrists crossed.
The man carrying Dodoy dropped him to raise his hands. Before they reached his throat, blood jetted from a gaping wound under his chin.
Lanta stumbled aside as the warman at the door turned. He had his sword raised in defense even as he spun to face whatever waited for him.
The move saved his life. Helstar’s sword glanced off the warman’s blade with a sparking clash. The warman kicked him in the groin. Helstar doubled over with pain. Stepping inside an overconfident raised sword, he managed a weak hack at the warman’s left arm.
Unfazed, the warman poised his foot again. Helstar crouched, protecting himself, ready to grab.
The move was a feint. Tricked, looking the wrong way, Helstar barely glimpsed the descending sword. Diving forward, he tried to close. The handle of the Kossiar’s weapon struck him across the back of the skull. There was a finality to the sound. Head first, Helstar went down, huddled on the ground without moving.
The warman stood panting, one hand covering a bleeding bicep. The sword remained pointed at Helstar’s back. Lanta prayed the battle madness would fade before the Kossiar gave the blade that one last thrust.
Something sliced the darkness, something that glimmered like a small silver bat. The warman glanced up, only had time to register sick disbelief before shining steel struck him just above the eye. The shock of the blow snapped his head back. He said, “I thought you…” very clearly, then dropped his sword. It landed on Helstar, sliding off onto the paved walk with a quiet clink. The warman, with the metal thing jutting from his head, looked at the fallen weapon as if it were the most important thing in the world. He collapsed and died with the same earnest intensity still on his face.
Dodoy trotted forward to jerk the little chain axe from his victim. Lanta was already running to the boat basin, soaking one of the voluminous sleeves in the cold water. Hurrying back, she bathed the smith’s face and wrists. He recovered consciousness almost immediately. It took a bit longer before he was steady enough to walk. Once ready, he looked to Dodoy. “You do that? With that thing?” He indicated the chain axe with his chin.
Dodoy nodded. Lanta thought he looked a little less pleased with himself than she expected.
Helstar bent to the first warman, picked up the two small clubs. For the first time, Lanta saw the wire connecting the two of them. Helstar saw her expression and hurriedly jammed the weapon in his pocket, mumbling, “Sorry.”
Helstar and Dodoy dragged the bodies to the basin. Working quickly, they loaded the pair in a balancebar, then shoved it down the tunnel to the sea. As they raised the sail, sending the vessel off with its grisly cargo, Helstar tapped Dodoy’s shoulder, pointing. Just off Trader Island, lights were coming on aboard Kossiar boats. They ran back to Lanta.
She led the way into the castle.
Chapter 32
Stormracer’s hooves on the wooden ramp between boat and shore sounded like rolling thunder in the utter stillness of the night. Conway sighed relief when the animal was finally on quiet earth.
Nerves. They accentuated every sound, gave movement to every tree and bush in the crowding forest around him.
He fell in behind Tee and the three men from Borbor’s gang. Saddles squeaked. Hooves shuffled. The regular, damp breathing of the horses weighted the night with a pleasant thickness. It blended with the smooth scent of leather, the tang of bruised plant life, and the acrid bite of salt marsh. Karda was a silent presence. Conway strained to see Mikka, bringing up the rear of the column.
Everything was going well.
Conway’s jaws tightened at the thought of Lanta trying to undermine the antislavery effort. More Church hypocrisy. First the Harvester tried to kill him, and now Lanta was striking at him through his need for Tee.
He couldn’t deny he’d given Lanta cause to be vindictive. It was as much her fault as his, though. He tried to be friendly.
He shook his head. The truth was, he tried to be more than friendly with Lanta. She never cared, not at all, It was too bad he never realized she was only leading him on, teasing him. Didn’t even respect him. A man took only so much, and then he…
It wasn’t as if he’d set out to hurt her. She was the one playing foolish games.
Tee saved his life, gave him purpose.
Lanta was a sham. Pretty—all right, beautiful—but there was nothing there. Distant. That was it. If she’d just talked to him. There must have been something she could have said.
He almost bumped into Tee. They were off the narrow trail through the heavy forest, and she’d dropped back to wait for him.
The godkill was a large expanse of high ground surrounded by extensive marshes, with the bay to the south. Tee stood at the intersection of the trail from the stream bank and a broader wagon track. Long ago, slave miners used the wider, rutted road to haul their discoveries to barges that plied the stream. Years of disuse rendered the road an overgrown swath. Fire, as well as browsing deer and goats, kept it stunted to waist-high scrub.
Tee said, “Borbor’s gang men are scouting to the left, back to where the larger road meets the stream. We’ll wait here for them, then all go ahead to the hiding place.”
“You should have let me do the scouting.” Petulance marred Conway’s objection, and it made him all the more irritable. “With the dogs and Stormracer, I can do the job faster and better.”
“The lightning weapons are our strength. If there’s anyone lying in ambush, I need you for the counterforce.”
It made good sense. Still, Conway rankled. “If you’re so afraid we’ll be trapped, why are we here? I thought we decided there was no danger.”
“You said there was no danger. You don’t trust Lanta. I do.” She paused, then “We have to talk about that. There are things you should know about her.”
The reflective, almost sad quality of her tone intrigued him. When he tried to question her further, she hissed him to silence.
The trio of gang men were moving rapidly when they returned. Nervousness sang in the leader’s whisper like a fine wire in the wind. “The guide’s safe signal’s not in place.”
The safe signal was a simple thing. The old wagon road ended at the remains of a dock. The guide’s instructions were to pretend to fish the streams that meandered through the marshes. If he saw no warmen in the vicinity he left a long sapling stuck in mud next to a piling.
A cold snake of doubt wrapped around Conway’s throat. They had to succeed. Had to. He said, “It probably fell over. We’ll move quickly.”
The leader of Borbor’s men said
, “There was no safe signal. We get out. Wal told us the little Violet Priestess warned this might happen.”
“She’s a liar.” Conway ignored the sharp intake of breath from the men. “You can’t desert now.”
“We agreed to rules, and one of the rules is a safe signal from the guide. You agreed, too.”
Tee said, “You all stay here. I’ll go for the escapers.”
The gang man said, “It’s too dangerous. You feared a trap, or you wouldn’t have brought the White Thunder. Now you’ve got proof of it.”
Conway could barely see the man’s pointing finger, but the accusatory pressure of it was palpable. Reacting, he struck it aside. In an instant, there was a rasp of metal on metal as all three men sought to draw weapons.
The dogs growled heavily. Conway swung the wipe to bear, slipped the safety.
Tee’s hand stayed him. The three gang men each took a step backward.
Conway said, “You men don’t understand. This is more than freeing some slaves. Lanta’s an agent of power. She hates Tee. And me. She wants us to fail because Church suspects the escapers might be Moondance.”
Once more, Tee said, “You three stay here. Conway and I go ahead. If you hear sounds of trouble, get back to the boat, warn the others on the island. Understood?”
The gang men muttered assent.
Mounting the horses, Tee and Conway rode slowly through the scrub. They’d covered about a hundred yards when Conway signaled a halt. The horses remained calm while the dogs scouted ahead, which Conway interpreted as further proof that all was well. When the dogs returned and took up position to resume the march, he flashed a triumphant grin at Tee. He was disappointed when she merely resumed progress.
Another five hundred yards or so brought them to a point where they could see the shanty that covered the godkill mine entrance.
The dogs inspected the area. Off toward the bay, a marsh bird cried continuously. Its call was a high, wavering note that broke, then descended. Conway silently cursed its unnerving lament.
Suddenly the bird squawked alarm and took flight in a welter of splashing and rustling reeds.
The dogs returned. Both seemed confused. They circled, heading back the way they’d come, growling softly. Karda came to Conway, rising on his hind legs, his forepaws on Conway’s thigh. He nudged Conway with his muzzle. Conway rubbed the animal’s neck to soothe him.
Tee leaned to Conway from the opposite side. “Something’s very wrong. Stay here. I’m going to the shaft and call the men out.”
Since he could see her at all times, Conway offered no objection. Putting the dogs in the down position, he locked and loaded both the wipe and boop. He checked his pistol. Lastly, he moved his sword in its scabbard.
Tee set her horse toward the building at a fast walk. It surprised Conway, and then he realized there was little use for great stealth. The dogs indicated no sure presence of strangers; their confusion was disconcerting, but they’d have left no doubt if other humans were present.
Tee galloped back. Her eyes shown white in the darkness. She clutched at his arm. “They didn’t answer. The mine. It smells. Awful. I heard something. Scratching. Squealing. Rats, I think.”
A distant scream wounded the night, freezing Tee and Conway. Shouting followed, alarmed anger, fear. “The boat,” Tee said, “they’re attacking the boat.”
As if proving her point, the ruddy glow of fire smeared the sky. Sparks and brands lifted above the shielding forest between the couple and their lost escape.
A pounding gallop announced the approach of the gang members. Barely allowing time for them to stop, Conway said, “We go east, to the high ground on the other side of the swamp. We’ll steal a boat and get back to the island.”
No one answered. Conway knew it was because no one had any more hope for the prospect than he did. They all assumed Kossiar warships were already cruising off the marshes like sharks, waiting for anything foolish enough to venture into deeper waters.
Nevertheless, the dwindling tumult spoke eloquently of events at the burning boat. It was a matter of very little time before the men who’d fired it came looking for its passengers.
The group raced across the scrub at the mine site. Once on the other side, however, the thick forest began again. Slowing, closing on each other, the five pressed ahead. Conway took the point, with Tee immediately behind. The dogs disappeared forward. Suddenly, however, both dogs were back. They were agitated, crowding close to Stormracer. The horse, ever mindful of his legs, skipped about irritably, ignoring Conway’s soothing pats on his withers.
Huddling close, the others listened as Conway said, “The dogs found someone ahead. We’ve got to cut north, away from the bay.”
The gang leader disagreed. “There’s a town that way, with a warman barracks. We’ll be riding right into their swords.”
Tee said, “The warmen are probably spread out, looking for us. Hunting slaves.”
“They’ll be thick as cornstalks to the north. Whatever’s east of us is just a screen.”
To Conway, Tee said, “He may be right.”
Conway asked her, “What do you know of the marshes? Can we get through?”
Tee said, “Possibly. There’s one place where it’s narrowest. I think I can find it.”
“You can bet the warmen know where it is,” the gang man said. His short laugh had an acid bite. “They’re probably sitting on it.”
“Not much choice,” Conway said. “Which way, Tee?”
“Bear right. We’ll be looking for a ridge paralleling the coast. It’s almost like a wall.”
They’d covered very little distance before they heard the enemy behind them. Shrill whistles called back and forth. Torches flared. Conway cursed the trees that turned the light into erratic flickering. They’d deflect his rounds. Worse, his muzzle blast would signal exactly where he was. The pursuit didn’t need stealth. On the contrary, they relied on the noise to panic the prey fleeing them.
Luck relented for the first time that night, bringing the group to the ridge quickly. Conway noted how abruptly it rose, how nearly uniform its height and width. For a moment he allowed himself to wonder what lay under the earth and trees. Something man-made, he was certain. How foolishly and how wondrously his long-dead people built and destroyed.
The group he was with was about to be destroyed.
Lanta warned them. She begged Tee to stay on the island.
Tee might have. If he hadn’t encouraged her to ignore the warning.
Could Lanta have known the site was an ambush? Would loyalty to Church prevent her revealing that knowledge?
The clarity of his perception dazzled Conway. He felt himself sway, the force of awareness almost a physical blow.
Lanta knew. Unable to expose herself by speaking all the details, but she knew.
Whistling its malevolent death-song, an arrow sped overhead from behind, the music ending in a solid thud against a tree.
Conway called to Tee. “They’re flanking us to our right.”
The five picked up their pace, not willing to gallop headlong and risk running into a tree in the dark. Even so, a shout of pain announced an injury to one of the gang men. There was a scuffling pause, and then they were on their way again. The leader pulled abreast of Conway. “Lorgan’s shoulder’s broke. He won’t be worth much in a fight. We’ll give you the best we’ve got. Good luck.”
There was no time for more talk. Commands erupted directly in front of them. Conway heeled Stormracer ahead. When he reached her, Tee had her sword out, head down, bent forward behind her mount’s head. Conway whistled the dogs close. One-handing the wipe, he urged Stormracer into a run as they broke clear of trees and into pre-marsh scrub growth.
The interlaced saplings and small trees were as much help as hazard. In constant danger of being swept from the saddle, the riders were also partially protected from arrows. Most went harmlessly overhead. One actually struck Conway; slowed by the brush, it bounced harmlessly off his leather j
acket. If he hadn’t seen it, he would have thought it was merely another swat by a branch.
The Kossiar warmen were waiting for them at the edge of the marsh. Salinity eliminated everything but the hardiest of land plants there. All were squat, tough little things that barely came to the fetlocks of the horses, and they stretched for a good fifteen yards.
For the fleeing riders, it was the equivalent of dashing across a lawn.
A warman rose in front of Conway. A blast from the wipe spun him backward into the reeds. In answer to a hail of arrows from both flanks, Conway popped a boop round in each direction. Cries of pain and fright followed the satisfying crump of each round. The dogs bored straight ahead. Following them, Conway glanced back to check on the gang men. There were only two. As he watched, one rose in his saddle, straining upward. The second went over backward off his horse. The panicked animal bucked and kicked wildly.
The reeds closed behind Conway. Ahead, Tee’s mount lunged on. Stormracer drove without urging. The dogs quickly discovered it was easier to follow the horse than struggle along beside him. Arrows continued to plunge down, a vicious, killing rain.
Conway lost track of time and distance. Conserving ammunition, he fired only two more boop rounds behind, blindly attempting to arc them so they’d fall on any pursuit. The effort seemed to work. Despite the splashing, rattling racket of their retreat, he was sure the sounds of pursuit were dying out. Nevertheless, when he turned once to see how the other man in their reduced group fared, his heart sank to find no one behind him.
When they at last broke free of the clinging muck and growth of the marsh, the horses staggered weakly onto meadowland. Conway caught up to Tee, who was literally weaving back and forth in her saddle. Without turning to look back, she asked, “The others? Are they hurt?”
“They didn’t make it. I’m sorry, Tee. Are you all right? You sound strange.”
She ignored him, raising a slow, weary hand to point seaward. “Look at the lights out there. The Chair’s boats. Looking for Wal, hoping he’ll come after us. More headed for Trader Island, probably.” She leaned against him heavily. “I made a mess of it all, didn’t I?”