Tallas (The Tallas Series Book 1)

by Cathrina Constantine

  “Whatcha waitin’ for?” Mortmiller said, his tone timorous. He also seemed to feel the unease of their unprotected location. “Git on with it—make the call, so we can git outta here. It’s too quiet.”

  “Fabal should be well on his way by now,” Fulvio said. Cramming his hand into his pocket, he removed the cellular. Before punching in the number, he looked at Mortmiller. “We should get superb reception from here. You realize, Mort, as soon as I turn this on, the signal can be picked up by the Mediators?” In the soft light before daybreak, he discerned the inevitable dread registering on his friend’s face.

  “I know,” he answered, somewhat withdrawn. “Let’s git it done.”

  “This never gets any easier, does it, my friend?”

  “Nope.”

  “All we’ve ever wanted was to live in peace.” Fulvio appeared wistful. “You’d think we were asking for the moon.”

  Mortmiller snickered. “You gonna lasso the moon fer us, Fulvio?”

  “Someday, my friend. Someday.”

  Harvesting an open mouthed breath, he made the call. “Come on, pick up. Pick up.” He plastered his ear to the cell, hearing the repetitious ringing. The longer he was connected, the more likely the Mediators would be able to track them. Don’t let the rescue be in vain.

  It rang and rang.

  Finally, a connection.

  “Yes—” He heard through the receiver.

  “It’s tonight. Fabal’s on his way. You remember the location?” He fell silent, listening. “Yes, that’s right. And Doogan?” Another pause. “Doogan’s where?” He sounded louder than he should have. His tone dropped an octave. “You got to get him out of there—now. Hurry. Probably within the hour.” He tried to insert the device into his pocket. “That’s done. Let’s go.”

  “Yepper.” Mortmiller sounded relieved. “We’re easy pickin’s out here.”

  Speedily, they reined their mounts to the east. Hooves hammered the ground as the two men leaned into the wind.

  Almost instantaneously, they heard the whirring of the heliocraft. The reverberation engulfed the riders, disrupting the night.

  “Get to the trees!” Fulvio cried over the racket. They spurred the horses toward the cover of the surrounding woods.

  The heliocraft soared high in the sky, beams of light spearing over the expanse, settling on the two men on horseback. “Stop or we’ll shoot,” a voice ordered through the heliocraft’s loudspeaker.

  “Gingersnap’s decided not ta stop,” Mortmiller hollered.

  The sanctuary of the trees was within a hundred feet when they heard gunfire. Giving Zennith his head, Fulvio shouldered his rifle. Shifting in the saddle, he fired at the craft. Likewise, Mortmiller aimed his gun, shooting spontaneously.

  Zinging bullets clanged on metal, and the heliocraft whooshed laterally, deterring the Mediators. The craft recovered and flew toward the cantering horses. Bullets showered from the sky.

  “Sons-of-bitc―” Mortmiller’s body flung over Gingersnap’s neck, spiraling into the grassy land. And Gingersnap’s hind legs bucked in disapproval.

  Fulvio wrenched back on the bridle, but the muscular horse had no intention of braking. He hazarded a peek over his shoulder. Where the tall grass had been crushed, lay a dark shape, Mortmiller’s sprawled body. A vortex of rage pulsed through him. Something had gone terribly wrong.

  Twenty feet and Fulvio would be ensconced in the woodlands.

  Pursuing horse and rider, the heliocraft landed, blocking his flight. An unhinged horse brayed and reared. And a jockeying Fulvio raised an arm protecting his eyes from a blaring spotlight.

  “Stop or we’ll shoot the horse from under you. And drop the gun.”

  Fulvio patted and smoothed Zennith’s neck, endeavoring to pacify the agitated stallion. He had an impulse to blast the Mediators to smithereens, however, never at the expense of his horse.

  He chucked his rifle to the ground. Squinting into the spotlights, black figures moved toward him, toting firearms.

  “Get down.”

  I know that voice.

  “Go, Zennith. Go.” He slowly dismounted. The horse stepped lively, nuzzling his neck. “Go to Three Rocks. Leave me,” he whispered into the horse’s ear. He smacked Zennith’s flank. Eliciting a whinny, the horse galloped faster than Fulvio thought possible. Gingersnap hauled ass after the fleeing stallion.

  A sudden sonic blast shot in the horse’s direction.

  “No—o—o!” Fulvio cried in horror.

  “Cripes, that thing’s fast,” said one of the men. “I hit it, though.”

  One lone figure sauntered forward, manifesting out of the spotlight into a recognizable face.

  Basta.

  Basta’s face looked uneven in the backlight, his malicious sneer and welted scar doing zilch to improve his ugliness. Fulvio straightened his spine, drawing himself up to his six-foot-four height. The measly Mediator would not coerce him tonight—or ever.

  When Fulvio had to look down at the advancing Basta, he stopped. The squat man must’ve realized intimidation wouldn’t work. As an alternative, he aimed his revolver.

  “Well, well, well.” Basta sounded stilted. “We meet again, old man.”

  Basta’s menacing gaze chased over him. It seemed apparent, he hadn’t recognized him the day the Mediators captured Knox.

  “Men—Let me introduce you to the elusive Fulvio McTullan.”

  Chapter 28

  Sitting with legs folded beneath them, Keeyla and Tanya seemed mesmerized by the simmering fire. It had been over thirty minutes since Tibbles had skulked from the gloomy chamber. A grumble had bubbled in his throat, and his shaggy head tossed from side to side, making them question whether all was well.

  The beast towered over them in a nerve-racking vertical posture. When Keeyla peered up at him, he petted the top of her head with his paw.

  Smelt was making the affair unbearable, with his fervent stamping back and forth. He’d circle the fire and walk to the tunneled chamber, then to the petrified access, constantly wringing his hands.

  Keeyla averted her gaze from the smoldering embers to Smelt. “You’re freakin’ me out with your hands rollin’ ’round like that,” she said, mimicking his tone flawlessly.

  Her comment stopped him in mid-stride. “Real witty, lady.” He jiggled his fingers, and looked like he didn’t know where to put them. Chafing them on his jeans, he then crossed his arms over his chest.

  Tibbles suddenly dashed to the entrance. With hearts racing in panic mode, they ran after him. Standing stock-still, their ears attuned to the familiar, yet, distressing cry of the horses.

  Using his gigantic body as a battering ram, Tibbles smashed into the fossilized timber. Again and again, the bear collided with the petrified roots. Smelt lent his shoulders and back, as well, abetting to fracture an opening.

  A hyperactive Zennith pranced on the plateau and Gingersnap came skittering from the narrow ledge.

  “You’re okay, Zennith. Come here, fella. Everything’s gonna be fine,” Smelt said in an uncharacteristic crooning tone. Gingersnap hoofed to him without reserve. “Good, girl. You’d done good.” He scratched the pony’s neck then strived to still the stallion. “Here, boy, c’mere, Zennith.”

  As the horse dizzily whirled, Keeyla smothered a cry. Fluid smeared Zennith’s hindquarters. Blood. Where’s Fulvio? Her innards quaked, feeling sick.

  Smelt calmed Zennith, skimming his palms over the horse’s neck, withers, reducing the horse’s fears. He cautiously examined his hindquarters. “Just a little scrape, fella. Nothin’ to get our pants in a bunch over.”

  Tibbles thunked his feet from side to side, rocking his wooly body, visibly flustered. And a brassy-toned growl clanged in his throat.

  “What happened to Fulvio and Mortmiller?” Keeyla’s voice quavered. When Smelt turned, she was shocked to see shiny tears in his eyes.

  “It don’t look good.” He plugged his drippy nose with his fingers.

  ***

  I
mbued with paranoia, Fabal, Swan, and Horatio froze like stalactites. Roots twisted and expanded like grappling fingers, twining Swan’s neck and arms, anchoring her to the wall. Her screams reflected the length of the tunnel. Before Horatio had a chance to react, stemming plants seized his left arm.

  Fabal hurriedly backed away from the walls as groping, finger-like roots sought his legs.

  A stem crept toward the sickle. Fabal pounced on the blade and literally had to rip the weapon from the root’s grip. His fingers circled the hilt and hacked at the enigmatic tubers. Utilizing the point of the sickle like a razor blade, he sliced through the coils that fastened Swan to the wall. The roots were shockingly flexible, yet coarse to the touch as he pried at the death seekers, freeing her.

  “Stay in the center, away from the sides and the roof.” He turned to Horatio, who was kinked in a messy tangle. Between Horatio’s brute strength and Fabal’s chopping, they succeeded to liberate the dwarf.

  A crackling noise came from above, it rained dirt and stones upon the trio. Numerous thriving stems burrowed through solid earth like wiggly worms.

  “Grab the torch—” Horatio panted.

  Fabal lunged for his torch.

  “Torch these suckers!”

  Wiggly stems burned and sizzled as they brandished the flames over the roof and walls. Charred roots turned to ash, and just as quickly as they appeared, all seemed quiet.

  “Omigod, omigod—” sobbed Swan. “We could’ve died.”

  “Honey,” Horatio said, “we could die every day.”

  Swan stood like a porcelain sculpture in the middle of the passageway. Arms stiff to her sides and eyes bulging in her face. “I’m scared out of my mind,” she wailed.

  “Me, too.”

  “Me, three,” Horatio said gruffly.

  They gaped at each other, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  It was Fabal who chuckled first. “Horatio, you looked so funny. The way you were trying to yank the roots out of the rock—like that could ever work.” His white teeth winked in his grimy face.

  “Well, looky you.” Horatio swatted at his dirt-ridden shirt. “Big man, so strong and powerful. You cut through rock and roots to save a damsel in distress.”

  “You—” Fabal pointed a finger at the dwarf. “What a tangled web you weave.”

  A belting hoot blasted from Horatio’s mouth. “I can’t believe a snot-nosed kid just saved our lives.”

  Fabal didn’t see it that way, but Horatio’s words filled his heart with newfound esteem for the weird little man. “It was a combined effort.”

  Swan separated her lips to say something, instead, a nervous hiccup squirted out. Humiliated, she slapped a hand over her mouth. Their laughter resonated through the tunnel.

  The torches had been discarded once they were no longer useable. The passageway seemed to be caving in around them. Inclined, Horatio’s broad shoulders scuffed the sides. “I think this is as far as I go,” he said. “Or I won’t be able to turn around.”

  Now illuminated only with the flashlight, their faces appeared ghostly. Fabal swerved, shedding a beam on the dwarf. “What are you going use for light?” he asked.

  “After we dropped the torches, I counted my steps. I’ll pick ’em up on my way back and relight them.” Horatio squirmed an arm past Swan to shake the boy’s hand. “It’s been a pleasure. Fulvio’s grandson is a chip off the old block, so to speak.”

  Fabal showered the beaming light on Horatio. Seeing the man’s earnest smile, his small hand clasped the dwarf’s. “Thanks, Horatio. Be safe.”

  “No, Fabal. It’s you that must play it safe. Remember Fulvio’s instructions?”

  Fabal nodded, and said, “Take Swan with you.”

  Swan gazed up at him, and he noticed a smudge of dirt on the side of her nose.

  “I’m scared, but I don’t want to leave,” she said, sounding meek.

  “You have to.” Fabal peered into her eyes. “You don’t want to get caught in those roots again.”

  “I thought I was supposed to help you dig your way out?”

  “I can do it by myself.” Although acting fearless, he hoped neither of them could see his quivering knees.

  “Then,” Horatio said, “we’ll see each other again soon.” He started to back up. “Come, Swan.”

  “I’ll see you soon, with Knox at your side,” Swan said.

  “Yes, you will.” Fabal tried to sound brave. “Now go, and stick to the center. No stopping for a snack or anything stupid like that?”

  Swan’s brooding eyes stayed with him until she turned and shuffled after Horatio. He shined the flashlight along the tunnel so they could see where they were going, at least for a little while. Her fair hair evaporated into the blackness.

  Soon, Fabal smelled sulfur and knew Horatio had found the torches. He felt better knowing his friends weren’t walking in the dark.

  “Alone,” Fabal said to himself, turning back to the conical passage that now seemed to consist of more earthen soil than rock. Hewed wood had been spaced apart to keep the tunnel from caving in, but it did little to appease him. With the flashlight held in one hand and the sickle in the other, he was able to walk hunched over for twelve feet before he had to maneuver into a more crouched position. “Okay, this is getting difficult,” he said aloud, mainly to regulate his pulsating heart. “I thought Fulvio said this tunnel was finished.” Dropping to his knees, he started to crawl.

  A slurpy noise filled his ears. Too late to turn back, he shined the light above and to the sides. On the left was a huge underground boulder. Someone had chipped away at it, removing large chunked portions until it almost blended with the tunnel wall. He doubted the roots could bore through that and felt rather relieved.

  Tired of crawling, he sank to his stomach and operated his elbows and knees like spades. His exasperated grunts sounded like a mooing cow as he continued to scoop the dirt behind him.

  Feeling totally claustrophobic he inhaled to quash his distress, and drifting under his nose, not the scent of dirt, but fresh air. Had he imagined it?

  It happened again, a microscopic trace of fresh air.

  Fabal felt like a ribbon of toothpaste being squeezed from a tube as he slithered through the hole. When an actual current of air touched his face, he got excited. He was practically home free. Squirming directly up and, to his delight, he could’ve sworn he heard the scratching of tree branches. He wanted to shout for joy. Reaching, stretching, and digging with his fingers and the sickle, he unearthed a gaping hole to the outside.

  Arms first, then his head, and with elbows cocked on the ground for support, he glanced around. Splitting his lips, he pulled in a restorative draught of oxygen, cleansing his lungs of grime.

  Fabal killed the flashlight and jabbed the sickle into the ground. It was undeniably lighter outside than in the black void behind him. He felt like he’d been buried for days, though, the trek had only taken less than an hour. The dawning day had yet to come.

  Lodged half-in and half-out of the hole, he was ready to thrust from the burrow, when suddenly something tugged on his ankles.

  What the heck?

  Fabal kicked his legs. It’s the roots! A spike of terror migrated to the tips of his toes. With each thrashing kick, the winding roots cinched his legs tighter.

  He pushed outward with all his might, grappling for handfuls of grass, anything to keep the roots from pulling him back into the hole. But the roots were stronger. In a tug-of-war battle for his life, and drenched in filth and sweat, his ankles and legs were lassoed like a garroting noose.

  “Aarggh—!”A ragged breath slipped from his chapped lips.

  Unbelievably, his body was being sucked into the hole as if someone was drawing on a straw. He was losing the war.

  Chapter 29

  Doogan rolled Paniess over, pinning her shoulders to the bed. A ghost of subdued light slashed over his face. He appeared unfocused. Breathless, she caressed a hand over his cheek.

  “Doogan, are
you all right?” An icy shiver rattled her bones as he peered at her with disturbed darkening eyes.

  “Keeyla?” His tone muddled and vague.

  “No. It’s Paniess.” She felt his weight diminish.

  Reeling off of her, Doogan flopped an arm over his face. She propped up on her elbow to look at the man lying beside her.

  “I’m sorry. It’s too soon…I can’t―”

  “Shhhh,” she shushed, putting a finger to his lips. “Doogan—” She hesitated. “If you were to find your son, would you come back to live in Tallas?”

  He turned on his side to face her. “Are you insinuating your father’s going to give me a chance to find him?”

  “Not precisely, but I heard something of the matter.”

  “I guess I wouldn’t have a choice with a gun at my back.”

  “No, that’s not what I mean,” she said. “If you—alone, without the Mediators, found Fabal—would you return to Tallas?” Paniess stared at him, trying to evaluate his reaction.

  “I don’t know.” He wiped a hand over his mouth. “I never really thought about it.”

  “Hurry and get dressed. You wanted my help, now you got it.” She spun off the bed, then turned with an afterthought. “Be quiet, Clive might be in the hall.”

  Padding on the balls of her feet to the closet, she pulled at hangers. She’d underestimated Doogan’s shoulder width as he fought with a shirt. “Here try this one.” She tossed him one of Clive’s sleeveless T-shirt.

  “Thank God the sneakers fit. My toes were crushed in the shoes Fontel gave me,” he whispered, tying the shoelaces. “You just happen to have a closet full of extra clothes?”

  “Sometimes the Mediators sleep here.”

  “Being assigned to the Mansion has its perks,” he said, shrugging on the shirt.

  She dragged two large canvas bags from the closet. “Can you grab these? They’re kind of heavy. And try not to make any noise.”

  “You had supplies already prepared?” Smiling, he gripped her chin and kissed her. “Thank you, Paniess.”