“The wall.” Sim sprinted on his heels. “Get us to the wall.”
“We won’t make it,” he said, more to himself than to her, but he darted for the inner city’s stone boundary.
More voices added to the clamor, the net tightening. Their two pursuers increased to four, and the yelling ahead swelled to the level of a brawl. Whitt gripped his staff, prepared to fight and praying for luck. The wall stood a distance away, and the best he could manage was to give Sim a chance. “Keep running. Get out if you can.”
“No.” She panted behind him.
He hadn’t expected her to listen, and the time for conversation had ended. Then Shafter stepped into the road in front of them, a staff gripped across his broad chest. Sim howled with excitement, and the two of them flew past the flaxen-haired clansman. Whitt caught the end of a fight in the alley, Ranger littering the dirt with downed men. He spun and joined Shafter to face the four guards, his lungs heaving. Sim dashed on, disappearing between two buildings. Ranger loped to Whitt’s side.
The guards slowed, spreading out. “No killing if we can help it,” Whitt whispered, hoping the reminder didn’t come too late. If Shafter and Ranger heard him, they ignored him and ran to greet the guards. Whitt followed, bellowing a war cry to compensate for arms and legs loose as water. Ranger reduced the opposition by one with a rap to a guard’s arm that sounded an audible crack.
Whitt’s young opponent took the offensive, dancing forward with a dagger. Whitt whipped his stick around for a hit to the head and missed as the guard swayed. He reversed for a lower pass and caught the young man’s shoulder. Undeterred, the guard darted in for a thrust. Whitt deflected with his vambrace and winced as the blade slid off the leather and scored his arm. The man caught Whitt’s wrist and head-butted him, crunching the cartilage in his nose. Pain ruptured his focus, and stars glittered behind his eyes. He snapped the staff up and hit something hard before a hand grabbed the weapon, immobilizing it.
“Time to go, Ellegean.”
Whitt blinked the pain from his face. Shafter’s large paw released the staff, and he booted the guard groaning at his feet.
“This way,” Ranger hissed and disappeared down an alley. Whitt followed, blood streaming from his nose into his mouth and down his chin. Shafter brought up the rear, hounded by the sounds of pursuit. In mere seconds, the guards would find them again.
They reached the wall slightly south of where Sim climbed, her hands and feet on the vines snaking up the stones. She’d grown them, spread and thickened them, woven them into a semblance of a ladder. Ranger tossed his staff over and had clambered halfway up by the time Sim vanished over the top. Whitt started climbing. A force of guards jogged into view. He scrambled faster, hauling himself up, rushing to get out of Shafter’s way, and praying the guards hadn’t brought bows.
“Hurry!” Shafter shouted over commands to surrender.
A bolt chipped the rock at Whitt’s shoulder and another caught in his sleeve. Shafter bellowed below him, bolts in his arm and chest. A sudden pressure jerked Whitt’s boot, another bolt that broke as he rolled over the wall’s peak and fell. The hard ground rose to meet him, and the impact knocked the wind from his lungs. Ranger hauled him to his feet and looked up, expectant.
Sim stood at the wall, palms pressed to the stone. She stared at the long moonlit ridge, waiting for the man who had raised her when she had no one, who had taken her as his own. Shafter’s scarred face never showed, but the guards on the other side shouted orders to climb.
Sim began growing a green ladder from the earth, frantically pulling vines and saplings from the soil to scale the wall, screaming Shafter’s name. The first guard’s head appeared at the top. Ranger darted toward her. He grabbed her arm and hauled her from the wall. The guard jumped down, and Whitt rapped him on the head. Sim stared at the wall, her mouth open and tears burning her cheeks as Ranger shouted in her face, “Run!”
Chapter Fifteen
The rebel camp lay two days’ trek southwest, the third point on a triangle with Tor and Falcyn. Whitt had recovered, somewhat. His ankle ached from his old break, the shallow slice on his arm had scabbed over, and the bolt in his boot had merely punctured his skin. Plum-colored crescents hung below his eyes, and his nose, though still swollen, didn’t throb. No cuts and bruises could compare to the pain of watching Sim grieve.
They’d left the city, run south until their pursuers relented, and then turned west. Neither Sim nor Ranger muttered much beyond a discussion of navigation and the basic requirements of food and shelter. Whitt remained mute, a third leg, unsure of the Farlanders’ territory, traditions, and customs.
In the logical part of his brain, he knew he wasn’t responsible for Shafter’s death, not directly, but he second-guessed himself, bearing a burden of guilt for his inability to protect others… as he had since he was a boy. Shafter’s death belonged to a series of events and choices, most of which were beyond any one individual’s control.
Whitt jumped a trickling creek at the bottom of a steep ravine and hiked up the other side, his eyes on the heels of Sim’s boots. At the top of the ridge, he looked up at the iron tip of an arrow, the longbow behind it taut. Slowly, he raised a hand and moved the arrow aside.
“He is a friend,” Ranger said.
“Then you should not bring him here,” a pale giant replied. “Not good for his health.”
“Do not test me,” Sim snarled, hiking past him.
“Where’s Shafter?” the sentry called after her.
She threw one word over her shoulder, “Dead.”
The modest camp capped the ridge, a narrow plateau with a spring-fed pond and towering pines. Soft needles blanketed the ground beneath lofty branches. Huts formed of saplings and oiled camgras tarps blended into the dappled shadow and sparse underbrush. Whitt counted twelve dwellings, suspecting more hid amongst the trees. Circles of stone marked the deep fire pits where heat rose in liquid waves through drying strips of game.
Sim walked ahead, speaking to no one. She ducked into a hut and pulled down the hide covering the doorway. Ranger rested a hand on Whitt’s shoulder. “She will mourn for three days. If you wish, you may join her on the third day.” He pointed with his staff to an open fire, the only flames visible in the camp. Silver hounds eyed him as they gnawed on charred bones. “We will eat and rest. I will take responsibility for you until a decision is made.”
“What decision?” Whitt asked.
“Whether you are worthy of trust.”
“You know where I stand,” Whitt said, the mere questioning of his principles irking him. “I’ve betrayed my guild, my home, my commander. I’ve sacrificed everything for your cause.”
Ranger studied him through a tangle of ash-white hair. “For my cause or for Sim?”
“For justice.” As much as Whitt liked Sim, she completed only a corner of the puzzle. “I’m tired of seeing people trampled, tired of greed and manipulation. I’m tired of arguing and pleading with queens and influencers who lack the courage to do what’s right.”
“Save your words for the others, Ellegean.” Ranger raised his eyebrows. “We will eat and rest.”
Whitt ate flat bread folded around pieces of crisp, greasy unidentified meat and drank a glimmering tea that soothed his aches and eased his anxiety. The Farlanders and hounds ignored him except for an occasional glance. His eyelids drooping, he noticed two women tending a fire near Sim’s hut and rolling hot rocks through her door with sturdy sticks. When his fatigue threatened to shutter his eyes and level him, Ranger found them a hut. The floor lay well below ground level, a design that prevented heat loss during the long seasons of snow. Whitt abandoned his weapons, armor, and boots and sagged to the woven mats covering the dirt. Ranger handed him a blanket. When he woke in the morning, he didn’t remember closing his eyes.
***
Whitt warmed by a fire and sipped a strong tea brewed with traces of mint. Summertide in the south dawned crisp compared to the northern tier cities, and the f
orest’s canopy held the night’s coolness beneath its bows. He was glad for the layers of Guardian greens. And the time to rest.
The physical toll of battle and stress of their escape across the rough country had lapsed during the night. Other than a tender nose, he felt well enough to spend the morning digging in the rocky, rooty soil where the camp constructed more dwellings. The tall Farlanders toiled around him with wary eyes and answered his questions only if they pertained to his task.
Come midday, Ranger emerged from the woods with a hound loping at his side. He carried a catch of six grosbills, the migratory bird native to the southern waterways. He cleaned them and dropped them in a hide water-pot that hung above a fire pit. “Time to talk.” He beckoned to Whitt and strode toward the pond.
Nearly forty men and women waited in a patch of sunlight. Water-spiders skated across the pond’s sparkling surface, and frogs croaked in the reeds at the far shore. Whitt took a seat on a rock, looked for Sim, and didn’t see her. Ranger stood by the water, arms crossed and feet planted. He relayed the events of the raid on the north camp, Raven’s death, and Sim’s capture. “Shafter decided we should ask Whitt to free her from the inner city. He said Whitt saved her before and could do so again.”
Whitt rubbed his face, avoiding his tender nose. Shafter’s faith in his authority and abilities both honored and pained him. He’d possessed little power beyond breaking her out, an act ending in Shafter’s death.
“Whitt told us to wait by the south gate, but we decided to go in.” Ranger tightened his slanted eyes and sighed. “If we listened, perhaps Shafter would be with us, but Sim and Whitt would be dead. It was a good choice.”
At the water’s edge, a woman whetted her knife on a stone. “Why bring him here? He is Ellegean. An officer. A warrior.” The set of her mouth conveyed her opinion of his guild.
Ranger shrugged, and his gaze fixed on her. “Sim needed to sit with the kari. We would not be safe in Tor. We knew of nowhere else to go.”
“You sound like an Ellegean,” the woman said. “As if the wild land is empty and unworthy, dead and devoid of spirit.”
“No, Bele,” he barked at her. “Sim must grieve with the kari according to our traditions. I wouldn’t deny her. If you would, go tell her so.” He pointed toward the huts.
The woman snapped her mouth shut, and the spots on her neck flushed with fury.
“Bele’s not wrong to question,” a man said, leaning forward where he sat on a moldering log, elbows on his knees.
“We are honor-bound to him,” Ranger said. “He saved Sim’s life.”
“What of his honor?” Bele pointed her knife at Whitt. “How do you know he will keep our secrets?”
“I’m also a fugitive,” Whitt said. “Ellegeance is wrong in this. I wouldn’t have helped, otherwise.”
“They aren’t above torturing you,” Bele sneered.
“A fate any of us may suffer.” An older man walked from the trees to stand beside Ranger. Unlike most Farlander men, he wore his hair cropped and his face was free of ritual scarring. One hand rested on the silver scruff of a large hound, the other on a gnarled staff. Slighter in stature, he reminded Whitt of Wister, his differences marking him as a mage. The man noticed Whitt’s stare and smiled. “I’m Cylas, the chief here, at the moment. I knew Bromel. I know who you are, my Ellegean friend. Tell us, what happens now?”
“My respects.” Whitt dipped his chin. “Sim cannot return to Tor. The high ward’s influencer killed the guards at the prison. He will blame us despite the evidence. It will be our word against his, and in light of the havoc we wreaked, we won’t convince anyone otherwise. It’s possible they weren’t the only men to lose their lives.”
“The Ellegeans will take their vengeance out on all Farlanders,” Bele said, her knife rasping. “We must prepare for war.”
Cylas raised a hand, silencing her. “An inevitable consequence of unfortunate events and poor choices. Only one with eyes blinded to this future would think otherwise. The timing alone is in question.”
“Can you leave?” Whitt asked, scanning the gathered faces. “Travel farther east past Outlyer or west beyond Falcyn. This isn’t worth the lives lost, is it? I know it’s not just or kind, and I’ve no right to ask, but the question might need asking. Why not abandon this land to Ellegeance and be done with us? Move elsewhere and rebuild in peace.” Every Farlander stiffened. The air bristled, and he instantly regretted his words.
“And you, Ellegean?” Cylas asked calmly before anyone erupted. “Will Ellegeans flee their homeland when the Cull Tarr come and declare it's theirs?”
“The Cull Tarr know better.” Whitt frowned, the words childish and pretentious in his own ears.
“I thought not. We are no more cowards than you. No more apt to shriek with fright at the presence of death and run.” The wrinkles around the old man’s eyes pinched in a chuckle. “The Cull Tarr possess the same hungry gleam in their eyes and souls as Ellegeans. They speak of owning and entitlement through the words of their gods while you wave your laws like a blade in front of our noses. Would you defy them their godly rights?”
Whitt’s shoulder’s sagged. “We would fight them.”
“I believe you.” Cylas nodded. “So, I ask again, tell us, what happens now?”
“I return to Tor.” Whitt straightened, his answer forming in his head moments before leaving his lips. “I’ll surrender to my guild, and they’ll return me to Guardian for trial. I’ll speak to my commander and send a final plea to the queen. My actions have raised the stakes. It’s all I can guarantee. Give me until Brightest Night, longer if you can.”
“It’s not up to us,” Bele said. “The Ellegeans will decide the hour.”
“Let me try one more time,” Whitt asked. “Let me make Shafter’s death count for something. Give me one more chance.”
Cylas stretched his back and surveyed the men and women waiting for his decision. “We are a peaceful people and willing to endure sacrifices to that end. We will avoid angering the Ellegeans, but we will not play the coward for long. I give you until Brightest Night.”
***
Sim’s isolation ended on the third day. Whitt waited his turn to join her in the hut, unsure what to expect as clan members, singly or in pairs, stripped off their clothes and entered after rolling hot rocks to the door. The Farlanders were physically larger than Ellegeans with more ropy muscle and solid mass. He couldn’t help feeling scrawny and feeble as he stripped and shepherded his rocks to the door. Sim opened the flap and used a sturdy stick to continue the rocks on their journey. “Come in, Whitt.”
Whitt pulled aside the hide door and left the sunlight for the dark, damp space. The heat was impressive, a wet wall. Three jars of luminescence from the pond glowed dimly, revealing a central gap in the mats covering the floor. A hole in the ground brimmed with hot rocks.
“Sit there.” She pointed to the mat on the other side of the pit.
He sat, cross-legged, mirroring her, trying not to stare at her breasts and the pattern of spots tracking over her shoulders and down her arms and legs. He’d seen naked women before, Cale more than he cared to, but never in this context. She smiled, ladled a scoop of light from a wooden bowl, and dribbled it on the stones. The water sputtered and hissed, releasing a wet cloud of scented steam. The heat washed over him, almost more than he could tolerate, and he breathed it in.
She passed him a cup filled with green liquid, something he’d seen before. “This day,” she said, “We come together to remember the soul of the dead and share a vision of the living light flowing through our veins.”
They raised their cups and drank the mixture, the flavor as fresh, sweet, and strong as he recalled. “Poisoning me again?”
“You will likely survive,” she said, echoing the words from Shafter’s home. She dribbled more scented water on the stones, the steam raising the heat again. “We will drink once this time. The heat will do the rest.”
He inhaled, his skin hot, wet and tin
gling, his head fuzzy and balance teetering. Sim sprinkled more water on the rocks and a dazzling pageantry of light filled the hut’s interior. Whitt slowed his breath, encased in the steaming fog of swirling light. As it dissipated, his gaze returned to Sim. Her skin was luminous, light and color embedded in her flesh, dancing around her and blending into the wet cloud that once again hissed, spat, and enveloped him. “You’re so beautiful.”
Sim waved her hand. The mist curled and rolled with the light streaming from her fingertips. “You said that last time.”
“It’s true.”
“You do it.” She ladled water onto the rocks.
Whitt splayed his glowing fingers and moved them gently through the radiant cloud, his senses honed, his attention enthralled by the beauty of the response. He lost track of time, his body dripping sweat, hands moving with Sim’s or opposite hers or in a completely random dance.
“All we see in the steam is dying,” she said. “Luminescence dies in the heat; when the cloud dims, the kari is dead.”
He frowned, his hands pausing and resuming as she continued without interruption.
“All life dies.” She poured water on the rocks and breathed in the steam. “The dead water enters the land or falls from the sky, and it is reborn with new life. The kari gather up all dead things, the water and soil, the witchwood and antelope, our broken hearts and bodies. It accepts all that dies and brings them home to life in a new form. Nothing is lost.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, his hands no longer flowing through the air.
She sniffled, her trembling fingers keeping up the dance as her tears fell. “I am to blame.” Her hands dropped to her lap, and she met his eyes. “I made the Ellegeans angry, always. I have lived my whole life livid with rage, lashing out with violent words and actions. I called them murdering monsters and dared them to kill me too, to prove me right.” She wiped her eyes with her fists. “If I hadn’t been so blind, I would have seen what I did. I invited death to gamble with everyone I knew and loved. Death accepted my challenge and took Shafter when I thought it would take me.”
Farlanders' Law (The Rose Shield Book 3) Page 12