by Indi Martin
A strangled scream startled Morgan out of his appreciation of the view, and his hand flew to his pistol, pulling the tight hammer into its full position and raising it in front of him. The wagon driver ducked past him and rolled under the wagon, whimpering. Morgan’s eyes flew to the reins, which were dangling off of the front of the wagon, and walked past the horse nervously. His nostrils flared as the unmistakable scent of blood hit them, and he heard Mati whinny next to him. “It’s okay,” he whispered, patting him on the neck. “Be quiet.” He heard a cry behind him and spun around to see the third wagon sliding backward, with the man, Sala, struggling behind it to place his block. Morgan cursed under his breath and kept walking forward.
Morgan glanced under the horses and saw Toma creeping forward on the other side of Aleka, before moving forward quickly to the edge of the first wagon. He crouched, and saw the two new men lying on the ground near the horses, who were stamping and crying. Morgan grabbed at Toma and pulled him behind the wagon just as the horses bolted forward, dragging the wagon over the bodies with a sickening crunch. Morgan crouched and brought his pistol up, as two cloaked men toppled from the top of the wagon, dropping bows and drawing daggers while rolling smoothly to their feet.
Morgan fired his flintlock without hesitation, the crack splitting the air and echoing over the mountains. A small black hole opened in the man’s forehead and his eyes rolled up, appearing surprised by the sudden change as he toppled to the ground. Morgan spun, dropping the gun to the ground and drawing his own dagger, leaping across the bodies to tackle the cloaked man slashing at Toma. The impact was hard, and the two men flew through the air before rolling in the dirt, Morgan dropping his own knife in order to hold the man’s hands at bay until Toma could disarm him. “How many more of you are there?” he hissed, slamming the man’s head against the dirt.
The man spat at him and grinned, his mouth bloody. Nikolai rode up, the only one in the caravan still on horseback, and grimly surveyed the scene. “You,” he said, pointing to Toma. “See if you can catch up to the wagon.”
“There might be more,” argued Morgan.
“You’re right,” said Nikolai with a sigh, dismounting. “Here. Take him, catch up to the horses. If there’s trouble, you should be able to outrun them.”
“I’m not a good rider,” stammered Toma.
“I’ll go,” volunteered Morgan, gesturing for Toma to hold the man in place.
“Good, go. As for him,” said Nikolai. “Kill him.” He turned on his heel to walk away.
“What?” spat Morgan. “We can’t just kill him.”
“Go get the wagon, boy,” hissed Nikolai, pushing him toward his horse. “Might load your pistol first.”
“Toma, you can’t just kill him,” pleaded Morgan.
The giant looked miserably down at the man, whose eyes were wide above the makeshift gag Toma had slid in place. “He’d kill us if we didn’t,” he said, and the man shook his head and gargled against the cloth.
“I’m not paying you to make the moral decisions, kid! I’m paying you to keep the caravan safe. Does the caravan look safe to you?” seethed the old man, his face a bright red under his white beard. “Go make sure there aren’t more of them along the road and find the wagon. GIT!”
Morgan picked his flintlock out of the dirt, blowing it off before running through the well-practiced motions. He’d spent an hour each night unloading and reloading the flintlock at camp, even though it had become quickly apparent that the pistol would be good for one shot only in the heat of battle. It just took too long to reload if anyone was still coming at him. He snapped the frizzen down and reholstered the gun, swinging into the horse’s saddle and kicking it into a gallop down the back side of the mountain. Morgan saw debris from the wagon as the horse’s hooves clopped along the trail: splinters of wood, a beam, a strip of tanned leather hanging from a branch. He slowed the horse as the trail took a sharp turn to the right, and he sidled as near as he dared to the edge. The wagon was in pieces at least a hundred feet down, and he could hear the tortured cries of the horses lying broken beneath it. His steed whinnied and took several steps away from the cliff.
“I agree,” he said, urging him back up the hill. At least he hadn’t seen any additional thugs waiting along the road, but he certainly had little good news to offer Nikolai. He wished he knew the names of the two men at the front, and it didn’t escape him that they could easily have been him and Toma. The detective in him argued against the execution, but a disconcerting majority of his mind argued that it was the right decision here. He rode up, and the bodies were cleared off of the trail, including the second cloaked bandit. Toma met his eyes for a moment and nodded, then looked away. Morgan bit the inside of his lip but said nothing.
As expected, Nikolai didn’t take the news well. They struggled for the remainder of the day’s sunlight pulling the remaining eight wagons over the hill. The third wagon had slid halfway down the mountain, taking the others with it. Two more horses were injured in the slide, and the single relocating family in the rear was terrified, but it could have been much, much worse. Everyone was exhausted by the time the caravan was back on trail, one wagon and two men down. The first wagon’s driver sat with the second, drinking heavily out of a flask.
Silence reigned as they passed the site of the lead wagon’s crash, broken only by the fading cries of a single horse on the rocks below. The day’s light was entirely gone now, and Nikolai called for the lanterns to be lit. “Not too much farther now, boys,” he called to Toma and Morgan, who had replaced the dead men at the front of the caravan. “It’ll be a trail to the left.” He rode back down the line and out of sight.
“I hate that it’s so dark,” said Toma nervously, leaning forward on Aleka’s back to peer to the edge of the lantern light.
“He said we’re close,” reassured Morgan, although he too was scanning the foliage carefully for threats. “Watch for the trail.”
“I see it!” Toma sounded overjoyed, but then there was a zipping sound and he let out a whoosh of air and jerked to the side, fighting to stay on top of his horse.
Morgan glanced over and saw an arrow jutting out of the giant’s shoulder, and kicked his horse into a gallop, following the point of the arrow and urging Mati to leap into the thick foliage. There was a cry as a man fell under Mati’s hooves, and Morgan leaned out of the saddle to slice the man’s throat as the horse surged forward, his mind blank as his body moved. Mati skidded to a halt and whinnied at the smell of blood, turning slowly in the thick brambles. Morgan jumped out of the saddle and ran through the vegetation and leapt back out on the trail. Toma was off his horse, standing with his dagger drawn and the arrow still in his shoulder. He roared at the three men advancing on him and batted aside another arrow as it sailed toward him.
Morgan saw the other men running up the line, and Nikolai galloping through them. He ran across the trail and leapt into the bushes, tackling the second archer just as he nocked another arrow. “I’m sorry,” he said, thrusting the dagger into the man’s heart with precision. The man gasped underneath him and fell still.
He leapt to a crouch, adrenaline surging through him as he whirled to rejoin the fight. Two of the three men were already on the ground, unmoving, and Morgan watched as Nikolai rode past the last man standing, his rapier slicing through the man’s neck and making a grinding noise as it slid past his vertebra. He ran to Toma, who stood in a ready stance, wild eyed and breathing heavily. “Toma,” said Morgan, touching the man gingerly on the arm. The giant winced away from the touch and shook his head, looking down at the arrow shaft sticking out of his right shoulder in surprise. He raised his left hand to it, but Morgan pushed it away, reaching down to pick up a loose arrow on the ground. The tip on the loose arrow was viciously barbed. “Don’t pull it out,” he said.
“I can’t just leave it in me,” groaned Toma.
“No, he’s right,” said Nikolai, gesturing for the other men to drag the bodies out of the trail as he rounded
his horse to face them. “We’ll have to cut it out. In camp, by the fire. Let’s get, this is cutting into everyone’s sleep, and I know you don’t want that.”
Morgan glared up at the man and helped Toma remount Aleka, who remained patiently still while he adjusted. He couldn’t deny the truth of it, though - he needed sleep, and so did every exhausted man who rode back to their places along the wagons. They walked the horses and wagons quickly down the side trail, Morgan praying that no wheels got stuck in the uneven, muddy ground. He was alert, his ears stretching to hear any sound that didn’t belong. None found them.
All hands rushed to make camp, with several men running to gather firewood and build up a campfire. Morgan appreciated their speed as he led Toma to a log and helped the giant sit heavily on it. The grizzled old man, Sala, from the back of the caravan sat next to Toma and regaled him with tales of his own arrow wounds, which didn’t seem to help Toma look any more comfortable. Nikolai prodded the fire as the hired men added wood until it was roaring. Morgan and Sala helped Toma strip off his tunic, and the wound streamed blood in the firelight. Nikolai withdrew his dagger and held the blade in the fire above the coals until it sizzled and glowed. “Okay,” he said, drawing a deep breath. “I need several of you to hold him down.”
“I’ll be fine,” replied Toma through gritted teeth.
“No, you look like a kicker. Lie down,” said Nikolai. The chef ran over and tipped a flask against Toma’s lips, and the giant drank greedily from it before lying along the log. Several of the men stepped forward to hold a leg, or an arm, and Morgan stood at Toma’s head. “Thank you, Chef. Now, I mean it, hold him down.” Nikolai withdrew a strip of leather from his belt pouch and placed it between Toma’s teeth.
The blade sizzled as it touched Toma’s skin, slicing and burning along the arrow shaft simultaneously, and Toma strained against his captors, his eyes screwed shut as he screamed through his teeth. Morgan concentrated on holding the man’s head against the log, but the procedure was over quickly and Nikolai pulled the arrowhead out easily. “Don’t move,” he said, leaping up to reheat the blade. Once it was glowing hot again, he returned and pressed the tip of the blade against Toma’s chest, searing the wound. Toma whimpered behind his teeth. “Okay, you can let him up now.”
The men scattered, including Morgan, wanting to give the wounded giant some space. He tottered up to a sitting position and motioned for the flask again, which the chef delivered. “First arrow?” asked Nikolai, amused.
Toma nodded and Nikolai clapped him on the good shoulder. “Well, it’s an honor to be the one to dig it out of you.” He addressed the crowd of people who had gathered to watch. “Show’s over, guys. The sun will be up early, and so will we. Time to draw straws.” He glanced over at Toma and Morgan with a wink. “Just four shifts tonight, guys. Give these two a break. And stay sharp on your watch, but if any more of those assholes come, knife ‘em quietly without waking the rest of us up.” He sighed heavily and rubbed his eyes, walking toward the wagons. “What a day.”
The men grumbled at the added time, but it was largely without rancor. Morgan gathered dinner for the two from the chef with a nod of thanks, and the chef placed a full flask on the edge of the plate. “Good job today,” he said. “Bring that back whenever it’s empty.”
“Thanks,” murmured Morgan, but he didn’t feel good about being praised for murder, no matter how efficiently carried out.
Sleep came quickly that night, and though it wasn’t as long as Morgan would have liked, it was long enough to feel like a luxury compared to the recent night’s interruptions. The next two days’ ride were unpleasant and sore, and though the worst of the mountain trail was over, the rest of it wasn’t exactly a cakewalk. He was thoroughly relieved when the mountains turned into foothills, and then into flat sands, even though the sun baked his skin. The remaining week of the voyage was uneventful, but long, and the days blurred together in the heat sizzling off of the sand. Even with the added danger of being at the front of the pack - illustrated by the two fallen men on the mountain trail - Morgan preferred riding next to Toma instead of having a wagon between them. They filled the days as best as they could with stories, but by the week’s end, they had resorted to telling imaginative tales, handing the narration back and forth and weaving their own heroic epics. The landscape gave them little to comment on, and while Morgan still thought the billowing dunes were lovely, his eyes ached to see a color that wasn’t a shade of brown or yellow. But the desert was before them and behind them, and there was nothing to do but plod forward with his companion by his side and his steed underneath him, scanning the wide flat sands for danger and the horizon for any sign of civilization.
59
Gina slid her feet out of her boots and rubbed her feet gingerly. They’d been walking for a week out of Beersheba, and she didn’t know how many miles they were covering a day, but it was a lot. Blisters had come and gone, followed by blood blisters, and it didn’t seem to matter how much of the soft cloth she tore away from her cloak to wrap around her feet. Each morning was a tribulation, as she coaxed herself to standing and blinked away tears, but this morning felt more painful than usual. Kyrri stirred beside her and inhaled sharply when he saw the condition of her feet; she’d usually forced her feet into their bindings and boots by the time he paid attention.
“Dreamer, you should not walk until your paws heal,” he said, wincing as he inspected them.
“I’ll be alright,” she replied, beginning the process of binding with the strips of cloth. It helped once she got walking, but she bit her lip against the pain of it. “Agni said the trail would get easier once we get through these mountains.” The forest had given way to a steep foot trail that snaked up the side of impossibly tall peaks, and they had been walking the ridgeline for two days. The views were spectacular when the mist rose, which wasn’t often, and she could see the rows of mountains still to come. They were beautiful but depressing - she knew each peak she saw was one she’d have to conquer, and her feet had reminded her of that fact with every step. Long gone were the beautiful flat scrub brush trails from Calephais and the gently rolling hills out of Beersheba.
Agni dropped out of a tree some distance away and sauntered over to them. “Finally awake, I see,” he grinned, but the grin faded as he watched Gina finish with her preparation for one foot, and move to the next. “That’s not healthy.”
“I’m fine,” she snapped.
“Whatever you say,” he shrugged, turning to scatter the coals from the evening’s fire. “We’ll take today a little slower, though. I don’t want you dropping dead halfway to your destination. Bad for my reputation.”
Gina glowered at him and made quick work of her left foot. She tied up her boots and forced herself to stand, wavering slightly. The pain coursing up her legs made her angrier still, and she hobbled over to a log, sitting heavily. Kyrri and Agni were both watching her, Kyrri with drooped whiskers and worry in his eyes, and Agni with a bemused expression.
“I think we should stay at camp for a day,” mewed Kyrri. “Then we could move faster tomorrow.”
Guilt pressed on Gina’s mind and she rested her elbows her her knees. It had been so long since she’d come down those stairs. So long. Dark thoughts slid in, a certainty that wherever Morgan was, he was dead or worse. Shit, she thought. He was probably dead before I even got to Victor’s office. She battled internally with the vision, screaming out that he was smarter than that, stronger. He could take care of himself. She was only here to escort him back to their world, somehow.
And to do that, she had to find him, for which her only lead was some mythical king who most people thought was dead. She bit her lip hard and rubbed her eyes, and the dark thoughts snaking through her mind seemed to laugh at her. Gina opened her eyes to see yellow-green ones peering into her face, and Kyrri’s whiskers tickled at her cheeks. She laughed, and the dark thoughts vanished. She was traveling with a waist-high, talking cat. Anything was possible, including that
Morgan was alive.
Gina reached out and hugged the large feline, to his sputtering surprise. “Thank you for worrying about me, Kyrri. Let me try today, and if it’s still this bad tonight, we’ll take a day’s rest. Okay?”
“Okay, Gina-Dreamer,” he replied, and immediately began washing his face with a paw.
“That’s adorable,” commented Agni sarcastically, and hoisted his backpack into place. “Ready?”
The pain was always worst for the first hour of the morning, but it was especially intense as Gina hobbled out to the main trail and forced her gait to even out into a walk. “Talk to me,” she said through gritted teeth, clutching at the blonde man’s arm.
Agni sighed. “About what?”
“I’ve told you everything. Other than Kyrri, you’re the only person in this entire world who knows that much,” she said, glaring daggers at him. “You haven’t told me anything about you. Tell me your story.” She winced. “It’ll distract me until my feet go numb.”
“Glad to know my life’s story is that important to you,” he replied dryly. “I’ll endeavor to be a fine distraction.”
Kyrri laughed, and Gina glared down the path.
“There’s really not much to me,” he said, sounding mildly apologetic. “But I have plenty of stories to tell, some I was part of and some I was not.”
“Fine,” said Gina. She let go of his arm and took a deep breath, trying to concentrate on the mercenary’s sonorous voice as he regaled them with his tales of battle and political intrigues. He continued to talk until lunch, and Gina was astounded at how little his stories revealed about him. There was almost no real information there, he was always just the hired hand watching or fighting on someone else’s behalf. Her initial suspicions gnawed at her core, a tiny gnat of insecurity that buzzed through her stomach.