The Outlaw and the Upstart King

by Rod Duncan

  She charged out on hands and knees, head first, wrenching the canvas free from the rocks that held it down. Her face was soaked in an instant. She ran blind, stumbling across the tussocks and dips, her hair whipping her face in rats’ tails.

  All she could hear over the storm was the squelch of her footfalls and the ragged breath in her own throat. She fell, not knowing what had tripped her, jarred her wrist, then sprang up again, running on, the faint outline of the hills her only guide, black against grey. The ground became firm under her feet then disappeared entirely and she dropped, this time hitting water. Her face went under. But only for a heartbeat. She reached out, felt for the edge of the ditch. The road must lie directly ahead. The lookout would be close.

  The rain doubled, and the wind, stinging one side of her face. The shivering started then: a tremor of the arms that spread until her entire body was shaking. In the tent she’d risked attack. Running in the dark she might have broken a leg. But only now it came to her that stillness and the cold might kill her. She wasn’t numb yet, but her knife hand was starting to go. She’d been gripping too tight. Swapping it to her left, she wedged her right hand under her armpit and held it there. Another bout of shivering took her. But that was good. Her body was making heat. Her fingers started to tingle and burn as the blood returned to them.

  She stood, staring into the blackness where the camp must lie.

  Then the sky turned blue-white and thunder hit her like a blow to the chest. She saw her shadow flicker over the edge of the ditch. She saw the grasses beyond it and in the far distance a line of low hills. Then the light became a darkness more complete than before, seared with an after-image of Jago’s tent in the mid-distance. She had seen no man.

  The echo of the thunder was still rolling around the hills. She stood, but kept her back bent so as not to present a clear picture. There would be more lightning. She needed to find Logan when the next flash came. She’d be safe with him. Firehand wouldn’t risk attacking her in front of a fellow gatherer. Scrambling out of the ditch, she turned to look in the direction of the road.

  This time she saw the fork of the lightning arcing across the sky underneath a lid of cloud. On the road stood a man, barely ten paces distant. The black swallowed him before she could make out who it was. He’d not got Firehand’s shoulders. It must be Logan, she thought, or Saul on guard duty. She splashed through the ditch again and clambered up to the road towards him, shouting. Her words were torn away by the wind and lost in the thunder, which rolled on and on.

  Sweeping her hands before her, she advanced towards the place he’d been standing, shouting, “Here! Hello! I’m over here!”

  The wind lashed her hair across her face. He must have heard her. He would be close now. There was a darker form in the near-black over to her left. She stepped out towards it. Perhaps he hadn’t recognised her. No watchman will announce himself until he’s sure of what he faces.

  The intensity of the rain suddenly dropped. And the wind. Then the lightning flashed again and she saw him. It was Saul, bathed in blue-white, looking straight at her. His eyes wide as hers must have been, trying to pierce the darkness.

  Relief washed through her. “I’m here!” she called again, stepping towards him.

  Her hand found his. He pulled her closer. In the blackness she felt something flat against her neck.

  “Shout and I slit your throat,” he said, his face pressed against her ear.

  “It’s me! It’s Elizabeth!”

  “I know who you are,” he whispered. “You shouldn’t have tried to escape.”

  “I’m not! You heard me call your name!”

  “But no one else did. We’re going to have some fun, you and me. While the Patron’s away.” She felt the knife stroking down her neck. The lightning flickered, fainter now, but enough for her to see his face very close. She knew his intent but was not afraid. She angled her own knife, ready to drive it into him, the blade level with his crotch.

  But as she drew back her hand, a dark shape detached itself from the skyline behind Saul. It lurched towards them. Saul’s grip was off her. She felt him lifted from the ground. Another flash showed him suspended by an arm hooked underneath his neck. The face behind was Firehand’s. Saul swung his knife back towards the giant. The arm that held him flexed. She heard the crackle of breaking bones. Saul’s hand dropped limp. The knife fell.

  Darkness returned. She heard the body drop like a sack of grain. She heard Firehand’s breathing, laboured from exertion.

  “Go back,” he growled, then grabbed her wrist and shook it, forcing her to drop her own knife.

  In the dying flickers of the storm he led her across the ditch and over the rough land to the camp. At the mouth of the tent he stopped.

  “Get dry,” he said. “Be ready. For the Patron.”

  Chapter 23

  Jago’s kicks had been for show. Elias knew that. His insults had been for the ears of his own men. Under starlight, he followed the Patron, like a whipped dog creeping behind its master. Only when they were beyond view of the camp did Jago suffer him to walk alongside.

  Then, from the northern skyline came clouds. The weather changed with frightening speed. As the light fell away, so the wind began to gust, pushing them along the road, as if the coming storm was eager to draw them in.

  “Run,” Jago said.

  Elias didn’t question it, though at any moment he could have gone sprawling. It had grown so dark that even staying on the road was guesswork. The first drops of rain hit, lashing his back.

  Jago had pulled ahead. “How far?” he shouted.

  “Over this hill,” Elias shouted back, stumbling but righting himself.

  Once they saw the lights of the village, they’d be able to find their way. His feet were on soft ground. He’d strayed from the road.

  The weight of rain doubled. He’d lost sight of Jago entirely. Nor could he hear him. The wind was screaming over something close. There were no trees. It had to be the rocks at the crest of the ridge. Turning towards the sound, he found himself pushing into the wind, which had been behind him before. The road was lost entirely.

  The sky turned blue-white, revealing everything beneath. He’d veered away to the right. On the road lay the figure of Jago. Darkness rushed in. Elias cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted.

  A reply came back, thinned by the gale, but angry. “Here!” Jago cried. “Over here!”

  Another flash showed the Patron, lying on his side, holding one of his ankles. Elias knelt next to him.

  “Get my fucking boot off!”

  Elias found the Patron’s arm and followed it to the ankle. If it was a break or a twist, pulling off the boot might do more hurt than good.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Get it off!”

  Gripping the leather, he began to pull. The toes pointed within. Jago roared. Not a cry of pain, but a scream of rage, like a man charging into battle. The boot slid away. Jago rolled onto his back, bringing the knee to his chest. Lightning flickered again and Elias saw blood running from the pale flesh of the foot. The Patron was holding out a hip flask.

  “Douse it!” he shouted.

  The cap squeaked as Elias unscrewed it. He sniffed, checking it was whisky, then felt for the injured foot, knowing what he’d been ordered to do would hurt. Working blind between the lightning flickers, he lifted the leg and trickled spirits over the wound.

  The Patron roared again. “Rub it in deep!”

  “With what?”

  “With your fingers!”

  Elias did, finding a small puncture in the instep. Pouring more of the spirits, he massaged the ragged flesh around the wound. Jago’s calf muscle tensed. The man howled, venting rage.

  Finding the boot, Elias felt along the underside. Something sharp and metal poked from the leather sole. He eased it out and turned it in his hand, feeling the four outward pointing spikes of a caltrop. Designed to maim horses or men, they were common enough: devilish, simple and cheap to
make.

  He found the Patron’s hand and placed the caltrop in it. Then, bringing his head low to the ground, he waited for the next flash. When it came he saw the road around them scattered with spikes.

  “You came this way before?” Jago asked, his voice ominously controlled.

  “Yes, Patron.”

  “There and back?”

  “Yes.”

  It was either luck that he hadn’t trodden on one himself or they’d been scattered in the brief span since he’d last used the road. There weren’t so many to make wounding certain. And yet enough. He’d had a lucky escape.

  The storm had begun to move away. The lightning had faded. The rain slackened as suddenly as it had begun. Jago ripped a strip from his inner shirt, winding it around his foot and ankle. He took back the hip flask. Elias could just make out the Patron dousing the bandage with the last of the whisky. The boot was tighter going on than it had been coming off. There were no more battle cries, though it must have hurt.

  “Can you stand?”

  Jago rolled over then got to his knees. “Fuck you, Elias,” he growled. “I’m not a cripple.”

  He stood.

  It was a slow walk from there. Elias shuffled forwards, Jago leaning heavily on his shoulder with each limping step as they topped the ridge. The downward slope seemed harder on the Patron than the climb. But they could see a few lights in the village and the clouds were clearing. Soon he could make out the ocean and the arms of land that formed the bay.

  Neither of them spoke the question, but they must both have been thinking it: who had sown the road with caltrops? Nor did he dare give voice to the turn in their fortunes. Without Elias, Jago might have remained on the road for hours. No one would have come by until dawn at the earliest. With soaked clothes and a cold wind, he’d probably have died. In the ordinary way of things, a man might be grateful for rescue. But Patrons were not ordinary men. It didn’t always go well for those who’d seen them helpless.

  For the last stretch, they picked their way along the beach. The waters of the bay had stayed calm, despite the storm. Ragged patches of stars marked out the roofs of shacks and boathouses above them. The dark didn’t trouble Elias here. He knew the lie of the land from his childhood and easily found the door, though Jago stumbled on the threshold.

  “It’s up a ladder,” he whispered, placing the Patron’s hand on a rung, not making the mistake of offering help.

  A lamp and tinderbox lay waiting, just as they had on his first visit, earlier in the night. Light revealed the small loft space. A fresh bottle of wine had replaced the empty one. This time there were two cups.

  “What is this place?” Jago asked. He was propped against the wall, easing the boot off his bandaged foot.

  “Just a boathouse.”

  “A boathouse on Calvary land. You were raised near here?”

  “Here. Yes.”

  “He didn’t keep you in the fortress?”

  Elias shook his head. “If I’d been one of the heirs. But I was twelfth in line. He thought it was best I lived outside. To toughen me.”

  “And did it?”

  “No.”

  Jago unwrapped the bandage. Elias watched as he brought the lamp close to the sole of the foot. The wound seemed small: a clot of blood no bigger than the tip of a woman’s finger. But that was the way with caltrops. Many the man left crippled by such a small wound. The Patron was flexing his toes, which meant none of the tendons had been severed. The set of his body spoke of pain, though none showed on his face.

  “Did you want to be Patron?” Jago asked.

  “I never thought of it.”

  Jago sneered. “And now?”

  “It can’t be.”

  “My great-grandfather was a fisherman. And then a mercenary. And now here we are. Change is coming.”

  “I don’t want to be Patron,” Elias said.

  “But you do want revenge. I tell you now – that would be the best revenge of all.”

  “It’s impossible.”

  “You were twelfth in line.”

  “I was cast out. There must be fifty men of the Blood in the Calvary line by now. Even the bastards would inherit before they’d let me back.”

  “Only fifty?” Jago’s teeth showed in the lamplight. It might have been a smile. “You lack ambition. We’re going to kill more than that before this is done.”

  The word “we” snagged in Elias’s mind like a burr in wool. It was a strange turn of events that had left them alone together with the Patron depending on him for knowledge and aid. It felt like a dangerous word.

  He bowed his head. “I’ve no wish to be an oath-holder,” he said.

  “Then you’ve no imagination. How about Elizabeth? You’d like to own her.”

  Elias shook his head. “I’ve no more taste for slavery.”

  “You’re some kind of monk? Only a Patron isn’t owned. Even if you don’t have a mark round your neck, you’re someone’s property. Or do you think you’re different?”

  “No, Patron. I’m sorry if I offended.”

  A dangerous light had been growing in Jago’s eyes. He was a man who might burn down the world to be king of the ashes. And yet it seemed that something was sacred to him: the idea of power itself.

  Jago uncorked the wine. Instead of pouring into a cup, he put the bottle to his lips and tilted it back. Veins were standing in his neck. Elias watched as he swallowed again and again.

  The boathouse door latch clicked below. Jago put down the bottle and drew his knife. The ladder creaked and Fitz’s face emerged above the floor. Elias held his breath as the two men regarded each other. He thought that perhaps Fitz might be holding his pistol, but when he clambered up, the gun was holstered.

  “Is this the one?” Jago asked.

  “I am,” said Fitz. “And you’re the Upstart Patron.”

  Elias tensed, ready to leap up. Fitz’s eyes flicked to Jago’s wounded foot and back to his face.

  But the Patron was smiling. “They don’t call me that to my face,” he said. And then, “You can bring guns from Labrador?”

  “I can,” said Fitz.

  “And horses?”

  “No,” said Fitz. “But something better.”

  “What’s better than horses?”

  “What is it you most desire?”

  Jago didn’t answer.

  “I can give it to you,” Fitz said.

  “Is this a Calvary trap?” Jago asked.

  “Patron Calvary would have me skinned if he knew what I was saying.”

  “And worse,” said Jago.

  “So what is it you desire?”

  “A war. And the weapons to win it.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “You dare say that? Who are you?”

  “I’m no one.”

  Jago frowned. “Then what is it you want for yourself?”

  “In this, I represent the King of Crown Point in the Oregon Territories.”

  “I’ve never heard of him.”

  “Nevertheless, he would have you become his brother king. You on the East, he on the West. And between, a trade route all the way from the Pacific to the Atlantic. Wealth beyond measure. And power. That’s what you’re being offered. Is it not what you want?”

  Jago took another drink from the bottle. Then he held it out to Fitz. “I have gold for you, in exchange for guns. That’s what I want. But it must be secret. A few men only on either side can know. How quick could it be done?”

  Fitz wiped the mouth of the bottle with his sleeve, holding Jago’s gaze all the while. Then he took a long draft. Again Elias tensed. But the Patron’s smile had remained.

  “It’s done already,” said Fitz. “The weapon is ready to be brought across the water.”

  “The weapon? I’ll need many weapons to wage this war.”

  Fitz shook his head. “This will be a war of one act. You’ll take the weapon to the Reckoning. You’ll kill all the other Patrons and all the heirs. You’ll do it
in one instant.”

  “It can’t be. Not at the Reckoning. The powder dogs would find it, whatever it is. They’d sniff it out from a mile away.”

  “The dogs don’t know its smell,” said Fitz. “Elias is the proof of that.”

  They both turned to look at him. From being ignored he was suddenly the focus of their attention.

  “Is it true?” Jago demanded. “Will the dogs not know it? And what manner of gun has he devised?”

  At last Elias found his voice. “It is not a gun. They have made a substance that detonates like black powder. But with many times the strength. It can do all you’ve been told. If you take enough of it to the Reckoning… it will kill them all.”

  Jago closed his eyes, as if in thought. His chest rose and fell as he breathed, long and slow. Elias looked to Fitz, who seemed content to wait. The only sounds were the wash of the sea outside and, once, the rattle of window glass against a gust of wind.

  Then Jago opened his eyes again and offered a hand.

  Fitz leaned forward to take it. “Do we have an agreement?” he asked.

  And the Patron said, “We do.”

  Elizabeth had tried to get warm in the tent. It hadn’t worked. Her clothes were soaked through, her fingers numb. She forced her hands to grip and release, to grip and release, until the muscles started to move more easily. By then she was losing feeling in her toes.

  The rain had stopped and the wind no longer whipped the slack canvas. She crawled out, thinking to run on the spot or do some other exercise. The fire had gone out hours before, and the storm lantern. Fingers shaking she unscrewed the cap from the lamp and poured its oil over the blackened sticks and sodden ash. A flame caught with her first strike of the steel, but the wind snuffed it out before she could shield it with her hands. On the second try it caught and held. The flames spread, catching quickly in the oil-soaked charcoal.

  Logan sat up from where he’d been lying under a sheet of waxed canvas. He’d slept through the storm. And the fight. Blinking in the firelight, he came over to sit next to her. He didn’t ask about her wet clothes. Nor did he ask where the others had gone.

  Firehand still wished to kill her. She had no doubt of that. And yet, obedience to his oath-holder had been the stronger force. As for Saul: he’d kept his true thoughts hidden. She shuddered, from the cold, she thought. The clothes on her body had started to steam. She’d met bad men before, men who’d done unspeakable things. Yet few of them had managed to so completely hide their evil. Somehow that made it worse.