by Arnot, C. S.
Eventually the hills and ridges all dropped away. There, at the bottom of a much wider valley, was the highway. The road to Tbilisi. Aiden shouted aloud and gunned the car down the hill.
He was full of hope. It welled up as he reached the highway. It was possible. He might just get away. He might just make it.
He couldn’t believe he’d slipped away so easily. He’d been tied to a fairly sturdy post in a locked outbuilding, in the midst of a camp full of armed men who knew what he looked like. No wonder Prosper had been complacent. If the guard hadn’t wandered away, Aiden would never have had the chance to run.
A wild thought struck him then. He could try the radio; see if anyone could hear him. Maybe the Iolaire was nearby. Maybe Fredrick would hear him and pick him up. It was a slim chance, but he had to try.
Anything is possible.
Still driving, he reached across to the radio and lifted the headset. It was an open-topped car: Malkasar’s men knew a hand-mic and loudspeaker wouldn’t have cut it. He pulled the headphones on and adjusted the mic. Fiddling with the settings on the receiver and keeping one eye on the road, he managed to set it to a multi-channel broadcast. All the likely frequencies.
“Aircraft Iolaire, come in, over,” he said. “Iolaire, come in, over. Fred, you there?”
He shifted the band slightly. “Iolaire, Fred, come in, over.”
Nothing but static hissed through the headphones.
“Fred, it’s Aiden. If you can hear me, I’m on the highway heading north to Tbilisi. Meet me there, or find me on route.”
Aiden waited for a little while this time, not wanting to miss a reply. He was just about to speak again when a voice cut through the static, loud and high.
It was a woman’s voice. A girl’s voice.
“Jura!” it cried in his ears. “Jura!”
No. He was imagining it. It couldn’t be her. She was dead.
“Jura! Aiden, please!” cried Ileana. “Please, help me! Jura!”
“Ileana, where are you?” Aiden shouted. “Ileana! Tell me where you are!”
A different voice replied. A man’s voice. A voice Aiden knew.
“Bring me your friend, Aiden,” said Elias Prosper, his fury barely concealed even over the radio. “Bring me Fredrick, or I will feed her to the dogs.”
*
The hilly ground gave way to flat fields and patches of forest, here and there dotted with villages and towns. The towns here were rebuilt, though the marks of the war were still hard to hide. The road was smoother.
But Aiden took little notice of the changing landscape around him. His entire attention was on the twists and turns ahead, because around one of them would be Tbilisi.
Eventually, after a time that was hard to judge, the road twisted to the left around the base of a grassy hill, and suddenly there was the city.
Tbilisi sat sprawled in the valley between two rows of tall hills. It was a long city, curling around with the valley until it was out of sight. There, a few klicks across the valley, was the airport. It was on the opposite side of a wide river, too far away for Aiden to recognise any of the aircraft that sat in neat rows on the tarmac. Above the airport several aircraft circled and hovered, guided down by the commands of the traffic control.
Civilisation. Safety.
Aiden took the first right turning he could and followed the road across a bridge. It shortly took him to the gates of the airport, which were open wide. A guard tower stood by the gate, though the guards ignored Aiden. He approached what appeared to be the main building, and ditched the car amongst the other vehicles there.
With the cool breeze stopped, the heat assailed him. It felt like stepping into an oven as he climbed out of the car onto the tarmac.
It was busy inside. Aiden searched every face he passed for Fredrick. He wove his way deeper into the building, across the wide tiled floor, towards a tall glass wall that looked out over the airport. He pressed himself against the glass, searching the many aircraft for the Iolaire.
He couldn’t see it. Most of the aircraft were the same military grey as the Iolaire was, and there were a lot of aircraft. As far as Aiden could see, there were no Skuas. He stood for a while, checking and rechecking every aircraft he could see.
It had to be here. If it wasn’t, Ileana would die.
28.
Plans for Surrender
Teimuraz had got a call from security about a westerner in the airport lobby, shouting and interrogating people about whether they’d seen a blond pilot or a Skua aircraft. Teimuraz had shown the security feed to Fredrick on his desk monitor.
“Yep,” he’d said. “That’s Aiden.” The stubborn bastard had followed them all the way to Georgia.
And now Aiden was in Teimuraz’ office with them all. Fredrick had expected relief; joy, even, at being reunited, but in truth Aiden just seemed distracted. Elsewhere.
His eyes were different. His face was bruised and a little swollen, but it was his eyes that had changed the most. They stared into the distance now, through Fredrick or Solomon or the wall, and when they did move they flitted about, jumping from person to person. His speech was different too; there were long, drawn-out silences between rapid bursts of talking. Something was very wrong.
It had taken a few tries to piece together Aiden’s story in an order that made sense, but now that they had Fredrick could see why his friend was distracted. The guilt that had been heaped on him over the past few days was substantial. In his head he needed to answer for the militiamen killed in Ashtarak and the merchants lost to the bandit raid. The blame wasn’t his, but it didn’t seem like Aiden could see that.
“So this bounty hunter,” said Solomon, “this Prosper fellow, the girl is with him?”
“Yes,” said Aiden, looking out of the window of Teimuraz’ office. It was getting dark outside. “He’ll have her with him for leverage.”
“When did you say the pickup was?” asked Fredrick.
Aiden nodded at the map on Teimuraz’ desk. “Fifteen-hundred, local time,” he said. The time was written by the mark at the village of Didgori. His gaze returned to the flood-lit airport outside.
Teimuraz shifted in his chair, the plush leather squeaking under his bulk. He refilled his glass of chacha. He offered the bottle around, but nobody else had finished theirs. Least of all Aiden, who hadn’t even touched his. Teimuraz stoppered the bottle and meekly sat it back on his desk.
Solomon sat forward then, leaning on his knees. “How many men do you reckon he has with him?”
Aiden frowned. “No idea. There will be bandits. Who knows, maybe there will be marines at the pickup too.”
Solomon’s face was dark, thoughtful. Fredrick wondered how old the man was. Physically, he could have been in his thirties, and in good shape even for that. But there was something about his manner -and his eyes- that suggested he was a lot older. Those eyes had seen a lot. It was hard to say what colour they were, grey maybe. Dark grey.
“Bandits and marines,” said Solomon.
At Kakavaberd and Baku they’d had Tovmas’ militia. Here they had no one to back them up. It didn’t seem likely that Teimuraz would send his airport security people along; it was too risky. Besides, it was hardly his fight.
Without risking more lives, it didn’t seem possible to fight it. To save the merchant’s daughter, they would have to go along quietly. Elias Prosper had trapped them well.
Of course, there was no guarantee that the girl would go free even if they did hand themselves over to the Gilgamesh. They were trusting in the word of a psychopath. Somebody who was not supposed to be trusted. It was like chickens trusting a fox.
“Who’s to say she’s still alive?” asked Fredrick, blatantly. He regretted it as soon as he said it, though he knew he had to ask.
Aiden looked at him slowly. “She was alive when I heard her on the radio. Nobody’s saying she’s still alive, but if we don’t show, then she definitely won’t be.”
He was right. There was only a cha
nce that the girl would live if they met Prosper at the pickup point. Fredrick wasn’t so keen on just handing himself over, though. They would think of something. They had to.
Teimuraz shifted again. He was obviously uncomfortable. “I would lend you some men if I could…” But it really isn’t my problem, Fredrick finished silently. It was true, though. It wasn’t Teimuraz’ problem.
“The way I see it,” said Solomon, “you guys should cut and run. Don’t go to him. I don’t think you should trade yourselves for the life of one person. There’s no guarantee she’s alive anyway, like you say.”
Vika, silent and still until now, spoke up. “And abandon the poor girl? They won’t kill her. Not right away. She’ll be given to the raiders. They will rape her. They’ll keep her with them as a camp whore, or else sell her on to the slave markets in the south. If Aiden and Fredrick don’t show, her life will become a living hell. How can you even think about abandoning her?”
“Vika,” replied Solomon, “this sort of thing happens all the time. Now I know you have had some bad experiences recently-”
Fredrick winced. Now he’d done it.
“Bad experiences?” cried Vika. “Dragged from my home to be sold as a slave to some northern beast? You think I should just have accepted it, like that poor girl should? You don’t know what you are saying!”
God, she was hot when she was angry. Her eyes seemed to glow like green flame. Fredrick would have tried to calm her down, if he didn’t like it so much.
Solomon snorted. “So you think Aiden and Fredrick should just give themselves up to be executed by the Gilgamesh? For a single girl? It is a bad death waiting for them if they are caught. They will be tortured first. Their bodies will be strung up over the docks at Sevastopol and the video of their deaths will be spread over the network for everyone to see. Do you want that for them?”
Vika took a step towards him, but Solomon did not flinch. “No, but we should at least try to save her!”
“And how do you plan to do that? Are you ex-special forces? Do you have snipers? Hostage rescue teams?” Solomon shouted back. Teimuraz cowered in his chair in the middle of it all. Fredrick didn’t know what to say.
“Enough!” commanded Aiden. Everybody turned to him, startled. “We are going,” he said. “We are not leaving her to die.”
Solomon sighed, and threw his hands up in exasperated submission. He sat back down and picked up his glass again, swirling the strange Georgian brandy. Fredrick could imagine his train of thought. He was considering how he didn’t have to be involved. The only reason he needed the pair of flyers was to take him to find the Enkidu. Somebody else could fill that gap, if necessary. For the money he was offering, no doubt a lot of people would volunteer, regardless of the dangers. As far as he was concerned, Aiden and Fredrick could do as they liked.
Fredrick couldn’t blame him.
He himself was having similar thoughts. Even if they did have a plan to save the girl and get away from Prosper, it meant a lot of risk. More risk than he could really justify. Aiden might have been set on saving the girl, but Fredrick wasn’t so certain. He’d never met her. What was it to him if she died?
He felt a bit ashamed of himself at that. He was a Wingwearer. He should act like one.
“Well, tell me your plan,” said Solomon at length. Fredrick was taken aback. The man sounded curious. Eager, even. Maybe he had misjudged him.
Aiden’s gaze turned to the people in the room again. His eyes seemed to sharpen. There was a twitch of a smile, and he looked at Vika.
“Actually,” he said, “Now you mention it, I have just thought of something.”
29.
Didgori
The Iolaire landed a hundred metres or so short of the raiders, near a dusty track across a high meadow. The village of Didgori was a distance back down the road and the track continued on past the raiders, disappearing from sight as it reached the top of the rounded ridge ahead. A few clouds passed low overhead from the west.
Aiden checked the watch Solomon had given him. 14:55.
Fredrick had put the aircraft down at an angle to the raiders, with the cockpit pointing slightly downhill. He spun the engines down and went through the stop procedure, then turned to look at Aiden.
“I suppose it’s time, then,” he said.
Aiden nodded vaguely. His mind was still racing, thinking through every possible angle; every possible way to get out of this. But nothing seemed to work. This was the only way.
They clambered out of the seldom-used front hatch, Aiden first, and dropped down the last metre or so to the long grass. The entire meadow and the hills beyond seemed covered in yellow flowers. The wind was cool and damp. Aiden thought it might rain.
He could see the group of bandits watching them expectantly from around their two big trucks. Prosper was there too, but Aiden couldn’t see Ileana. She could still have been in one of the vehicles.
The pair started walking towards them, not particularly quickly. Aiden checked his watch again. 14:58.
One of the wiry men slung his rifle and went to the nearest truck, dragging a struggling Ileana out. She was still gagged, her wrists and ankles still bound. The bandit dumped her at Prosper’s side. The little silver pistol came out, and Aiden felt his jaw tighten at the sight of it.
“Fredrick!” said Prosper, as they drew closer. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”
Aiden glanced at his friend. He wore a puzzled expression, though he was trying to hide it. He hadn’t experienced Elias Prosper’s manner before.
Behind Prosper stood the bandits, grinning and fidgeting with their weapons. Aiden wondered how much they’d been promised. The price on his and Fredrick’s heads would have been considerable. He couldn’t imagine Prosper actually giving the bandits a penny of it, though. The bastards were being taken for a ride, just as much as Aiden and Fredrick were.
Once he had the pair of them, there was no reason for him to release the girl, either. She’d be given to the bandits to keep them sweet. That much was evident, from their wolfish stares and knowing smirks. Otherwise, they might have been inclined to kick up a costly fuss. It all seemed so clear to Aiden now, as he came before the bounty hunter and his retinue. The girl’s life had probably never been in danger since she was captured. Only her freedom and her innocence were.
And the Iolaire. That would be Prosper’s transport back to Sevastopol. The bandits would insist on a couple of men to go with him. No matter; once they reached the Gilgamesh, a word from Prosper and the marines would put the hillmen down.
He hated the thought of losing the Iolaire. Prosper didn’t deserve it.
Aiden checked his watch again, just short of Prosper and his men. 14:59. His pulse quickened.
Prosper gave an order to three of the bandits, who made forward with their weapons raised to grab the pair.
15:00. Now.
Aiden leapt forward, pinning Ileana to the ground beneath him. He heard Fredrick drop by his side, and the confused shouts of the bandits. There was a cry of terror, as one of them noticed that the Iolaire’s tail gun had turned to face them.
It was hard to say who fired first. The shouts and cries were suddenly drowned out as the air above Aiden filled with sound. It was like a hundred bullwhips all cracking above his head, and the air itself became warm with a mist of blood. He could taste it in his mouth, coppery and hot, as he pressed his face into the grass by Ileana’s head. He felt the dull thuds of bodies falling around him. There was a wash of heat as something ignited in one of the vehicles.
Then the twelve-point-seven stopped. Slowly the sounds of the shredded and dying men filtered through, and Aiden dared to lift his head. He was surrounded by bodies, living and dead, sprawled in the grass. Ileana trembled under him. He rolled off of her.
Fredrick was swearing in Danish. Aiden looked back towards the Iolaire. The ramp was down, and a handful of figures approached across the meadow.
Somebody shot at them, and they responded in ki
nd, firing as they moved. A short yell of pain told Aiden that they had hit their target, and the shooting stopped.
He got up into a crouch. Fredrick and Ileana seemed fine, if a little dazed. That was good. Aiden looked at the bodies in the grass. The men had been ripped to bits by the Iolaire’s gun. Blood and viscera littered the grass. One body twitched lifelessly, the head mostly gone. Prosper was not there.
Aiden lurched around one of the vehicles. It had been pierced right through with the heavy bullets; its steel skin puckered outwards around the exit holes. Elias Prosper was sitting on the ground, propped up against the door. His left arm, from the shoulder down, was gone. A few ragged strips of sleeve and flesh hung lank from the red ruin.
And yet, the right hand raised the little silver pistol towards Aiden.
Aiden reacted without thought, kicking hard. He felt it connect, and the pistol flew from the hand that was only weakly gripping it.
He stood over Prosper, his fists clenched, feeling he should do something. He should kill him. He should club him to death and tear his corpse to pieces. But his fury had left him. The man lying before him was no threat, not any more. He was broken, useless, dying. What would it solve to attack him now?
The man’s piercing blue eyes stared up at Aiden. There was no anger there, no disbelief. Behind them was a great intelligence. An intelligence that was now forced to contemplate its own end. They regarded Aiden without emotion.
“End it, then,” gurgled Prosper.
Aiden hesitated for a moment, and then turned to find the pistol in the grass. He picked it up. It was surprisingly heavy, its top slide inlaid with an intricate, swirling silver pattern. He cocked it, and a round fell out.
Then, without even blinking, he shot Elias Prosper twice in the chest. The body tensed briefly in spasm, and the life went out of the blue eyes. The twin cracks echoed from the hillside, dying amongst the flowers.