But then we all heard him.
“Get on the bikes!”
We hurriedly grabbed our packs and did as he asked. And that’s when we saw it. In the distance behind our running companions, a massive dust cloud began to rise.
“What is that?” Killian asked. “A storm?”
I felt the first twinge of glee and greed from the cloud, and panic from our companions. Combined, it was like a sickness in my gut and I knew. “That’s not a storm. Drifters!”
Our trainer had told us of the Drifters, people with no homes, who wandered from village to village along the desert floors. Pillaging. Gleaning. Taking everything they could from those they crossed. Demanding people join them, serve them or be left for dead. Men who had encountered Drifters had lost their weapons, supplies, and clothes, and been left without water, naked in the desert. “There was once an insect that roamed the earth in swarms,” our trainer said, looking to the mountains about us as if he could see them, even though I knew he’d only been taught about them. “They were called locusts. These Drifters, they are like the locusts. Eating everything in sight, leaving you with nothing.”
Tressa got on a bike behind Killian.
I started toward Ronan’s bike but then diverted to Niero’s, and started it up.
“Andriana?” Ronan said, alarm lacing his question.
“Judging from how fast our locusts are closing in,” I said, “we won’t have time to waste, waiting for them to get going.” I slammed my boot down on the kickstart, willing it to turn over. And then kicked down again. It roared to life, and I revved the engine, making sure it would stay that way for a moment.
“Good idea,” Tressa said, stepping off her bike.
“No, Tressa,” Killian said, reaching out to try and grab her wrist. But she dodged him.
“This is something I can do, Killian.” She got on Bellona’s bike and shoved her boot down hard, the engine roaring to life immediately. Regret washed through Killian; I’d watched him teach her how to operate it himself.
Ronan’s face drew together in frustration and fear as he looked behind us. I knew he was seeing what I had glimpsed — fifteen vehicles of some sort, near enough to take shape now, racing toward us terribly fast. “You stay close to us, you hear me? Right behind me, Dri. Right behind me.”
“You too, Tressa,” Killian said, obviously hating every single part of this plan.
I nodded. “C’mon,” I whispered to our companions, now able to make the faces of drivers out among the first vehicles that were closing in behind. Handkerchiefs and masks over faces. I could no longer hear the rush of the river, far below. Only the roar of many motors, growing louder every second. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon.”
They were fifty paces away, coming so fast they seemed intent on running us over or hurtling over the canyon’s edge.
Seeing how we’d prepared, Niero shouted something to Vidar and Bellona as he ran. Sweat dripped down their faces and soaked their shirts. Bellona broke toward Tressa, Vidar for Ronan, and Niero for me. Killian rode alone.
“Go, go, Andriana,” Niero grunted before he was even on the seat.
Fear cascaded through me as I twisted hard on the throttle, rushing after Ronan as I’d promised.
CHAPTER
13
The Drifters drove us along the edge of the canyon at such speeds I feared we’d crash. They shouted and jeered. Shots from guns whistled past us. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Vidar manage to reload his pistol and take aim, heard the crack of the gun, but still, on they came.
Another bullet whistled past our heads.
“They don’t want to kill us. They want the dirt bikes!” Niero shouted.
I blinked rapidly, now directly behind Ronan, trying to watch where he was going, avoiding the obstacles he and Tressa did. The Maker had not brought us this far to die, had he? What purpose would be served if we died now?
“Focus, Andriana!” Niero said, squeezing me tight when we hit another hole and I barely recovered, the bike wavering erratically for a heart-stopping moment.
I shoved back my frustration. Did he think I wasn’t concentrating? Every moment of thought was on nothing but our way out.
“Think not of escape, but of the path,” he yelled in my ear, over the wind, schooling his own tone into something calmer, less given to panic. I felt a wave of peace, centeredness, pass from him to me, so strong I almost let off the throttle. “The Maker shall show us the way.”
I felt him centering in, meditating as we’d been taught, and I began to do the same, the way made easier by his touch. The road became more a series of unified elements, a path that led us forward rather than a barrage of threatening blocks. I refused to look again to the faces at my right, where I’d seen a vehicle — one with massive wheels that spit sand and weed up behind them, effortlessly bouncing over the rises and dips as it drew steadily closer. It almost became silent, as Raniero and I fell deeply in tune, as if we were flying on a slightly altered plane. We focused together on the path, only the path, gaining on Tressa and Ronan ahead of me while silently urging them to focus as we were, to remember the ways of the elders and our trainers and our parents.
I felt as if Raniero were almost growing behind me like a human shield stretching, rounding about me. I thought it was madness. The stress of the moment, the fear.
No fear, Andriana. Peace. Security. Strength. You are —
The crack of a gun went off — so close now that I thought it might be beside me — breaking me out of my concentration, breaking our connection, even as I felt Niero pull me close and then abruptly release me. “Niero!” I cried, letting go of the throttle, not thinking, in order to reach for him. Had he been hit?
The bike abruptly sputtered and died, wobbling, even as I knew I couldn’t hold Niero’s dead weight against me with one arm. Unable to do anything else, I let him fall and slammed on the brakes. Niero hit the ground and rolled five times. I skidded to a stop and dropped the bike on its side, unsheathing my sword as I rose. I ran back to him as three vehicles shuddered to an abrupt stop around me, a good six or seven people piling out of each and jumping to the ground, surrounding us just thirty paces away.
The others chased after the other Ailith. Ronan hadn’t yet looked back and seen that we were stopped. Silently, I thanked the Maker, begging him to see them to safety as the Drifters surrounded us. Even with the other Ailith by my side, I doubted we’d get out of this alive.
I hurried to Niero and reached down with a shaking hand to check for a pulse. But before I found it, he was coughing, waking, trying to focus on me.
“Niero,” I said, half glad he yet lived, half regretting it. For surely people such as these would make us suffer before we died.
“Fo-focus, Andriana,” he said, coughing, sputtering blood from his split lip, gripping my hand as if he knew now that I could read his emotions. “On the Maker, not on them.”
I patted his chest, took a deep breath and rose, waving my sword in a slow, controlled arc above my head, ready for any of them to try and advance farther. They stopped twelve paces away, some of them staring at me in mute fascination as if they wanted to gobble me up, some of them with rank disinterest, as if they couldn’t wait to shove us over the canyon edge and be off with my bike and supplies. I tried to concentrate on the ways of the Maker, to not give in to the swirling, threatening emotion around me.
Viciousness and animalistic. Primal. Their very emotion felt like blood lust.
No, Andriana. Focus. Concentrate on the Way. Of peace. Of promise. Of utter security, no matter how it seems. I closed my eyes a moment and searched my heart, willing it to stop pounding so I could hear, see what the Maker wanted me to do. And how.
A solemn man, barrel-chested and bearded, who emoted a cold distance — almost as empty as a Sheolite — pointed at three of his people, two men and a woman, then gestured toward me. “Take her down. But gently. She’ll be worth a good amount, whole. Do you see those eyes?”
“Not
to mention the body beneath ’em,” laughed one.
I swallowed hard, then took a long, slow breath and placed my feet shoulder-width apart, turning slowly in one direction, then the other. I was careful not to turn fully around, striving to keep all three within my peripheral vision.
One lunged, and I dodged it and brought down my sword swiftly, striking his arm.
He screamed and fell away, and I fought for breath, feeling his pain like a sucker punch. I tried to do what Niero had urged me, but I was finding it nearly impossible —
The other two did not hesitate; one sent a sweeping, low kick at the same time as the other pressed in, striking with his sword again and again. I jumped, avoiding the woman attempting to take out my legs from under me. But then I was a half-breath behind as her companion came at me. He was swift and strong, and I narrowly parried each thrust and swing of his blade.
I knew the woman was about to kick me again, but I could do nothing but concentrate on my assailant with the sword. Not if I wished to hold on to my head. Even though his boss said he wanted me alive, this one seemed to thirst for my blood.
The female assailant’s leg swung against my back leg, buckling it, and as I struggled to regain my balance, the man feinted right then punched me across my left temple. An explosion of pain ignited in my head and my vision swam. I circled around, my sword out, trying to ward off any of the Drifters. But the next blow from the woman took out my legs, and I fell to my knees, my sword tip sticking in the ground. I lost hold of it.
I reached for my daggers, immediately taking one in either hand. But even as I drew them and jumped to my feet, another man punched me in the kidney from behind. I arced, then bent over, gasping for breath against the pain.
“Careful, careful!” shouted the leader. “I told you, don’t harm the merchandise!”
“What would you have us do?” bellowed the man, face in a grimace. “The wench is fairly rum with a blade.”
“Just don’t touch her face again,” allowed the boss. “The Zanzibians like their dollies looking pretty.”
I fought for breath, for the courage to rise again, to reach for my sword, but they’d closed in, Niero and I at the center of their ring. I stumbled over to his limp body, aware that blood was spreading across his shirt, and straddled him, a foot on either side. I crouched, ready for the first to come close. They might take us, in the end. But until they did, I would defend my brother as well as myself.
Two grinning men closed in, arms out.
“Now come on, dolly,” said one, his lips buried in a bushy beard. “This will be better for you if you come along, peaceful-like.”
“Better for you is more like it,” I snapped.
“She’s got fire, this one,” said Bushy to his companions, and the others laughed. But my eyes were on the other one, tall and lean, eyes calm and calculating. He was far more frightening to me, in all his lithe, easy silence.
Holding one blade outright in my left hand to ward off Bushy, I flipped the other upside down in my right, and slashed in an arc toward Tall. He leaned back, and watched as my blade missed his throat by inches, then swiftly grabbed my wrist and twisted, forcing me to drop the blade. I didn’t pause, moving as we’d been trained, over and over again. Unthinking. I shifted my weight and flipped, going with him as he pulled my wrist right and down. And brought my left leg up and against his head.
He was surprised, and the group around us hooted and laughed as he stumbled and went down, with me partially atop him. But the woman was back, then, and she punched me across the cheek. Black spots clouded my vision, and I wavered, even as Bushy grabbed hold of me and brought me against his chest, a wickedly sharp, thin blade against my throat.
My own chest heaved for breath, but I tried to stay very, very still. Already, I could feel the edge of the knife slicing my skin, the warmth of blood trickling down my neck. The tall man rose to his feet, eyes never leaving me.
The bearded leader looked at the woman and Bushy with seething hatred. “I said I wanted her whole.”
“You saw it for yourself, boss. She’s been taught to fight,” she spat back, wiping her upper lip and panting. “I brought her down for you, didn’t I?”
“She’s not hurt in any way the right buyer would complain about,” said a sandy-haired man of about two decades, leering at me in a way that made me drop my eyes.
“Ach. We can take her to the night dollies before auction,” said another, waving a dismissive hand. “They’ll cover her bruises with make-up.”
“Or if she’s of no use to you, boss, you can just give ‘er to me!” shouted a short man from the back of the group.
The rest laughed at him.
“No,” said the tall one, brushing off his pants as he edged closer to me, the first word I’d heard from him. “If anyone gets this dolly, it’s me.” His cool eyes raked over me, from head to toe.
The barrel-chested leader glared at them all, but was already turning away. “Bring her, and if the man lives, him too.” He walked with weary steps to his earth-crosser. Jeep, I thought it read on the side. It had four massive wheels and two seats up front. A bar stretched along the top, and the others had stood in the back, holding on as best they could.
“Let’s take his clothes, boss, and leave him for the buzzards,” called Bushy. “He’s shot, clean through.”
I held my breath, waiting for the leader’s response. He half turned and his eyes shifted between me and Niero, considering us, as if idly evaluating if we were worth more separate or together.
“No, bring them both. The man looks strong. He may live through the night. Maybe his people will pay a ransom. Or we can take him north. To the mines. Bind the girl and bring her.”
The tall man and the woman held my arms as Bushy approached, grinning at me, his teeth surprisingly straight and milky white. He pulled a length of rope from his belt and quickly wound it around my wrists, tightening it until it bit into my skin, knotting it expertly. He leaned close, his fetid breath hot in my ear. “I like a dolly tied up,” he said, then leaned back to look me in the eye. “Maybe I’ll come around to see you tonight.”
“Please do,” I grit out. “I know ways to kill that don’t require my hands or a blade but create exquisite pain.”
He drew back a little, his brown eyes widening in surprise. And then he smiled again. He turned away, tossing his head as if he weren’t threatened. But I’d seen the uneasiness in his eyes. So had the man and the woman, who both laughed under their breath.
I looked around, desperate for any glimpse of Ronan, Vidar, Bellona, Tressa, and Killian, but saw no one. And it appeared that half the Drifters had gone after them. Were they somewhere negotiating their own battle as I was? Had they been captured? Killed? The tall man shoved me forward, surprising me, and I lurched across the sandy soil. Two burly men grabbed hold of Niero, one under each arm, and yet still struggled to drag his bulk beside us to the vehicle.
The tall man picked me up and set me roughly in the back of the vehicle, and the woman got in alongside the boss up front. Grunting, the men tossed Niero roughly in at my feet, then climbed in over him, standing to take hold of the bar as the engine roared to life.
Grimacing at my trembling fingers, I leaned down to check for Niero’s pulse. I drew back in surprise, studying his face. His heartbeat was steady and strong, not the thin, faint beat I’d expected. I went to my knees, intent on pressing down at the center of his bloody wound, hoping I could help staunch the flow. But Bushy savagely kicked aside my arm. “Leave him be!”
Another man, quiet and wary, intervened. He grabbed my arm and pulled me to my feet. “Here,” he said gently. “You’d better hold on wi’ us if you don’t want to take a tumble.”
I’d barely grabbed hold of the bar, between Bushy and this other, kinder man, when the boss put the Jeep in gear and tore off in a tight circle, heading back the way they’d come. It took everything in me to hold on, and several times I bounced off my feet, struggling to avoid coming down on poo
r Niero’s body. Hold on, I thought, willing him to stay alive. Please don’t die on me. I can’t get out of this alone!
As we bounced along, I leaned the back of my legs against Niero’s torso, searching for a sense of what he was feeling. To try and figure out if he was conscious at all.
And in that touch I noted pain. But moreover, a thirst for revenge. He was easier to read, injured as he was. As if the bullet had pierced the barrier between us.
I peered at his face intently, a tiny smile edging my mouth even as I struggled to remain in the Jeep and watch where we were going. I knew it’d be up to me to remember our path if we could somehow escape. But feeling the half-deadened emotions of the men around me all too clearly, I knew it’d be a miracle indeed.
Ten minutes later, we took a road down and into the canyon, and after slowing to make tight turn after tight turn we emerged on the canyon floor far below. High above us, the sun was fading, and I fought the sensation that it was taking my breath with it, leaving us down here in a red-rock grave. On the far side of the canyon, across the river, I spotted two boys about Ignacio’s age with shepherds’ crooks in their hands, watching us arrive at the bottom, approximately thirty feet below them. A small goat danced before them, then disappeared. They went after him as if we’d only been a passing interest.
Thoughts of Ignacio and his grandmother made me eye Niero again. If I could somehow escape and get to Tressa … could she save him in time? Despite his strength, he’d lost a great deal of blood and continued to lose more. The Jeep’s floor ran red with it.
The river was wider than my village, and moving at a fast pace through this part of the canyon, turning white as it leaped over rocks and cascaded down the other side. Perhaps it formed a boundary line between territories, for I knew the Hoodites — settlers among the odd rock formations we had been told were called Hoodoos — were not far from here. Were the shepherd boys Hoodites? I felt a stirring of hope, which I knew was desperate, since they were but boys. But being seen by them made me feel like I wasn’t quite so alone. So abandoned.
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