by K.M. Weiland
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chris reined up. “Sounds like men in a hurry.”
From the trees on the other side of the flooded gorge, brush cracked.
He, his father, and a platoon of Guardsmen on their way to the front had arrived on the northern shores of Lake Thyra last night. They had spent the night in Ballion Point, then saddled up to ride the remaining twenty miles to the rear command post, where they were supposed to find Tireus.
His father stopped beside him. “An enemy in a hurry is always a bad sign.”
“Unless they’re hurrying in the opposite direction.” He turned to address the Guardsmen. “Let’s stop. I’d like to take a look at the water.”
Technically, these men didn’t answer to him. They were headed to join up with a depleted company at the front and were only with Chris because the Gifted was supposed to be protected. But their sergeant nodded, and the men fell out for a few moments’ rest.
Chris and his father reined off the road and rode through the underbrush to the newborn river the Cherazii had released from their dams the week before. Not-too-distant artillery thudded over the rumble of the water. Except for a haze of smoke against the clouds, the red peaks of the Ballion hills hid all other signs of the battle.
On the far bank, the undergrowth tore open. A short brown figure tripped in the mud and slid down the steep bank.
Chris frowned. “That’s a Riever.”
Worick reached for the rifle balanced across his knees. “Where there’s Rievers, there’s Cherazii. This is their country, and they don’t like trespassers. From the sounds of it, they’re plenty more in those trees.”
Chris pulled his spyglass from his coat pocket. The Riever slid down the bank and disappeared for a moment in a circle of foam. He bounced back into view, dreadlocks spinning like tentacles, and paddled for the far shore.
“It’s Pitch.” He looked up from the spyglass and blinked just to make sure he was seeing straight. “What’s he doing way out here by himself?”
“Who’s Pitch?”
The crashing in the brush reached a crescendo, and a squad of Koraudians burst from the trees, shouting. A round of gunshots slashed the water.
The water swallowed Pitch, and Chris shed his coat.
His father reached for his arm. “What are you doing?”
“He’s a friend. I have to go after him.” Without looking back, he spurred into the water.
Pitch resurfaced near the river’s center. Another shot splashed next to him, and he bobbed like a cork. Chris’s horse lost its footing, flailed for a second, then launched through the water. Chris slid into the river and gripped the saddlebow with one hand.
“Chris!” A wave hit Pitch in the face, and he sputtered. With his every stroke, the water hurled him a little farther downstream. “Chris! I had to find you!”
“Stop talking and swim!”
The Koraudians’ slugs chewed into the water only yards in front of his horse’s nose. He stretched for Pitch’s hand, caught his fingers, and lost them again. Pitch scrunched his face and strained every muscle in his dog paddle.
A dark shape loomed in the corner of Chris’s vision. He jerked around to find his father swimming a few feet behind him.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
Worick pulled himself forward in powerful strokes. The current barely moved him. “Giving them another target!” Two or three feet more, and he would be close enough to reach Pitch.
Chris plunged his hand under the water and reached across his body for the chewser pistol. Presumably, the guns’ hydraulic power system would only be strengthened by the water. He pulled his horse around, perpendicular to the bank, so the animal was treading against the current, and tried to steady his elbow against his saddle.
As Pitch caught hold of Worick’s hand and scrambled up his arm to his shoulders, Chris pulled the trigger. Without looking to see if the shot had managed any damage, he turned to follow his father back to shore. The firing behind him slowed, and the water splashed. He looked back. Two of the Koraudians swam after them. Why would a Riever be worth this kind of pursuit?
With a lurch, his horse caught its footing. Chris let go of the reins and turned around. The Koraudians were halfway across the river. He reloaded, and, with his hands braced one inside the other, he squeezed the trigger. The power system in the cylinder glowed, and the pistol hummed and recoiled. A Koraudian reeled back into the river. The other trod water for a moment, then turned back.
Chris loaded a new slug into the pistol’s breech, holstered it, and turned to his father. “What were you thinking? You could have been shot out there.”
Worick picked up his tunic from where he’d left it on the ground before jumping into the river. His horse had run off. “You’re the one who ought to be turned over my knee for pulling such a reckless stunt.”
Chris stared.
Worick glanced at him, sidelong. “Runs in the blood, eh?”
“Maybe so.” He unbuckled his pistol bandoleer and cast it on the ground. His short-sleeved leather jerkin had sluiced off most of the water, but the quilted gambeson underneath was soaked. He peeled his shirt away from his goose-pimpled skin and looked down to where Pitch sat next to Worick, wringing out his oversized tunic.
“Where’s Orias?” he asked.
Pitch stared at the puddle of water that had run off his shirt. “He’s in trouble.”
“He should have thought of that before he turned traitor.”
“He’s not a traitor. I mean, not like that . . .”
“How many shades of traitor do you think there are? It’s pretty black and white.”
“He didn’t mean to hurt anybody.”
Chris draped his shirt over the horse’s withers and grabbed his jerkin. “He knew exactly what was going to happen.”
“No, he didn’t.”
Worick sat down to empty his boots. “What is all this?”
“Long story,” Chris said.
“Too long to tell? Or is it a state secret?”
“Both, more or less.” He threaded his arms back into his damp jerkin and fastened the front closures. “We need to get back to the Guard and find some dry clothes before we freeze. We can all ride my horse. They can’t be far off.”
“What about Orias?” Pitch’s chattering teeth mangled his words. “Are you going to help him?”
Chris finished re-buckling his bandoleer and stared at the Riever’s wet face. Pitch rolled his lips together and bit down on both of them. His wide eyes stared, unblinking.
Chris shook his head. “If he sets foot in one of our camps or cities, he’s dead. If he goes back to the Cherazii, they’ll probably hack him apart on sight. What’s left for him?”
“He didn’t want to betray anybody.”
“Pitch.” Chris made himself breathe. “In the other world, we have a saying. If you make your bed, you have to sleep in it. He made his bed, and there’s nothing I can do about it, even if I wanted to.” He mounted. “Come on, we need to get out of here.”
Pitch stared at the ground and rubbed his shirt in both hands.
Chris frowned. “Where’s Raz?”
“Back. With the Koraudians.”
“Orias left you with Mactalde?”
“He had to.” Tears glassed Pitch’s eyes. “They might kill Raz now, because I ran away. They might kill Orias when he gets back.”
That made things at least a little clearer. If Mactalde and Rotoss were still holding threats over Orias’s head, at least maybe he had an excuse for what he was doing. Not that it changed anything.
Chris ran a hand over his wet hair. “Why’d you come to me? What do you expect me to be able to do?”
“Find Orias.”
“I can’t. I have to stay with the Guard.” He glanced at his father.
Worick walked over to Pitch and held out a broad, callused hand.
Pitch took it and followed Worick to the horse. “It wouldn’t take long. I know where he’s goi
ng.”
“Put your shirt on.” Chris waited while Pitch pulled the damp tunic back over his head. His father lifted the Riever into Chris’s lap.
Pitch tipped his head back against Chris’s chest and looked up at him. “Why don’t you want to help me? You belong to me. You should want to help me.”
He was right. Why should the Rievers pay for Orias’s treachery? If Chris looked Pitch in the face right now, he’d cave. So he stared right down the center of his horse’s pricked ears.
“I can’t leave now. I promised the king I’d be there for the next battle.”
“What if I helped you?” Pitch craned his head back farther. The strange angle distorted his face even more than usual. “If I helped you, would you help me?”
“And how do you propose to help?” Worick asked.
“I know where there’s a weak spot. Not a big one. Just a little one. But you could use it. Mactalde set up an artillery redoubt on this side of the river before the waters came. It was too far south for the water to wash it away, I guess.”
“This side of the river?” Worick peered up at Chris. “That isn’t the Koraudians’ weakness. It’s ours.”
Pitch folded his arms over his chest and chattered his teeth. “It could be his weakness if you took it. It’s closer to Mactalde’s lines than any of your artillery. You could probably knock down a lot of his cannons before the Koraudians could move them. Plus, I know Mactalde was going to go there today himself.” He stared up at Chris. “That helps you, doesn’t it?”
“I don’t know.” Making tactical decisions wasn’t his job. But if Mactalde was there . . . If this could possibly be Chris’s chance to finish him, then didn’t he have to take it?
_________
Pitch’s directions led them straight to the camouflaged cannon. The Guardsmen made short, silent work of the half dozen Koraudian bombardiers stranded on the southern side of the river, then gestured Chris forward to the embankment, where he could glass the far shore.
At his elbow, Pitch whispered, “I was right, wasn’t I?”
He spared a nod. “You were right.”
Koraudian soldiers milled just inside the tree line. The sound of hammers and chains carried above the artillery fire from farther upriver.
“They’re dismantling the artillery on their side,” explained the lead Guardsman, a prematurely gray veteran named Mikkel. “That’s so we can’t destroy them with this cannon here. They’ll probably send a team swimming across to spike this one as soon as it’s dark.”
Chris scanned the bank. “What about officers? See anyone who could be Mactalde?” He stopped his glass on a leather-clad Koraudian. The man’s spyglass glinted right back at him. His skin chilled. “That’s him. And he’s seen us.”
The figure on the far shore lifted a hand, and a cannon’s maw wheeled around to face them. The glow of a fireball lurched from its barrel. With a sound like a sudden inhalation, it ripped overhead.
Chris smashed his face into the ground, hands over his head.
The shell exploded behind them, and the acrid scent of padar scorched the air.
Beside him, Mikkel spat sand. “Och. Of all the worst timing.”
Another fireball screamed over them, and the impact shuddered up through Chris’s body. Sweat burned away the chill of his wet clothes. If they didn’t get out of here now, they were all dead.
On the other hand, for the first time since he’d come to Lael, he had a clear shot at his single greatest objective. If he could stay alive long enough to pull off one shot, he could possibly end this all right now.
A tugging on his pant leg made him look back down the length of his body. Pitch shouted at him, his mouth forming soundless words through the ringing in Chris’s ears. Mikkel crawled back through the brush and waved the rest of the Guardsmen toward the road. Worick crouched a few yards off and gestured frantically.
If Chris stayed here any longer, he might well be a dead man. But if he didn’t take this chance, who knew if he’d get another. He pulled the Glock from his bandoleer. It was wet from his swim, but it would still fire. The distance across the river had to be at least a hundred yards. It was a long shot for a pistol, but there was no time to go back for a rifle, even if his horse was still alive and in the vicinity.
“Talan!” He felt more than heard his father’s roar.
He pushed to one knee to get a clear shot above the bush. Mactalde still had his glass on him. Chris’s pistol came up in both hands and he aimed without even thinking. Mactalde turned and signaled the bombardiers behind him with a closed fist. Orias’s shot went wide.
A shell, already in the air, smashed into the middle of the river, and water cascaded over Chris. His heart cramped against his lungs, and then the sudden stillness chased electricity through his muscles.
Behind him, a Guardsman breathed out. “What are they doing?”
Mactalde disappeared into the trees, and a moment later, a cough of smoke trailed into the sky and exploded into a golden hailstorm of sparks.
“A truce.” Pitch ran up beside Chris. “They want a truce.”
Chris made himself breathe, then checked his father. “You all right?” When he got a grim nod, he looked at Mikkel. “Do you have any way to respond?”
Mikkel produced a fist-sized shell from a waist pouch. Using a small mortar tube, he and one of his men launched an answering firework.
And now what was supposed to happen? Chris stood. His pistol weighted his hand, and he rubbed his thumb against the ridged slide.
Across the river, Mactalde reemerged from the trees with a sword belt held above his head. He made a point of laying it aside.
Mikkel touched Chris’s arm. “Your pardon, sir, but I hold the highest military rank here, so I’m the one who needs to respond.”
Chris stepped back.
“I wish to speak to the Gifted!” Mactalde’s voice carried across the river, amplified by a gleaming copper megaphone.
Mikkel hesitated, then motioned Chris forward. Pitch took a convulsive step after him, but Worick pulled him back.
Overhead, lightning tore thunder from the clouds. Rain shredded the artillery smoke.
Chris sheathed his pistol in his bandoleer, but didn’t take it off. He slogged through the thick brush onto the rocky bank.
Head bare to the storm, Mactalde saluted Chris with his hand to his eyes. “Master Redston, I greet you. I’ve been hoping we might meet.” The horn turned his voice tinny. “My apologies for the bombardment, but I suppose you understand, under the circumstances.”
Chris only nodded. He didn’t have a sound-amplifying horn, and he wasn’t about to shout niceties across a river at a man he had just tried to kill.
Mactalde stepped forward. “Who would have thought so much could happen in the time since we last saw each other? This old world spins a little faster every day, doesn’t it?”
“It may spin off its axis, thanks to you.” The words tumbled off his dry tongue, probably not loud enough for Mactalde to hear. He took a breath and shouted, “What do you want?”
“I want us to stand united, Mr. Redston. I want us to end this war. You and me. We’re the only ones who can do it.”
“You’re telling me you’re striving for a legacy of peace?”
“As soon as we’ve achieved our purpose, you and I can stand as united rulers—the only two Gifted to ever live as contemporaries. I’ve offered you this once before. I hope you’ve gained a better perspective since last I saw you.”
Chris shook his head. “What you want is impossible, and you know it. You’re no Gifted.”
“Haven’t I crossed the worlds just as surely as you have?”
“You couldn’t have done it without me, or without Harrison. You’re deliberately twisting the truth to gain yourself a following. One day they’re going to wake up from their delusions and realize their leader traded his sanity for power!”
“And what about you?” His voice deepened, not quite angry, but maybe a little pe
eved. “One day, are you going to wake up and realize what a fool the king and the Searcher have made of you? You—a natural-born Gifted.” He almost sounded envious. Perhaps he knew, after all, that he could never be what Chris was.
“And yet,” he said, “you willingly bow your head to the yoke of those who deny your right of power.” His voice twisted. “You’re a leader among men, Chris Redston. You’re a Gifted. It is you who should lead Lael’s army against me. It is you who should sit on the thrones of Glen Arden and Réon Couteau. So tell me, why do you dance as lackey for that shortsighted tyrant Tireus?”
Chris breathed out. He couldn’t say he totally disagreed with that. Tireus had his good points, but he had never exactly embraced Chris or his willingness to help.
“Here’s something you should know,” Mactalde said. “Something Tireus should know. When the day comes when Lael wishes to bring peace back to her lands, it will only be at the hand of a Gifted that I accept her surrender. Never at the hand of Tireus. You remember that. It is you, not Tireus, whom I recognize as the only true authority in Lael.”
Mikkel shot Chris a discreet glance, startled.
Chris gritted his teeth. “That’s not how it works.”
Mactalde’s laugh mingled with the burble of the river. “I’m afraid it is. So you just remember that when I start to crack Lael like a nut, it’s you who has the power to end it. Not Tireus.”
Across the underside of the clouds, lightning flashed a sickly yellow. A clap of thunder blasted from the clouds to the earth and continued rumbling.
Chris held himself steady. “All right, you’ve told me your say. Now you can hear mine. The only peace that’s ever going to happen between you and me is when one of us is dead.”
Mactalde spread his free arm. “You forget I’ve already died. And you’re no killer.” What might have been a shade of uncertainty raised his voice a notch. He must know Chris’s bullet had come within a foot or two a few minutes ago.
“This is war,” Chris said. “I’ll do what I have to do.”
Behind him, hoofbeats pounded.
Mactalde hacked a laugh. “I know you will. So don’t forget what I’ve said today.” He swept a bow, then turned on his heel and stalked back into the trees.
Behind Chris, a horse galloped up from the road, and a young man with a courier’s black sash leapt to the ground. “With the king’s compliments, he’s seen the truce signal and wishes a report immediately.”
Chris grimaced. The king was going to be significantly less complimentary once he heard what Mactalde had to say.