Damn him for asking first. “The plan is,” I whisper, “that I ask you what the plan is.”
“Ha, ha.”
Micktuk says, “I’ll go make some noise, yeh? Make trouble with them horses or chickens or something. You go see what there is to see, yeh?”
It’s as good a plan as any, and Garrett and I shrug at each other. Why not? Without waiting for an answer, Micktuk slides off into the darkness, down the hill toward the square. We follow in a line. Me first, then Garrett, and Shack behind.
In moments we’re just fifty yards from the square, dodging among the trees at the edge of the meadow, when we all stop dead. A loud kathunk echoes from below, and a yellow light floods out into the square from Turner’s front door.
“No need to hurry,” a man’s voice barks out across the meadow. Two wide silhouettes appear in the doorway and thunk their boots down his wooden steps to the dirt. A third man, shorter than the first two, stands in the door and waits there.
“You haven’t forgotten the message for First Wife, have you?” The voice sneers at them from the house.
“No, Semper. I have it right here in my pocket,” replies one of the men.
So that is Darius, calling himself Semper. He wouldn’t know that Dane had returned from exile and taken back Southshaw.
“Like I said. There’s no need to hurry. But I am sure that First Wife is eager to be reunited with her husband. So there’s also no need to tarry.” Even here, hiding in the dark, I can feel the threat lurking in his words.
Darius struts down the steps and catches up with the two, walks beside them to the wagons in the square. One wagon is covered with a broad square of cloth, like a tent on top of a big, rolling table. It looks entirely impractical. Especially since it never rains here in the summer.
Darius hops into the back of the wagon while the two men retrieve a pair of horses resting nearby and hitch them to the yoke. The whole contraption looks flimsy and awkward. Those poor horses must be embarrassed to pull it. All the other horses probably laugh at them.
Only when Darius jumps back down from the back of the wagon do I realize he’s not going with them. The square is still ghostly quiet except the sounds of ropes being tied and the three men shuffling around.
“Why can’t we wait until morning?”
“You’ll go now,” replies Darius.
“I still don’t see why we can’t sleep a little, then go when the sun is up. Much easier traveling that way.”
“I said you’ll go now.” There’s a threat in every word that Darius says, even in that simple statement. His doggy voice makes my skin crawl and my stomach sick.
“Okay, okay, I’m not arguing. Just seemed… you know. Is all.”
“First Wife is eager to be reunited with her husband,” Darius explains. If the stupid other man argues after the clipped, certain way Darius said each word, I’d want to kill him myself just for his stupidity. But he keeps quiet and climbs up onto the driver’s platform. The other follows.
“So, Darius, like… we have all this room in here. I mean, it’ll be nice for First Wife when we drive her back here from Southshaw, but it seems a shame to have it be empty on the way south. If you know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t.”
“So, just, I was thinking,” continues the second idiot, clearly not thinking or he’d shut his mouth and be on his way, “we could do with some, um… entertainment, like.” He pauses. “You know. It’s a long ride.”
“Entertainment?”
“Yeah. Something to keep us, um, busy. Like, one of the girls.”
“Oh.”
There’s a long pause. Why would this guy want a girl to keep him entertained. What, did he think all Tawtrukk girls sing, or play a flute, or tell stories? Or—
Oh.
I shiver when I think of the look in that monster’s eyes, what was his name—Baddock, that’s it—when he tied me to that tree. I know what he was planning on doing to me. This must be one of his thugs, maybe one of the ones that dragged me through miles of mud and horse shit. These Southshaw thugs aren’t men. They’re sick. I feel like retching. Garrett’s hand rests on my shoulder. Either his hand is trembling, or my whole body is. I think it’s me.
Darius finally speaks. “No.”
For a moment, I almost don’t despise him. Perhaps he has some decency after all.
“But… why not?”
“I can’t have you riding into Southshaw with a Tawtrukk slave girl, can I?”
“We could kill her and dump her before we even get to Richards Meadow,” says the first.
Another long pause where Garrett presses down on my shoulder. I could spring up, fly at them in the darkness, be upon them and kill them all before they knew what had happened.
“Lupay, don’t.” Garrett breathes the words in my ear. “You can’t make it. There are three of them. And hundreds more just inside the houses. Maybe even hiding in the shadows. Don’t. Please. You can’t do it. They’ll kill you.”
I could do it. I know I could do it. It’s a long way, and yeah they would see me coming, but—
“And after they kill you, they’ll find the rest of us.”
He’s right. I slump under his touch. It would be foolish. I can’t make it that far that quick.
“And then who will save Tawtrukk?”
As I relax, the press of his hand eases on my shoulder.
“Hmm, yes, all right,” Darius says. “But be quick about the selection. And only one.” He turns to walk back to Turner’s house but stops a few steps along and turns back to them. “And take some of these heathen blankets with you. When you get to Southshaw, clean the wagon thoroughly and line it with the best quilts from my house. Baddock will help you select. Make sure First Wife has no reason to suspect anything untoward has occurred in her carriage.”
“Of course,” one chirps as he leaps from the platform and runs up the square, away from the meeting house.
They’re not being held in the meeting house?
“Where are you going?” asks the other one.
“The young ones are up here,” replies the first as he charges up the hill toward the second largest house in town, Tanner’s place. The young ones.
Micktuk whispers, “Come on, this way,” and beckons away from the square.
Where the hell is he going? This is where Darius is. This is where these monsters are with their wagon. We can’t let them just grab one of the girls and drive off to Southshaw. I know what those demons plan to do in that wagon now, and I won’t let them.
Shack watches me, unsure whether to follow Micktuk. He said he was going to make some noise so we could get in close, but now he’s leaving. What the hell?
Garrett whispers, “I think I know what he’s planning, Loop. Come on.”
It doesn’t feel right. The bad guys are here. Right here. We can take them now that Darius has gone back inside. But it’s too late. Micktuk, Shack, and even Garrett are flying through the trees along the edge of the meadow, southward, fast as they can go without making more noise than the evening breeze in the treetops and the gentle waves of the lake.
I shake my head. This seems wrong. But I take a deep breath and start sprinting after them.
In moments I’m right behind Garrett. The four of us jog along the deer path at the edge of the meadow, now far out of sight of Lower’s houses. We run single file, parallel to the road, which winds along the lake shore half a mile through the moonless dark. The evening air can’t cool me down, though. I watch Garrett’s heels kick up dust in the night, trying not to think about what’s happening in that wagon right now. Which girl that monster picked from the terrified, sleeping young ones locked up in Tanner’s house.
Micktuk’s bald head bounces along in front like a black ball. Maybe he didn’t hear them talking. Maybe he didn’t understand what they’re planning. Maybe he doesn’t care.
Another quarter mile in silence, and we’re all beginning to breathe hard. I can hear the exhaustion in the
slap of Garrett’s feet on the path, see it in the way he weaves just a little, stumbles from time to time. Micktuk and Shack are pulling ahead of us but are still close.
With every step, the tight band around my thigh reminds me that my knife could have been used back there but is still bloodless. And my three throwing blades clipped to my shirt bounce light against my chest, eager for me to turn around and put them to use. This is stupid. I have to turn back. Now.
I’m about to call Garrett’s name when Micktuk breaks off the path and straight across the meadow. His head looks like a strange buoy being blown across the tall, summer grass. Shack goes too, and when Garrett plunges into the meadow, I follow.
Micktuk is charging toward the road, straight at the thick redwood stand near the dock where Harper launches his fishing boats. It’s at a point that juts out into the lake, and when you come round the point you can see Lodgeholm for the first time. Or you used to be able to.
We reach the redwoods in a minute, and immediately I understand. The road winds between the trees, which are hundreds of years old and each fifteen feet thick. Here, a wagon like the one the monsters have will have to meander slowly over thick roots and around tight corners. Here, we can wait in secret, in silence. An ambush. Without a thousand enemies ready to spill out on top of us.
Micktuk, I forgive you.
I come up last, panting a bit but eager for that wagon to arrive. Garrett is doubled over, hands on his knees, spitting into the dust and gasping for air. Shack stands tall, his chest heaving. Only Micktuk looks fresh and rested, his round white eyes floating in the blackness under the darker shadows of the trees.
“Might be a wait,” he says finally. “This de best place, sure. We hide in here, when they drive up we jump ‘em.”
Sounds good to me. I can’t wait to kill them. I’m sure my father would agree by now. Maybe even Turner would want that.
Garrett is looking around, at the trees, at the ground. He paces the road, checks sight lines. I want to tell him to stop, tell him this won’t be hard. They’ll be going slow. It’s dark. They won’t expect anything.
“Even here,” he says at last, “they might be able to escape if we don’t barricade the road.” He stands in the road where I imagine my knife entering the chest of a surprised Southshaw bastard, and he turns. “If he spurred the horses, they could make it through and out the other side. We’d never catch them then.”
I don’t have to look twice. He’s right. Of course.
“Barricade?” Shack goes to stand next to his brother. “What are you thinking?”
“I don’t know—”
Suddenly the squeaky clatter of a wagon drifts to us. “Hide,” I hiss, but I didn’t have to. The twins leap to the far side of the road while Micktuk blends into the shadows on the meadow side. I step in next to Micktuk.
We wait, not long, and the wagon’s creaks get louder. Every now and then a horse snorts, and their feet beat the dirt slow and uneven. The wood of the wagon groans, and metal chains clink.
“Shut up back there,” a man’s voice calls. “I know you’re eager for it, but you’ll get it soon enough.” The two men laugh a coughing, evil laugh.
Now I can hear the whimpering of the girl.
“How far you reckon,” one of the men says. They’re closer than I thought.
“Maybe after these trees,” says the other. “No, not yet. After that place we burned down this morning.”
Was that just this morning?
The horses’ clopping slows further, and we know they’re close. I tense and unclip one of the small, light blades from my shirt. It won’t do much to them, but it will startle them. And it will hurt. And then I’ll jump up and use my hunting knife. I reach down and unclip it, lift it out of its sheath.
Micktuk suddenly steps out onto the middle of the road, and one of the horses whinnies in surprise.
“What the—”
The driver pulls back on his reins, and the wagon stops.
“Hold up there,” Micktuk says, his voice echoing off the trees.
I look across to Garrett and Shack, but they’re just looking back at me in surprise. What is Micktuk doing? We were supposed to jump them.
“Out of the way, you.” The driver snarls down from his high seat. I can’t see them from behind the tree.
“Shouldn’t we kill him, Pep?”
A loud moan comes from the girl in the wagon. She must be gagged, probably tied up. I don’t know what Micktuk is planning, but I’m not going to wait around. I sneak around the big tree and onto the road behind the wagon. Its back is open. I leap lightly up onto the platform. It’s empty except for the girl, lying on her side tied up with her hands behind her back and her ankles tied together. She has a blindfold on and another rag tied as a gag through her mouth. She lies on top of a pile of blankets.
“Outta the way, you!”
“No.”
“Just run him down, Pep.”
“Good idea.”
I kneel and pull the blindfold from the girl’s eyes. She’s terrified and trembling. In two seconds I’ve sliced the cords from her wrists and ankles, and I point out the back. She pulls the gag from her mouth but doesn’t move. In the dark, I can’t tell who she is. Thick, frizzed hair. She’s maybe thirteen years old. And she’s about to cry out in big sobs.
“Go!” I whisper and shove her toward the back.
The wagon lurches when Pep yells “Ha!” and the horses startle forward. The girl stumbles and rolls to the back, then falls out onto the road.
It’s impossible to stand with the wagon bounding over rocks and roots. Micktuk’s probably dead unless he got out of the way. I grab on to the side wall to keep from being pitched out the back like the girl, and I drop my throwing blade. “Ha! Hey!” Pep keeps yelling. Through the opening forward I see him whipping the reins with all his might.
I grip the knife tight and inch my way forward as the wagon lurches and bucks. I glance back once to see Shack and Garrett in the road, bending over the girl, helping her up. No sign of Micktuk.
We emerge from the trees just as the moon is climbing over the far peaks on the eastern side of the lake. The wagon is on open road now, and the horses speed into a full gallop. It’s easier to balance on the smoother road, and in two quick steps I’m at the canvas right behind the driver. Pep.
I grip the knife tight and plunge forward as hard as I can. The blade slices through the cloth and bores into a body. There’s a yell, and I keep pushing forward, driving with every bit of my strength. The white canvas of the wagon’s cover stains blood-black. I yank hard to pull the knife out, but the slick handle slips away from me as the body of Pep tumbles forward off the wagon, under the wheel.
Wood crunches and splinters as the wagon pitches under me, and I’m flung sideways, bashing my ribs against the sidewall. I can’t breathe. I clutch at the canvas and pull myself to my knees.
There’s more yelling. Through the opening I see the other man trying to capture the reins, which lash about as the horses keep flying forward. The wagon teeters on three good wheels as we careen along the road toward Lodgeholm. Through the flailing, torn cloth, the image of the burned-out hulk that used to be Lodgeholm suddenly flashes in the moonlight. Parts of it still glow red with devilish embers, and smoke still curls into the night in ghostly wisps.
I claw my way forward, just as the man tames the reins and steadies himself on the seat. He’s yelling at the horses, trying to calm them.
I get to the front, just a few feet behind him, and I unclip my last throwing blade from my shirt. One of them must have fallen away at some point. Damn. But that doesn’t matter; all I need is one. I reach through the opening and swing my arm around to drive the blade’s tip into his throat. Or, I aimed for his throat. Instead, the blade tears into cheek and jaw, and he lets loose a hellish howl of pain.
I let the blade stick where it is, then grab the spindly arch of iron above my head. It holds the canvas up and doesn’t look strong enough to hold my we
ight, but I leap anyway and swing my legs out and around intending to slam my knees into the howling monster’s side.
I was right. The arch wasn’t strong enough to hold my weight. Stupid Southshaw smiths. It figures they can’t make a decent stick of metal. It buckles and bends. For a moment I hang out over nothing as the whole canvas cover rips away and flutters up and away behind us.
The wailing monster beside me drops the reins as he claws at his face. The horses bolt again, and the wagon lurches, tumbling me back onto the seat beside him. He’s blinded with pain, and his face and hands glow silvery red in the bright moonlight. I grab the seat with both hands as the wagon starts bucking and bouncing. Wood creaks and groans, and I can feel it twisting beneath me. Without thinking, I leap off the side and roll onto the soft grass of the lawn in front of Lodgeholm.
The wagon goes only a few more yards before the other front wheel gives way and the whole thing pitches forward, digs into the road, breaks free of its yoke, and tumbles end over end. The horses keep running, still hitched together with the wagon’s tongue dragging and bouncing behind them.
The wagon rolls one final time, teetering upright for a moment before crumpling to its side. I start walking toward it, but I don’t go far before I come to the body of that wailing devil whose face I ripped apart. He lies on the dirt in a twisted heap, one arm and one leg turned at unnatural angles. Only as I get closer do I see that although his face is pointed up to the sky, his body is lying chest-down. I don’t have to worry about him anymore.
A few hundred yards away, the horses have stopped running and stand in the road, steaming into the night. Lodeholm’s smoking remains glow nearby, and the air is heavy with the smell of burnt pine. I don’t feel sorry for the man dead at my feet. I don’t feel pity or sadness. All I feel is anger.
Darius is Southshaw. Dane’s uncle. Dane should be here, Dane should clear up the mess that he allowed to happen. He’d better be gathering up all those friends he said he had. He’d better be on his way here, in a hurry. He’d better not turn out to be like Turner, all talk. He promised to come. He promised to help.
The night has gone remarkably quiet. Soft wind shivering the treetops, waves patting at the shore of the lake. Night sounds starting back up after being startled into silence by the wagon’s intrusion.
Forsada: Volume II in the New Eden series Page 8