But he has no family. I’m the only thing he’s got left.
The pleading in his eyes drags me down like I’m going to drown.
Could I give up everything, for him? Could I walk away from my mother, from Ginger and Susannah and Honey? Could I live with myself knowing I never tried to help? Could I live with him? I knew the answer to that long ago. I have no choice.
“I can’t,” I say, and I brush away his hand and turn, walking fast and hard before he can see the tears forming in my eyes.
I keep walking, keep hoping to hear his footsteps coming after me, keep hoping to hear his breath in the night. But he doesn’t follow, and he doesn’t call after me, and in almost no time he’s lost in the forest and I’m nearing the top of this little hill. And I can’t look back. I won’t.
I’m breathing hard, no longer cold as I crest the cleared hilltop.
I have been here before. Once, long ago, when I was little. We came to Upper, my parents and I, when I was six or seven. We left home before sunrise and got back way after dark. While my father was doing some work in the town, my mother and I came up here with a picnic and watched the butterflies in the wildflowers. We looked down over the village, its little cottages sitting in tight groups in its cozy valley. My mother thought they looked like cows standing around in a field, but I thought they looked like a big pile of dice that someone had dropped. She laughed.
I wonder what she would say the village looks like now. She wouldn’t be laughing.
I stand in the same place we had our picnic. The heat of a hundred blazing cottages almost knocks me over, burning away the winter chill. Black figures roam among the burning hulks, devilish silhouettes carrying torches, setting fire to everything that’s not already burning.
I’m too late.
Despair settles on me, pushing me to my knees in the scraggly, dry grass. Garrett was right. What can I possibly accomplish by staying in Tawtrukk?
The gravelly dirt bites my knees through my stiff pants. Sadness and pain and anger surge up inside me in sobs. Why hold them back anymore? Who would care? I sink to the ground and lie there, my arms wrapped tight around me, tears flowing into the dust. My sobs start to come so hard and so fast I can’t even breathe, but I don’t care anymore. I don’t care.
Sounds drift up on the heat and ash from the valley below. Men yelling, fire roaring, wood breaking. I hope they come up here. I hope they find me. I hope they kill me quickly. I want this all to be over. I want to be dead, to forget it all for real. There’s nothing but pain anymore, nothing but sadness and rage. And I want it to be over.
I cover my head with my arms and sob silently into them until the tears run out and the moon disappears behind the mountaintops and the sky begins to gray with the first hint of dawn.
Voices pull me from sleep. I’m curled tight into myself, and although the sun tries to warm me, the night’s cold strangles my bones, grips me all the way to my soul. I try to uncurl, but unbelievable pain fights its way through the numbing cold. I try to find a part of me that doesn’t ache, but there isn’t any.
I have no disorientation of waking in a strange place. I know exactly where I am. I feel the prick of tiny rocks poking into my cheek, the scratch of the dry grass on my back where my shirt has been pulled up, the deadness in the arm that’s pinned under my stomach. I can’t stop shivering, even though every convulsion brings new pain.
The voices are very close.
“… deserted. Like they knew, or like—”
“Darius won’t be happy.”
“What will you tell him?”
“Me?”
“Someone has to.”
The voices are men. Soft, but near enough to be clear in the calm of the early morning.
“Patrick. Have him tell Darius. Where is he, anyway?”
“What do you mean?”
“He disappeared when you gave the order to burn the town.”
“Disappeared?”
“Yeah. He and a couple of his guys—you know, I don’t have to tell you who—they said they were going to go look for the people.”
“Hmm. Are they back yet?”
“No. Maybe they fell off a cliff or something.”
“Ha. We should be so lucky.”
There are only two of them. And one of them gave the order to burn the town.
I lift my head an inch or two, slowly, to peek at the voices. Ow. My neck and back feel like they’re being crushed in a vice, and my head feels like it’s being pounding by a peen hammer. The two figures sharpen from blurred blobs. They’re facing partly away, looking down at the village. But they only have to turn this way, just a little, and they’ll see me. It’s a miracle they didn’t spot me already.
“You know he’s poisoning more men every day, don’t you?” The first one, not the one who gave the order. His voice is rougher, like he’s got rocks in his throat.
“I know.”
“We have to do something about that.”
Poisoning the men? They have this guy Patrick who’s killing off other Southshawans? I need to get to know him. Sounds like my kind of guy.
“Know of any cliffs around here?”
The rough talker laughs. I don’t get what’s funny about that, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve been slithering my arm behind me to unhook my whip. What I wouldn’t give for a couple of good throwing knives. But this hunting knife will have to do.
After another minute, the order-giver says, “Better get back,” and they start sauntering down the hill.
I wait a few more seconds, tensing and relaxing my muscles to wake them through the pain, then I leap to my feet, my whip in my right hand and my knife in the other. I wobble with the first few steps, but in a second I’m running and coiling my arm for my first strike. They hear me when I’m almost on them, and they turn in surprise. Rough-voice is thick-faced and red, with short hair and an onion nose. Order-giver is lanky, his black hair tied back in a long, tight braid that sways behind him when he turns.
I stop and flick my arm out like a rattlesnake. The whip slashes through the air and around the neck of the rough-voiced one. Satisfaction appears as a thin, red line across his cheek and eye. I yank back hard, and he stumbles forward, his hands clutching at the cord tight around his neck.
I drop the whip and toss the knife from my left hand to my right, lunging for the order-giver. Shock fills his eyes, but he’s quick and knocks me to the side just as my knife’s tip presses against his ribcage. He grunts, and the knife catches and yanks from my grip as I fall to the side and roll away to pop back up to my feet.
I don’t think I’ve killed him, but it must hurt pretty bad. The other one is working the whip’s coils off his neck. I pick up the whip’s handle nearby on the ground and throw my whole body backwards. It cinches around his neck and his fingers, and he stumbles forward to land on his face.
Where’s that other one? I look up just in time, slip to my left, and avoid my own knife whistling through the air. The order-giver throws like a clueless girl. It might have given me a bruise at worst, and it’s clunked to the dirt not far from me.
Still holding the whip, I drive my legs hard backwards, dragging the rough-voiced one (probably no-voice by now) by his neck. In a few steps, I reach the knife, drop to one knee, and grab it.
Footsteps thunder behind me with a growling yell.
I roll to one side, out if the way as the order-giver leaps. As he spins by, he reaches out and tears my shirt. I stumble forward and steady myself as he bumbles through a cloud of dust and then hops back to his feet. No time to switch the knife to my right hand, I flip it in my left, grab the tip, raise it to my ear, and let fly.
This time, it goes all the way in, sticking in his soft belly just below the ribs, right in the center. This time, I know I’ve killed him. He might live a while longer, might even keep fighting, but he’ll die. And there’s some satisfaction in that.
But I’m not going to wait for the satisfaction. He falls to his knees. I drop my wh
ip and run at him and kick him in the chest, knocking him backward and landing on him. Blood spurts from his mouth and his wound and spatters my torn shirt and my exposed shoulder. Now he’s done for.
I pull my knife from his chest even as his last breaths rattle from his throat, and I stand and turn to the other. He’s on his knees and elbows. clawing at his neck. This will not be difficult.
I walk to him, and it’s clear from the blood soaking his collar and dripping to the ground that he’s in pain. He doesn’t even notice me as I plunge the knife into his spine right between his shoulder blades, and he slumps to the ground without even a grunt.
Two down, several hundred to go.
I breathe hard, gasping the cold morning air which still smells of ash and wood smoke. As I kneel and wipe my knife clean on the dead man’s shirt, I think about revenge. I’m too late to save Upper, but the brutal satisfaction in kneeling over these two dead men is sweet. Maybe I can find this Patrick guy they talked about. Maybe he could help me.
But right now I need to get back to Garrett and the others. I clean off the whip and coil it again, tie the ends of my torn shirt together. It does little against the cold, but it makes me feel better. Still kneeling so I’m not easy to see from the village, I look back at where I think I came from. Where I hope the cave is. The strange peaks to the north look so different in the morning light.
With a sigh, I try to orient myself with my back to the peaks I think I saw last night. That way. Yes, probably. I’m sure of it. I think.
I walk down the hill, into the forest. As I go, I keep looking back to try to keep the peak of Star directly behind me. After twenty minutes I know I’ve either walked right past the cave, or I’ve gone the wrong way.
I can’t yell out. What if Garrett has gone back inside to get the others? Or what if he’s just left me on my own? I wouldn’t blame him. I’m the one who walked away, after all.
Another twenty minutes, and I have to admit I’m totally lost. I’ve wandered in a wide arc, tending uphill toward the Desolation. I can still see the peak of Star, now white with the first early snow. The sun is warm where it falls between the trees. Maybe if I make straight for Star I’ll come back to the hill where I started and can try again.
Before I do, though, I have to take care of this feeling I’ve been ignoring in my hurry to find the cave. I have to pee. Even though I haven’t seen a soul in my hour of wandering, I need to find a private place. Maybe Shack could just let loose in the middle of some trees, but not me. I glance around for a suitable spot. There. A gigantic boulder covered with moss and surrounded by chaparral should give me a little privacy. Privacy from what, I don’t know, but some things are important.
I pick my way around through the low bushes to find a nook in the rock where I can crouch without being seen. I squat, facing away from the rock, my whip on the ground at my side just in case. It’s silly to feel so exposed even in this little, protected place miles from anyone—
What was that noise?
Voices. Oh, crap. Well, I can’t stop now, so I let it finish before adjusting my pants and retying the drawstring. Staying crouched against the rock, I pick up my whip.
Maybe it’s Garrett and Tom, out looking for me.
“Hold up a minute,” says a man’s voice, and it sounds a little familiar but definitely not Garrett or Tom. Not anyone I know well. It could be someone from Upper, but I can’t chance it. More likely it’s a Southshawan patrol.
Dry twigs and branches crunch under heavy boots, coming closer. My heart starts to race, and my thighs ache and burn as I squat, motionless. My sore ankles throb, and my knees scream out for me to stand up. The man crunches closer. He’s coming around the boulder, same as I did.
Are they tracking me? Did he see where I came? Is he coming to find me, to capture or kill me? Well, he’ll find a surprise when he comes around that turn, that’s for sure.
The steps come closer, then stop. He’s just around the corner, not even six feet away.
My fingers tighten on my whip, ready for his lunge. He must know I’m here, and he’s waiting for me to make the first move. But I won’t. I’ll wait until he shows himself, then—
A different noise—water, like he’s pouring out a flask on the side of the rock. What is he… oh. Same as me, of course.
That means he’s vulnerable. And alone, for the moment. I place my whip down on the dirt again and wrap my fingers around my knife. No time to wait, I leap out while the sound of pouring water is still strong.
I got it right. He’s only a few feet away, and I slip behind him and bring my knife to his neck and wrap my left arm around him tight before he can even move his hands. The sound cuts off as his body tenses under my squeeze. Before I kill him, maybe I can get some information out of him.
He’s not big. Not broad-shouldered, and not much taller than I am, but he hides a lean strength. I can’t let this turn into a fair fight.
“If you yell or make any move,” I hiss, “I’ll slash your throat.”
The tension in his shoulders and arms relaxes just a little. He quietly clears his throat before saying, “Fair enough. But could you let me, um, finish what I started?”
The voice. I’ve heard it before, but where? When? Southshawan, no doubt. Maybe if I could see his face.
“Go ahead,” I whisper. “Don’t mind me.”
The water trickles for another few seconds, then he wiggles a little.
“Could you let up so I can, um, fix my pants?”
“No.”
“I just don’t want to die, um… you know. Undone.”
That voice. It’s right on the edge of my mind. His hair smells of dirt and wood smoke. Could be a campfire. Or burning buildings. I put venom in my voice as I say, “I wonder how many Tawtrukkers burned in their houses, as you say… undone.”
He has nothing to say to that and stays quiet. After a second, he whispers, “Fair enough,” and relaxes. His breathing becomes slow and relaxed. Either he’s preparing himself for death, or he’s about to counterattack.
I stall. “Are you ready to die?”
“No. But I deserve to.”
“You got that right.”
“But first let me say I’m sorry.”
That is unexpected. “What for?”
“For killing your friend.”
“I had many friends before you showed up.”
“No, I mean in the field. When the three of you came to rescue those prisoners.”
The voice. Now I know it. This is the head man, the leader of the three scary ones in that field. The one that killed Shack. No… the memory of that moment flashes through my mind. He was the leader. He bore down on Shack with the other two. Shack killed one, and it was the third that brought him down. This one…
“You didn’t kill Shack.”
“Sure I did.”
“No, you didn’t. It was the other one. You…” Is my memory playing tricks on me? Is it showing me things I didn’t really see? “You pretended to fight.”
“Maybe. But that was enough to give Travis a clean strike. I’m as guilty as he is.”
That’s true. It doesn’t matter who swung the ax that killed Shack. They are all equally to blame.
“You’re loosening your grip, Forsada.”
“What?” My arm snaps around him tighter again, but there’s no need. If he were looking for an opening, I’d given him one and he refused it. But… Forsada? “What did you call me?”
“That’s who you are, isn’t it? I don’t know much about you, but that’s what I’ve heard—”
“Forsada’s a legend. Not real. A children’s story.”
“Real enough for me.” He wriggles a little, maybe to remind me that my knife is at his throat.
“I’m not Forsada.”
“Whatever you say.”
A man’s voice calls from the other side of the boulder. “Hey, Patrick, what are you doing back there? I know you got a bladder like a horse, but come on.”
I h
iss into his ear, “How many?”
“How many what?”
“Don’t be stupid. How many over there?”
“Just three. Me and three others.” He pauses. “Let me yell back, or they’ll come looking.”
I press the knife into his flesh, just enough to keep from drawing blood. “Okay.”
He takes a breath and yells, “Just a minute. I stepped in a hole. Twisted my ankle. I’ll be okay, but it’ll take me a few minutes.”
“Need some help?”
“Nope. I’m good. Just take a little longer.”
He pauses and whispers, “Good?”
“Yes.”
“So,” he says quiet and slow, “is this it, then?”
He seems resigned to die. But there’s something I’m missing here. I can feel it, but I can’t quite catch it. He’s in charge, but he’s not fighting me. He regrets what he’s done—
Now I see it. “Patrick? Is that your name?”
“Yes.”
I let him go and step away, careful not to let him grab or trip me. I watch him from behind as he reties his pants and clasps his belt before turning around with his hands stretched out, palms up. His eyes are pointed to the ground as he turns. His yellow hair is streaked with dirt and matted in places, and his coat has stains on it that could be anything from coffee to blood. He’s got a small axe on his belt and a big hunting knife on a sash tight across his chest. I keep the tip of my knife pointed at the middle of his chest, my legs tensed to spring at him if he makes a move.
When he finally looks up at me, his sharp blue eyes are bloodshot and exhausted, and his blond stubble is several days grown in. A scar crosses his chin, and red-brown Tawtrukk dust smears his cheeks.
He gives me a pale, sad smile.
“You’re Patrick,” I say. “You’re important.”
“I don’t know about that,” he replies, but I can tell by his tone that it’s true. “I used to be, I suppose.”
“But you’re a leader. I saw it in the meadow. You were in charge.”
“Were. Now… others are more favored than I.”
Forsada: Volume II in the New Eden series Page 21