Forsada: Volume II in the New Eden series

by Peter J Dudley

  “Garrett,” I plead, “Patrick’s on our side.”

  “That was quick.”

  Patrick’s voice picks up a sharp edge like Garrett’s. “Not as quick as you think, but yeah. And now I see it should have happened a long time ago.” He drops his hand. “Look, I don’t expect you to forgive me. I’ll never forgive myself.” He pauses, staring into the fire as he picks his words. “But Darius is hard to disagree with. And… it’s hard to change ideas you’ve had your whole life, everything you’ve been told since you were a baby.”

  For an instant, his voice and his build and even his face remind me of Dane. Patrick is older, probably twenty or so. I wonder what he did back in Southshaw, before he marched off to war with Darius. What was his home like? What were his parents like? Did his father join up with Darius, too, or stay in Southshaw? Does he have brothers or sisters? Did he have a girlfriend, or a wife?

  Garrett doesn’t seem very interested in Patrick’s excuses. “Yeah. Okay. Whatever.”

  “I don’t expect you to understand. But please,” Patrick says quietly, “at least give me a chance to make up for some of the wrong I’ve done.”

  Sam drops his torch into the fire and steps closer. “We want to stop Darius. Return Tawtrukk to—”

  “To what!” Garrett’s voice fills the glen. “You’ve already killed everyone!”

  “No,” I interrupt as Garrett’s about to explode. “No, they haven’t.”

  I step over to him and pick up his hand in mine. It feels good to hold his hand, even if he doesn’t hold mine back. I smile at him. “There are a lot of things I have to catch you up on,” I say. I expect him to melt a little as I hold his hand, but he doesn’t. So what. I’ll keep trying. “But where are the others?”

  Patrick asks, “Others?”

  I nod. And I wonder how wide his eyes will go when he sees Freda emerge from the Subterra cave.

  CHAPTER 20

  Maybe in another time I would have enjoyed riding a horse in the cold, foggy forest at twilight. But I doubt it.

  “It’s how the legend goes, Loop,” Garrett says for the nine billionth time.

  But it’s still stupid. I’m freezing in this sleeveless shirt, my butt aches from sitting on this horse the past hour, and this “spear” doesn’t even look like it could hurt a squirrel let alone kill an invading army. Okay, I kind of like the way Ginger did up my hair so it rings my head, braided together with redwood twigs to make it look almost like a crown. That’s okay. But this stupid war paint they slopped onto my arms itches and looks silly.

  If they’d done all this to Garrett, now that might have made an imposing warlord.

  “If you’re going to be Forsada to these people, you have to fit the legend.”

  I sigh loud and hard. I’m tired. We got barely any sleep after Freda and Tom and the others came out of the cave last night. I knew Freda was smart, and her plan seemed genius in the middle of the night. And it is. But this part wasn’t her idea.

  “And Susannah knows the legend better than any of us. She knows the Upper version. Loop, this is important.”

  “I don’t have to like it.”

  “We don’t know Forsada like the people in Upper do. Remember what Susannah said. To them, it’s real. It’s not a legend. It’s history.”

  “History, right.” I add a snorting laugh. Forsada isn’t history. It’s a children’s fairy tale. Forsada, the spirit of the trees—

  “Forsada, the Spirit of the Forest,” Garrett recites as if Ginger had been coaching him all night, “came to the people when all hope was lost. The invaders had burned their town, but the people had escaped, only to face death by starvation in the desolate, radiation-scorched badlands over the mountain. Forsada came to them at dawn, on a white horse with a flaming spear, her body painted for war and her spear tipped with the fire of the sun. She rode—”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I interrupt. “I know it. I’ve heard it enough in the past day to make me want to throw up, okay? I know it. When we find the camp—if we find the camp—I light my spear tip on fire and ride around the camp three times screeching ‘Tawtrukk’ and then deliver some crazy speech to get them all to cheer and rise up and go drive out the invaders.” What the frick kind of speech could I give people who just had their homes burned? What could I say that will make them think I could lead them in a great battle to drive out the invaders?

  “Well, yeah,” Garrett says, apparently thinking it’s totally normal and natural. “That’s pretty much it.”

  “My horse isn’t white,” I observe.

  “I’m sure Patrick would have gotten you one if he could have.”

  “If I have to have all this paint all over my arms, how come you couldn’t paint the stupid horse white?”

  Garrett laughs. What we’re doing is ridiculous. Why can’t we just find them and tell them what’s happened? Tell them we have Southshawan allies against Darius now, tell them Freda will win over more of them, tell them that together we have the strength to…

  To what? Die together in a battle they don’t want to fight? Return to a village that’s nothing more than ashes?

  “We have to do the best we can with what we have, Loop. White horse, brown horse, what does it really matter?”

  “Forsada, Lupay, what does it really matter?” I snipe back at him. “Just doing the best with what we’ve got, right?”

  “You’re not giving yourself enough credit,” Garrett says.

  “It’s fricking cold without sleeves, you know.”

  “That paint doesn’t keep your arms warm?”

  “No.”

  “Well, the flaming spear will give you some heat, I’m sure.”

  “Ha, ha, ha. You’re a skunk.”

  We ride for a few more minutes as night falls for real. The moon won’t be up for hours, so it’ll be very dark when we reach the camp. I still can’t believe it took them all day to dress me up and get the horse and everything. But at least it was nice to spend a little time with Ginger and Susannah and the girls after that awful cavern, digging out from the cave-in…

  “Loop, hold up.”

  I pull back on the reins and slide forward on the horse’s back as she stops. I wish I could use a saddle like Garrett does, but Forsada rode bareback. On a white horse. Why couldn’t I use a saddle?

  “Listen.” Garrett is nearby, and the horses snort a little and paw the ground. Their breath and mine make clouds in the night.

  In the distance ahead, a low murmur of voices. Or it could be a beehive nearby, but it’s too cold and too dark for bees to be out. “Patrick was right,” I whisper.

  “Yeah.” I can’t tell if he’s impressed that Patrick found the refugee camp and gave us perfect directions to get there.

  The trail led right where he said. Most of the Southshawan army didn’t really want a fight; they were happy just to tell Darius they’d destroyed the town. None of them believed he would ever come to Upper anyway, so they didn’t bother looking for the refugees. But Patrick looked, and he found the trail that led up and over the ridge and then down into the Desolation—

  “Let’s get a little closer,” Garrett says, “before we light that spear.”

  My stomach feels sick. Are we really going to do this?

  “You okay, Loop?”

  “Sure. Of course. No problem. I do this all the time.”

  “I know.”

  What the frick does he mean by that? If it’s a joke, it’s not funny.

  He spurs his horse forward, and mine moves with it even though I didn’t tell it to. They’re all against me.

  Get hold of yourself, Lupay. You’re going to do this the way Susannah said, You’re going to do it, and the people are going to react the way she said. Remember Honey, in the cavern, when you came back from the cave-in. Remember how she called you Forsada. Patrick believes, too.

  The horse sways me forward, and the murmur gets louder. Within a few minutes we see campfires. The woods around here aren’t as bleak as I’d expected, b
ut every now and then a break in the trees gives us a glimpse of a desolate, barren landscape stretching down, south and west.

  “There.” Garrett points, but I don’t tell him I’ve already seen the fires.

  “Yes,” I reply instead. “Okay, let’s do this.”

  We sneak closer until we’re overlooking the huge camp, a hiding spot for at least a thousand people. Little campfires dot the outskirts, and the center is lit by a broad ring of larger fires encircling a big, makeshift tent. The tent looks like an enormous patchwork quilt made from blankets stitched together and draped over logs lashed into tripods.

  Stretching out from the center are little lean-tos, tiny homemade tents, and other less convincing structures. People huddle together against the cold, most of them without a fire nearby for warmth. The whole human morass is a quarter mile across, and a hundred yards in from the edge, a wide path cuts a ring between inner and outer camps. The ring is lined with torches planted on tall poles dripping pale circles of light.

  Garrett murmurs, “You see the path? With the torches?”

  Does he think I’m blind? “Yup.”

  “Three times.”

  “I know. Screeching Forsada.” I don’t even bother hiding my disdain. The closer we get, the stupider this plan seems.

  “No,” he says. “Screeching Tawtrukk. I’ll meet you in the center.”

  He brings his horse abreast of mine and leans in. For a moment I think he might be trying to kiss me, but he reaches up and starts striking flint on his knife, kindling the tip of my “spear.” It bursts into a smoky, oily blaze. It looks impressive even if it would splinter into a billion pieces if I tried to stab anyone with it.

  Garrett slaps my horse on the butt, and she lurches forward. What the—doesn’t he realize I’m bareback, holding a flaming spear? I grab at the horse’s mane with my free hand and pull myself close to her neck, urging her into a gallop. Her lean power, the brisk night breeze, and the hissing of the spear-torch thrill me as we reach the first campfires.

  I straighten and breathe deep.

  “Tawtrukk! People of Tawtrukk!” I bark into the night, as loud as I can.

  We gallop into and among the outer campsites, picking our way between blankets and tents and people startled by our arrival.

  My spear flares like a roar in my ear as we reach the ring of torches and speed up. As we race along the path, I yell, “Tawtrukk! Arise, people of Tawtrukk!” over and over.

  They’re getting up here and there, confused. Uncertain. Nearly once around the circle, and people aren’t arising. Some stand and watch like it’s an entertainment, or a prank. We finish one full circle, shadows blurring past faster than I can think. I keep yelling. After the second full circle, more people crawl from their tents and stand to watch us, curious. A few scattered shouts of “Forsada” boost my confidence, but this is hardly an uprising.

  The third circle complete, and I have their attention. Both the horse and I steam and snort into the night as we slow, the spear hissing bright and the war paint melting down my arms. Most of the people stand and watch, but only a few have come forward. They have to come to me. I have to make them understand, get them to fight back. Together we can drive Darius away.

  They’re listening, but they’re not coming. They’re supposed to come forward. They’re supposed to rise up. That’s what Susannah said. Garrett, what do I do now?

  I pull myself up to stand on the horse’s back. Good girl, she stays steady underneath my wobbly legs. “People of Tawtrukk!” I screech again, my voice dry and sharp like a hawk’s. “Arise!”

  Arise? That’s the best I can come up with? How do I explain what they need to do? What can I say that will get them to fight back?

  Frick it. Forget speeches.

  I drop to the horse’s back again and let her paw and fidget. She’s eager. I hope her agitation, and my war paint and flaming spear make me look angry and powerful. But I feel silly with all these people staring at me. They’re not arising. They’re not roaring in rage, taking up weapons, rushing off to fight like Ginger said Forsada got them to do. Keep trying, Lupay. Don’t give up. Not yet.

  I whoop like I’m about to kill something and hurl the flaming spear at the ground. The spear sticks deep in the soft, rocky soil, and the flame snuffs out. I would have preferred that it shatter into a hailstorm of flaming splinters, but my sudden darkness causes some nearby to gasp.

  Sudden darkness. Good idea.

  I snatch the whip off my belt and kick the horse into one more sprint around the circle. A flick and a crack, and one of the tall torches along the circle goes dark. That’s for Lodgeholm. Flick, crack. That’s for my father. Flick, crack. That’s for Micktuk… over and over until I’ve doused all the torches and returned to my darkened spear, rage flowing like wildfire in my veins.

  I rip the spear from the earth with my free hand and turn inward, galloping straight to the center of the camp, not worrying about tents or people or anything else in our way.

  We get there in seconds and stop dead before the big, patchwork tent, lit bright by the central fires.

  Now I’ve got their attention for real. People hurry in from all over. Kids bound through the darkness. Come on. Faster!

  I watch from high on the horse, both of us now motionless as we wait for the people to gather.

  In a minute, most of the camp is gathered around me, hundreds of people of all ages and sizes. I don’t recognize any of them. They whisper. Some utter Forsada, others simply gawk.

  It’s not long before those in charge, a dozen men with sad faces, come before me as one group. One steps in front and peers up. Bright fires light the night behind them, but I glare right at the men without blinking, without squinting. I’ve fought and killed for Tawtrukk. Shack died for Tawtrukk. These squirrels cower in the dark. They should be better than this. Did these men think Darius would stop at Lower? Did they do nothing to plan for his attack? They’ve had months to prepare. But this camp is proof of what they’ve done: Nothing.

  I imagine them in their meeting hall talking themselves into laziness and complacence, wishing away the danger building around them. Just like Turner and my father, debating and posturing even as Lodgeholm disintegrated to ash. Just like me all summer, convincing myself that we were fighting back when really we were just wasting time.

  Now there’s no more time left to waste. If there’s to be a Tawtrukk tomorrow, these people need to fight back. Tonight.

  When the man before me starts to speak, I shut him up with a flick of my whip in the dirt at his feet.

  “Enough talk,” I say. “It’s time to fight back.”

  “But—who are you?” asks another, farther back, before I can silence him.

  A voice from the darkness, a girl’s voice, shouts, “It’s Forsada! She’s come to rescue us!”

  A murmur of excited agreement rises and quiets again.

  “No, it ain’t,” another voice calls, low and hoarse, from behind the group of leaders. A figure limps into the firelight, but his face is in darkness. Everyone hushes. My heart races. I can’t let this one man destroy what I’ve begun. They’re so close. I almost have them. All they need is a weapon in hand and someone to show them the way.

  “That ain’t Forsada. Forsada’s a fairy tale.”

  That voice. I know it. Oh god no. Don’t do this. I try to speak, but I have no words.

  Protests grow from the darkened mob, but the gruff man pushes through the leaders and stands below me, quieting them. “Rescue you? Ha! She ain’t gonna rescue no one.” He turns his face up to glare at me.

  Shem Shiver.

  Alive.

  CHAPTER 21

  “Ain’t no one can save you,” he says, turning slowly to look at the gathered people, “except yourselves.”

  A chill flows through my body. What’s he doing?

  “Shem,” says the main man I shut up with my whip, “you said we had to abandon Upper. You brought us here—”

  “That’s right, and go
od thing you listened. All you here would be dead ifn you didn’t.” He stares them down, then squints up at me again.

  What does he expect of me? The last time I saw him, he was crazy. Murderous. I was glad when he got buried. I can’t let him undo everything again. I need to get the people back on my side.

  I thrust the spear up into the night and bellow, “Enough talk!” The horse prances around, startled, and I point the spear at the makeshift tents. “Is this your new life? This… homelessness? This patchwork existence?” I stare out into the blackness where the people are. I can’t see them, but I pretend to look each of them in the eye. “They won’t let you stay here. They’ll come looking for you, like they came for me.”

  I’ve regained their attention. Some of the leaders nod thoughtfully, their rage bubbling to the surface.

  “There’s another way,” I continue. “Some of the Southshawans have turned against Darius. If we attack now—tonight—we can win back Upper. Then, with our new allies, we can drive Darius out of Tawtrukk.” I pause a moment, then hurl the spear into the hard dirt at my feet. “And send him to hell!”

  The spear hits a rock on the ground and cracks down the middle, the two pieces falling to the dirt. One lands at the feet of Shem.

  No one responds. The men in the front keep looking at me like I should say something else. But there’s nothing else to say. I told them they need to fight. What are they waiting for?

  Shem stoops to pick up the broken half-spear. Heat and smoke burn my eyes, but as the horse stomps and whinnies, I hold my glare on this group of leaders. I don’t car how ridiculous I look, all painted and half crazy. If Shem Shiver convinced them to abandon their homes, I can convince them to return and fight.

  “Forsada!” One voice near the back of the crowd yells it out. It’s a lonely sound like a clear bell in winter, but it makes me sit taller on the horse. I flick the whip up into the night so it cracks loud and clear across the camp. The voice yells it out again. “Forsada!”

  Thank you, Garrett.