If killing was what was called for, they would answer their calling without question.
Chapter 28
Winterfylled 24, 567
Ascertaining the jail’s location was a bit of a gamble as Luca spotted a uniformed dragoon on the street of Point Place and marched right to him. Inquiring after an affordable saloon, he ignored the dragoon’s words and instead Listened to the man’s mind. Luca had stolen thoughts in this manner countless times before, but never from someone who may have been hunting him not a few hours earlier. The soldier was indeed a part of their pursuit, but had seen neither hide nor hair of Luca and Isabelle. As far as he was aware, they were only after the woman May Oles and the girl with her. Once their prey had been caught, the dragoons were given leave to celebrate their success, Underhill taking possession of the girl while the Traitor was sent to a cell in the sheriff’s station.
Finding Marta proved no more difficult, the two freebooters slinking around the edge of the station and Luca hoisting himself up to peer through the barred windows until he spotted her. What was difficult was to behold Marta in her state, the woman not stirring when Luca whispered her name as loudly as he dared. She seemed to hear him, but could not force herself to even sit up.
“Ekesh,” he whispered.
Isabelle pressed the bundle of herbs into his hand and he tossed them to Marta. They were only inches from her, Marta’s face laboriously turning to look at them before she returned to her hands. Luca called her name again, but Marta did not look his direction.
***
Underhill strode to Caddie, the girl not even deigning to look his direction. The former general was used to men snapping respectfully to attention at his approach, her continued apathy infuriating him to no end. He wanted to slap her with all his considerable might, but she was only a slip of a girl and he thought perhaps the carrot might work before he brought out the stick.
“Have a bite, it’s delicious.”
The girl did not stir, Underhill suddenly snatching up a handful as he grabbed her head with his other meaty paw. Forcing her mouth open, he crammed the food in hard as he could. And there the food remained until her mouth opened slightly, the victuals dribbling down her chin to plop on the table. Again he wanted to hit her, but his voice softened instead.
“It’s not poisoned, see?”
He took another handful and chewed it to show her. Still she did not move and he finally had enough. Levering her jaw open, he drew the masticated mess from his own mouth and shoved it into hers. His hand then covered her face, particularly her nose as he waited.
It took longer than he expected, but finally the girl swallowed, Underhill beaming at his victory. “So you do understand. Now, will you eat the rest yourself or will I have to help you some more?”
The girl remained motionless, so Underhill seized another handful and began to chew.
***
Marta was vaguely aware that something significant was occurring around her, but the what of it still eluded her. She tried to concentrate on the situation, but the only image she could manage was the pair of blue eyes. They were indelibly tied to her somehow, but they did not make any more sense than the ring on her finger. Had not the Home Guard taken it from her just that night in Vrendenburg? How was it then that it was returned to her now?
Isabelle finally shoved Luca aside to hoist herself up and peer inside. One look at the woman within and she spat contemptuously upon the ground, letting herself down and stalking away. Yet Luca returned to the window, his voice even louder as he called, “Marta.”
To his surprise she finally stirred, calling out, “Carmichael?”
Confusion swept over Luca at the name. He had never heard Marta speak it before, had never caught it when he had brushed her mind. The woman had been quite adept at keeping her thoughts hidden from him on their journey, but under the effects of ekesh, her will was gone and allowed him easy access as he Listened in.
Her thoughts were scattered like debris after a hurricane, the school of fish that usually made up a notion ignoring each other and swimming individually on indiscriminate loop-de-loops. But one was close to the surface of her mind, Luca able to spot it at once. It was her brother, Carmichael Childress, now head of the Public Safety Department.
Luca’s air departed his lungs at the realization. If this was true, then her brother headed both the Home Guard and the Newfield spies. He was most likely the man who sent Luca the message to deliver to Marta, which meant he was in greater trouble than he had previously imagined. Luca considered making a run for it then and there when Marta cried out again.
“Carmichael!”
***
Chewed food covered both Underhill and Caddie’s faces as the man basked in his total triumph over the girl. She ate the entire plate just as he had ordered. His hand still slick with saliva, he held her chin and turned her head back and forth as he examined her face.
“I know what you are. You’re not ripe yet, not ready to be plucked, but even green fruit can make a sustaining meal if prepared properly.”
***
Marta cried her brother’s name louder the third time, Luca sure if she continued at this rate, she would soon summon the guards. So he answered.
“I’m here, Marta, and I have a message. Are you listening?”
An inarticulate grunt escaped Marta’s mouth as she swung her head like a lowing cow. Luca could not decide if this was meant as a yes, but passed his message on nonetheless.
“And I looked to behold the nodus split, Sol the Father stepping from the ruins, the light of truth in one hand, a sickle in the other. And Sol looked over the multitudes, the wicked and righteous alike and He spoke. ‘The Harvest has come.’”
Luca was no scholar and disdained the Biba Sacara, like most Dobra, for how it portrayed Dobradab. He did not understand the significance of this scripture, but the message had an effect on Marta, the woman attempting to stand, but only able to rise to her elbow.
Marta closed her eyes to concentrate. It was hard, her thoughts hardly hers to control anymore. There was a message she was meant to understand in the Cildra code, but the crux of it eluded her. All she could see in the dark behind her eyelids were two blue orbs.
“Again,” she slurred.
Luca repeated the message, and upon hearing it Marta claimed the bundle of herbs to place them in her mouth. The medicine cleared her head somewhat, but it was the image of the blue eyes that prompted Marta to her unsteady feet. They, coupled with Carmichael’s message, meant she had to move.
“He’s going to kill her. Underhill, he’s going to kill Caddie.”
Her rage was there fueling her movements, but for once the clarity did not come with it, the effects of the ekesh too strong to simply shake off. The drug had unmoored her from herself, made her unable to connect with her Blessed nature. It was still there, Marta was sure of it, but she could not uncover it.
Marta inhaled deep, closing her eyes again as she searched herself. Soon she found it, her Blessed Breath nestled deep in her chest next to the Body. It was feral and thrashing, riotous as a wild stallion. Marta set her will after it, struggling for control until a single pinprick of Breath escaped her fingertip. It was not much, but it was a start.
“Just use your Armor to come through the wall,” the exasperated Luca called.
“Too many moving parts,” she shot back before examining the lock to her cell. It was a simple one, but the open palm she required was a complex technique. Given enough time she should be able to spring it, but time was in short supply. “If I’m not out by a 500 count, you have to rescue Caddie on your own. Promise me you will.”
Luca considered. Rescuing the girl had always been his goal, with or without Marta. He and Isabelle could probably accomplish it alone, but Marta’s brother would not appreciate them leaving his sister to rot. Marta was the key to their success, but she would not be able to escape without a dear sacrifice on his part. So Luca snapped open his lockblade and shoved it through t
he bars. And there it remained, Marta unwilling to take it.
“What good’s a knife now?”
“It’s not the blade that’s important. Just keep it open and you cannot be defeated.”
He seemed so sure of himself that Marta was nearly swept up in his confidence as she took it. “This is quite a gift.”
“More a loan,” he said quite sincerely. “I expect it back in less than a 500 count.”
For once it was Marta who grinned. “But how are you going to take it from me if I cannot be defeated?”
***
“Look at me,” Underhill demanded as he plucked a knife from the table, its edge sharp and serrated. The girl did not, and so he twisted her neck until she faced him. She peered straight ahead, straight through him, and his resentment rose again as he picked his teeth with the blade.
“I’m tired of being the low rung, sick of the others simply stepping on me as they climb higher up. They would not be where they are if not for me. Loree only appeared a genius because he had a good partner who knew all the steps. It’s a hard thing to lead the dance without anyone the wiser, to make your partner seem gifted through your stumbles.”
Hunting after a speck of food stuck between his teeth, Underhill dug too deep and sliced his gums. It was only a slight cut, but the coppery taste of blood flooded his mouth. It meant he had made yet another mistake, but he savored the taste nonetheless.
“In the scriptures when people turned away from the will of Sol and sought to summon Waer, they needed to sacrifice something. It’s the mix of blood and Breath that brings her for a bargain, they say. If that were true, she was forever at my side during the Grand War. Thousands died for me, thousands and thousands again. It was so easy in the beginning. Everything was so clear, so obvious. Inspiration was just below the surface, willing to come forth with just the slightest nudge. But now it’s burrowed deep, and no matter how I dig, I can’t find it anymore, can’t hear her voice. I know it’s still there, yet I just can’t find it. But you, you’re obvious and gleaming like a nodus in the dead of night.”
Wiping his blood and the bit of offending food away on his sleeve, he set the knife down to unholster the silver pistol from his waist. Since his demotion he was not allowed to wear it outside his home, but he was home now as he considered Caddie again.
“Why don’t we see if together we can summon Waer here tonight?”
Chapter 29
Septembris 14, 565 (Two Years Ago)
They retreated until they could not retreat any farther, finally setting up their fortifications at Fieldhollow, a city only twenty miles from the Western heart of Vrendenburg. Nothing stood between the raging Eastern forces and the capital but the scattered remains of the once-mighty Newfield army, now not numbering more than two regiments in size. The troops were a motley gathering at best, only fragments of once proud divisions: the remains of some sabermen here, a squad of musketeers there, and the untested reserves making up the rest. The Furies were the most useful unit, but they were only a fraction of their former strength, their numbers, even swelled by the new Western recruits, down to less than half of what they had marched off of Mitkof Island with.
Despite their shoddy state, the Grand War would be decided in Fieldhollow. President Bumgarden’s personal note to Marta said as much when he ordered her to hold the line for three days. He had not disbanded the government, had not retreated, instead remaining in Vrendenburg to stake his life on Marta and her Furies. It did not ultimately matter to Marta who won the Grand War. Newfield was too far gone to save now. She only hoped this battle would do the merciful thing and finally let the nation die.
Marta had every intention on holding the line though. She would not do this for Bumgarden, for Newfield, or the Covenant, her father, or even herself. She would hold the line because she had been hollowed out by the war, all her humanity spent and leaving nothing but a shell. She was a far better killer now than she had ever been a Cildra spy, so kill she would until the grave; no grace left in the world for such as she.
And hold the line the Furies did the first day of fighting in that blustery Septembris, setting up their phalanxes between the Browns River crossing and the Kuk line of ley that ran alongside it. There, they met the vanguard of daemons preceding the human Covenant troops alone on the field, waging war against four and smashing each of their glass hearts.
Their victory came at a cost though, nearly two dozen soldiers dying including Gonzalo. Marta was unable to say goodbye as his life bled out of him. She instead continued the fight knowing he would understand, knowing that he fully realized the harsh realities he hinted at with his stargazing. She had no comfort to give him because there was no comfort left in all of Ayr, only bloodshed that she perpetuated. He died looking ever up at the sky, though his precious stars were not out in the daylight to greet him. At least he died looking up. His body might not be anything but an empty husk now, his Breath scattered to the winds, but at least he would be bathed in starlight when night descended.
***
The next morning as the Covenant forces continued to gather along the Eastern bank, six daemons approached, Marta aware her depleted Furies would have no chance against their number. So she took the remains of her troops through the woods on horseback, the Eastern army having established no flank across the Browns River. So while the daemons battered the Western forces, Marta and her men struck at the Weavers controlling the monsters, catching them unaware and slaughtering them to the man.
At the death of their Weaver masters, the daemons disengaged, not turning for home, but crashing mindlessly through the woods surrounding Fieldhollow. The devastation they wrought wherever they trod was truly horrible, but at least they were not aimed at Vrendenburg any longer. The countryside could absorb the damage, whereas the fragile capital could not.
The death of the Weavers bought the Western forces time, but not much, as the human troops on the eastern bank of the river formed up to make the final press on the morrow. Against their superior numbers even the Furies clearly could not hold. The Easterners were not content with just their living forces, but also added more daemons to their ranks, the light of their Breath moving through the night on the opposite bank like living nodi.
Watching their former countrymen from the western bank, the Newfield army was clearly spent. The third day outside Fieldhollow would be their last, as they ate what they expected would be their final meal together. Despite the sword dangling above their heads by the thinnest of threads, Reid seemed to be in fine spirits as he joked with the sullen Furies. But his usually jovial riddles took on a darker edge as Reid inquired to each as to the most pleasant way to die.
Initially the remains of the Furies refused to take Reid up on his topic, but finally Presley Biddox curtly replied, “The answer’s obvious, ain’t it? Not to die at all.”
“Well-reasoned,” Reid responded. “But, unfortunately, death cannot be avoided. We all get but one turn on the wheel of life, death the outcome that cannot be denied. So we should think on it well since it is the one thing every man, woman, and child on Ayr has in common.”
“Then I’d like to find my death at the bottom of a bottle of whiskey,” Biddox intoned.
“Ah, poison.” Reid nodded sagely, as if this might be the true answer. Then a theatrical frown replaced his artificial agreement. “You know, every drunk I’ve ever seen dead in the street did not look happy. In fact, I’d say there’s nothing sadder than a dead drunk. So I’m afraid that’s not the answer. Abner?”
Abner picked at his meal, unwilling to look at Reid directly. “At home, in my bed beside my beautiful wife, many years from now.”
A smattering of sighs filled the air, Marta unable to tell if her men were agreeing with Abner’s assessment or just missing their own families. Reid did not even maintain the pretense of consideration before he answered, “But what about your lovely wife? Would she not awaken to a darker day upon finding her husband dead beside her?”
Abner flin
ched at Reid’s words, the prankster turning his attention to Marta. “What about you, Commander Childress?”
Marta did not bother to answer, only giving him a look so cold flowers would wither. Reid incongruously brightened under her stare, his eyes crinkling with his smile. “Your eyes say you’re dead already. An interesting argument, but unfortunately, incorrect. Since no one can answer my question, I shall play the gentleman and enlighten you all. The best way to die is not by saber stroke, musket ball, age, or infirmity. The best way is to be crushed like a bug swatted by Sol Himself. There is no pain in that end, only immediate oblivion.”
Despite all his clever words, Marta found Reid supremely stupid in his statement. Pain was the only proof of existence, hurt the only sure sign they were even still alive. Life was cruel, but Marta intended on holding on to every last raw and aching moment of hers.
Reid’s analogy to a bug was apt though. To call someone a bug was to invite them to a duel, since insects were deficient. Though they moved like animals, insects only had one Breath, like plants. They had no Mind to guide them with intent, only a Body Breath. Insects were the lowest of the animal kingdom and a good comparison for the Eastern Shapers though. Marta felt like several of her legs had been torn off, but she would still keep crawling mindlessly on with her remaining limbs until the final blow fell.
As she trudged to her tent, she realized there was nothing holding her there any longer. No more chain of command existed. The Western ranks were scattered, confused, and working singularly rather than as a whole to hold the line. She was certain she could slip unseen through their midst and leave all the bloodshed behind. The Traitors Brigade she would desert to ensure her escape, her brothers and sisters’ sacrifice a means to buy her more time to flee.
The Woven Ring (Sol's Harvest Book 1) Page 28