Rebellion ttr-2

by Ian Irvine

  “The bottom is six inches think, and I checked everything carefully.”

  “You must have missed a crack.”

  “I don’t miss things like that; not when our lives depend on them. Just as a matter of interest,” he said in an overly casual voice, “where did you put the heatstone?”

  “On the floor — ” She felt around for it and found the blanket it had been wrapped in, but the heatstone was gone and water was bubbling up from a slot in the bottom. She put her boot on it. “Ulp! Sorry. It gave me a dreadful headache and I wasn’t thinking straight. Must’ve knocked it out of the blanket with my foot.”

  He shook his head. “For someone with a phobia about drowning, you’re awfully blase about ice-boat safety.”

  He paddled furiously and drove the ice boat onto a mud bank, just in time.

  “We’ll have to travel light, and fast,” said Holm. “The price on your head will be big enough to corrupt even the most decent of people.”

  Tali jumped out and sank calf-deep in black, stinking ooze, almost as cold as the ice.

  “Should have warned you,” chuckled Holm, passing Tali her pack. “Keep to the sandbanks.” He indicated the paler, wavy lines, just visible in the moonlight, stretching into the distance.

  “How long ’til dawn?”

  “Three hours. And it’ll take half that time to cross the former sea bed to reach dry land. Can you go any faster?”

  Tali did her best, but the fitness she’d had as a slave had gone with the blood stolen from her.

  “Take off your boots,” said Holm when they reached the sandbank. “Dry them inside, as best you can. Put on dry socks, otherwise you could get frostbite.”

  She did so. Two cold and exhausting hours passed before they reached the edge of the old sea bed and began to climb a sandy incline dotted with tussocks of coarse grass.

  There were dunes after that, a series rising progressively to a hundred feet. Spiky bushes with narrow grey leaves formed scattered clumps along the low points between the dunes, but the ridges and crests were sandy. Tali and Holm left perfect tracks there. The sky was beginning to lighten in the east, though it had no colour yet.

  “Got to get off the sand,” said Holm. “We’re making it easy for your enemies to find us.”

  Tali tried to reassure herself. “They’re just tracks in the dunes. They could belong to anyone.”

  “An old man and a small, exhausted woman,” said Holm, looking down at their tracks. His were broad but slow, hers small and dragging. “Coming from the sea. Any fool could read that.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Right now? Somewhere wild and empty.”

  “Is it far away?”

  “A couple of days’ walk, according to my map.”

  “I’m not sure how far I can walk in a day.”

  “Then push yourself. We don’t only have to worry about your enemies. Anyone who sees our tracks will read us as prey.”

  “You’re a treat,” Tali said acidly. “When I’m down, you never fail to point out how much worse things are going to get.”

  “Would you rather I put icing on it?”

  They passed off the dunes into silent marshland with scattered, stunted trees between the mires, a cold and desolate land where every bog and pool had brown ice on it, and no birds sang. There was no sign of life, not even a beetle or a gnat.

  “Why is the ice brown?” said Tali.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Volcanic ash?”

  “Could be.”

  Narrow paths wove through the marshlands, arched over by reeds. But at least the ground was beaten there, and if they trod carefully in the centre of the path they left only occasional smudged tracks.

  “Any chance of breakfast?” said Tali. “My belly’s about to dry up and blow away.”

  “Not until we find safe shelter.”

  They reached the edge of the marshes, Holm five or six paces ahead. Beyond was a scrubby, barren land with no signs of habitation. It was fully light now, a watery, wintry sun striking through the rushes from the north-east and catching them in the eyes. Perhaps that was why, as they climbed a gentle rise, Holm did not see the horsemen until it was too late.

  He was rubbing his eyes, looking right and left, when three riders burst out from between a clump of bushes and spurred towards him. Tali turned and skidded back down the slope, expecting Holm to follow, but he was slow to react, and when he did, he ran up the rise, not down.

  “Not that way,” she whispered.

  Knowing how capable he was, she wasn’t too worried at first. He’d outwitted every foe they’d met so far, and she felt sure he was capable of dealing with three ruffians. That was what she took them to be.

  Only when Holm turned and ran sideways along the edge of the marshland did she realise what he was up to. He was leading them away in the hope that Tali, who had been well behind, had not been seen. He must have decided that they could not both escape, and was sacrificing himself for her.

  The leading man, a big, red-whiskered fellow on a bony grey, leapt off his horse and ran down into the marshes to cut Holm off. The horse seemed glad to see its master go, for it whinnied, kicked up its heels and began to crop the coarse grass. Its mouth was torn from cruel use of the bit and there were bloody spur marks on its flanks.

  Holm was darting and dodging, taking advantage of every bit of cover and the marshy ground where they dared not ride, though never going far into it. He could not, for the red-whiskered ruffian was always further out, blocking his escape, herding him back.

  Tali lost sight of Holm behind a clump of rushes. She ran a few steps until she saw him again. He was plodding up a steeper slope, exhausted now. She lost him again and had to scurry back up to the point where they had first seen the riders.

  When she finally located him, the other two riders were converging on him. One raised a cudgel and struck Holm down, then they dismounted and she saw clubs rising and falling. It looked like they were trying to beat him to death.

  No time for thought. Tali ran up to the grey, gasping, and tried to haul herself into the saddle. It was a huge beast, at least seventeen hands, and the stirrups were so high that she could not get a foot into them.

  Holm let out a terrible cry. She took hold of the harness. The horse turned its head and gave her a quizzical look. She stroked its flank.

  “It’s all right. I’ll never hurt you like that whiskery bastard. Please, let me on.”

  It stared at her. Tali reached higher, caught the strap below the saddle, dragged herself up and managed to get a boot into the stirrup. The horse did not move; it hardly seemed to notice her weight. She got a leg over and tried to slide into the saddle, but had to pull out of the stirrup first — her legs weren’t long enough.

  The saddle was vast, barely holding her at all. Red-whiskers must have a backside the size of a warthog’s. She took hold of the reins, gave them a gentle shake and said, “Go.”

  The horse gave her another quizzical look, but did not move.

  “That way,” said Tali, pointing to where the three ruffians had taken Holm. Were they still beating him? Did they plan to kill him because she had escaped, or just for the fun of it? “Go, please.”

  Nothing. She gave the horse a gentle nudge with her heels. Nothing.

  Feeling exceedingly foolish, she reached out with her magery, gently and respectfully. Please, run for me.

  The horse took off. Tali slid backwards in the saddle, then sideways. She grabbed desperately for the saddle horn, sure she was going to fall. She had been on a horse before, though for most of that time it had been with Tobry. No one would have called her an accomplished rider.

  Even if she stayed on long enough to reach Holm, what was she to do? Think, think! Then something Tobry had once said about Rix popped into her mind. He had been talking about their plan to rescue her from Orlyk’s Cythonians, out in the Seethings.

  With respect, Lord Rixium, Tobry had quoted, smiling as he retold the
story, full gallop is the only plan you ever have. Subtle you are not.

  Why not? The plan, if she could get the horse to cooperate, had the merit of speed and simplicity. Yes, she would go straight at them and pray that it would work. Though three ruffians against one small woman… No, don’t think of the problems or Holm will be dead. Do it!

  She tugged gently on the reins, remembering the horse’s bloody mouth, and eased the animal around towards Holm’s attackers. Sorry. I don’t mean to hurt you. The men were only sixty yards away now and did not seem to have noticed her, for the horse’s hooves made little sound on the soft earth.

  Go, my friend. Right at them. But look out for Holm, on the ground.

  It accelerated so fast that she nearly slid off the back of the saddle. The horse leapt a bush, five feet in the air and fifteen at a stride.

  One of the ruffians shouted, “Look out!” and scrambled to his feet.

  But the great horse was travelling far faster than he could move. It crossed the last twenty yards in less than a second, hurtling towards the three ruffians, who were desperately trying to get out of its way.

  They could not move fast enough. The horse’s right shoulder struck the red-whiskered ruffian on chest and chin, snapping his head backwards and hurling him ten feet into a thorn bush. Its chest knocked the second man off his feet and Tali heard something crack as he went under the hooves. She did not see what happened to the third fellow.

  The horse slowed, turned, and its great eye was on her again, as if asking, is that enough?

  “Can you go back, please? I can’t see Holm.”

  Had he been trampled? Was that what that hideous crack had been? She rode back warily, watching the ruffians. Were they dead, injured or only shamming?

  The fellow who had gone under the horse was dead. There was a hoof print in the middle of his chest and blood around his mouth and nose. The horse’s weight must have broken his ribs and stopped his heart.

  The red-whiskered fellow was trying to free himself from the thorn bush, crying out with every jerk and twitch.

  “You little bitch!” he said in a thick, pained voice. “Going to carve you into pieces.”

  Tali let out a gasp. He grinned, slack-jawed, as if it had been dislocated.

  She turned the horse away. Red-whiskers was trapped by a network of needle-length thorns and he could hardly get free without making a lot of noise. But if he did — she shivered. At least she was armed.

  The third man had disappeared, and he was the bigger worry. He was a burly fellow with a chest three times the size of her own and a dense stubble of coal-black beard. If he caught her he could snap her in half and, once the initial shock wore off, he was bound to come after her. If she dismounted she would have no chance against him. But she had to see how Holm was.

  She loosened Lizue’s big knife, which she wore in a canvas sheath across her back. “Thank you,” she said, stroking her horse’s neck. “You’re a wonderful creature. Please don’t go away. I’ll just be a minute.”

  Talking to the horse helped to maintain the illusion that she was not alone. She had got into the habit back in Cython, with her beloved pet mouse.

  The dead man had fallen across Holm, obscuring his face and chest. Without moving the body, Tali could not tell if he were alive or dead. There was a lot of blood on the ground, though. Her heart clenched like a fist.

  She could not bear it if Holm were dead.

  CHAPTER 40

  Tali took hold of the dead man’s ankles, trying not to look at the ruin the horse’s hoof had made of him, and heaved. He barely budged; he was several times her weight. She went around to the side, pushed her hands under him and heaved.

  He rolled over and flopped to the bare, gritty ground. Ants were already swarming there, going at the blood, and Holm’s head was covered in it. Was he alive or dead? She wiped the worst of the blood off and felt his face. His nose was broken, his left eye black and swollen, there was a triangular cut across his left eyebrow and a long gash from that side of his forehead around into his thin hair. And oddly, his muscles were knotted. In someone unconscious, she would have expected them to be relaxed.

  “Holm?” she said softly.

  He did not respond and, when she lifted his eyelids, his pupils hardly reacted to the light. Concussion. She leaned back on her heels. What was she supposed to do?

  The thorn bush rustled and the red-whiskered villain let out a sharp groan, as if another of the thorns had pierced him. Good, I hope it hurts.

  “Crebb?” he called. “Give us a hand, would you?”

  There was no answer. Tali assumed Crebb was the burly blackbeard. She crouched lower, turning in a circle, but saw nothing, heard nothing. Had he run off? She did not recall anyone crashing away, though in the drama of the attack she might not have noticed.

  She slipped Lizue’s knife from its sheath and laid it on the ground while she finished checking Holm. There was blood all over his face but none in his mouth, and no ribs or limbs had been broken. They’d mainly attacked his head and shoulders, thumping him with cudgels then punching him. They hadn’t intended to kill him, then.

  The horse was tearing at the coarse grass, watching her from one eye. She rose and stroked its flank. The beast snorted. It seemed to like her. She weighed nothing on its back and had treated it respectfully, unlike its red-whiskered rider. She would try to get Holm onto the saddle.

  She took him under the arms and heaved. Holm was not a big man but Tali’s heart was pounding by the time she got him to a sitting position. She held him upright, worrying about the concussion. Head injuries were dangerous and unpredictable. If his skull was cracked, and a piece of bone was pressing on the brain, a tiny bump could kill him.

  “Where are you, Crebb, you bastard?” yelled the man in the thorn bush. There was no answer and the rustling resumed, then he said to Tali, “Coming for you, bitch.”

  She had to hurry. Crebb might come back any second, with more villains. Or Red-whiskers might free himself from the thorns.

  Tali shortened the stirrups so she could reach them from the saddle. She would need them if she were riding holding Holm, otherwise she was liable to drop him. Taking hold of the dangling reins, she led the horse back. It shied at the body and the smell of blood, whinnied and stamped around in a circle, wild-eyed, tossing its head and almost stepping on Holm’s face.

  “No!” She cried. Tali laid her hands on its long neck. “It’s all right, it’s all right.” She rubbed the horse’s nose, spoke quietly to it for a minute, and it steadied.

  She led it away a few yards, upwind of the blood, and tethered it to the far side of a bush, putting it between the horse and the body. She would have to lug Holm yards further, but it could not be helped.

  The horse began to tear at another clump of grass. She took Holm under the shoulders again, and heaved. The top of her head gave a painful throb, like a warning. She turned around and around. Was it Crebb? The hairs on her arms were standing up. Was he stalking her? She scanned past the thorn bush, froze. The red-whiskered fellow wasn’t there.

  How had he got free without her hearing him? He must have slipped out when the horse had panicked; he could be anywhere by now. She dragged Holm up beside the horse. The saddle looked a mile high. How could she get his dead weight up there? She would have to lift him well above her head.

  She might have managed it when she had been a strong, healthy slave, but Tali could not do it now. It left only three choices: try to make a litter, capture Crebb or Red-whiskers and force them to put Holm on the horse for her, or heal him here and now.

  She had no axe to cut saplings for a litter and no rope. The second alternative was even more hopeless. How was she to capture a big, brutish villain, then force him to do her bidding? She checked around her. There was no sign of either man, no sound. But Red-whiskers would not have gone far. He wanted revenge.

  She considered her last option, healing.

  Tali had always been able to heal without magery
, for that gift was common among the Pale, though hers had never been strong. She could heal a cut, bruise or minor infection, though not broken bones, and serious wounds had been utterly beyond her. But with healing magery she might do all that, and more. Though -

  You can be a destroyer or a healer, but not both. You have to choose — then keep to that choice.

  If she chose to use her magery for destructive purposes — to defend herself, or attack an enemy — she might lose her ability to heal. Yet if she used her gift to heal, would she lose the ability to defend herself with magery? She looked down at Holm’s battered, familiar face. He needed her help, now. It had to be healing.

  Where was Red-whiskers? Tali walked around, peering behind the bushes. The uncertainty was more worrying than knowing where he was. She retrieved her knife and put it beside Holm. Quick, while you can.

  She laid her hands across his broken nose and drew power, hard. The top of her head burned; she eased off. Fool! The master pearl gave her access to more power than human tissue could withstand. If she used it recklessly, it could cook her brain.

  She tried again, gently, gently. Drawing a tiny wisp of power, she channelled it into her healing gift, visualised the nature of the injury, then felt the bone and cartilage of Holm’s nose shift under her hand as it pulled back into shape and the broken bone began to grow together.

  The bone would take hours, perhaps days, to regain its former solidity, but she could leave that to his natural healing processes. Tali touched the cuts and gashes, one by one, and the skin began to knit under her fingers. There would be scarring and bruising — she was a novice after all — but he would be whole again.

  “Holm?” she whispered, when she had finished. The tension she had seen in his muscles previously had eased away but he lay as still as before.

  Had she missed something? Or did he have internal injuries? If he did, she could do nothing about them — she could only heal those injuries she could see and understand. She opened Holm’s eyes. His pupils still did not react to the light. There had to be a head injury.

  Tali was so absorbed that she forgot to check around her. She probed his skull all over, pressing gently with a fingertip. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Then, on the right side of his head, above the ear, it gave in a small depression no bigger than a coin. One of the blows he’d taken had cracked the skull in a small, ragged circle.