As he kept his hands mid-air, cold sweat running down his neck, his heart ready to explode, the soldier turned back to his initial target.
“You won’t fit through that window,” he said.
Henry leaned forward to see through the doorway. Seraphin stood bare-chested, hands on the windowsill, his glasses slightly askew as if put in a hurry. Moonlight lit his body. His ribs stood out agaist his skin and his white hair didn’t hide the prominent collarbones. Not a ghost. A skeleton.
The two men stared at each other.
Wind cycled through the house: front door, kitchen, bedroom, window. Soup dripped upon Henry’s clothes. His tongue stuck against his palate, thick from fear. He couldn’t take his eyes from the two men:the commanding presence in the doorway, and the sickly shadow by the window.
And the gun. How he wished the gun didn’t exist!
“Move into the kitchen,” the officer said.
Seraphin made his way across the cluttered bedroom floor, one slow step at a time. Henry straightened and set his gaze on the dripping soup. In two hours Seraphin would have disappeared, leaving Henry with sixty dollars and all his questions unanswered. Henry would have preferred to satisfy his hunger over his curiosity.
Once Seraphin reached the kitchen, the Union officer cocked his gun. The click brought a solid ball in Henry’s throat. He couldn’t breathe. His hands were clammy. How could this man hold his weapon steady?
“Do you like it?” The soldier took two long strides and pressed the barrel against Seraphin’s forehead. Unlike his hands, his voice shook. “How does it feel to be on the other end?”
“Don’t play, Captain.”
Seraphin’s calm astonished Henry. Tension turned the Regarian’s muscles rigid, but it was absent from his words and expression. His chin lifted, he stared at the captain with defiance. The officer scowled, took a deep breath. Readied himself.
“No!” Henry shouted.
He jumped to his feet, knocking over the stool with a crash. Both men glared at him. Henry wished he could disappear, but he assembled the shattered pieces of his courage.
“You can’t. My house…Don’t—”
“Mind your own business.”
An order from the commanding officer. Henry swallowed hard. He didn’t have the guts to add more. Seraphin forced a smile onto his bone-thin face.
“Close your eyes, Henry. It’ll be easier.”
Sound advice. One he was incapable of following. His eyes locked onto the trigger finger and his feet remained cemented to the floor. He didn’t want to see this. Or hear it. Or smell it, either! Yet he couldn’t move. The universe had refocused on the pair in his kitchen and their gravity held him in place.
“Last words?”
“The same as your brother’s,” Seraphin said. “At least look into my eyes when you shoot.”
“Did you?”
“Yes. Can you?”
No answer. The wind, whipping Seraphin’s hair. The salty smell of soup. The trickle down Henry’s pants. The house, silent, waited. The captain’s hand shook.
“I…No.”
It was but a whisper. He lowered the gun, closed his eyes.
Seraphin barreled into the officer and grabbed the firearm. They crashed to the ground with grunts and hisses of pain. Seraphin’s glasses dropped from his nose, sliding away. The soldier, bigger and stronger, rolled on top right away but Seraphin, agile beyond expectation, melted from under him. Henry watched the dizzying fight for the gun. He ought to help, but who?
Neither. Don’t get involved in others’ business, his father always said. If it didn’t apply now, when would it? Time to do what he should’ve done when he saw Seraphin’s pistol: go to Kinsi. Henry started around the counter. He made it to the broken door before a great detonation pierced his ears. Horrible images formed in his mind. Bloodied flesh scattered on the floor, a dark red pool. Nauseated, he turned.
A new hole decorated the wooden planks. No blood. No corpse.
Seraphin stood over the captain, gun in hand. The officer remained still, propped up by his elbow. Their breaths came in short gasps. The gunshot’s echoes bounced around Henry’s head. He stepped outside.
“Stay.”
The coldness of the Regarian’s voice surprised Henry. He obeyed, shifted back inside, shivering from the night’s drafts.
“You missed,” the captain said.
“I didn’t.” A disquieting smile played upon Seraphin’s lips. “You’re not your brother. Stand up, Vermen. We’re leaving.”
The soldier’s bushy eyebrows connected into a deep frown. Henry willed him to obey. Vermen lumbered to his feet and dusted off his outfit. Calm. Almost serene. How could he wrestle his emotions under control so fast? Henry still wanted to run and scream and eat a dozen bowls of noodles.
“Henry?” Seraphin asked, his voice soft again.
“Y-yes?”
“Do you have strong rope?”
“The best. For the balloon.”
“Perfect.” Seraphin waited, tilted his head to the side. “Go get it.”
Henry gave Seraphin a pleading look. Don’t get me involved. The captain watched him.
“Without rope I can’t leave with him.” The Regarian cocked the gun to stress his point.
“I’ll go, I’ll go!”
Henry raced past them, through the living room and into the oldest section of the house. As he opened the connecting door, a breeze lifted the film of dust. He coughed on it but hurried between the small shelves that cluttered the space. Figurines of old racers stared at him. President Jacob Kurtmann’s frown made him stop, clean its tiny head, and apologise. Three-time winner, accomplished doctor, President of the Union—Kurtmann deserved better than that. Then he recalled the two dangerous men in his kitchen, and moved on.
Past the shop was his back store—an empty room devoid of windows, with a large trapdoor hidden under heavy boxes. Everything related to the hot air balloon waited there: envelope, basket, burner, and ropes. Henry cleared the space, fumbled for his key, and removed the lock.
The stairs creaked the same as his weekly visit, but this time they gave him shivers. He flipped the lights on and held his breath as the neon flickered to life. The chest rested in the middle of the room, his father’s memo on top. Don’t lose the envelope, Henry. Never give it up. He’d almost set the note on fire the first time he’d read it.
For once, he did not come to ask silent questions to a bit of paper. Henry walked past the chest to the spare spools of rope and heaved one onto his shoulder. He climbed out of the basement without a look back at the locked trunk. Better not to linger. Seraphin’s finger might get twitchy.
Neither man had moved. Had they talked? Breathed? Henry dared not ask. He handed the cordage to the Regarian.
“You tie him,” Seraphin said. “Then get my pack, my shirt and my glasses.”
None of the weary warmth from their earlier dinner remained in his voice. He’d become cold, ruthless and efficient. Henry obeyed the orders, afraid to hesitate. The officer’s outfit was rumpled and torn at the shoulder, no longer fit for promotional posters. He muttered an apology. Vermen stayed as silent as Kurtmann’s statuette. Would he remember Henry? Blacklist him? Would his fellow soldiers come to save him sooner or later? This mess wasn’t his fault. He had no choice. They couldn’t call this complicity in the capture of a Union soldier, could they?
“Search for my wallet in the front pouch,” Seraphin said. Henry’s fingers trembled as he unzipped the bag. He found a plain black wallet right away. “Good. Take your sixty dollars and put it back.”
“What?”
“Take it!”
Henry watched the gun’s barrel shake and did not argue. He grabbed the bills, slapped them on the ceramic counter, and stored the wallet. He backed away from the pack as though it were on fire. Why pay him? Staying alive was enough for him. Now he’d become a real accomplice.
Seraphin slung his pack over his shoulders and seized the ropes at Vermen’
s wrists. The soldier stumbled after him. He kept his shoulders squared, but no energy lingered in his steps. Defeated—like Henry’s father after the Plague took his mother. Strange, how certain expressions did not change from one man to another.
“There’s another door in the living room,” Henry muttered.
The Regarian did not grant him an answer, but he tugged the captain in the opposite direction. Henry stayed rooted in the kitchen and watched both men disappear through the connecting archway. Grayish rays lit the clouds on the horizon. The air felt lighter, devoid of humidity or electric tension. No one had died. Sixty dollars awaited him on the counter.
The backdoor slammed shut on the strangest evening of his life.
CHAPTER THREE
Would his will falter before his feet? Nine hours had trickled by since the White Renegade had walked him out at gunpoint and led him into the forest. Captain Hans Vermen fought for every step. His concentration eluded him. Not enough food. Not enough sleep. Conditions worse than the army’s forced marches. His enemy right behind, watching his every move. He would not stumble. He could not fall.
Branches snagged on his ruined uniform. Vermen brushed them aside. Behind him, Seraphin stumbled. Twigs cracked. The Regarian caught himself against a trunk with a grunt. Exhaustion had apparently caught up with both of them. If Hans gathered his strength, perhaps he could escape. He had to wait, bide his time, and the next time Holt tripped…
The roar of a waterfall welcomed them into a small clearing. How had he missed the powerful sound before? Vermen slowed his pace, stopped. The bright light reflected by the flowing water dazzled him and he raised both tied hands to protect his eyes. A deep pond occupied the majority of the area, its surface upset by the great waterfall. Mount Kairn’s cliff side loomed over them.
Seraphin pressed the gun against his back. Was that it? Had they come all this way for him to die in the restless water?
“Move,” the Renegade said.
Vermen glanced at either side. No clear path pierced the forest on Mount Kairn’s slopes. He took a hesitant step to the left. Only the cliff lay on the right.
“No. The other side.”
The strain in his voice put a small balm on the captain’s heart. Seraphin feared him, despite the rope holding him, the firearm at his back and, most of all, despite his earlier failure to shoot him. Had Vermen managed to scare him? It didn’t quite qualify as vengeance, but he’d take it. He obeyed the order, a meager smile on his face. Soon enough, they stood in front of the stone wall. The drizzle refreshed him.
“What now?” he asked. “Into the solid rock?”
“Turn forty-five degrees to the left. Take a step forward.”
Vermen hesitated but complied. The uneven stone brushed against his right shoulder. Water crashed down a few meters ahead of him.
“Another.”
“Don’t play games. Shoot now and be done with it.” Vermen closed his eyes and straightened his shoulders. Better to die with honor than demean himself further.
“Just take that step!”
The tone’s urgency surprised him. Seraphin’s cold calm from the previous night had disappeared, eroded by the endless trek. Did Vermen want to test his patience? The Renegade had no qualms with murder. He’d proven that years ago. Vermen moved forward. Understood right away what Seraphin had led him to.
A stairway in the mountainside. Impossible to see unless you were upon it, and masked from the airships by the great waterfall. The perfect entrance to a secret hideout.
The gun pointed at his back left him no time to admire the craftsmanship. He started up, careful not to slip on the wet stairs. His tied hands upset his balance and more than once, Vermen was forced to lean against the stone wall to avoid falling. He pushed his cramped muscles into one last effort and reached the entrance to a network of caves. Seven feet tall at its highest point, it had a squarish and irregular shape, with a small narrow ledge in front.
Amazing. The White Renegade had led him straight to his rebels’ headquarters, without even a blindfold. What an idiotic decision.
Round lights lined the stone tunnel’s walls, linked together by electric cables. Vermen squinted and noted three branching corridors, two of which had their own string of lamps. How big was this complex? Seraphin arrived behind him and heaved a sigh of relief.
“Don’t stop now.”
The rebel leader stood half a foot behind him, pistol at the ready. The ledge they stood on offered so little space that a push backward would send Holt tumbling down the steep stairs to a likely death, giving the captain time to run. If the Regarian hadn’t shot him first. The barrel waited less than an inch from his back. Even with the exhaustion, he doubted Seraphin would miss. He gritted his teeth and advanced into the rebel hideout.
They didn’t need to go far. Seraphin walked him to the first intersection then spotted one of his men. He hailed the tall man and the rebel whirled around. He strode to them without hesitation, every step the same length, with a distinct rhythm that marked him as a soldier. Vermen studied him as he approached, off-put by the familiarity of the dark blond hair, deep-set eyes, and beakish nose. The captain tried to work through his fatigue and remember where they’d met.
Seraphin stepped forward and handed the firearm to him, his bony shoulders slumped. “Guard him. I’ll send Andeal to you. He’ll know where to put him.”
“Yes sir.”
The quick military answer bothered Vermen. Murderers and outlaws did not deserve the deference one gave to army officers. Holt was a lowly criminal and should not be addressed with respect.
“Don’t kill him,” the Regarian added as he headed down the passageway.
The rebel clacked his tongue in disappointment as his leader vanished around a bend. He trained the gun on Vermen but kept a safe distance between them.
“I imagine he’ll want the honor. I can understand. Your family’s been a plague on his life.”
The captain tensed at the reference to his brother. He withheld a reply, still raking his brain for memories of this man. He pictured him with the Union soldiers’ beige uniform instead of his marine shirt, then cropped his hair even closer. His mind completed the picture with a rich decor, an untouched glass of champagne, and the buzzing of a chattering crowd. A cocktail. They’d shaken hands at a military cocktail, with ranking officers and influential figures of all spheres.
“We’ve met.” Vermen leaned against the wall. He remembered him now. Stern Cypher. “You dogged General Clarin at a cocktail. You were his little pet, his new protégé. He’d had you promoted all the way up just so he could keep you close. The sex must’ve been fantastic.”
Stern’s jaw clenched and his knuckles whitened as he tightened his grip on the gun’s handle. Apart from glaring at him, however, he did not retaliate. Not physically.
“Jealous?” Stern asked. “You shouldn’t be. Most soldiers I’ve met used to gossip about the precious time Lieutenant Lungvist and you spent together.”
David Lungvist was his best man. Quick of wits, loyal, determined. Not the best shooter but an incredible tactician. He’d be hunting for Vermen now. He would find him.
“Lungvist earned every promotion he ever had.”
“But I didn’t, is that it?” asked Stern.
“You betrayed your fellow soldiers.”
A thin smile stretched the rebel’s lips. Vermen wanted to pounce on him and wipe the expression off his face. He’d be dead before he reached him, however.
“My fellow soldiers,” Stern repeated with a sneer. “You’re so proud of your army, aren’t you? Glad to belong to such a group of fine men. I used to be like that, too. What better way to honor my country? Then one day I served under a general who trapped half a village in its tavern and slaughtered them. The following morning, my best friend walked into the encampment with his family’s old gun to avenge them, ready to die in the process. I thought, there you go, the bad apple is gone. I stayed a soldier. I climbed the ranks. I found more and
more of these bad apples. The truth is, the further up you go, the more there are. The real soldiers are here, scraping by, not drinking champagne with the worst war criminals.”
“You make hiding and thieving into such a noble endeavor. I can only commend your bravery.”
In one swift movement, Stern flipped his hold on the pistol and smashed the cross into Vermen’s face. Pain burst in his jaw and sparks flew before his eyes. He held himself against the wall, his legs threatening to give in, and spat bloodied saliva on the ground. If his head didn’t spin from the combined ache and exhaustion, he could’ve used the opportunity to jump the ex-soldier. He clutched the side of his face and they glared at each other. Stern broke away first.
“I cheered when I heard the gunshot that killed your brother. I will again when your turn comes.”
“That’s not a very nice thing to say, Stern.”
The new voice took them both by surprise. Vermen spun on his heels to face the newcomer and froze, his eyes widening. Blue skin. What kind of freak had blue skin? Vermen slid away, keeping his back to the rock wall. The easy smile on the blue man’s face vanished, replaced by a pained expression. It sufficed to stop Vermen. He was a captain of the Union army. He would not be scared by an aberrant skin color.
“Why would I be nice to him?” Stern asked.
He received a shrug as an answer. “You shouldn’t need a reason. But it’s okay, you don’t need to stay anymore. I’ll take care of him.”
“Seraphin asked me to guard him.”
“Until I arrived, yes. I’ve made arrangements for his cell.”
This must be the Andeal mentioned earlier, then. He put his hands on the rope tying Vermen’s wrists and gave a slight pull, signaling they should go. The captain squirmed at the proximity but started after Andeal anyway.
Stern followed. “He’s dangerous.”
“I can handle him.”
He heard Stern’s derisive snort despite the roaring waterfall. Andeal’s grip on the ropes tightened, his shoulders tensed, and he walked faster. Hit him, Vermen thought. Turn around and hit him. Wouldn’t that be the most perfect escape? The freak fighting with his deserter colleague, giving him a chance to reach for the gun and get away. Too bad Andeal did not seem to be the violent type.
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