Threading the Needle

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Threading the Needle Page 15

by Joshua Palmatier


  The sound was loud and higher-pitched than he expected, but he continued clanging away as everyone scattered on the square. Someone grabbed a nearby handcart, dumped out the wood already loaded, and dragged it toward Logan, who carefully picked up Rex and laid him down inside. Morrell raced for Logan’s cottage. Everyone else headed toward the nearby cottages, pounding on doors or rushing inside to grab what little possessions they’d prepared for the caves. A smaller group raced toward the refugee camp, although they should be able to hear the alarm even with the rain. Sophia was arguing with Paul, heatedly.

  Hernande made his way toward Cory after sending a small cluster of the Wielders and University mentors and students off toward the refugee camp.

  “What are they arguing about?”

  “Retreating to the caves. Paul thinks we should stay and defend the village.”

  “He’s stupid.”

  “He’s afraid.”

  People were emerging from the cottages now, satchels and bags thrown over their shoulders. Mothers herded children toward the distant paths, at least one man in each group carrying a weapon. Some of the children and a few of the adults were sobbing. Cory saw Janis emerge from Morrell’s cottage, figure hunched, lantern swinging from one hand. She settled a pack on her back and joined another group, helping to keep the children in line. They faded into the downpour, the lantern light dying quickly, as if smothered. More groups emerged from the screening forest between the refugee camp and the village, all of them headed northwest, most being led by Wielders or those from the University. Cory recognized Sovaan and Jerrain. Mareane, one of the younger Wielders, was carrying a struggling, yipping Max.

  Cory started when Hernande’s hand gripped his shoulder. “I think you can stop now.”

  Cory relented and began massaging his shoulder, only now feeling the ache. He suddenly realized he hadn’t been ringing the bell so much as beating it, his motions frantic, barely in control. His entire body felt stiff with tension, locked under rigid control.

  But as the adrenaline rush of getting Rex help and sounding the alarm faded, he began to tremble.

  Hernande squeezed his shoulder. “What happened?”

  “The bandits attacked!” But that wasn’t what Hernande meant.

  He looked toward the ridge. “I . . . I killed someone.”

  “Ah. Killing someone is a hard thing, isn’t it? It isn’t as simple as thrusting a sword and walking away. It’s much more personal than that, even when you don’t know the man or woman you have killed. Even if that man or woman was attempting to kill you.”

  Cory looked down at his hand, the one the bandit had crushed into the mud with his boot. It still ached—a deep, internal pain. He flexed his fingers, making and unmaking a fist, telling himself it was to loosen it up.

  “It was so easy.”

  “Death is always easy.” Hernande let his hand drop from Cory’s shoulder. “Dealing with the consequences is hard.”

  “How would you know?”

  “I wasn’t always a mentor at the University.”

  “What happened?”

  “It was a long time ago, in the Demesnes. Right now, we need to get you and the others to the caves.”

  He tugged on Cory’s arm, but Cory resisted. “There’s something else. I did something during the fight. I used the Tapestry.”

  Hernande’s eyebrows shot upward. “How?”

  “I knotted it up and punched it into the bandit’s chest. It’s what knocked him over, made him lose his sword. It’s what gave me the chance to kill him. Otherwise I’d be dead.”

  Hernande considered him in silence, eyebrows lowered, knit together in thought.

  “I was thinking, even before the attack, that those of us from the University—and even the Wielders—could do more than just hold swords. We can help in the defenses in other ways. But after what I did, maybe we can actually fight.”

  “Perhaps. You’ll have to show me what you did. But later.” He tugged on Cory’s arm again, more insistent. “We need to go.”

  Cory didn’t resist this time. They trotted across the commons, toward the last of the people making their way in groups toward the caves. Joining Sophia and Paul and a few of the Hollowers who’d stayed behind with weapons, they herded the last of the people through the paddocks and fields in the widest part of the valley into the trees beyond, abandoning the worn tracks and trails made by the herders and animals. Some of the stock brayed or bleated as they passed the barns, sensing the turmoil outside. Then they were in the forest, somewhat sheltered, rain dripping down from above. Lanterns trailed away ahead of them, flickering as the groups passed through the trees. Someone handed Cory another sword, which he accepted hesitantly. He took position at the back of the group with Paul and two others, watching their retreat.

  Thirty minutes later they were at the entrances to the caves, people bunched up outside as they hauled the cart carrying Rex up over the steep slope leading to the mouth. The screen of vines and brush that had hidden the entrance had been ripped aside, the two openings—one significantly larger than the other—lit from within by lantern light. People were shouting, the sounds muted by the rain, punctuated by curses as the cart slipped in the slick mud. Others were filing past the group dealing with the cart, another group forming a chain into the smaller opening, handing up the smaller children and passing along whatever supplies or packs people had grabbed and brought with them as they fled.

  Rex and the cart made it inside, Logan already shouting for people to get out of his way, his bellowing voice echoing out from the opening. The remaining men and women grabbed the last of the children and ducked through, leaving only Sophia, Hernande, and the rest of those with weapons outside.

  To Cory’s right, Paul spat a curse. “We’ll never hide the entrances now. They’ve destroyed the cover.”

  Hernande had been staring at the shredded vines and brush with a frown. He would have been chewing on the end of his beard, if it hadn’t been soaked with rain. “I believe the mentors of the University can help with that.”

  “How?”

  Hernande moved toward the smaller entrance and Cory felt him reaching out for the Tapestry. As he’d seen his mentor do a thousand times in the practice rooms at the University grounds in Erenthrall, Hernande gathered up folds, plied them like cloth, careful not to stretch them too tight or tear them, and then layered them over the opening. He tied one side off with a knot that could be easily removed, if you knew what to look for. As he did so, the mouth of the cave shimmered, and a curtain that looked like rock appeared over it. Except that the lantern light from within glowed through, as if the rock were sheer fabric.

  “It needs some work.”

  Paul’s eyes widened and he looked toward Sophia. But she didn’t object.

  Hernande released the knot with a sharp tug and began refolding the Tapestry, this time in a slightly different shape. Cory moved up to see if he could help, letting the others better suited to wielding swords watch the surrounding woods.

  “What do we do now?” one of them asked as he passed.

  “We wait.”

  Bryce ripped his sword out of another bandit’s side, thrusting the gagging woman away from him as he did so. She landed in the muck and rolled, one arm clutching at the wound, then shuddered and stilled.

  Bryce staggered back a step, exhaustion passing through him in a wave, but he gripped the slick handle of his blade and scanned the area. Bodies littered the ground between the trees, some of them Hollowers, most of them attackers. He watched Braddon cut another one down, the rest of those in sight either being finished off or fleeing back into the night.

  “They’re running!” someone shouted, and those nearest let out a triumphant roar, swords raised overhead. A few of them took off in pursuit, but Braddon called them back.

  “Shouldn’t we follow them?” someone asked. “Hunt
them down?”

  “In the dark? In the rain?”

  “But they know where we are.”

  “We’ll send Reiss and the others after them. They’ll have better luck tracking them in this mess.”

  Bryce doubted Reiss and the trackers would have much chance of finding them all, not with the rain coming down this hard, but Braddon passed on the order.

  Bryce turned to the rest. “Check all of the bodies. Get our wounded back to the Hollow, and if any of the attackers are alive, find me.” Suiting action to words, he knelt down, sword at the ready, and rolled the woman’s body toward him. She was dead, pale face streaked with tendrils of her hair, mouth open, the rain already washing away the blood and mud. He wiped his blade clean on her clothing, noting her makeshift armor. He spent a moment searching through her pockets.

  Braddon joined him a moment later. “They aren’t trained. And look at their armor, what few had any armor at all. They’re thieves.”

  “They’re more organized than most. How many do you think attacked tonight?”

  “No more than fifty.”

  “Which is about how many Reiss and Cory reported seeing at their camp.” Bryce stood, staring off into the distance, blinking away the rain that dribbled down his face. “This wasn’t their main force. I don’t think they expected to meet any resistance. They thought they’d catch us by surprise, overwhelm us.”

  “With fifty men and women?”

  “They think we’re just a rogue group, like those we’ve seen from a distance on the plains. They haven’t realized how many of us there are yet, that we aren’t a bunch of refugees with a few wagons and a desperate grasp on hope.”

  “What happens when they figure out we have an entire town here?”

  Bryce didn’t answer. He glanced down at the dead woman at his feet. “Someone’s not going to be happy. Send runners to the rest of the groups, the village, and the caves. Make certain there wasn’t another group attacking on a different front. If not, tell everyone it’s over for now.”

  “Already done.”

  “Then let’s find Sophia, Paul, and the others. We need to talk.”

  Kara bit back a curse as the Rats who had dragged her from the Clay District shoved her down, hard, onto the roof of one of their island buildings in the middle of the Tiana. Her hands burned where the grit had taken the skin off in a thin layer. To the side, Dylan cried out as they kicked his knees out from under him. He landed on his side, both hands clutching at his left leg. Adder, Kent, Gaven, and Jack fumed as they were all pushed down into kneeling positions. Their weapons had been seized back in the courtyard in Clay. Both Adder and Kent bore the bruises from the minor scuffle that had followed after the Rats surrounded them. It had been a hopeless attempt. Jack hadn’t even drawn an arrow, handing his bow over with a glare that promised retribution.

  They’d been herded through the city, skirting the fight that had continued between the Rats and the Tunnelers, the excitement of the group escalating into a near frenzy until Richten, the Rats’ leader, had shouted out orders and punctuated them with a few punches and kicks. Subdued, the group had left the battle behind, most of the Rats sullen and disgruntled.

  That hadn’t lasted long. Their excitement grew as they drew closer to their home base and they began anticipating the reaction from Fletch. Their speculations as they shoved their prisoners forward grew steadily more gruesome and graphic, turning Kara’s stomach and terrifying Dylan.

  Kara recalled what Allan had said the Rats had done to the Temerites they’d captured. He hadn’t provided any details, but if even half of what the Rats had gleefully imagined on the way here were possibilities—

  Richten gave a half-hearted kick to Dylan’s kidney, eliciting a choked cry from the Wielder, before stepping over him and moving toward an empty chair. He turned to face the Rats that surrounded them—at least fifty more than the three dozen or so that had dragged them here from Clay. When he raised his hands, a knife glinting in the firelight, the already riled Rats roared, stamping their feet and clanging weapons against bits of metal armor or the stone firewalls that protruded a few feet above the rooftop. Three bonfires burned in stone firepits, one of them off to one side of the chair. At least a dozen torches were scattered throughout the group. To the right, the shattered outer edge of the distortion glowed a feral orange-pink, rising into the night sky. Kara couldn’t see the river from their position, but she knew it was below. She’d seen it as the Rats extended the bridge to the adjacent rooftop and marched them across it to their lair. The water came up to the edge of the building on the sides that she’d seen. She didn’t know how deep it was, but maybe she could make it to the edge of the building and leap off.

  She scanned the nearest Rats, practically climbing over each other, like their namesakes. There were too many of them, and more appearing from the depths of the building every moment. How many of them were there? She’d say at least a hundred here on the roof. How many were still in Tinker battling the Tunnelers?

  “We come from the battlefield!” Kara’s attention snapped back to Richten as the Rats in attendance roared again. Someone began beating on a drum, the sound low and hollow, joined a few moments later by two others. “And we bring prisoners!”

  Someone rushed to Richten’s side with a water skin, and he drank as the Rats flew into a steel-edged frenzy layered with anticipatory violence. Many of them were yelling out suggestions. Kara could practically taste the bloodlust.

  But Richten raised his hands again. The frenzy quieted, but didn’t die.

  “I brought them back for Fletch.” A tide of barked disdain and hisses of disapproval washed over the rooftop. Richten pointed his knife at the Rats, circling so he caught everyone watching. “You know Fletch is searching for something. For someone. Would you deny him? You know his wrath. You’ve witnessed it here many times! The Temerites refuse to answer and they die. The Underearthers spit at our feet and they die. The White Cloaks . . . well, the White Cloaks elude us for now. But not for long.”

  Kara shot a questioning glance toward Adder and the others as the Rats hooted and gloated in response. Adder met her gaze, but shrugged.

  Richten turned back to face them. “No, the White Cloaks won’t escape us for long. Fletch will take care of that. And Fletch will take care of these as well.” He sidled forward, toward Kara, knife pointed at her face. He halted a few paces away, locked gazes with her. His eyes were a dark, muddy brown. His hair was a wild mess that, if cleaned, would be a light brown. He had a scar along one cheek, near his left ear, the lobe missing, as if it had been torn off. Beneath the scrim of dirt were freckles.

  He was probably fifteen, but the hatred in his eyes was far older.

  “Who are you?” He held the knife steady. “Where did you come from?”

  Kara swallowed, trying not to look at the point of the blade, keeping her eyes on Richten’s. She didn’t answer.

  Richten shifted his gaze to Dylan, who watched in horror where he lay. He flinched as Richten passed by him, hunched forward, eyes closed. Richten sneered, but left him, halting in front of Gaven. The wagonmaster raised his chin in defiance.

  “What about you? Will you answer me? What group are you with? Where are they hiding?”

  Gaven ground his teeth together, didn’t respond. The shouts of the Rats surrounding them turned derisive, many laughing at Richten, others calling out suggestions. Richten didn’t look toward them, but the needling jests were getting to him.

  He flicked the blade forward, Gaven sucking in a sharp breath as the edge settled against the skin of his throat, just beneath his jaw. The Rats on all sides went eerily silent and still.

  Richten bared his teeth. “No answer? Afraid we’ll slaughter your friends if we find them?” He twisted the knife and Gaven stiffened, head tilted away from the blade. Blood trickled down the wagonmaster’s neck, stained the collar of his shirt.
<
br />   Richten laughed and pulled the knife away, the Rats breaking into another roar, half encouragement, half disappointment. Richten displayed the blood on the blade and the roar escalated.

  Then he spun toward the Dogs and Jack. “I think they all believe they’re safe without Fletch here.” He twirled the knife in his fingers. “But they’re wrong.”

  With two quick steps, he reached Kent’s side and plunged the knife into his throat.

  The Rats erupted into a frenzy, the sound smothering Kara as nausea rose with a hot bubble of bile. She swallowed it down as Kent arched back, Richten twisting the knife in his neck viciously before jerking it free and shoving the Dog’s body backward into the hands of the waiting Rats. They swarmed over him with a howl, not heeding the arterial splash of the Dog’s blood as they surged over him, spears and blades sinking into flesh even as they lifted his body up and began parading it around the rooftop. Kent bellowed in belated pain and rage, began to buck, but they were too strong. The Rats began to chant. Kara was too stunned to make out the words. Beside her, Dylan rolled to one side and vomited onto the roof, the stench slamming into Kara’s senses, overriding the metallic scent of Kent’s blood. She wanted to reach out to Dylan, drag him to his feet and flee, but she couldn’t see any way through the Rats, not to the roof’s edge, not even to the numerous rat holes that led down into the building.

  Her gaze skimmed over the chaos of faces surrounding them. Something struck her shoulder, the pain sharp, and she whirled, faces leering down at her, taunting, screaming, laughing. She jerked back, one hand landing on the roof for support. She’d half climbed to her feet when she caught sight of Adder.

  He shook his head, flicked his eyes to the right.

  She glanced in that direction, saw Richten standing still, watching her with a hunter’s look, muscles tensed, anticipatory, waiting patiently for the prey to bolt so he could pounce and savor the kill.

 

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