Diplomats and Fugitives

by Lindsay Buroker

“An outcast who is not welcome in her country anymore, yes.” Ashara didn’t explain further. She wasn’t even sure why she had said that much, not when she didn’t know who she was talking to.

  “As we would be if we make this choice.” The man sighed.

  “Choice? To kill my—the Kendorians?” In case they were feeling violent, she decided it would be good to distance herself from the people in that canyon.

  “Yes. We cannot look in the other direction, as the chiefs say to do.” A soft rubbing sound came from him, almost a creaking. Ashara wasn’t sure what it was, but thought he might have a spear that he was clenching and unclenching. “They said that God will protect us and that we must trust in him. I—we—want to believe that, but what happens if he simply lets the Kendorians run all over our land and destroy all that we love and all that we need to survive? Where will we go? There is no land left that hasn’t been claimed. The Turgonians took it all.”

  Such bitterness filled his voice that Ashara wondered if Mahliki would be safe if he came across her in the dark in the village. Ashara could not blame him for his hatred—who didn’t loathe the Turgonians? They had conquered so many over the centuries, stolen so much. They hadn’t even come from this continent originally. Now, they were a republic instead of an empire, and they wanted peace with their neighbors, but it was hard to forget all that had gone before. They had so much when Kendor had so little. And Mangdoria too.

  “I can’t tell you what to do,” Ashara said, even though a part of her wanted to say to trust in his people and his faith and stay away from that canyon. With their small numbers, they were sure to be eviscerated by the hardened Kendorian soldiers. But she could understand their anger and bitterness. “I will tell you that I wouldn’t advise making this choice for any of you who have children or who have a deeply emotional attachment to your people, because you probably won’t be able to go home again.”

  “Your words are wise.” Even though the Mangdorian had mellowed toward her since she had proclaimed herself an outcast, the compliment took her by surprise. “But for some of us,” he went on, “it is because we have children that we must do this.”

  “Well, when Mahliki is done, you can come back with us,” Ashara found herself saying. “When we left Basilard—Leyelchek—he was trying to come up with a non-violent solution to getting rid of the invaders. The sort of trickery that it sounds like your people appreciate.”

  “Oh?”

  “I don’t know if he’ll succeed, but you may want to talk to him before proclaiming war. Unless you have a lot more people standing in the weeds over there than I think, you wouldn’t have much success simply attacking the Kendorians.”

  That was doubly true if all they had ever battled were animals. Humans might be frailer, but they were far more dangerous than animals, too, even grimbals.

  “This is rye grass.”

  Ashara frowned. “Pardon?”

  “There is no word for weed in Mangdorian,” he said dryly, the first hint of humor in his voice. “We have names for all plants, and we have a saying that there is no such thing as an undesirable plant, only one whose desirability has yet to be established. I thought even a Kendorian hunter would have a similar philosophy.”

  Ashara’s cheeks warmed at the unexpected source of criticism, even if he didn’t truly sound disappointed in her. “It’s dark. I can’t tell what you’re standing in. Go talk to your friends. See if you really want to do this. And if you do, you’d better recruit everybody who thinks as you do. The Kendorians brought a lot of people.”

  “I understand.”

  She did not hear them leave, but after a few moments, she knew she was alone. With their skill at moving silently through the forest, they could be assassins. Since their numbers were so few, that would make more sense than trying to raise an army to confront the Kendorians openly, but she doubted they could turn from peaceful men into throat slitters in a day. More likely, they would all go fall upon her people’s swords and accomplish nothing.

  Ashara looked toward the stars, wondering if she should have tried harder to dissuade them.

  Chapter 14

  Not many people could sneak up on Basilard, even at night and even when he was running to escape irate Kendorians, so he was surprised when someone stepped out of the shadows of a bush and gripped his arm. He whirled as he yanked out a dagger.

  “It’s me,” Sicarius said at the same time as he caught Basilard’s wrist, as if it were full daylight and he had no trouble seeing the attack.

  Basilard relaxed as soon as he recognized the voice, then admitted that Sicarius might have been right about the need for more training.

  “Amaranthe and Maldynado ran in the other direction,” Sicarius said. “Downstream and away from the dam. Most likely they wished to lead the Kendorians away from our trap.”

  Basilard winced. As he had been running, he had wondered if he should have done that. But there had not been any place to climb the walls and choose a different route, and racing back through the camp would not have made sense.

  “The Kendorians were too surprised and fragmented to follow them, or you.” Sicarius’s gaze was hard; somehow, Basilard could tell that even in the dark. “But they’ll form search parties soon.”

  They could avoid search parties—this was his homeland, after all, and he knew it well—but there was no point in signing his thoughts. Sicarius had keen eyes, but even he could not see in the dark.

  “This way,” Sicarius said and led the way up the trail following the river.

  Basilard followed without commenting. He glanced toward the dark brush as they ran, wondering what had happened to the other Mangdorians and also to the man Maldynado had half-buried in the rocks. He did not see sign of either. The night was quiet with any wildlife in the canyon hunkering down in the aftermath of the explosion.

  The dim starlight did not keep Basilard from spotting the silhouette of the dam up ahead, a dam that now stretched most of the way across the river. A dragging noise reached his ears before he saw Corporal Jomrik. Basilard did not know what Sicarius had said to convince the man that midnight dam-building was required, but Jomrik was working diligently.

  Sicarius disappeared for a moment, then returned, lighting a lantern with a rasp of a match. He kept the flame low and tucked it between two bushes so it would not be visible for far. He hunkered down next to it and pointed for Basilard to do the same.

  “What happened?” he asked. “The dam is not ready to be released. We’re still building it up and capturing water. Also, we need to design a trigger, so it can be released on command. We could break it apart manually, but little water has built up now. It might do some damage, but it would not be as monumental as if we waited until tomorrow.”

  The major communicated with Ambassador Shukura, Basilard signed. Shukura informed her that the—

  Sicarius dropped his hand, cutting out the lantern. “Someone approaches,” he breathed. “From downriver. Someone with power. Did you see the shaman when you were down there?”

  Basilard shook his head. He had not sensed anything and could not hear anyone approaching, but he did not question that Sicarius did. Concern tightened his chest, as he remembered the young Mangdorian priest. Could that be who Sicarius had sensed? In the dark, he might not be able to tell the difference between a Mangdorian and a Kendorian, and Basilard had not gotten a chance to tell him about the young men they had found on the way downstream. He reached out, as if he might explain himself by groping without light, but Sicarius had already backed away, perhaps to warn Jomrik.

  Basilard dropped his head in frustration, wishing he could simply voice his concerns. He would have to hope that his comrade wouldn’t kill a man for no reason, but he worried that Sicarius, knowing how dangerous practitioners could be, might strike before asking questions.

  A thud came from somewhere upriver. Basilard frowned in that direction. Jomrik? No, he had been closer than that. This noise had come from much farther away, the sound of a hea
vy rock falling in the distance. Basilard pictured the canyon in his mind. A couple of miles upriver, the walls weren’t as high, and an ancient trail led down from the top. He and the others had come down that way, following the tracks from the Kendorian supply wagons. He wondered if Amaranthe and Maldynado had found a way to circle around. It seemed too soon to expect them.

  “Sicarius?” came a soft call from the bank. Corporal Jomrik.

  Basilard stepped around brush and over driftwood to reach him. Jomrik jerked, noticing his outline against the night. Basilard lifted a hand, hoping the man could tell it was he. Jomrik did not have his rifle nearby, but he was gripping an axe.

  “Basilard?” he asked warily.

  Basilard risked stepping close enough to pat him on the shoulder.

  “Gonna assume that’s you. The Kendorians don’t usually want to touch me. Not the men, anyway.”

  The women do? Basilard signed reflexively before remembering it was pointless without any light.

  “Had one woman once,” Jomrik said, perhaps guessing at the question. “Down when I was stationed on the gulf. Might have been she just wanted to ride in my lorry, but I wasn’t above going balls out to impress her.”

  Basilard was trying to listen for more noises, so he put out a hand, hoping a pat would tell the corporal to be quiet.

  “Uh, that wasn’t untoward, by the way. That’s a Turgonian expression. On the engines in the older model lorries, there are these ball-shaped metal weights on a rod that—”

  Gently but firmly, Basilard laid his hand across the corporal’s mouth.

  The man grew still.

  “Got a touch of trouble?” Jomrik whispered when Basilard lowered his hand. “Never mind, I see the light.”

  Light?

  Basilard stepped closer to the bank, peering upriver. The ramp they had come down earlier was not visible, but he did spot a torch or lantern moving in the distance. A second later, another light came into view. Then a third and a fourth. A faint grinding noise accompanied the lanterns. Wheels rolling over dirt? His stomach sank. Whoever was coming, it wasn’t Amaranthe and Maldynado.

  “We’re going to need to hide,” Jomrik whispered. “Where’d Sicarius go? He’s been glaring at me all night, and now that I wouldn’t mind a glower, if it’s a commanding one, he’s gone.”

  Basilard pointed toward the canyon wall. He doubted Jomrik could see the movement, but he was probably thinking the same thing. If those people were coming down the path, he and Basilard needed to be elsewhere. Unfortunately, Basilard did not know if there were any good hiding spots nearby. There weren’t any trees growing in the canyon, and most of the bushes weren’t much more than waist high.

  “Lead the way,” Jomrik whispered and put a hand on Basilard’s shoulder.

  Basilard weaved through the brush, wincing at the corporal’s heavy boots crunching on twigs and dry grass. He hoped the newcomers were making enough noise of their own that they wouldn’t hear other sounds in the canyon.

  The first cart came into view as Basilard and Jomrik reached the wall. Dozens of torches were visible now, gleaming against the dark, scaly skin of the lizards plodding along, pulling wagons. There were people, as well, more blond and brown-haired Kendorians. Dozens of them. Maybe more than a hundred. This group was as big as the last one. As if the Kendorians needed any more reinforcements.

  As Basilard peered about, he worried anew whether they would be able to hide. With all of those torches, the caravan ought to be able to see from canyon wall to canyon wall and everything in between.

  Jomrik jerked, looking at something past Basilard’s shoulder.

  Sicarius ghosted out of the shadows, stopping next to them. “The shaman and two dozen soldiers are coming from downriver,” he breathed, his voice barely audible over the approaching carts and the gurgle of the river. “I considered attacking the practitioner, but he had bodyguards and was alert. He’s older, experienced. He may be able to create a protective barrier around himself and his men. I sensed him probing the brush too. He may have known I was there.”

  “We can’t hide then, can we?” Jomrik whispered.

  Sicarius did not answer immediately. He was looking toward the dam. Was he thinking of trying to destroy it early? To send the flood downstream and hope to do some damage?

  Even though Basilard had not seen much of it in the dark, he hadn’t had the sense that a great deal of water had built up. As Sicarius had said, it was premature. And if he ran out there, he risked being seen by an army. An army that was closing in and could trap them if it knew they were here. With a shaman helping search, that seemed inevitable.

  “They will see the dam,” Sicarius said. “There’s little to be done. We need to leave, or the shaman will find us too. Bushes will not hide us from him.”

  “Leave?” Jomrik asked.

  Sicarius pointed upward.

  “Uhhh.”

  Basilard might not have the voice to say it, but a similar drawn-out syllable came to his mind.

  “There are many handholds,” Sicarius murmured. “Climbing up is a simpler matter than climbing down.”

  “That has to be two hundred feet, easy,” Jomrik added. “It’s vertical.”

  “You would prefer to deal with the shaman?”

  “I’d prefer to hide in a bush and wet myself.”

  “Stay if you wish,” Sicarius said, his tone emotionless, as if he did not care one way or another. He probably didn’t. He might care if Amaranthe wanted to sacrifice herself, but what was Corporal Jomrik to him? Was Basilard even anything to him? After more than a year of fighting and traveling together?

  A question for another time. Now, he must consider the wall. Basilard tilted his head back, staring at the starry black sky stretching like a fat ribbon between the lips of the canyon. If he had not blown up the Kendorian supplies, he might have considered letting them capture him with thoughts of escaping later, but he had struck a great blow against them. In addition to destroying the supplies, he may have caused injuries or even deaths. That shaman would kill him outright.

  Basilard touched the porous rock, found a handhold, and pulled himself up.

  “Suicidal,” Jomrik whispered again. He made a soft kissing sound, then pushed off the ground, finding a handhold. “Need more than lucky duck feet to survive this.”

  “If the shaman is distracted by the arrival of the others, we may be able to climb up only a ways and hide in the shadows, wait for the caravan to pass, then climb back down,” Sicarius whispered from above them.

  The idea of hiding out in the open on a wall seemed ludicrous to Basilard, but he admitted that it might work. How far could a torch’s influence reach? Thirty feet? Forty? If they hugged the wall or found a small cave or crevice, they might be invisible to those walking right below.

  Bolstered by the notion that they might not have to climb all the way to the top, Basilard reached up, patting around until he found another handhold. Planning a route in the dark was impossible. With each move, all he could do was reach up and hope. Jomrik kicked a pebble free. Basilard could hardly blame him, but he winced, afraid the Kendorians would hear them. What if the shaman was sweeping out with his senses and felt them? Mundane torchlight might struggle to reach more than thirty feet, but a practitioner could summon something far more powerful.

  Before he had climbed more than fifteen feet, he was certain this was a horrible idea. But he kept going, because the lights had grown closer, the first of the carts nearly reaching the dam. More torches were visible in the other direction, as well—the shaman and the two-dozen soldiers Sicarius had seen.

  Voices floated up, greetings in Kendorian. Basilard knew he had to focus on the climbing, but he couldn’t help but glance down, taking in the long line of carts rolling toward the camp. There had already been hundreds of Kendorians, and now there would be hundreds more. Blowing up the cave seemed so insignificant. What had he accomplished? Very little. More supplies were coming in right now, and more people. What could
he and his tiny team possibly do against them all? He had been foolish even to try.

  When he reached forty or fifty feet in height, Basilard stopped looking down. He was not usually afraid of heights, but everything about this situation daunted him.

  “Brace yourselves,” came a whisper from fifteen feet above them. Sicarius. “Don’t think. Don’t react.”

  Before Basilard could wonder what he meant, a wave of sensation washed over him, almost like spiders crawling all over his skin. The shaman.

  He stopped all movement, three fingers curled around a ledge while his other hand hung in the air, halfway toward a new handhold. He stared at the wall, trying to banish all thoughts, trying to look, feel, and think like a rock.

  Gradually, the sensation diminished, but he had no idea if he had succeeded in fooling the shaman.

  “Keep climbing,” Sicarius whispered down.

  His usually emotionless voice sounded grim. Basilard worried that meant he knew they had failed, that they had been discovered.

  A soft grunt came from below them, and pebbles clattered free. Jomrik cursed under his breath. Even though Basilard had not known the man long, he would hate to lose him. The corporal had done everything Basilard had asked of him, and he had already lost more than he should.

  Down below, the cheerful calls of greeting had grown more subdued. The two groups had come together. People were still speaking, but quietly now, the smaller team warning the newcomers about the intruders who had blown up their camp.

  Basilard peered upward, trying to gauge how far he was from the top. Was it possible he might actually make it? A breeze gusted through the canyon, tugging at his shirt, as if to warn him not to be presumptuous.

  He reached up for a new handhold, surprised that he could make it out with his eyes and not just his hands. The air had grown brighter. Had the moon come out? He glanced up, but the night sky remained unchanged. No, the increased light level was coming from below. When he peeked under his armpit and saw the reason why, a sick feeling radiated from his stomach.

  A silvery ball of glowing light was floating upward from the floor of the canyon. It reflected off the water in the river—and off all of the upturned sets of eyes staring toward Basilard and the others. Among the Kendorian troops, a single man stood with his legs spread and his arms lifted above his head, palms toward the heavens. The shaman. Even if Basilard could have slung his rifle off his back without falling, he doubted he could have shot the man. He was over a hundred meters away, and two grim-faced guards stood at his side, swords out, ready to protect their master.