“Go,” Sicarius urged, even though he had stopped to wait.
He hung above Basilard, one hand and both legs on perches, but the other hand hanging free, a throwing knife in his grip. The weapon would be useless at such a distance. Why hadn’t Basilard thought to keep a couple of those blasting sticks?
With more than sixty feet to the top, Basilard doubted he could make it before the Kendorians spotted him, but there was nothing else he could do but climb.
“Up there,” someone cried from below.
“Shoot them,” a familiar voice ordered. Major Diratha.
Basilard did not have to look. He could hear the movement below and had no problem imagining the Kendorians lifting bows and firearms. If he was lucky, his rucksack might stop an arrow, but he couldn’t count on that. As he climbed, his hands moving more quickly than was safe, he scoured the rock above him with his gaze, searching for a cave, a crack, or a ledge—anything they could use for cover. The silvery light illuminated the rock face, but it did not show any obvious hiding spots. He found handholds more easily now, but it hardly mattered. There wasn’t enough time to reach the top, not unless those Kendorians were extremely poor shots.
As he drew even with Sicarius, Sicarius threw his knife. Someone shouted with alarm down below, but the shaman’s light did not falter.
The first arrow struck the wall less than a foot from Basilard’s head. The metal gouged the stone and broke off, the shaft bouncing away.
Basilard gulped, trying not to imagine the next arrow piercing him through the back of the skull. He forced himself to focus on finding handholds, on climbing. But his nerves made his fingers shaky. He didn’t test the next slender ledge sufficiently, and it crumbled when he tried to pull himself up. His arm fell away, his pack shifting awkwardly on his back. Basilard dug in with his feet, the fingers on his other hand trembling as they strained to hold him up.
A hand gripped his arm. It almost surprised him into losing his balance again, but Sicarius’s grasp was as firm as steel and held him fast. Basilard took in a quick, steadying breath, then found another handhold. Firearms cracked down below, and musket balls slammed against the cliff face. It was only a matter of time before someone struck them.
“Need to put out that ancestors-cursed light,” Jomrik panted, glaring over his shoulder at the floating globe.
“Keep climbing,” Sicarius said. “There’s a ledge in fifteen feet. It might be wide enough to shelter us.”
Basilard couldn’t see it, but he kept going. One hand in front of the other. It was hard not to rush with arrows slamming into the wall inches from him, but every time he went too fast, he slipped. If he fell… the arrows wouldn’t matter. A drop from this height would be deadly.
Another startled cry came from below.
“Get that one in black,” someone yelled. “He’s throwing—” Basilard didn’t know the word. Knives, rocks, it hardly mattered. Sicarius couldn’t do much from up here. None of them could.
He finally spotted the ledge. Not much more than a foot wide, it did not offer nearly as much “shelter” as he would have liked. The only good feature was that it stretched for twenty feet or more—it almost looked like part of an old trail that might have led down to the canyon floor eons ago. All of them could lie flat on it—if they all made it.
Jomrik gasped in pain. Perched precariously with the toes of both feet on a small protrusion, Basilard could not risk looking down to check on him. With a great heave from his arms, he pulled himself over the ledge, flaying the skin off his stomach as he scraped over it. He slung his legs up and collapsed on the narrow perch. As much as he wanted to do nothing but bury his face in the corner and rest, hoping the arrows could not reach him now, he wriggled about until he could remove his rifle from his back.
He was trying to figure out how he could position himself to fire without being shot himself when a musket ball blazed past his face, no more than three inches from his eyes. It cut through the strap of his rifle and slammed into the rock behind his head. Basilard scooted back farther. There were dozens of people down there shooting up at them. How was he supposed to fight back?
Below the ledge, pained gasps and grunts of “can’t” and “hate” mingled with curses. Corporal Jomrik. Sicarius was pacing him, helping. He could have reached the ledge and protection first, but he was making sure the injured corporal did not fall. The selfless act surprised Basilard since Sicarius had never professed to care about anyone, usually only helping them insofar as it furthered his own missions. But just as Amaranthe’s influence had mellowed him somewhat, working for President Starcrest must have given him some new tenets to follow, such as keeping the president’s soldiers alive when possible.
Feeling cowardly for hiding while the others were still targets, Basilard poked his eye over the ledge again. He wished he could shoot that globe out of existence, but he feared his bullet would pass straight through. Instead, he searched for the shaman again. He hadn’t moved. He still stood there, staring up at Basilard and the others. It was disconcerting, and Basilard had a feeling he could do more than shine a light around if he chose. He might only be waiting to see if the soldiers handled the situation by themselves.
Basilard shifted his rifle, aiming toward the shaman. An arrow streaked out of the darkness, nearly slicing a new scar into his scalp. He ducked, but he did not move the rifle. He targeted the shaman and fired.
The rifle jammed. Groaning, he scrabbled with the lever, trying to clear the round without revealing any more of his body than necessary. This never happened with bows. Of course, he never could have lain on his belly to shoot a bow.
Jomrik’s hand clasped the ledge a few feet away, sweat gleaming on the back of it. Basilard focused on the shaman, aimed, and shot. This time, the weapon went off, the recoil thumping against the hollow of his shoulder. Despite his awkward position, his aim was true. The bullet should have struck the shaman. Instead, it bounced against an invisible field a few feet in front of the man, a faint silvery ripple in the air the only thing that confirmed that Basilard had struck something. Unfortunately, it wasn’t anything that mattered. Across the distance, the shaman smiled smugly up at him. Then he pointed.
An invisible wave of power slammed into Basilard, hurling him back against the rock wall. He almost dropped the rifle.
Though dazed, his breath stolen from his lungs, he happened to be looking in the direction of Jomrik’s hand and saw the fingers slipping. He lunged for the man’s wrist, catching him before he could fall. Still cursing, Jomrik found the strength to pull himself over. He flopped down on his back, eyes toward the night sky and the top of the cliff. Basilard swatted at his leg, trying to tell him that he needed to scoot closer to the wall, that his entire side would be visible to the archers below, especially since he was lying on his pack and that elevated his body.
Grimacing in pain, Jomrik tugged his pack off and turned on his side, putting his back to the wall. He held his pack in front of his chest, like a shield. Two arrows already stuck out of it. Basilard stared at them, sobered by the sight.
“You said you have explosives,” Sicarius said calmly from Basilard’s other side. He had already reached the ledge, and he also had his back to the wall.
Me? Basilard signed. The silvery light still hovered, even with their ledge now, making his hands visible to the others. Basilard did not know if he should be thankful for that or not. Probably not. The shooters continued to fire, and musket balls and arrows clattered off the rocks all around them.
“Jomrik,” Sicarius said. “We were discussing how to trigger the dam failure when it was needed.”
Basilard grimaced. He doubted the men down there were paying attention to the dam at the moment, but once the chase ended, they would see it and dismantle it.
“There are some in my pack,” Jomrik said, his words breathless, pained. He must have been shot.
“Retrieve two,” Sicarius said. “We must distract them, so we can continue up.”
As Basilard looked at the fifty feet still remaining in the climb, he slumped against the wall. Maybe we could stay here, he signed, even if he wasn’t serious. The Kendorians would find another way to get at them—all it would take was for someone to run up to the top and shoot downward. Someone might already be on the way.
“How about you come retrieve them yourself?” Jomrik growled, his eyes squinted shut in pain and his pack still pulled to his chest.
Basilard was between him and Sicarius, and he felt the coldness of Sicarius’s icy stare, even if it was not directed at him. He thought Jomrik might be in too much pain to notice, but he sighed and fumbled with the straps.
“We won’t have much time,” Sicarius added. “The shaman is doing something.”
Basilard almost asked how he knew, but noticed the light wavering and lessening. That might signify that the practitioner was focusing on something else.
While Jomrik fumbled with his pack, trying not to drop it while he delved into it, Basilard leaned out and fired again. He did not bother trying to shoot at the shaman this time. This time, he aimed for one of the burly bodyguards by his side. An arrow sped toward him from below, and he jerked back right after firing. He was not sure if he hit anything. The arrowhead bounced off the wall only inches above his head.
Basilard closed his eyes, struggling for calm, but it was hard not to berate himself for getting himself into this situation. Himself and his comrades. Comrades who had no reason to care about Mangdoria or what happened here. They were only risking themselves because of him.
“Here.” Using his left hand, Jomrik tossed a pouch past Basilard and to Sicarius. Was it his right arm that had been injured? Would he be able to climb to the top, even if an explosion distracted the people below?
The ledge shivered under them, and something snapped deep within the rock. Basilard tensed. No arrow or musket ball had caused that.
“Now what?” Jomrik groaned.
“As soon as I throw this, start climbing again.” Sicarius lit a match, nodding to each of them, then touching it to a fuse.
Basilard did not know if he had blasting sticks or something else, but another shudder coursed through the rock underneath them. He was not going to wait around to watch Sicarius.
He patted Jomrik, waving toward the top.
“I know, I know.” Jomrik put his pack on and reached upward with a hiss of pain. “Should’ve stayed with the lorry,” he grumbled, but started up again, hunching his head.
“Go, Basilard.” Sicarius threw the burning explosive.
Basilard found a handhold and was lifting his foot toward a crevice when a booming crack sounded underneath them. Between one eye blink and the next, the ledge they had been lying on sloughed away. His feet almost went with it. He hung by his hands, fingers digging into the rock that remained, his shoulders feeling as if they were being wrenched from their sockets. The entire wall trembled, threatening to shake his hands free. Pieces of rock bounced down, some striking him. A fist-sized stone slammed into the top of his head, but he gritted his teeth and hung on.
Even as he swung one leg up, trying to find a foothold, an explosion came from the canyon floor. Shouts of alarm mingled with shouts of pain. Still trying to solidify a grip, Basilard could not check to see what was happening. He did not know if Sicarius had targeted the dam or the shaman or if he had simply thrown the explosive and hoped for the best. With a lurch of alarm, he glanced to the side, realizing Sicarius might still have been throwing the weapon when the ledge broke away. Had he found a grip or had he fallen?
He wasn’t beside them. Gulping, Basilard peeked below.
The silver light had vanished, at least for the moment. At first, he thought Sicarius had fallen, but then he spotted a dark lump on the wall twenty feet below. Sicarius had fallen, but he had caught himself. Below him, smoke filled the air, muting the light of the torches on the canyon floor.
Realizing this was their distraction, perhaps the only one they would get, Basilard made himself focus on climbing. He felt badly for not stopping to help Sicarius, but if anyone could help himself, Sicarius was that person. He would probably wave away assistance, if it was offered.
With darkness dominating the canyon again, Basilard could not climb as fast as he had before, but he headed doggedly for the top. Forty feet to go. Thirty. At twenty, the booms of the firearms started up again. The explosion might have rattled the Kendorians, but it had not destroyed them.
Ten feet. Basilard caught up with Jomrik and passed him. If he reached the top first, he could reach down and help. Something thudded into the back of his rucksack with enough force to thrust his face against the rock. He scraped his nose and felt warm blood drip down his lips and onto his chin. He didn’t slow down. The top was so close now.
A shadow beside him nearly made him flinch. Sicarius had caught up. He was the one to reach the top first and lower a hand down. Basilard accepted it. Such relief filled him as he was pulled up and flopped onto the grass that he nearly cried. But there were lantern lights to the south of them, atop the cliff, and he dared not relax fully yet. He joined Sicarius at the edge, adding his own hand to help pull Jomrik up.
Shouts came from the south, from the direction of the fortress being built.
“This way.” Sicarius pointed toward the mountains several miles away.
“Dear ancestors, can’t we be done yet?” Jomrik asked.
“Lizard riders,” came a distant call from the fortress. “To the hills.”
“Not yet,” Sicarius said and pushed the corporal ahead of him.
Basilard needed no urging. He ran between the other two men, his eyes on the dark mountains, knowing they could find hiding places there, thousands of them. But he glanced back as he ran, overwhelmed by all of the lanterns that soon burned on the cliff top, all of the soldiers the Kendorians had brought into his country. Hiding wouldn’t do anything to help his people. But what could he possibly do against so many?
• • • • •
Ashara woke before dawn and scrounged up a few blackberries to go with her trail rations. While she ate, she hoped Mahliki and her wise woman friend had finished their blight cure the night before, and that she and Mahliki could leave soon. That might be an unrealistic hope, but Ashara did not want to stay here. She did not feel comfortable with the Mangdorians. Perhaps she would have in another time, when her people were not invading their homeland.
“So why stay?” she muttered.
She had done what Basilard asked, and she had helped Mahliki. What else did she owe to these people? Yes, Basilard had helped her with the grimbal, maybe even saved her life, but she had helped his team fight since then. Hadn’t she repaid that debt?
“But where would you go?”
That was the real problem. Could she return to school? Was that an option now that she had failed Shukura? She doubted it. But if she stayed with the group, either she or Mahliki would have to talk to Basilard, share what they had learned. She cringed at the idea of being the one to tell him that his people no longer wanted him to be their ambassador, that they wanted nothing to do with him. He wasn’t one to hide his emotions, and the expression of hurt on his face… It would be painful to see.
Would he feel a further sting if she disappeared without saying goodbye? She didn’t know if she meant anything to him after so few days, but they had been through much in those few days. Besides, wouldn’t it be cowardly not to return, simply because she did not want to share bad news with him?
While she debated and waited for full light to come, Ashara did a few stretches and shook the dew out of her cloak. She had slept in the grass behind that boulder, using the cloak as a blanket to fend off the cool night. She grew aware of someone’s approach before she heard anything, and she faced the trail coming out of the village.
Fifteen young men were walking in her direction, all carrying bows and wearing packs and quivers stuffed with arrows. A few gripped spears in their hands, as well. Ashara recognized three of them from t
he group that had collected her and Mahliki the day before.
“You are going back to Leyelchek?” the leader asked, a man with spiky red hair and several bead and thong necklaces dangling about his neck.
She recognized the voice and that he spoke in Kendorian, but it took her a moment to realize this was the man that she had spoken with the night before. “You want to join him in trying to get rid of the Kendorians?” she asked.
She needn’t have bothered. The men all wore determined expressions. Determined… and condemned. Several of them looked back as they walked away from the yurts, like men who were trying to memorize a homeland they did not expect to see again.
“Yes,” the leader said. “I’m Bartohk.” He pointed at his comrades, introducing each of them in turn, though Ashara promptly forgot the names. Why was he telling her all of them? She hadn’t even decided that she would go back.
“Do you know where the canyon is where the Kendorians are mining?” she asked, figuring she could direct them on how to find Basilard.
“Yes.”
Before she could tell them she wouldn’t be going, she caught sight of Mahliki and another woman walking down the trail. The stranger’s vibrant red hair was pulled back in an elegant coif. Ashara had never seen her before, but Mahliki was speaking with her as though they knew each other, though an uncharacteristic tension pinched Mahliki’s brow. Also, the woman had puffy eyes, as if she had been crying. Was this the wise woman? Had they been doing something other than working on tree cures?
“Hello,” Mahliki said when they arrived. She looked curiously at the grim-faced hunters.
Diplomats and Fugitives Page 28