A World of Secrets (The Firewall Trilogy)

by James Maxwell

  Taimin sat on the floor with his back against the rock wall. Lars and Milton were on either side of him in the same position. Taimin was once more in the alcove designated for the three humans, but now with his wrists bound tightly with leather cord. Their weapons had been taken from them. Skalen warriors faced them.

  “Liars, all of them,” a young, golden-eyed skalen hissed. “The human was never ill.”

  “What should we do with them?” asked an older, featherless skalen.

  “Is your mind getting slow, Bron? We should kill them,” the young warrior said eagerly.

  “And who is going to do it? You, Neesal?” the old skalen, Bron, asked scornfully.

  Taimin and Lars exchanged grim glances. Kash was absent, in the nest, as her warriors all raised their voices, some calling for the humans to be killed, others saying they needed to wait for Kash to return.

  A crisp, clear statement cut through the clamor. “I will do it.”

  The skalen who spoke wasn’t as tall as Kash, but he was battle-scarred and his eyes were fierce, with thin pupils.

  “There you have it.” The young skalen, Neesal, nodded to the others. “Zaitan will do it.”

  Milton’s eyes, wide with fear, shifted from one skalen to the next. Lars’s nostrils flared. Taimin strained at his bonds, but it was no use. Catching movement, he turned his head to see Kash return.

  “Clan Leader,” Neesal said. “Zaitan has said he will do the killing. Will you give the order?”

  Taimin lifted his chin. He stared directly at Kash. “What are you so worried about?”

  All of the skalen ignored him.

  “Do you think he entered?” Bron asked Kash.

  Kash’s expression was troubled as she slowly shook her head. “I do not think so.”

  “We have to kill them all, surely?” Neesal looked like he was both excited and apprehensive at the prospect.

  Kash pondered. “This should not have been allowed to happen.”

  “What are you afraid of?” Milton demanded, glancing from face to face. “What are you hiding?”

  “We have friends,” Lars growled. “Many of them. They’re going to come looking for us.”

  “And you only mention this now?” Kash snorted. “You said it yourselves. You are three travelers, passing through.”

  “What makes you think we told the truth?” Lars demanded. “We know about the machine. It’s why we were here in the first place.”

  Kash’s lip curled with disdain. “You know nothing.”

  “Do you even know what it is you’re hiding?” Taimin asked. “Don’t you want the firewall gone?”

  “The firewall?” Kash was clearly puzzled. She waved a hand. “The firewall is far from here.”

  Despite Kash’s words, Taimin thought Lars’s warning might have had an effect. There was a worried cast to her reptilian eyes as she stared into the distance. Her warriors watched and waited. Taimin held his breath.

  “I have made my decision.” As Kash prepared to make her pronouncement, Taimin tried furiously to think of something he could say or do. “I am clan leader, and this is my final word.” She fixed her narrowed eyes on each of her warriors in turn. “Whatever happens, we must keep our hands clean. More humans may come.”

  Neesal looked disappointed. “Then what are we going to do with them?”

  Kash’s cold eyes revealed her cunning. “Hara and Prin-tika will be returning soon. We will give our prisoners to the trull. Then, if anyone comes looking, we can tell them the truth: the trull took the humans with her and they were alive when we last saw them.”

  “We would have to convince Hara and Prin-tika to take them,” said the old skalen, Bron. “They will want some kind of payment.”

  “Aurelium?” one of the warriors ventured.

  “You know Hara,” another said. “She will ask for more than we can give her.”

  Bron turned to look at the steel sword that lay on a wooden bench not far from the fire pit, alongside Taimin’s bow and Lars’s axe and skinning knife. Three packs rested on the ground beneath the bench. “We can give Hara the sword.”

  Kash scowled. “After all this trouble . . .”

  “We don’t use swords but trulls do,” Bron replied. “That sword is worth a hundred rusted daggers.”

  Kash thought for a moment. “Fine,” she snapped. “Our security is more important than one sword. We will offer the trull the sword and she can take the humans away, to somewhere far from here. Then . . . well, the trull will do what needs to be done.”

  “We should kill them now,” the skalen with the scars on his face said flatly. “If they tell others what they have seen, our clan will be in danger.”

  “Have you killed humans before, Zaitan?”

  Zaitan reluctantly shook his head. “No. But they are much like other creatures. If we cut them, they will bleed.”

  Some of the other skalen made sounds of distaste.

  “Kash is our clan leader,” Bron said to the rest of the group. “The decision has been made.”

  Taimin couldn’t look at Lars or Milton. They had found what they had been looking for, but lost their freedom in the process. And when the trull and mantorean returned, they would die.

  22

  The two suns threw their combined force onto an exposed hillside. There were many hills like it in the region, for the landscape was undulating. This particular slope had been chosen for the very fact that it was positioned in direct sunlight.

  Ingren and Ungar walked away from a pile of corpses, scattered across the hillside like oversized, squashed ants. Mantoreans needed sunlight for their breeding process, something Ingren had learned as part of her research. The circle of males had tried to protect the female, but Ungar was in a hurry, and seemed to have forgotten his sense of honor; after all, he already had his mantorean trophy. He had struck the group hard and fast.

  “Well,” Ungar said with a glance at Ingren. “I would call that a success. We have learned where the humans were going.”

  With Ingren acting as reluctant interpreter, the mantoreans had told them that the human with the crippled foot and his companions were heading to the solitary mountain on the horizon, before traveling to the desert beyond. The mantoreans had repeated the warrior’s name. The fact that Taimin was known, even among non-humans, only increased Ungar’s determination to take the man’s head as his final trophy.

  “As we approach the mountain, keep an eye out for skalen,” Ungar said. “We may learn more.”

  He clenched and unclenched his fists as he took long strides. Ingren knew her bondmate well. The hunt was in his blood. He was tracking down his prey, as warriors like him had done long before Agravida was founded and the bonded developed civilization.

  Yet she was worried that his hunt for this one human was becoming an obsession. The longer the search continued, the more Ungar roamed and interrogated, the more he would never be able to give up. He had dedicated himself too much to this one goal. Any hope Ingren had of heading home soon was gone.

  “Ungar, there are other humans—”

  “But you know as well as I do that the greatest number inhabit the outpost,” Ungar interrupted. “He was the one named.”

  Ingren tried again. “Ungar, this quest has taken long enough.” She hesitated and then spoke firmly. “I want to go home.”

  Ungar came to a halt. When he turned to face Ingren, his red eyes, like miniature versions of the crimson sun, glared at her ferociously. His curling, spiral-shaped horns pointed in Ingren’s direction and his thin lips slowly parted to reveal row after row of sharp yellow teeth.

  “Bondmate,” he said in a low tone, “you are my advisor. My half of the bond is ascendant. The warriors are in charge. It is your role—”

  Ingren knew she had overstepped. There was a connection between her and Ungar. Theirs wasn’t a bond of custom; it was in her bones to be the follower, not the leader. She had no choice in the matter.

  “My role is to advise and support,”
Ingren said. “I know.”

  “Then let there be no word from you, unless it is in support of my quest.” Ungar spoke as he walked, even though he hadn’t checked over his shoulder to confirm that she was with him. “When I have his head, Ingren. Then you can go home.”

  23

  Vance sat on a ledge. The range of hills was at his back and the gorge opened up below him. From his position, he could see to the edge of the sandy desert.

  This was a region he had come to know well. Together with Ruth and Selena, he had explored every inch of Gravel Range. The bax had helped, although Vance got the sense that Gorax was humoring them more than anything else. If there was an entrance to the vast machine buried under the desert, the bax knew nothing of it.

  Soon, Vance knew, he would be leaving Gravel Range, and he was surprised to find that he would miss the place. He had learned new skills, and made new friends.

  All things came to an end, he thought to himself, as he looked down at the drawing in his hands.

  The piece of fibrous paper was worn from too much time in his pocket. He had carried it with him the entire journey from Zorn. It was something he had made when he was a prisoner in the arena, wondering about the woman he had risked everything to be with and hoping she was still alive. In his spare moments, when no one was watching, he had worked on the drawing to add more life, or a recalled detail of her ears or eyelashes. Yet time had passed, and it had been a while since he’d last pulled it out. In fact, he had almost forgotten about it.

  He inspected the lines and the shading between them that combined to make a woman’s face. He could barely remember Cora now. He had captured her appearance. But what was she actually like?

  He had come here to say goodbye to the drawing. Now it was time to crumple the piece of paper and throw it.

  “What’s that?” Ruth’s voice came from behind him.

  Vance turned and he knew that his expression was guilty. Ruth stood nearby and had sounded different. Usually her voice was smooth, bold, confident. She was tough, and carried herself in a different way from any woman he had known. He was surprised to see her mouth set in a thin line. She looked . . . upset.

  “Nothing,” Vance said. He didn’t know if she had already seen the drawing as he started to fold it.

  “Show it to me.”

  Vance hesitated, but then opened the piece of paper. Ruth came forward to see. The drawing had been lovingly made, and depicted a woman with a cascade of hair and a sweet, heart-shaped face.

  Ruth stared at the drawing. “You did this.”

  He cleared his throat. “Yes.”

  Ruth knew about Cora. When Vance first met Ruth, he had been searching for Cora, and it was Ruth who told him about her death.

  “She was very beautiful,” Ruth said.

  “She was . . .” Vance said, letting the last word hang in the air.

  Ruth pursed her lips and color came to her cheeks. “I’ll leave you to it,” she said as she turned and walked away.

  Vance climbed to his feet. “Ruth,” he called.

  He cursed when he saw his bow and flask a few paces away. He grabbed the bow, throwing it onto his shoulder, and fastened the flask to his belt before racing after Ruth. But she continued down the hillside as he followed, suddenly clumsy on his feet. Gravel slipped beneath him and he fell, tumbling onto his knees and scraping them, forcing him to freeze while he waited for the tumble of stones to subside. He clambered down the slope until he reached the ground at the bottom.

  Once again in the gorge, he scanned until he saw Ruth’s departing back as she headed away from the village.

  “Ruth,” Vance called.

  She didn’t look back. Wherever she was going, she didn’t seem to want him to follow her. He watched her go and wondered what he should do. He didn’t want to make her any angrier than she already was, but he knew he needed to talk to her, to make her understand.

  He set his jaw and hurried after her. He called her name again, but the only effect was to make her walk more quickly. He watched her disappear around a bend as he started to run. His feet pounded at the ground as he rounded the corner.

  He skidded to a halt.

  Fear was the overriding sensation, but not for himself.

  Ruth stood facing a firehound.

  The four-legged creature was big, as big as the firehounds Vance had fought in the arena. It was lithe and sinewy, fast and deadly, with powerful hind legs and a wedge-shaped, oversized head. A pair of spiral horns crowned its skull. Vance had been wounded by horns just like them. He knew the damage they could do.

  A low, throaty rumble came from the firehound’s open mouth. The growl became a snarl. Sunlight glinted off its red eyes, matched in color to its crimson hide.

  “Stay very still,” Vance said in a low voice. The firehound’s attention remained on Ruth. Moving slowly, carefully, Vance never took his eyes off the creature as he slipped his bow from his shoulder. He fitted an arrow to the string. Meanwhile Ruth unfastened the grapple she wore as a belt. She lifted her arm and began to circle the weapon over her head.

  As soon as Ruth moved, the firehound ducked its head and charged.

  Strong hindlegs propelled the firehound’s lean body forward. The path of the horns was clear.

  Vance’s bowstring thrummed.

  As the arrow flashed through the air, time slowed. Vance’s breath rushed from his chest. Fear shot up his spine. The firehound raced toward Ruth. The distance between the creature and Ruth shrank to just a few paces.

  The arrow struck the creature’s neck. The firehound gave a violent convulsion. It was a lucky strike, barely a finger’s width from the thick skull that an arrow couldn’t penetrate.

  The firehound roared and its legs collapsed from under it, leaving its momentum to carry it sliding over the ground. Vance ran forward, ready to fire a second arrow. He moved to stand between Ruth and the firehound. The creature shuddered. Its eyes glazed over as it became still.

  Vance grabbed Ruth’s hand. He scanned in all directions. “Can you see any more?” He looked into her brown eyes, and he saw something in them he hadn’t seen before. She was shaken. “Come on,” he said. “It isn’t safe here.”

  Ruth didn’t speak as they returned to the overhang and the small village sheltered beneath it. Vance cursed himself for his complacency. It was a mistake he vowed never to make again. Even close to help, he knew he should always be on his guard. His former profession and his time in the arena meant he could fight, but out in the wasteland, it was best to avoid danger in the first place.

  Soon they saw the bax of Gravel Range as they moved between huts, carried dried cactus, hauled water, and tended fires. A short distance from the village, Ruth came to a halt.

  She rounded on Vance and gave him a blunt stare. “Do you still love her?”

  “She’s dead,” he said simply. “The Protector killed her.”

  Her lips twisted with displeasure. “Answer me.”

  Vance gazed into her eyes. He knew that if he didn’t explain now, his moment might be lost forever. “In truth, I barely knew her. We spent a few nights together. I think I wanted to rescue her.” He took a breath. “But would we have married? If we’d fled Zorn to live in the wasteland, would we have made a good team?” He pulled the folded drawing out of his pocket. “This is a fantasy,” he said, waving it. “It’s a symbol of what might have been.”

  When Ruth didn’t respond, Vance took the edges of the paper and tore the picture into pieces. She watched as each piece fluttered to the ground.

  Vance then reached out and took Ruth’s hand. Her mouth dropped open in surprise. Unlike when she had treated his wound, or when he had unthinkingly gripped her hand after the firehound’s attack, this time his intent was unmistakable. He smiled. “But now that I have a wife, I don’t need another woman.”

  Ruth scowled. “Don’t mock me. I hate it.”

  “I’m not. I—”

  He was interrupted when she leaned forward and kissed hi
m. His eyes widened, but then he relaxed. He pulled her close. Her body was warm against his and her mouth tasted sweet.

  Past Ruth’s shoulder, he saw a passing bax grin.

  “Look,” Gorax said, nudging Selena. The thick-bellied bax with the spots on his scalp chuckled.

  Selena smiled along with him. Of course it was going to happen eventually. She was happy for them both. Despite their differences, they were well-suited.

  “Do you have a husband?” Gorax asked.

  “No.” Selena shook her head.

  She and the warden were near the fire pit, not far from Gorax and Breang’s stone-walled hut. He had sternly sat her down, saying that while Ruth and Vance had shared their stories, Selena had yet to fulfill her obligations. She had barely been given a choice in the matter, but his warm manner and kind eyes had led her to tell him more than she had thought she would. She had shared the story of her childhood and her hopes for a better life. Taimin was just a friend in her stories, although Gorax’s probing questions made her wonder if she had revealed more than she intended.

  She even told him about Milton. Her father’s obsession with the machine buried under the desert had led him to lose his wife and daughter. Selena had grown up without parents. But maybe, when she next saw him, she and her father might build a new relationship for the future. Gorax had listened intently and then told her that she owed it to herself to try.

  When Gorax saw Vance and Ruth together, he had returned the conversation to one of his favorite subjects. “Marriage is a good thing,” he said. “Among bax, nothing is more celebrated than a wedding, nothing more prized than the union between two lovers.”

  Selena wished she could see Taimin’s face. She made a decision. When next she saw him, she would talk to him about his injury. He couldn’t use it as an excuse to push her away. Even now, though a desert separated them, he carried a part of her with him. If something happened to him it would destroy her too. He always said he accepted her. He needed to know that she accepted him. They should face life’s challenges united. They may die together, but they would also live together.