“You done dancing around, bucko?”
“Yeah.” Ky retrieved his supplies and his knapsack and set it all down again a safe distance away from the bog and whatever nasty critters might live inside it. He sat with his elbows on his knees. But the rush of adrenaline still pumping through him made any thought of rest impossible. His mind wandered back to the Underground, to Meli and Paddy and Cade.
“You ever think about home, Mig?”
“Home, sure.” The dwarf cracked his knuckles one by one. “Mostly though I think about how good it feels to get away. Oh, it’s a grand place, I’ll grant you that. But living in the Caran’s stronghold can get a mite stuffy. Too many fierce Adulnae shoving about as if they own the place and those pretentious Xanthen making up excuses for them—that’s our fighters and scholars, two more revered positions in the mountains. Me, I like to do things my own way on my own time, see?”
“Aren’t you a messenger?” In Ky’s experience, messengers were the lowest of the low, kept running at the beck and call of pretty much everybody else. Didn’t leave you with much of your own time.
“Sure, messenger. Scout. Information gatherer. Official ambassadorial-go-between. You name it, I’ve done it. More than once I’ve saved their hides with a timely piece of information, so they’ve learned to value my work even if they don’t understand the skill behind it.”
Suppressing a shiver, Ky tossed his supplies back in his knapsack and slung it over his shoulder before rising. With this breeze and so little residual warmth left in the frozen ground, sitting in wet clothes was about as much fun as matching Cade in the Ring. “We should get moving.”
Migdon slowly rolled his head back to look at Ky, but gave no sign that he intended to rise. “Now, don’t get me wrong. It’s not all bad in the Whyndburg Mountains. I’ve never met any folk more loyal to each other and their way of life or more determined to stand against the Takhran. The rest of Leira will give way eventually, you can bet your britches on that, but when it’s all said and done and the dust of battle clears, the Whyndburg Mountains will still exist as their own sovereign kingdom, I’d stake my life on it.”
Ky stamped his feet on the ground to bring feeling back into his numb toes.
“Manners, bucko. What’s the hurry? You so impatient to be rid of my company?”
“I’m ready to be home.”
The dwarf rolled his eyes. “Well, lucky for you, bucko my boyo, we’re almost there. You hear that low rumbling? That’s the River Adayn. One more crossing and we’ll be in the Nordlands only a mile or so from your city.”
What? So close?
Ky hauled the dwarf to his feet. “You should have told me.” He grasped Migdon’s pack in both hands and practically flung it at him before starting off in the direction of the river.
“Easy there, bucko.” Grumbling, the dwarf adjusted the straps of his pack, hefting its sagging weight higher on his shoulders. “Too much of a hurry, and I’ll think you don’t like me. Besides that river crossing isn’t going to be easy. Word is the Westmark Bridge was destroyed in a flood a couple of months back.”
“Yeah …” The memory gave him pause. He couldn’t help thinking about Birdie and Hawkness and hoping that, wherever they were, they were all right. “We might have had something to do with that.” He ducked his head to avoid Migdon’s squint-eyed stare. Spilling secrets, foolish really. A good runner never offered information that wasn’t needed.
He really was getting out of practice.
“Then”—the dwarf drew the word out until it carried the weight of two or three words and the implications of a dozen others—“you’ll know how fierce the River Adayn can be. I don’t know about you, but I’m not much of a swimmer.”
Ky just marched away, keeping his tongue locked firmly between his teeth where it couldn’t get him into any more trouble. Swimming wasn’t his strong point either, but what was one more river crossing when he was so close to the Underground?
So close to home.
•••
Fifty yards had never seemed so far.
On the top of the westward bank of the River Adayn, Ky crouched behind the prickly concealment of a snaggletooth bush, careful to avoid losing his balance and creating a disturbance that might attract the attention of the dark soldiers below. Through the red-barbed branches, he could see the stone walls of Kerby just visible over the opposite bank. Near but still unattainable. Directly in his path, the river boiled in its course, cutting him off from the mile-long run home. A pair of broken pilings on both banks were all that remained of the Westmark Bridge. In its place, the Khelari had rigged some sort of ferry system, with a barge that crawled back and forth across the river, while armed guards stood stiffly at attention on both banks.
His destination was the line of supply wagons waiting to cross.
Migdon heaved a sigh and spat out a seed shell. “You sure this is what you want to do, bucko? If you hiked another two days northwards, you could cross over Saldan’s Ford—less likely to find a passel of Khelari waiting for you on the other side. It’d extend your trip some, but you’d have a better guarantee of not dying.”
“Can’t wait two days. I got to do this now.” I promised. Ky nodded his thanks to the dwarf. “So long, Mig. Been nice knowing you.” Ky crept forward, knapsack tucked under one arm to keep it from bouncing on his back, and ducked around the side of the snaggletooth bush.
One of the secrets to invisibility was planning your route beforehand, but not being afraid to improvise. So as Ky slipped down the bank toward the river and the line of waiting carts, he trusted his feet to fall on the patches he had selected—quiet and free of dead leaves or twigs—and kept his eyes fixed on the guards. He ducked behind every available shelter, paused in shadows, and counted the seconds whenever the guards looked his way.
In the city streets, you disappeared by blending into the chaos, by fitting so well into the background that you could be seen and overlooked. But out here on the bank, surrounded by wind and sky and brittle marsh grass, Ky felt exposed. He must not be seen at all. So it was slow and tedious work before he finally reached the last wagon in line and slipped up over the side into the bed.
He hunkered down between a pair of barrels and hitched his knees up to his chest with his knapsack in his lap. Peeking over the rim revealed a dark soldier slumped on the wagon seat with his elbows on his knees and smoke puffing from a pipe between his teeth. It was some time before the wagon clattered onto the barge, rocking the boat with its weight. The ferryman chocked the wheels and exchanged weary conversation with the Khelari as the barge swung out into the current.
For a split second, Ky thought he was back on the slave ship. He could hear the thunder of the waves, smell the stench of the hold, and know the sickening taste of his own fear. Then he blinked, and he was on the barge again. He felt for the pouch of sling-bullets at his belt and squeezed it in his fist. Newbie runners often tried holding their breath when they got in a tight spot, only to wind up giving themselves away once they ran out of air or unable to keep up when it came time to run.
Ky slowed his breath to an even, quiet pace.
The barge thumped against the opposite bank, and moments later, the wagon lurched forward, rattling up and away from the river. Now came the hard part: disembarking without being seen. He had no desire to ride the wagon all the way to where the troops were camped to blockade the city. But he had to stay on long enough to get beyond sight of the guards posted at the river.
Ky waited until the wagon had crested the first hill and begun the descent, then eased up and over the back and dropped. As he fell, his knapsack caught on the tailgate and jerked him against the wagon with a thud. The wagon jolted on. His feet skimmed the ground and sharp stalks clawed at his legs. He struggled to work the strap free.
With a ripping sound, it tore loose, and he fell flat on his face in the grass. He waited to rise unti
l the wagon sounds faded to a distant creaking, then shot to his feet, hugged his torn knapsack under one arm, and raced across the flat ground toward the city.
Only a few months ago, he’d made this same run bursting to tell Cade the news about the discovery the Khelari had made. That run had started it all—all the fighting and dying and hardship he had endured over the past months. It had resulted in the theft of the sword, in Rab’s death and Dizzier’s capture, in the attack on the Underground and Ky’s own need to leave to draw the Khelari away. When you boiled it all down, he was even responsible for everything that had happened in the city since—the Takhran’s embargo, the blockades, even the slow death by starvation that faced all the citizens now.
Somehow he would find a way to fix it. To fix all of it. And there would be no more skulking and hiding. No more counting his breaths and keeping to the shadows.
Just this one last run, and it would all be over.
He rounded the next rise and stopped dead in his tracks. A Khelari patrol, ten strong, marched in a brisk circuit around the city, not fifteen yards from where he stood. Beyond them, spaced at narrow intervals around the city, were dozens of watch-fires ringed about by Khelari scouts. He must be slipping. Of course the city would be under close guard. He should have expected it.
For a breath, he hesitated, unable to stifle the traitorous hammering of his heart and unsure if he should stay still or drop into the grass or race back the way he had come.
Then it was too late.
The shout of discovery assailed his ears, and before he could run or draw his sling, the patrol was upon him, ten tall soldiers crowding around from all sides with their weapons drawn. On reflex, Ky hugged his knapsack to his chest.
“What you got in there, boy?” A soldier snatched the knapsack from his hand and dumped the contents on the ground. The silver bar emblazoned on his breastplate proclaimed some sort of rank, though from the way the other soldiers acted, like a pack, it likely wasn’t much more than a step above their own.
“Another runaway, eh?” A heavy hand cuffed the back of his head. “That it, boy, you trying to escape the blockade?”
“No, I wasn’t—” Ky stammered, but another soldier spoke over him.
“How’d he get through the watch-fires?”
The heavy handed soldier gave him a shake. “Fool lookouts guzzling brew and huddling around the fires instead of attending to their duties, that’s how.”
“No, no, that’s not it.” Ky lifted his hands slowly, palms outward. Last thing he needed was one of them getting twitchy and deciding to run him through. “I’m trying to get into the city, not escape it.”
The soldier spun him around and studied him beneath bunched eyebrows. He had a craggy sort of face, with more lines and wrinkles than a hallorm tree, and his shaggy beard was turning gray. “Get into the city? Delian’s fist, what kind of fool talk is that? It’s a death-trap.”
Ky fumbled for a reply. His knees felt weak as the reality of his situation barreled into him like a pouncing lion. After years on the run, he had actually been taken by the dark soldiers. He would wind up like Dizzier, dragged off to Dacheren or one of the Takhran’s other slave camps, which was horrifying enough in and of itself, but the fact that it had happened when he was so close to returning to the Underground only made it worse.
Migdon’s harsh chuckle hammered in the back of his skull. “We stood out because we didn’t stand out enough.”
Fine then. His way had failed. What could it hurt to try Migdon’s way for once?
He dropped to his knees and clasped both hands over his head, letting a thin wail escape from his lips. The sound was enough to make him cringe, which only helped the image he was trying to portray. “Please, kind sirs!” Thick—too thick. “I just want to get home to my family in the city. Been staying with my uncle—he’s a cattle herder up on the Westmark—since summer time. Didn’t know about no war or no blockade.” He blinked rapidly as he spoke, trying to project an air of innocent dim-wittedness while spouting the first things that popped into his head. “Wasn’t trying to sneak through. Didn’t know there was any need to sneak. Just want to see my mam and papa and my little sisters . . . all three of them. They’ve been missing me, you see. Crying at night, my mam says. They want me to come home.”
Goodness, he sounded like he was seven.
The graying soldier gripped him by the elbow and hauled him to his feet. Ky flinched from his touch, but the soldier just brushed off his jacket and spoke in a gruff voice. “Get a grip on yourself, boy. There’s no getting into the city now. The Takhran’s spoken against it, and his word is law. Look, you just head back to that uncle of yours in the Westmark and stay with him. No need to come back here until this is all over, you hear?”
“Not possible.” The ranking soldier kicked at Ky’s supplies with a muddy boot. The expression of distaste on his jowled face just about begged to be rearranged by a well-aimed sling-bullet. “Only a fool would believe his tale. Even his garb betrays him—unless Westmark cattle farmers have begun donning desert leathers. No, he was spotted sneaking supplies to the city in direct defiance of the Takhran’s orders. You know what is required.”
Two soldiers seized Ky’s arms. He struggled against their grip, but it was like trying to shove a stone wall. They held him fast, and he didn’t need to feign desperation now.
“Please . . . my family! I promised—promised—to come back.”
“And so you shall.” The false note of kindness in the ranking soldier’s voice raked Ky’s nerves on end. “So you shall.”
“Sir, the boy is clearly troubled in the mind. I don’t think—”
“That’s right. Thinking is my job.” The ranking soldier shoved the graying soldier aside. “Yours is obeying orders, Doblin. Orders.” He spun back to the soldiers flanking Ky. “Escort him to the city. Who are we to keep the poor boy from his family?”
Chuckling their approval, the two soldiers dragged Ky toward the watch-fires and the gates of the city, and he gave no thought to resistance as the others closed around him. Though his sling was still bound about his waist, they had taken his precious pouch of sling-bullets when they stole his knapsack. He had no food, no supplies, and no weapons, but he was almost home.
No doubt the soldiers meant it a death sentence, but he saw only the chance to fulfill his promise, to return to those who needed him.
To him, it was a mercy.
16
The gates of the city slammed shut behind Ky. He skidded to a stop on his hands and knees with the harsh laughter of the soldiers ringing in his ears. Painfully, he picked himself up from the ground. The taste of smoke was thick on the air. Rubbish cluttered the main thoroughfare that twisted away before his feet, deeper into the city toward the market place.
He spun to face the gate, wiping blood from his scraped palms on his thighs. On the outside, the Khelari had removed a dozen sets of wooden blocks and chains before they were able to open the gate to thrust him through. The wood on the inside was scored with axe and chisel marks where the iron bars and slots that once enabled the gate to be barred from within had been removed, leaving the citizens of Kerby prisoners in their own city, forever at the mercy of the soldiers.
No lookouts paced the wall-top, but then what good could lookouts do when the city had already fallen? Still, it reeked of wrongness that they should abandon their one defense. From the look of it, bad things had taken hold of the city—and the Khelari were just the beginning.
He broke into a jog, passing row after row of shuttered houses and ravaged shops as he followed the scent of smoke to the market. Chill air bit at his throat and dead leaves blew across his bare feet. From time to time, he caught glimpses of armed men skulking down back alleys, hoods pulled over their heads, faces streaked with ash. It didn’t take a runner to guess their purpose. Soon after, distant shouts fell on his ears, followed by the clatter
of weapons and of destruction. It all felt strangely unreal, as though he wandered in a fevered dream.
In the center of the silent market square, flames raged at a misshapen pile, belching black smoke into the air. A group of men with hoods over their heads, gloves on their hands, and scarves wound around their noses and mouths fed the flames with corpses piled high in a barrow.
The sight brought Ky to his knees behind the broken shell of the old fishmonger’s stall. Hands moving of their own accord, he tugged his collar up to cover the lower half of his face and a breathless prayer slipped past his lips.
Oh Emhran . . . not here …
Only one death called for an ashen grave. Only one death left its mark on the passing in a mask of pasty white skin, blue-tinged lips, and blood-flecked mouths. Only one death struck such fear in those who remained.
The white fever had come to Kerby.
It had come and the dark soldiers had left them to rot in it. Probably brought it too. Smuggled ill captives in through the gate or dumped fever-ridden corpses over the wall. It was just the sort of devilish weapon they would devise.
Ky lurched to his feet and dashed across the square to the abandoned market stall that concealed one of the secret entrances to the Underground. Even at a run, he moved as silently as possible, and if the burners saw him, they gave no sign. He ducked beneath the stall, threw open the trapdoor, and dropped inside, scarce bothering to make sure it had closed before taking off at a run, down the tunnel.
With each frantic step, terror pounded within him demanding more. More speed. More strength. More endurance. If he had returned to the Underground too late . . . The thought hovered beside him, a thing of nightmare that teetered on the border between dream and reality. Just when his strides began to falter, the thought gave him new strength and new fear, and he raced on, following a path that had become as familiar to him as the feel of his sling in hand. He should be getting close now, just a little bit farther.
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