7
THE GROUP BURIED KORBIN, HENRI, AND THE DRIVER of the
second wagon at the top of the Bluff the next day, a good distance
away from where the land had collapsed and formed the rockslide.
Two children had also been riding inside the second wagon, and they
were buried next to the men. One of the mothers wept openly. The
other mother, older than the first, simply stood next to the grave,
one of her other children, a boy, resting on her hip, a second
clinging to her leg. She stared, stoic and unmoved, out over the
plains, her movements desultory, her face blank.
Its lifelessness sent
a shudder through Tom, and he shifted his glance toward the
fathers, both of them standing at their wives’ sides, heads bowed,
faces grim. The younger looked haunted, eyes a little too
wide.
“—as we give this
mortal flesh back to the earth,” Domonic murmured, “as we give the
light of their souls back into Diermani’s Hand, into his keeping
forever.”
Tom turned toward
Domonic as the Hand of Diermani finished the litany and
transitioned into a prayer. Tom glanced around those gathered,
taking in Lyda’s reddened eyes, her hand resting protectively on
the swell of her stomach, the Armory, their clothes sweaty from
dragging whatever was salvageable from the wreckage of the wagons
and from digging the graves, and Walter, the future Proprietor,
glaring down at the gaping holes in the ground, his face angry and
pinched, as if the dead men had somehow sabotaged the attempt to
climb the Bluff.
Tom felt his stomach
turn. Walter had ordered the attempt, practically demanded it. He’d
known that someone might die during the ascent, but he wasn’t going
to take responsibility for those deaths. Tom could see it in his
eyes.
“Aldiem patrus,” Domonic murmured, reaching down to
grasp a handful of dirt from the heap beside him. At each of the
other four graves, men scooped up their own handfuls, all except
Korbin’s grave. There, Lyda took the dirt in hand, Ana at her side
to steady her. “Diermani arctum
verbatis.”
Domonic tossed the
dirt into the open grave, all the rest doing the same, everyone
murmuring Domonic’s last words under their breath as they did so.
The young mother broke out into fresh sobs, as her husband brushed
the dirt from his trembling hands.
Then everyone stepped
back, distancing themselves from the dead, and those designated to
inter the remains slid forward with shovels, filling in the graves
as quickly, yet as solemnly, as possible. Most signed themselves
with Diermani’s tilted cross, mouthing their own additional prayers
wordlessly, heads bowed. Only a few didn’t participate in the
rituals at all, not speaking or signing themselves.
As soon as the dead
were buried, Tom moved toward Walter. He gripped the young man’s
shoulder as he said, “You couldn’t have known that would
happen—”
Walter twisted out of
his grip roughly, irritation flickering across his face. “Of course
I couldn’t have known,” he spat. “We needed to get to the top of
the Bluff. For the Company. For the Family.” He looked directly at
Tom and Tom silently willed the bastard to keep quiet. With a
dismissive wave, Walter said, “It was worth the risk, worth the
deaths.”
Tom tensed, knowing
that Lyda and the others had heard. He could feel the resentment
building from behind, prickling along his back.
Unaware, Walter
turned to glare out over the plains. “We still have half of the day
left to travel,” he said curtly. “We should get
started.”
The resentment
escalated, murmurs rising. Tom said through a clenched jaw, “Where
should we head?”
Walter glanced toward
Jackson, who nodded. “Southeast. I want to see if we can return and
find the river.”
“Very well,” Tom
said, and turned toward the others. “Let’s head out.”
He should have said
something to placate those that had heard Walter’s words, to ease
the resentment. Everyone was still on edge, emotions sharp and
brittle.
But he
didn’t.
Those gathered broke
for the remaining wagons, dispersing slowly. Ana moved to join him,
leaving Lyda in Sam’s hands.
“How’s Tobin?” Tom
asked.
“Considering both of
his legs were crushed by the wagon, he’s doing fine. We’ve loaded
him into the back of Paul’s wagon. I’ve done what I can to ease
him, to clean the wounds and set them, but we’ll have to wait and
see. If they become infected, we may have to cut them
off.”
Tom grimaced. “I
didn’t hear him moaning during the burial.”
“He passed out about
an hour ago, thank Diermani.” She shuddered, leaning into Tom’s
side, arms wrapping around his waist. Around them, the drivers had
climbed into their seats, the wagons beginning to move forward,
Walter and the Armory taking the lead.
“I don’t like it up
here,” Ana said.
Tom scanned the
horizon, frowning. The plains up here looked no different from
those beneath the Bluff. In the distance to the east and north he
could see hills, the faint purple shadows of mountains; to the
south, nothing but more grassland. “Why?”
Ana shuddered again,
tightening her hold. “Can’t you feel it? There’s a weight up here,
as if the air is heavier. And it’s harder to breathe. Like what
Paul said happened to the wagon earlier, when he was thrown. Except
here it isn’t just in one spot, it’s everywhere. I noticed it as
soon as we reached the top of the Bluff.”
Tom drew in a deep
breath, let it out slowly . . . and felt the skin across his
shoulders crawl. He’d noticed the shortness of breath but had
shrugged it off, attributing it to the exertion of the climb. But
Ana was right; there was a denseness to the air, as if something
were pressing down on him from above. He felt heavier
here.
And it felt as if
someone were watching.
He scanned the
horizon again but saw nothing. He frowned, thinking about Cutter
and Beth.
“It’s just the change
in elevation,” he said, hearing the falseness in his own
voice.
Ana
snorted.
“What are they?” Sam
asked.
Nate answered
gruffly, “Dinner.”
Those nearest to Nate
turned toward him. Tom grinned.
“We’ll never be able
to keep up with them on foot,” Arten said. “We’ll have to use the
horses, try to drive them toward the hunters.”
“You’ll never take
them with swords,” Nate said. “At least not easily. They look
fast.”
“Bows. We’ll have to
take them down with arrows.”
All the men and most
of the women had gathered at the edge of the hillock overlooking
the grassland to the east, where hundreds upon hundreds of animals
grazed in a herd larger than anything Colin had ever seen before.
The animals were like deer—tawny, thin-legged, lean of body and
neck—but unlike the deer from Andover, two long pointed horns
sprouted from the males’ heads, near the ears. And these deer were
smaller than those from Andover by a few hands, with white chests
and faint streaks of white lining their sides.
Colin’s father turned
toward everyone assembled. “Anyone who’s experienced with a bow,
get your weapons and report back here. Paul, start unhitching the
horses. We’ll use the Armory’s mounts to drive the beasts toward
the archers, but the workhorses can be used to hem them in.
Everyone else, stick close to the wagons. Get the children inside
the wagon beds. We don’t know how these horned deer will
react.”
People began
scattering, men rushing to the wagons to begin removing the
workhorses from their harnesses, women herding the children to
wagons, lifting them up and into the shade of the hides. Arten and
the rest of the Armory made for their own horses, handing their
swords off to younger men. A smaller group began pulling bows and
quivers from the wagons, stringing the bows with smooth motions,
settling the quivers across their shoulders so the arrows were in
easy reach. Excitement coursed through the expedition, everyone
talking, the dogs tearing out across the plains, pausing to stare
at the distant deer, ears perked up, before reluctantly racing back
when their owners shouted or whistled.
Those who were to be
part of the hunt started gathering near Tom. Colin felt the
exhilaration prickling against his skin. When Karen touched him, a
tingling sensation raced up his arm, and he jumped.
Karen grinned. She
nodded toward where the men were gathering. “You’d better get over
there, or you’ll be stuck here watching the little
ones.”
Colin grimaced. “I
can’t use the bow, and there aren’t enough horses for me to
ride.”
“But you have your
sling, and they’ll need men to help drive the animals. You can
shout, can’t you?”
Colin straightened.
He doubted he could take one of the strange deer down with his
sling, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t try.
Grinning madly, he
sprinted for the wagon where he’d tossed his satchel, retrieved his
sling, and tied it on as quickly as possible, eyes on the men.
Karen rolled her eyes and shook her head, as if asking Diermani to
explain the stupidity of men. Colin ignored her.
Sling secured, stones
thrust into his pockets, Colin dashed toward the group of men,
arriving just as Arten barked an order and those on horseback spun
their mounts and took off toward the plains at a trot.
His father gave him a
curt nod, then addressed the group that remained, all on foot, most
carrying bows. “All right. Arten and the others will drive the
animals toward the fold in the land over there.” He pointed toward
where a depression in the land narrowed down to a small gap between
two banks of earth. “We’ll set the archers on the banks. You can
shoot down into the depression. The rest of you need to line up to
either side. Try to get them to funnel down into the opening. We
don’t want them rushing up the banks and overwhelming the
archers.”
“How do we do that?”
someone asked. “We aren’t on horseback.”
“Grab something to
wave or flail about, make noise, yell and shout. Anything you think
may startle them and get them moving in the right
direction.”
The men nodded and
then broke for the banks and the gap between them, spreading out. A
few ran back to the wagons, returning with long sticks, one
bringing a length of bright cloth, another a blanket. Others simply
removed their shirts, wrapping the sleeves around their hands so
they could wave the material overhead.
Colin jogged across
the rough ground, stalks of grass lashing his legs as he moved. He
watched the herd of animals, saw Arten and the group of horses
break apart, the workhorses spreading out to form a wedge pointed
toward the dip in the land where Colin and the rest were settling
into position. Arten and the Armory banked away, cutting around the
herd. Some of the animals—singletons that roamed on the outside
edges of the main group, like scouts—raised their heads, watching
the horses as they circled around behind the herd, their gently
curving horns sweeping back over their bodies. The plains were
dotted with shifting shadows as scattered clouds moved overhead,
and far to the north, black storm clouds darkened the horizon,
moving east. They flashed an ethereal purple as lightning struck
inside their depths, but the herd and the expedition were too
distant to hear thunder. A thick slash of gray cut down from the
dark clouds to the plains, where it was raining. The storm was
moving away from them though, and after the storm at Cutter’s and
the few showers they’d experienced since reaching the Bluff, Colin
felt a mild relief. He’d grown accustomed to the strange heaviness
in the air over the past few days, but when it was raining,
especially when there was lightning, the air seemed to sizzle, to
shift and flow around him like water.
Colin shuddered, and
thoughts of Cutter suddenly made him wonder where Walter was. He
scanned those nearest to the depression in the ground, then turned
toward the wagons.
Walter and Jackson
were both standing in front of the wagons, hands raised to shade
their eyes from the sun as they watched the activity, the two
isolated from the rest of the members of the expedition by a
significant distance. Jackson pulled something from his satchel,
then sat down in the grass, scribbling madly. Walter pulled a
waterskin out and drank, his gaze turning from where Arten and the
others had begun to cut into the herd toward where Colin and the
rest waited.
He caught sight of
Colin and lowered his waterskin with a grimace, as if the water had
suddenly taken on a bitter taste.
Colin jerked his
attention back to the hunt, the muscles in his shoulders tensing.
He spat to one side, but the acridness in the back of his throat,
like bile, didn’t go away. His hand kneaded the leather pocket of
his sling, the ties biting into his forearm as he flexed the
muscles, and he forced himself to stop with effort.
On the plains, a
purple arc of lightning flashed from cloud to cloud in the far off
storm, and a whistle pierced the air. Arten’s group cut sharply to
the left, angling into the herd of beasts. As soon as they shifted
direction, the sentinel deer snorted and stamped their
feet.
Nearly every head in
the herd rose, ears and tails flicking.
Arten’s group didn’t
falter. They bore down on the herd fast, the hooves of their horses
a low, grumbling thunder.
Before they’d covered
half the distance to the herd, the lead animals bolted. The herd
hesitated half a breath, maybe less, and then every creature in it
turned and sprinted away from the horses.
Directly toward where
the workhorses stood.
One of the men
waiting in the depression began to whoop and holler, and Colin
turned to glare at him, saw the man nearest motion him to be quiet.
The noise of Arten’s group was drowned out in the sudden thunder of
thousands of hooves as the strange deer picked up momentum,
charging toward Colin’s position, their sleek forms bounding
forward, leaping hidden stones, small ridges, heads laid back and
straining forward. Colin tensed, slid a rock from his pocket into
the sling, held it ready as the deer closed in on the wedge of
workhorses.
At the last moment,
something startled the deer in front—movement from one of the
workhorses, or the wild barking of the dogs who’d been tied up at
the wagons—and with a flash of their white tails, the charging herd
banked, streaked hides glistening. Arten cut sharply to the right,
trying to cut them off, but the majority of the herd rumbled past
the mouth of the funnel, tearing their way out toward the center of
the plains.
But not all of them.
A large group at the rear of the herd split off, thundering through
the wedge of workhorses. The riders began shouting, slapping their
horses’ flanks, the deer shying away from the sounds, bolting
toward the other side of the wedge, where the second line whooped
and roared, sending them back. Panicked, the deer raced down the
center, heading straight for the safety of the gap in the two
banks, down into the depression where Colin and the rest stood.
Everyone was yelling, bellowing at the top of their lungs, swinging
their shirts or their blankets overhead, slapping their sticks into
the ground or their hands to their thighs. Colin cupped one hand
over his mouth and shouted out nonsense words, then began laughing,
his heart pounding in his chest, an echoing roar to the sound of
the hooves, to the feel of their movement through his feet, the
ground around him shaking. The strange deer skittered away from the
noise, and he began swinging the sling overhead, still laughing,
tried to pick out a single deer in the mass of bodies, found it
impossible with all of them moving so fast, the tans and whites
blending into each other. He realized their colorations were a form
of protection, that he couldn’t pick
out individuals in the crowd—
And then the first
arrows shot down into the depression. The deer had made it to the
gap, were within the archers’ range. He couldn’t hear the twang of
the bowstrings above the roar of the herd—
But he heard the
first animal scream. A raw, terrified sound that made him wince
back, that made his stomach twist inside him. The sound was
repeated as more arrows struck into the heart of the herd. Colin
cringed beneath the sound, felt it grating along his spine, and he
let the swing of his sling lapse.
Then he smelled
blood.
Before he could
react, the entire herd shifted. Near their center, where the arrows
had struck, the herd shuddered as individual deer twisted and
bolted every which way, trying to escape. They veered away from the
scent, from the screams of their brethren dying, chaos erupting as
some stumbled in their fright, falling in their haste. With an
action too swift to follow, Colin saw the main group of animals
split, turning at what Colin thought would be an impossible
angle—impossible for a horse anyway—
And suddenly half the
captured herd was headed directly toward him. The lead animals were
beyond panic, beyond reason, their large brown eyes rimmed white,
their mouths flecked with foam, their hides slicked with
sweat.
Colin choked on his
own spit. Reflexively, he raised the sling again, whipped it around
once, twice, then let the ball of the sling free, felt the cords
snap as the stone flew. Eyes widening, he saw the stone vanish into
the onrushing stampede. He couldn’t tell if it struck one of the
deer or not. They didn’t slow, didn’t even flinch from the
motion.
He roared as they
bore down on him. At the last moment, he covered his face and head
with both arms and dropped down into a crouch, making himself as
small a target as possible. He heard the animals thunder past, felt
their bodies to either side, wind pulling at his shirt, his hair,
his sling, the ground beneath him shuddering. He risked a quick
glance, saw one of the animals leap over him as if he were a stone,
dirt and sod raining down on his arms. Another and another leaped
from the grass as the entire herd streaked past, flashes of brown
and white, nothing more, their musky scent strong, almost
overwhelming.
And as suddenly as
they were on him, they were gone.
He shot upward, heart
shuddering, and turned to see the group racing toward the wagons.
Walter and Jackson saw them coming, bolted toward the nearest
wagon, Jackson leaving his satchel and notebooks on the ground
behind. Shouts rose, and women ducked behind wagons, some tossing
children before them. Walter ducked under the bed of a wagon,
Jackson on his heels, and then the hundreds of deer were on them,
swirling around the wagons like water around stone, re- forming
into a dense group on the far side.
Colin watched as they
turned to the south once they were past the wagons. He stepped
forward, intent on those around the wagon, until he saw Karen,
staring off after the animals. He gave a whoop of excitement,
unable to contain himself, unable to stop grinning, his arms
tingling; then he turned to look into the depression
behind.
Four animals were
down, three dead, the fourth still moving, although its horrible
screams had died down into pitiable huffing grunts. One of the men
approached it carefully, wary of the strange but deadly looking
horns, a wicked dagger in one hand, a look of distaste on his face.
Colin watched as he seized one of the long, pointed horns in one
hand, wrenched the animal’s head to the side so the horns were out
of the way, and slit the deer’s throat. On the far side of the
depression, the other half of the group of deer that had been
caught in the wedge had angled southward as well, heading back
toward the main herd, now a dark splotch on the plains, like a
shadow. Arten and the workhorses were galloping toward the kills.
Men on all sides were yipping and calling out in elation, everyone
converging on the bodies, on the scent of blood.
Then someone roared,
“Look!”
The warning in the
voice sliced through the elation like a blade.
Colin spun and saw
someone pointing toward the northeast. His gaze flicked in that
direction, focused on the black-purple storm in the distance first.
He frowned in annoyance, ready to call out in derision that it was
just a storm—
And then his eyes
settled on one of the hillocks between them and the storm, the
highest hillock.
There, in full
sunlight, easily visible, stood a group of men.
“Who are they?”
someone asked as Colin scrambled up the slope to join his father
and most of the men as they gathered on the far bank. The rest
remained below, beginning the processing of the strange deer. The
scent of blood became thick and cloying in the heavy air, to the
point where Colin began breathing through his mouth so he wouldn’t
have to smell it.
“I don’t know,” his
father responded. “People from one of the previous
expeditions?”
“Something’s wrong
with them,” Sam said, his eyes squinted. “They’re . . . too big to
be men, too tall.”
“How can you tell at
this distance?”
Sam shrugged. “I
can’t. But something about them isn’t quite right.”
“Didn’t Cutter and
Beth say that the people they saw were shorter?”
“Yes.”
No one said anything
to that, but Tom frowned. “How many are there?”
“I can see five . . .
no, six. There’s someone standing mostly below the hillock they’re
on.”
“It looks like one of
the men in front is carrying some kind of spear,” Colin said. “He’s
got it angled out away from his body. And now he’s pointing it
toward us.”
The men around him
shifted nervously.
Arten had pulled his
group of horses up about a hundred paces away, facing the unknown
figures, but now he spun his horse about and trotted up to Tom,
dismounting smoothly. “Send some of the men back to get our swords
and any other weapons they can carry.”
Tom’s brow creased.
“They’re too far away to do anything. We don’t even know if they’re
a threat.”
“The other wagon
trains never returned, right?”
Tom turned to order a
group back to the wagons to retrieve the swords.
“We’ve gotten rather
lax with the sentries and other defenses,” Arten continued, terse
and all business. “I’ll double the Armory in the guard at night.
You might want to do the same with the men from Lean-to.” He
considered for a moment, not taking his eyes off of the distant
group. Then he swore. “I guess it was too much to assume that this
land would be completely uninhabited.”
“Tom,” Sam said, his
voice layered with warning. He’d shifted his gaze back to the
wagons, where the men were gathering the weapons, their motions a
little panicked. He motioned to where Walter and Jackson were
climbing the bank. “Here comes Walter.”
Walter arrived before
Tom could answer. Most of the others from the expedition drifted
away, shooting Walter and Jackson dark glances.
“Who are they?”
Walter demanded.
“We don’t know.
They’re too distant to make out clearly.”
“Then send someone
out to meet them! If they’re from another Company, if they think
they’re going to lay claim to this land—”
Arten broke through
the beginning tirade, his voice calm but hard. “I don’t think
they’re from another Company. I don’t even think they’re
men.”
That brought Walter
up short. He glared at Arten uncertainly, to see whether he was
serious, then snapped his fingers at Jackson. “Jackson, the
spyglass.”
Jackson slid a
cylindrical case from behind his back, the strap across one
shoulder, and opened it, withdrawing another compact cylinder,
handing it over without a word. The Company representative’s face
was set, jaw slightly clenched, lips pressed together. He glanced
toward Colin as Walter took the spyglass, his eyes a deep green. He
held Colin’s gaze a moment, then turned away dismissively, running
one hand through his dirty blond hair before shifting his attention
back to Walter, who had extended the spyglass and raised it to one
eye.
Walter’s body
suddenly stiffened.
After a moment, he
lowered the spyglass.
“May I?” Tom asked,
one hand held out.
Walter considered
briefly, then handed over the spyglass without a word.
Tom raised it to his
eye, frowned as he peered through it, adjusting it
slightly.
And then he grew
still as well.
He lowered the glass
slowly, eyes flashing toward Arten. “They look somewhat like us,
but they certainly aren’t from Andover. Set as many guardsmen as
you want. We’ll circle the wagons around the kills. It will take
time to butcher the animals and prepare the meat and hides. We’ll
camp here tonight, set up some defenses in case those . . . people
decide to come closer.”
Walter bristled. “I’m
the Proprietor. I’ll decide where we’ll camp and what we’ll
do.”
Colin’s father met
Walter’s gaze, his eyes full of withheld fury. “You lost those
rights back at the Bluff, at the burial.”
As he spoke, one of
the men still watching the distance gasped.
Everyone turned
sharply, the Armory reaching toward weapons that they didn’t have
yet, the rest drawing knives or daggers.
“They’re gone,” the
man who’d gasped said with a swallow. “They were there one moment,
and then the next . . .”
Uneasy murmurs arose,
the group unconsciously pulling in tighter to one another. Colin
suppressed a frustrated shudder. He’d desperately wanted to look
through the spyglass, had willed his father to hand it to him, but
now it didn’t matter.
Instead, his father
handed the spyglass back to Jackson.
“You can’t do this,”
Walter spat. “This is my expedition, given to me by my
father—”
“This isn’t
Portstown,” Tom said, anger creeping into his voice. Anger Colin
realized he’d held for days, since they’d left the Bluff. He turned
to Arten, ignoring Walter. “Circle the wagons and set up the
defenses.”
“No,” Walter said.
“We’ll butcher the animals, but we’ll move on after that. Arten, go
tell the others.”
Arten didn’t
move.
Walter spun. “Do it!
You work for the Carrente Family! You work for me!”
Arten shook his head.
“Not any more. Not since we left Carrente lands.”
Walter turned, caught
the black expressions on everyone’s faces, all except Jackson’s.
Rage filled his eyes, smothering the shocked disbelief. He drew
himself upright, fuming.
His gaze fell on
Colin, jaw clenched, a moment before he stormed down the bank, back
toward the wagons. Frowning, Jackson followed.
Colin’s father let
out a long, heavy sigh.
“It needed to be
done,” Arten said as the men carrying the Armory’s swords and other
assorted weapons arrived. “The rest of the expedition would never
follow him, not after what he said at the Bluff.”
“I know. But I was
hoping he’d change.”
Arten snorted,
strapping his sword around his waist. “No one changes. Not that
drastically anyway.”
Colin had finished
passing out some of the cooked deer meat to the guards on sentry
duty and was headed back toward the camp when Walter found him. He
never even saw the Proprietor’s son or Jackson. Darkness had
settled, the last of the light fading from the sky to the west. As
he stepped into the shadows thrown by the wagons and the campfires
of the expedition inside their protective circle, a hand reached
around his neck from behind and clamped tight to his mouth, fingers
digging in with bruising force. An arm reached across his chest
from the opposite side, jerking him backward, bringing him up tight
against his assailant’s chest a moment before their two bodies hit
the side of the wagon. Colin’s eyes flew wide, thoughts of the
strange men they’d seen on the plains flaring bright into his
mind—
And then, in a hoarse
whisper right next to his ear, breath hot against his neck, he
heard Walter mutter, “So your father thinks he owns this little
wagon train, does he?”
All of Colin’s
fear—all of the prickling terror that had flooded down through his
arms and legs and gut, making them fluid and rubbery—vanished. The
rage that he’d buried, that had sat locked inside since his day in
the penance lock, burned forth, searing through his
chest.
He lashed out,
kicking, body writhing beneath Walter’s hold, realizing as he did
so that he wasn’t as small as he used to be, that he and Walter
were nearly the same height now. Walter cursed, his grip
tightening, fingers digging even deeper into Colin’s cheek, into
his side. Still kicking, Colin reached up and back with his hands,
went for Walter’s face, for his hair. He felt Walter’s head jerk
backward, heard it thud into the side of the wagon, but Walter’s
grip didn’t loosen. Instead, he hissed, “Punch him! Punch him, you
pissant Company bastard!”
He sensed more than
saw Jackson move, the shadows too deep—
And then the fist
landed in his stomach, awkwardly, but with enough force to double
Colin over, Walter dragged down with him before the Proprietor’s
son caught his balance and jerked him back upright.
“Again!” Walter
barked. “Harder!”
The second blow drove
the wind from him. He gasped, breathed in and out through his nose,
nostrils flaring, as Walter chuckled.
Before he’d
recovered, Walter spun and shoved him face first into the wagon.
The Proprietor’s son leaned hard into his back. One of Colin’s arms
was trapped between his chest and the wagon at a painful angle.
Colin slammed his other hand into the side of the wagon, tried to
push himself away, but Walter had his full weight behind
him.
“You’d better hope
that your father wises up, or I’m going to make your life
miserable,” Walter said through clenched teeth.
“I’m not afraid of
you anymore, Walter,” Colin gasped.
He grunted. “We’ll
see. I don’t have my father holding me back anymore. I’ll find some
way to hurt you. And out here . . . no one’s safe out
here.”
Then he pushed back,
the pressure against Colin gone.
Colin spun, back
against the wagon, but he couldn’t see anything except the flicker
of firelight from behind the wagons and the stars and moonlight
farther out on the plains. In the lee of the wagon, there was
nothing.
He thought he was
alone until another voice, soft and low, said, “Your father must
realize that the Company will never accept this.”
Colin sucked in a
sharp breath, the Company representative’s cold, implacable voice
slicing through his rage with a thin blade of fear. But then he
heard the rustle of grass as Jackson retreated, and the silence of
the night descended again.
When he stepped into
the reach of the firelight, where his mother had set up camp inside
the circle of wagons, other fires scattered around to either side,
he’d managed to stop trembling. He found his father, Sam, Paul,
Lyda, Karen, and her father joking and laughing together, his
mother stirring the pot and checking on the skewers of meat set
over the flames. The scent of the charred, sizzling meat was
strong. Someone nearby had pulled out a fiddle, and low music
floated out over the group. A few tents had been erected, children
and some of those that would stand guard later already bedded
down.
His mother stood as
he halted. “I see you’ve decided to return to camp,” she said, and
then her smile faltered. “What’s wrong, Colin? What
happened?”
He glanced toward his
father, toward Karen. “Nothing.”
His mother sighed.
“Well, they’ve finished with the butchering, but we could use more
water.” She reached down to retrieve a bucket from the ground and
held it out to Colin expectantly. “The stream’s on the other side
of the gap.”
Colin almost refused
to take the bucket—his stomach hurt from Jackson’s punches, and
he’d barely managed to control his rage—but then he stepped
forward, snagged its handle, and headed off in the direction of the
gap without a word.
Behind, he heard Paul
resume his interrupted story, the rest bursting into laughter, and
then he passed beyond hearing.
Preoccupied with
thoughts of Walter, he made his way down between the two banks,
nodded to the guards on duty, then paused to listen for the sound
of the stream. Water gurgled over stones off to the right, so he
headed in that direction, one hand massaging the ache in his
abdomen.
He found the stream,
black with glints of white and silver in the weak moonlight.
Kneeling, he dipped the bucket into the frigid water, listening to
the sounds of the fiddle in the distance, faint because of the
intervening bank. He hummed along with it, his anger abating, the
bucket almost full, then glanced up.
A figure crouched on
the opposite side of the stream, three paces away.
He jerked back with a
grunt, yanking the bucket up out of the water. He overbalanced, sat
down hard on the grass embankment, water sloshing onto his shoes,
and then he scrambled backward, his throat closed so tight he could
hardly breathe, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. His arm hit a
hole hidden in the grass and he collapsed onto his side, his
scramble halted, but he rolled onto his back, bucket held up before
him like a weapon, water spilling onto his chest.
“Don’t move!” he
ordered. “Don’t move or I’ll—”
He choked on his
anger as he realized it wasn’t Walter or Jackson. It wasn’t anyone
from the expedition at all.
The man on the other
side of the water didn’t react, except to tilt his head to one
side, chin slightly forward, brow wrinkling. His face was narrow
and thin, his skin pale in the moonlight, paler than anyone in the
expedition. His eyes were dark, his hair darker, but Colin couldn’t
tell what color they were, not in the scant light.
Heart still
shuddering in his chest, Colin swallowed and sat up, gathering his
feet beneath him while still holding the bucket out before him,
defensively now.
The man watched
silently. He was dressed in a fine material that Colin didn’t
recognize, his shirt strangely patterned, the torso a swirl of
lines and colors, all muted in the moonlight, the sleeves a single
color and long, covering his arms. His breeches were tanned
leather, supple, his boots made of the same material, but hardened.
He carried a bow, unstrung and longer than any of the bows Colin
had ever seen, the curved wood held in one hand, reaching up to
twice the man’s height while crouched. Colin could see lettering
carved into the side of the bow near the grip. A compact quiver was
slung over one shoulder, and a sheathed short sword and pouch were
secured to his waist.
A glint of gold or
silver drew Colin’s eye to the man’s fingers. He wore a band of
metal around two fingers on one hand and another thicker band
around his wrist. There were markings on the bracelet and
rings.
Colin met the man’s
eyes and frowned. “Who are you?” he asked. He thought about the
guards on duty at the gap, a swift sprint away. But something in
the man’s subtle movements, in the considering tilt of his head and
the dangerous, casual way he held the bow, told him he’d never make
it more than a few paces.
The man straightened
and said something in a language Colin didn’t understand, certainly
not Andovan. His voice was harsher than Colin expected, rougher,
but the words had a smooth cadence.
When the man finished
speaking, he frowned, waiting expectantly.
Colin shook his head.
“I don’t understand you.”
The man scowled,
glanced out toward the plains, out into the darkness. His motions
were a strange combination of short, sharp gestures and fluid
movements. Colin suddenly wondered where the rest of the man’s
group was. They’d seen at least six figures on the horizon. How
close were they? Did they intend to attack the wagons?
He felt his heart
quickening again and shifted backward.
The strange man’s
head jerked toward him, hand falling to the hilt of the short sword
at his side, and Colin froze. He licked his lips, his mouth
suddenly dry. Sweat prickled his skin, on his forehead and back, in
his armpits.
They held still,
regarding each other. The bucket began to tremble, Colin’s arm
tiring. He saw the man’s hand tighten on his sword hilt as the
bucket began to shake, but Colin couldn’t hold it up any
longer.
He let it sag to the
ground, released his death grip on its handle, and flexed his
fingers, wincing at the pain.
The man watched
silently. Then he relaxed, a thin smile touching the corners of his
mouth. His hand fell away from the short sword.
He said something
else, the words still incomprehensible. His eyebrows rose as he
waited for a response, then fell as he sighed.
Shifting, he pointed
to himself and said, “Aeren.” Then he pointed to Colin.
“Name?”
Colin gaped in
surprise, stunned into silence.
The
man—Aeren—frowned, seemed to think about what he’d said, then said
again, putting a slightly different emphasis on the word, as if he
weren’t certain he’d pronouncing it correctly, “Name?”
“Colin,” Colin
stuttered. “My name is Colin.”
Aeren nodded.
“Colin.” He said it carefully, almost reverentially, then ruined
the image by muttering something under his breath in his own
language.
“How do you know my
language?” Colin asked.
Aeren’s brow creased,
and he tilted his head again. Then he shook it. “Where go?” He
waved a hand into the darkness. “Where?”
Colin pointed. “South
and east.”
Aeren followed his
finger, his frown darkening, deepening. He turned back, the motion
sharp again. “No.” He stood, and as he did so Colin realized he was
tall—at least a hand taller than Colin—although the bow he now held
in both hands, its point on the ground, still reached over his
head. Colin wondered if he’d mistaken the bow for a spear earlier.
“No,” Aeren repeated. “Meet here.” He motioned to the ground on the
other side of the stream. “Meet here. Sun.” He gestured toward the
horizon, his motions easy to read.
“Meet you here in the
morning,” Colin said.
Aeren regarded him
for a long moment, the lines of his face intent.
Then he turned and
vanished into the night.