Forsada: Volume II in the New Eden series (8 page)

Shack says, “Yeah, Loop, I’m starving.” He turns to his brother. “How’s that coming, chef?”

“Might go faster with some help,” Garret sneers.

Shack heads over to help with the cutting up of vegetables, putting of pots on the fire, gathering of bread and dried meat. Micktuk holds tight to my arm.

The door creaks open, and from the twilight outside people trickle in, wilted with exhaustion and agony. Under the lantern’s light, each face melts into a mixture of relief and sorrow. All but one: the young mother shines with momentary joy when she sees her two sleeping children on Micktuk’s bed. She kneels next to them and touches their hair, stares at their faces, kisses their foreheads.

The two men who came with us from Lodgeholm enter last, entirely drained. All of them fall to the floor wherever there is room. I wonder whether they know about Lower, what they think of Micktuk.

Micktuk releases my arm. “You want to know how we’re gonna help from Sikwaa?” He pulls the book from the shelf and slips it back into my hands. “We eat. Then you read to everyone. Then we go. Midnight. Yeh?”

He pats my hand, smiles as broadly as his thick, little lips will let him, and hustles over to the boys. “Da, da, da. Watchoo doing here? Dumb boys. Didn’t girlie teach you anything bout cookin’?” Garrett shoots me a glare and I stop myself from bursting out laughing. If only Micktuk knew about my cooking.

As they go about getting everyone a meal and a wash-up, I settle down in the corner where there’s reasonable light and begin reading.

How Robin Hood Came to Be an Outlaw.

CHAPTER 9

We left Micktuk’s cabin well after nightfall, and he took us along a shortcut down a dried streambed to get here, a half hour quicker than any route I knew of. We were off the road the whole time. He said we were going to do something, not just hide out in Sikwaa. Well, here we are.

“It’s creepy out here,” Shack says.

“Shh.” Shack never could keep his mouth shut.

“Just, you’d think there would be some sound, or something.”

“Shut up,” I hiss. We’re pretty well above Lower, on Bessing’s hill, looking down at the square. I know the Southshawans can’t hear his whispering from this far away. Still, it’s better to be quiet.

But Shack’s right. The sight is eerie. If not for lights flickering from a few windows, and a dozen wagons scattered around the square, I’d think the whole place was deserted.

“Where is everyone?”

I glare at Shack’s lumpy silhouette in the darkness.

Micktuk’s whisper is even less quiet than Shack’s. “See, they all locked up in de meetin house. See de shutters all closed up?”

He doesn’t bother pointing, but I see what he means. The meeting house. That means they only let a hundred or so live, or they’ve packed them in on top of each other.

Garrett sneaks around to my side. “Loop, I think that—what’s his name?”

“Darius.”

“Darius. I think that Darius has taken over Turner’s house. See how it’s all lit up? And it’s close to the square.”

And the nicest house in town with the warmest quilts and softest beds and brightest lanterns. But Marshall Turner won’t be missing his own bed tonight. Seems appropriate for that bastard Darius to sleep in Turner’s bed.

Garrett pauses, then asks, “So what’s the plan?”

Damn him for asking first. “The plan is,” I whisper, “that I ask you what the plan is.”

“Ha, ha.”

Micktuk says, “I’ll go make some noise, yeh? Make trouble with them horses or chickens or something. You go see what there is to see, yeh?”

It’s as good a plan as any, and Garrett and I shrug at each other. Why not? Without waiting for an answer, Micktuk slides off into the darkness, down the hill toward the square. We follow in a line. Me first, then Garrett, and Shack behind.

In moments we’re just fifty yards from the square, dodging among the trees at the edge of the meadow, when we all stop dead. A loud kathunk echoes from below, and a yellow light floods out into the square from Turner’s front door.

“No need to hurry,” a man’s voice barks out across the meadow. Two wide silhouettes appear in the doorway and thunk their boots down his wooden steps to the dirt. A third man, shorter than the first two, stands in the door and waits there.

“You haven’t forgotten the message for First Wife, have you?” The voice sneers at them from the house.

“No, Semper. I have it right here in my pocket,” replies one of the men.

So that is Darius, calling himself Semper. He wouldn’t know that Dane had returned from exile and taken back Southshaw.

“Like I said. There’s no need to hurry. But I am sure that First Wife is eager to be reunited with her husband. So there’s also no need to tarry.” Even here, hiding in the dark, I can feel the threat lurking in his words.

Darius struts down the steps and catches up with the two, walks beside them to the wagons in the square. One wagon is covered with a broad square of cloth, like a tent on top of a big, rolling table. It looks entirely impractical. Especially since it never rains here in the summer.

Darius hops into the back of the wagon while the two men retrieve a pair of horses resting nearby and hitch them to the yoke. The whole contraption looks flimsy and awkward. Those poor horses must be embarrassed to pull it. All the other horses probably laugh at them.

Only when Darius jumps back down from the back of the wagon do I realize he’s not going with them. The square is still ghostly quiet except the sounds of ropes being tied and the three men shuffling around.

“Why can’t we wait until morning?”

“You’ll go now,” replies Darius.

“I still don’t see why we can’t sleep a little, then go when the sun is up. Much easier traveling that way.”

“I said you’ll go now.” There’s a threat in every word that Darius says, even in that simple statement. His doggy voice makes my skin crawl and my stomach sick.

“Okay, okay, I’m not arguing. Just seemed… you know. Is all.”

“First Wife is eager to be reunited with her husband,” Darius explains. If the stupid other man argues after the clipped, certain way Darius said each word, I’d want to kill him myself just for his stupidity. But he keeps quiet and climbs up onto the driver’s platform. The other follows.

“So, Darius, like… we have all this room in here. I mean, it’ll be nice for First Wife when we drive her back here from Southshaw, but it seems a shame to have it be empty on the way south. If you know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t.”

“So, just, I was thinking,” continues the second idiot, clearly not thinking or he’d shut his mouth and be on his way, “we could do with some, um… entertainment, like.” He pauses. “You know. It’s a long ride.”

“Entertainment?”

“Yeah. Something to keep us, um, busy. Like, one of the girls.”

“Oh.”

There’s a long pause. Why would this guy want a girl to keep him entertained. What, did he think all Tawtrukk girls sing, or play a flute, or tell stories? Or—

Oh.

I shiver when I think of the look in that monster’s eyes, what was his name—Baddock, that’s it—when he tied me to that tree. I know what he was planning on doing to me. This must be one of his thugs, maybe one of the ones that dragged me through miles of mud and horse shit. These Southshaw thugs aren’t men. They’re sick. I feel like retching. Garrett’s hand rests on my shoulder. Either his hand is trembling, or my whole body is. I think it’s me.

Darius finally speaks. “No.”

For a moment, I almost don’t despise him. Perhaps he has some decency after all.

“But… why not?”

“I can’t have you riding into Southshaw with a Tawtrukk slave girl, can I?”

“We could kill her and dump her before we even get to Richards Meadow,” says the first.

Another long pause where Garrett presses down on my shoulder. I could spring up, fly at them in the darkness, be upon them and kill them all before they knew what had happened.

“Lupay, don’t.” Garrett breathes the words in my ear. “You can’t make it. There are three of them. And hundreds more just inside the houses. Maybe even hiding in the shadows. Don’t. Please. You can’t do it. They’ll kill you.”

I could do it. I know I could do it. It’s a long way, and yeah they would see me coming, but—

“And after they kill you, they’ll find the rest of us.”

He’s right. I slump under his touch. It would be foolish. I can’t make it that far that quick.

“And then who will save Tawtrukk?”

As I relax, the press of his hand eases on my shoulder.

“Hmm, yes, all right,” Darius says. “But be quick about the selection. And only one.” He turns to walk back to Turner’s house but stops a few steps along and turns back to them. “And take some of these heathen blankets with you. When you get to Southshaw, clean the wagon thoroughly and line it with the best quilts from my house. Baddock will help you select. Make sure First Wife has no reason to suspect anything untoward has occurred in her carriage.”

“Of course,” one chirps as he leaps from the platform and runs up the square, away from the meeting house.

They’re not being held in the meeting house?

“Where are you going?” asks the other one.

“The young ones are up here,” replies the first as he charges up the hill toward the second largest house in town, Tanner’s place.
The young ones
.

Micktuk whispers, “Come on, this way,” and beckons away from the square.

Where the hell is he going? This is where Darius is. This is where these monsters are with their wagon. We can’t let them just grab one of the girls and drive off to Southshaw. I know what those demons plan to do in that wagon now, and I won’t let them.

Shack watches me, unsure whether to follow Micktuk. He said he was going to make some noise so we could get in close, but now he’s leaving. What the hell?

Garrett whispers, “I think I know what he’s planning, Loop. Come on.”

It doesn’t feel right. The bad guys are here. Right here. We can take them now that Darius has gone back inside. But it’s too late. Micktuk, Shack, and even Garrett are flying through the trees along the edge of the meadow, southward, fast as they can go without making more noise than the evening breeze in the treetops and the gentle waves of the lake.

I shake my head. This seems wrong. But I take a deep breath and start sprinting after them.

In moments I’m right behind Garrett. The four of us jog along the deer path at the edge of the meadow, now far out of sight of Lower’s houses. We run single file, parallel to the road, which winds along the lake shore half a mile through the moonless dark. The evening air can’t cool me down, though. I watch Garrett’s heels kick up dust in the night, trying not to think about what’s happening in that wagon right now. Which girl that monster picked from the terrified, sleeping
young ones
locked up in Tanner’s house.

Micktuk’s bald head bounces along in front like a black ball. Maybe he didn’t hear them talking. Maybe he didn’t understand what they’re planning. Maybe he doesn’t care.

Another quarter mile in silence, and we’re all beginning to breathe hard. I can hear the exhaustion in the slap of Garrett’s feet on the path, see it in the way he weaves just a little, stumbles from time to time. Micktuk and Shack are pulling ahead of us but are still close.

With every step, the tight band around my thigh reminds me that my knife could have been used back there but is still bloodless. And my three throwing blades clipped to my shirt bounce light against my chest, eager for me to turn around and put them to use. This is stupid. I have to turn back. Now.

I’m about to call Garrett’s name when Micktuk breaks off the path and straight across the meadow. His head looks like a strange buoy being blown across the tall, summer grass. Shack goes too, and when Garrett plunges into the meadow, I follow.

Micktuk is charging toward the road, straight at the thick redwood stand near the dock where Harper launches his fishing boats. It’s at a point that juts out into the lake, and when you come round the point you can see Lodgeholm for the first time. Or you used to be able to.

We reach the redwoods in a minute, and immediately I understand. The road winds between the trees, which are hundreds of years old and each fifteen feet thick. Here, a wagon like the one the monsters have will have to meander slowly over thick roots and around tight corners. Here, we can wait in secret, in silence. An ambush. Without a thousand enemies ready to spill out on top of us.

Micktuk, I forgive you.

I come up last, panting a bit but eager for that wagon to arrive. Garrett is doubled over, hands on his knees, spitting into the dust and gasping for air. Shack stands tall, his chest heaving. Only Micktuk looks fresh and rested, his round white eyes floating in the blackness under the darker shadows of the trees.

“Might be a wait,” he says finally. “This de best place, sure. We hide in here, when they drive up we jump ‘em.”

Sounds good to me. I can’t wait to kill them. I’m sure my father would agree by now. Maybe even Turner would want that.

Garrett is looking around, at the trees, at the ground. He paces the road, checks sight lines. I want to tell him to stop, tell him this won’t be hard. They’ll be going slow. It’s dark. They won’t expect anything.

“Even here,” he says at last, “they might be able to escape if we don’t barricade the road.” He stands in the road where I imagine my knife entering the chest of a surprised Southshaw bastard, and he turns. “If he spurred the horses, they could make it through and out the other side. We’d never catch them then.”

I don’t have to look twice. He’s right. Of course.

“Barricade?” Shack goes to stand next to his brother. “What are you thinking?”

“I don’t know—”

Suddenly the squeaky clatter of a wagon drifts to us. “Hide,” I hiss, but I didn’t have to. The twins leap to the far side of the road while Micktuk blends into the shadows on the meadow side. I step in next to Micktuk.

We wait, not long, and the wagon’s creaks get louder. Every now and then a horse snorts, and their feet beat the dirt slow and uneven. The wood of the wagon groans, and metal chains clink.

“Shut up back there,” a man’s voice calls. “I know you’re eager for it, but you’ll get it soon enough.” The two men laugh a coughing, evil laugh.

Now I can hear the whimpering of the girl.

“How far you reckon,” one of the men says. They’re closer than I thought.

“Maybe after these trees,” says the other. “No, not yet. After that place we burned down this morning.”

Was that just this morning?

The horses’ clopping slows further, and we know they’re close. I tense and unclip one of the small, light blades from my shirt. It won’t do much to them, but it will startle them. And it will hurt. And then I’ll jump up and use my hunting knife. I reach down and unclip it, lift it out of its sheath.