Forsada: Volume II in the New Eden series (9 page)

Micktuk suddenly steps out onto the middle of the road, and one of the horses whinnies in surprise.

“What the—”

The driver pulls back on his reins, and the wagon stops.

“Hold up there,” Micktuk says, his voice echoing off the trees.

I look across to Garrett and Shack, but they’re just looking back at me in surprise. What is Micktuk doing? We were supposed to jump them.

“Out of the way, you.” The driver snarls down from his high seat. I can’t see them from behind the tree.

“Shouldn’t we kill him, Pep?”

A loud moan comes from the girl in the wagon. She must be gagged, probably tied up. I don’t know what Micktuk is planning, but I’m not going to wait around. I sneak around the big tree and onto the road behind the wagon. Its back is open. I leap lightly up onto the platform. It’s empty except for the girl, lying on her side tied up with her hands behind her back and her ankles tied together. She has a blindfold on and another rag tied as a gag through her mouth. She lies on top of a pile of blankets.

“Outta the way, you!”

“No.”

“Just run him down, Pep.”

“Good idea.”

I kneel and pull the blindfold from the girl’s eyes. She’s terrified and trembling. In two seconds I’ve sliced the cords from her wrists and ankles, and I point out the back. She pulls the gag from her mouth but doesn’t move. In the dark, I can’t tell who she is. Thick, frizzed hair. She’s maybe thirteen years old. And she’s about to cry out in big sobs.

“Go!” I whisper and shove her toward the back.

The wagon lurches when Pep yells “Ha!” and the horses startle forward. The girl stumbles and rolls to the back, then falls out onto the road.

It’s impossible to stand with the wagon bounding over rocks and roots. Micktuk’s probably dead unless he got out of the way. I grab on to the side wall to keep from being pitched out the back like the girl, and I drop my throwing blade. “Ha! Hey!” Pep keeps yelling. Through the opening forward I see him whipping the reins with all his might.

I grip the knife tight and inch my way forward as the wagon lurches and bucks. I glance back once to see Shack and Garrett in the road, bending over the girl, helping her up. No sign of Micktuk.

We emerge from the trees just as the moon is climbing over the far peaks on the eastern side of the lake. The wagon is on open road now, and the horses speed into a full gallop. It’s easier to balance on the smoother road, and in two quick steps I’m at the canvas right behind the driver. Pep.

I grip the knife tight and plunge forward as hard as I can. The blade slices through the cloth and bores into a body. There’s a yell, and I keep pushing forward, driving with every bit of my strength. The white canvas of the wagon’s cover stains blood-black. I yank hard to pull the knife out, but the slick handle slips away from me as the body of Pep tumbles forward off the wagon, under the wheel.

Wood crunches and splinters as the wagon pitches under me, and I’m flung sideways, bashing my ribs against the sidewall. I can’t breathe. I clutch at the canvas and pull myself to my knees.

There’s more yelling. Through the opening I see the other man trying to capture the reins, which lash about as the horses keep flying forward. The wagon teeters on three good wheels as we careen along the road toward Lodgeholm. Through the flailing, torn cloth, the image of the burned-out hulk that used to be Lodgeholm suddenly flashes in the moonlight. Parts of it still glow red with devilish embers, and smoke still curls into the night in ghostly wisps.

I claw my way forward, just as the man tames the reins and steadies himself on the seat. He’s yelling at the horses, trying to calm them.

I get to the front, just a few feet behind him, and I unclip my last throwing blade from my shirt. One of them must have fallen away at some point. Damn. But that doesn’t matter; all I need is one. I reach through the opening and swing my arm around to drive the blade’s tip into his throat. Or, I aimed for his throat. Instead, the blade tears into cheek and jaw, and he lets loose a hellish howl of pain.

I let the blade stick where it is, then grab the spindly arch of iron above my head. It holds the canvas up and doesn’t look strong enough to hold my weight, but I leap anyway and swing my legs out and around intending to slam my knees into the howling monster’s side.

I was right. The arch wasn’t strong enough to hold my weight. Stupid Southshaw smiths. It figures they can’t make a decent stick of metal. It buckles and bends. For a moment I hang out over nothing as the whole canvas cover rips away and flutters up and away behind us.

The wailing monster beside me drops the reins as he claws at his face. The horses bolt again, and the wagon lurches, tumbling me back onto the seat beside him. He’s blinded with pain, and his face and hands glow silvery red in the bright moonlight. I grab the seat with both hands as the wagon starts bucking and bouncing. Wood creaks and groans, and I can feel it twisting beneath me. Without thinking, I leap off the side and roll onto the soft grass of the lawn in front of Lodgeholm.

The wagon goes only a few more yards before the other front wheel gives way and the whole thing pitches forward, digs into the road, breaks free of its yoke, and tumbles end over end. The horses keep running, still hitched together with the wagon’s tongue dragging and bouncing behind them.

The wagon rolls one final time, teetering upright for a moment before crumpling to its side. I start walking toward it, but I don’t go far before I come to the body of that wailing devil whose face I ripped apart. He lies on the dirt in a twisted heap, one arm and one leg turned at unnatural angles. Only as I get closer do I see that although his face is pointed up to the sky, his body is lying chest-down. I don’t have to worry about him  anymore.

A few hundred yards away, the horses have stopped running and stand in the road, steaming into the night. Lodeholm’s smoking remains glow nearby, and the air is heavy with the smell of burnt pine. I don’t feel sorry for the man dead at my feet. I don’t feel pity or sadness. All I feel is anger.

Darius is Southshaw. Dane’s uncle. Dane should be here, Dane should clear up the mess that he allowed to happen. He’d better be gathering up all those friends he said he had. He’d better be on his way here, in a hurry. He’d better not turn out to be like Turner, all talk. He promised to come. He promised to help.

The night has gone remarkably quiet. Soft wind shivering the treetops, waves patting at the shore of the lake. Night sounds starting back up after being startled into silence by the wagon’s intrusion.

“Lupay!”

I turn around and watch Shack appear from the darkness into the moonlight, running toward me. I should probably go to meet him, but instead I just watch. He looks small against the wide background of dark trees, mountain peaks, and starry sky. Just one boy, running to me. Where is his brother? Where is the girl? Where is Micktuk?

I am so tired, so hurt, so empty of everything but anger. And here comes my army. Just one boy. Darius has hundreds, thousands. It was so hard, so much work to overcome just these two. How can we ever fight back?

He keeps running. “Lupay!’

I should wave or something. Shouldn’t I? But what’s the point?

A few seconds later, he slows and stops before me, steaming into the night like the horses. He looks me over. I know there’s blood on my hands and probably my face and shirt and whatever. I might have torn my clothes falling off the wagon. There are probably bruises forming all over as I stand here in the dark.

He stares into my eyes. “Are you okay?”

No.

“Yes,” I say.

He keeps staring at me, then looks down at the man lying twisted just a few feet away.

“You’re not hurt?”

“I said I was okay.”

He kneels next to the body, looks at the man’s mangled face.

“Good god, Lupay. The poor bastard.”

“Yeah. I feel sorry for him.”

Shack glances up at me, then looks back at the body. “Good point.” He pokes around at the pockets for a moment, finds nothing, then stands.

“We found a letter in the pocket of the other one.” Shack looks at the wagon lying crumpled not too far away. “And a knife in his back.”

“Hmm. That would be mine.”

Shack nods. “Yeah, I recognized it.” He pauses, the points at the wagon. “Anything worth looking at there?”

“No.” There was nothing at all in the wagon but the blankets they stole from Tawtrukk. From us. “The only thing they had fell out back there.” I look back at the road, but Garrett and the girl aren’t coming. Maybe he’s staying with her. “Is she hurt?”

Shack shakes his head slowly, still staring at the wagon. We both avoid looking at the ashes of Lodgeholm. “No, she’ll be okay. Shaken up. A few bruises and scrapes, but she was lucky to fall out when she did.” He looks down at the corpse in the dirt, then up at me. “You sure you’re good?”

Knowing the girl is okay helps. Knowing Garrett is with her helps. One of the horses snorts nearby. They seem to be wandering back toward us. Must be our voices, something familiar and calming.

But something’s still wrong. “Where’s Micktuk?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t see him.”

That moment in the wagon hits me. When it first jumped forward, with Micktuk still in the road. It must have run him over. “Shack, do you think…”

“Lupay, I didn’t see him. Not anywhere.”

“Were you looking?”

“What do you mean, was I looking? Of course. Loop, it’s just a road. He was there, then he wasn’t.”

“Sometimes you miss things.”

“Loop—”

“Like, obvious things.” Suddenly I need to know where Micktuk is. If we have any hope of anything, of being more than just a couple of kids against an army, we need Micktuk.

“I don’t know what—”

“Yes you do, cabron. You know you miss things all the time! You do!” Why am I so angry with him? Why am I taking it out on him? He doesn’t miss things. But he missed Micktuk this time. I’m sure of it.

I take a few steps back toward the trees. “He’s short. And… and quiet.”

“Loop, he’s not easy to miss.”

“Maybe easy for you!” I can’t stop myself yelling at him. Micktuk has to be okay. “Maybe you were only looking for me. Maybe you didn’t see him. You’re tall, and he’s short and… and…”

“And so very, very dark!” Another voice comes from behind me. I spin to see the horses approaching. “Micktuk, he gets lost in de dark sometimes, yeh? Hee hee!”

It takes a moment, but the deep shadow of Micktuk’s short, round figure appears in front of one of the horses. He’s leading them along, tight in close to their dark brown and blending into the night.

Shack laughs. I don’t feel like laughing. It doesn’t seem funny to me. But I am filled with relief.

Shack strides over to him and whacks his shoulder. “Where the heck were you?” He laughs his delight.

“Well, dat wagon jumped right on me, but I was quicker. I grabbed up in dem horses and swung myself up between ‘em, held on for all I got. Hangin’ off the sides, almost got squished between ‘em, but I held on. It was one wild ride, let me tell you.” He smiles at me, his teeth a bright white in the night. “Girlie, when we’s riding together, you sit back and let Micktuk drive, yeh?”

“What?”

Shack laughs and starts unyoking the horses. I don’t see anything funny.

Micktuk bends over the corpse and pokes a couple of times, prodding it here and there. He stands, reaches his foot out and kicks it over. He looks at me, not smiling this time. “You done good, Lupay.” He holds my gaze a few seconds before waddling off to the wagon.

Shack lifts the yoke off one of the horses, and it steps away and starts nibbling the grass. As he unhitches the other, he says, “The horses seem fine. To them, it was just a hard run, I guess.” He notices Micktuk kicking around at the wagon’s remains. “Lupay says there’s nothing there,” he calls. “ Empty.”

Micktuk contemplates the remains and waves us away, saying, “You all go back and get the others. Take ‘em back up to my place. Make the other one safe, yeh?” He kicks at one of the boards, then looks up at Lodgeholm.

Shack leads one horse to me and hands me its lead. He goes back and grabs the other.

“You all know de way, yeh?”

“We know the way,” Shack responds. “Come on, Loop.”

We start walking, and I look back when I hear the screeching of nails being ripped from wood. Micktuk is pulling apart the wagon, plank by plank. I ask Shack, “What’s he doing?”

“Dunno. He’s a funny guy like that, though, isn’t he?”

Another loud creak and crack, but we walk on. A few minutes later we reach the redwood stand, where Garrett is sitting against a tree, with the girl walking around the tree in big circles. When he sees us, he stands. The girl is startled, and she stops circling and runs to hide behind him. He waves but says nothing.

When we get close, he comes out to the road. “Hi,” he says. “I think this is yours.” He holds my knife out to me, handle first, and I take it.

I slide the gleaming blade into its sheath, which is still strapped to my thigh. “Thanks for cleaning it.”

“Thanks for using it.” He looks into my eyes, and I can tell he’s holding back from asking whether I’m okay. He already knows the real answer.