Giant Thief (34 page)

  I couldn't resist another look back as we began up the hillside, clinging to the absurd hope that for once luck would take our side. The trail curled between slabs of grey rock streaked with chalk, or sometimes banks of hard-packed earth where gaunt thorn trees bent towards us. The main road was hidden from view, and all the perspective we had was the occasional glimpse of river to our left and the ramparts of the mountain rearing ahead. I couldn't tell if Moaradrid's men had taken the turn-off.

  As long as I didn't know for sure, I could hope.

  The path, which had been steadily worsening, became abruptly steeper. Killer nearly lost his footing, and whinnied irritably. He wasn't bred for this kind of thing. This was literally donkeywork, and torment for an animal born to run on the flat. As distressing as it was to feel him struggling beneath me, my greatest worry was that we'd have to abandon our mounts. After the travails of the last few hours, neither Estrada nor I were in particularly good shape. Having to leave the horses could only work to Moaradrid's advantage.

  Of course, I was still clutching to the faint hope that we'd lost our pursuers. It wasn't until the incline took us out from the region of shallow gullies and onto the beginning of the mountainside proper that we had a clear view. There was the river, tumbling from the mountainside to wind into the blue haze of the distance. There was the Cancasa Bridge, looking hopelessly fragile against the backdrop of tumbling white-water, and the road traipsing across it and away in each direction.

  Lastly, there was Moaradrid's small band. I was surprised by how far behind they'd fallen. They'd barely made the turn onto the trail. At that distance, they were little more than large specks standing out against the grey of the path.

  Nor did they seem to be rushing. I thought about what Mounteban had said – that Moaradrid's unpaid and ill-fed army was close to rebellion. Were they taking their time through half-heartedness, perhaps discussing whether it mightn't be easier just to turn around and forget the whole sorry business? But another detail made me think twice. The party had grown by at least a half-dozen riders, and a couple of what from their outlines must be pack mounts. It was just as likely that they'd waited for support and supplies, perhaps even for Moaradrid himself. Wouldn't he want to see this through?

  So maybe they weren't hurrying because they knew we had nowhere left to run.

  A thought crossed my mind: If I ordered him to, Saltlick could kill them all. A dozen men – a thrown rock would probably do it. Maybe I should have done it days ago, in Panchetto's palace perhaps. Wouldn't Panchetto be alive now if I had? I glanced at Saltlick. He'd been running, or walking hard, for nearly an hour now, and his skin glistened with sweat. Yet there was no sign of tiredness in his face, only a look of steadfast pleasure.

  I couldn't imagine what it would be like for going home to mean that much – enough to eclipse pain and tiredness, to wipe out days of fear and violence. I wouldn't see Saltlick reunited with his people with those bastards' blood still wet on his hands. Damn Moaradrid, let them catch us if they wanted.

  Clearly, it was exactly what they wanted. His party were fractionally nearer whenever I looked back. They couldn't do much to narrow the gap with both of us travelling so slowly, but they didn't need to. If they gained a step an hour, it would be enough to overtake us eventually.

  I became increasingly aware that I'd have to ignore that contracting gap if I didn't want to die much sooner. The trail was terrible, not really a trail at all. Apart from Moaradrid's force all those weeks ago, I doubted anything bigger than a goat had passed this way in years. There was no way he'd brought an army up here; I could only assume he'd camped them nearby. There was nothing under our horses' hooves but a narrow ribbon of rock, edging a precipice that fell steeply to the boulders below.

  We came eventually to a section where the incline levelled out, and the gap between the cliff face to our right and the edge on our left was wide enough for the three of us to travel abreast. Saltlick automatically took the most dangerous position. He moved easily, unperturbed by the altitude or the lethally uneven surface. Estrada rode on the inside, and Killer and I were in the middle.

  All fight had gone out of the poor beast. He trod anxiously, giving the occasional worried snort. More and more he expected constant guidance, and made no secret of resenting my over-the-shoulder surveillance of Moaradrid's men. He'd dance a little closer to the edge, as though my reassurance was the only thing keeping us from hurtling over. I realised I'd have to give him my full concentration if he wasn't going to sacrifice us both to prove his point.

  That insight proved just a minute too late.

  Estrada's mount screamed horribly. He'd completely lost his hoofing, and slid towards me. I reined Killer in, too roughly. Rather than retreat, he stopped dead. Estrada's mount struck his flank and he slipped too. My eyes fell to the cliff, which jerked nearer with nightmarish abruptness.

  "Saltlick!"

  He looked round to see both horses skittering towards him, hooves dancing out of control. He looked puzzled for an instant. Then he dug his toes in, gripping the very verge of the precipice, and held his palms out, just in time to brace against Killer's flank. That only scared Killer more. He reared, thrashing his forelegs, and I hurled my arms around his neck. Saltlick barely ducked out of the way.

  Estrada, to my right, had restored enough control to drag her horse to safer ground. Killer, though, was half-mad with fear. He tried to bolt forward. He might as well have tried to run on ice. The burst only propelled him nearer the edge. He whickered in terror. Beyond the precipice beside us, a landscape in miniature span into view, toy trees and rocks an impossible distance below. Killer tried once more to regain the path, drove himself sideways again. His forelegs kicked against nothing.

  We lurched into the void.

  I could feel the wind tearing at me. I could hear its screech. I felt myself plummeting.

  At least, that was what my brain insisted. My eyes told a different story. They were anchored to the ground far, far below. Seconds passed, and for all that my mind was convinced I should be plunging towards it, it drew no closer.

  Even when that eye-watering view swung away, even when the path drifted back into focus, I couldn't believe it. I felt a tug on my right leg. Since when did falling involve having your leg pulled? I looked aside. There was Estrada, one hand still on my knee. There was Saltlick beside her, panting with exertion.

  "What happened?" I managed, the words thick on my tongue.

  "Saltlick caught you."

  "He caught me?"

  "Your horse."

  "Nobody's that strong."

  She managed a thin smile. "Clearly Saltlick is."

  We didn't try to ride again after that. Chips of shale littered the trail, and flowed like water under the slightest pressure. That was what had caused Estrada's mount to slip. Leading the horses was only slightly safer, but it calmed them a little at least. Killer had suffered some sort of nervous collapse, and wouldn't do anything without my guidance. I kept a tight grip on the reins bunched in my hand and whispered outrageous lies I thought might keep his spirits up. "Almost at the lake of sugar, Killer," I said, and "don't worry, your barn's just around the next bend."

  The accident had occupied less than a minute. Still, it was valuable time lost. If Moaradrid's men fared better, if their horses were more familiar with this sort of terrain, then they'd be on us by nightfall.

  Rather than think about that, I concentrated on keeping my footing, and on my one-sided conversation with Killer. Neither went well. I couldn't go ten steps without my feet slipping from under me, and there are only so many absurd promises you can make to a horse. My body, already battered from riding, complained more with each step. My legs felt weak and elastic. I found myself remembering that moment of almost plunging to my death, and my head swam. Added to all those discomforts, the light was beginning to fade. The encroaching night played tricks with my eyes, and brought with it a ferocious cold.

  I'd half convinced myself that the razor's edge path across the rock face would never end, so that when it did I halted in confusion. Saltlick, who'd been leading, had disappeared, seemingly into the stone itself. Only when Estrada followed did I see the narrow crevasse they'd entered. It was a sheer split in the mountain, reaching down from high above. It was almost like an open doorway, and the sense of boundary made me nervous.

  Weariness had just about worn through the last of my courage. I thought seriously of leaving the giantstone there on the path in the hope that one of Moaradrid's men would find it – or perhaps trip over it and break his neck.

  "Hurry up," called Estrada. "We're out of the wind here."

  "Come on, Killer," I muttered, "nearly at the magic castle of hay."

  The region beyond the gap was surprisingly spacious, a wide hollow between two slanting planes that tilted together to almost meet far above. It was like a tent of rock, and as Estrada had said, it cut off the worst of the wind. The change in temperature was dramatic.

  Saltlick stood in the gloom at the far end. The chasm narrowed beyond him, and curved steeply upward. That must be the next leg of the path, though it looked even less deserving of the term than the route by which we'd arrived. The idea of attempting it made my legs turn to jelly, from my thighs to the tips of my toes. The still-rational part of my brain reminded me that Moaradrid's men must be less than an hour behind us. The remainder, numb with weariness, pointed out how little I cared.

  "We'll have to leave the horses here," Estrada said.

  Leave Killer? Was she serious? "They can't get down on their own."

  "Of course not. But we can't take them any further. If we make it we'll come back for them."

  "And if we don't?"

  Estrada sighed. "Then it's not going to make any difference, is it?"

  It was hard to fault her logic, especially with my brain melting from exhaustion. "Maybe we should take a minute to think about it."

  "We don't have a minute. Be reasonable, Damasco."

  "Reasonable?" The word came out as a sob. "What's reasonable? We've been on the run all day and I can't keep going! My legs won't work. I'm not made for heroics, Estrada. Please, just let me rest for a little while."

  I expected her to shout at me, to accuse me of selfishness and cowardice. I expected an argument. What I didn't expect was for Saltlick to reply before she could. "Saltlick carry." The words rolled out of the shadows, tolled back and forth between the crevasse walls. "Go home."

  "What?"

  "Saltlick carry." He stepped into the thin streak of light from the fissure far above. Kneeling, he cupped his arms together, hand locked to hand to form a sort of cradle.

  "You're joking."

  "Carry. Not tired. Go home."

  It was as many words as I'd ever heard Saltlick string together. There was a new tone to his voice too; even his monosyllabic grammar couldn't disguise the note of longing. I wanted to tell him it was all right, that I could go on. The truth was, I couldn't. I'd meant what I said. I felt as though the muscles in my calves and thighs were dissolving like ice in a fire.

  "All right."

  I moved nearer, let him scoop me off the ground. I thought I'd be embarrassed, but all I could feel as my feet left the earth was relief. I let my eyes slide closed, and soft blackness wrapped around me.

  "Damasco, you can't… I mean…"

  I felt Saltlick straighten up. He held me as carefully as any mother ever had her baby.

  "It's okay," I murmured. "Just for a little while. Then it's your turn, promise."

  "It isn't that. You'll wear him out."

  I let my body go loose when he began to move, let myself bounce along with his steps.

  "It's really okay."

  "Damasco…"

 

I woke to a velvet sky splashed with shimmering, fluid stars.

  The moon was gibbous, almost full, shining brightly through shreds of cloud. The rock stood out like alabaster beneath its light, glowing faintly, seeming slightly unreal. There was no transition from sleep to wakefulness, and no hint of what had roused me. I had the vague memory of deep, dreamless sleep. My nostrils filled with a musky scent like damp, warm straw, and I breathed in deeply, until I realised it was the smell of unwashed giant.

  I remembered where I was.

  "Hey, hey… put me down, Saltlick."

  Saltlick lurched to a halt, bent his knees, and set me on my feet.

  "Better?"

  I thought about it. I ached from head to toe, yet it was almost pleasant compared with the numbing weariness of before.

  "I am. I can feel my feet again."

  "Quiet, Damasco. They're close."

  I barely recognised the voice as Estrada's. I stepped around Saltlick, saw her, and gasped. She was skeletal and deathly pale under the moonlight. I fell into step between them and said softly, "Saltlick, can you carry Estrada?"

  "Yes. Go home."

  "Easie, I don't need carrying."

  "Then do it, Saltlick. As your chief, I command you – whatever she says or does."

  "Damasco, you…"

  Estrada hadn't time to finish her sentence before Saltlick swept her from the ground. She glared down at me and looked as though she'd try to struggle free.

  "Listen to sense for once. He can manage."

  "Not tired," agreed Saltlick. Though it couldn't possibly be true, he sounded as if he meant it.

  "Easie," she murmured.

  "Quiet."

  And for once, she was. I held a hand near her face and felt gentle, regular sighs of breath. She was fast asleep.