Grudging (19 page)

 

CHAPTER 21

“I
don't suppose you studied anything about snakes, cousin?” Ramiro eyed the evil-­looking serpent looped around the branch alongside the animal trail they'd been following. The snake was easily as thick as his wrist, and the setting sun illuminated a red-­and-­black pattern along its back. It could be harmless—­or not.

“Sadly, no,” Teresa said from her seat atop Sancha. Ramiro decided one of them at least should get to ride. “Not my area of expertise. I
can
tell you that the ­people of Aveston associate snakes with San Pedro, who they say drove away the snakes from their city before it was built and prevented any from coming back. Or at least so they claim. It seems to be a superstitious way of claiming they drove out the heathen tribes that lived there.”

“Hmm,” Ramiro said, hardly listening. Someone lived in the desert before them? He forced his way into the brush alongside the trail, taking them around the threat at the expense of fresh scratches on his skin. When they'd first reached the swamp, he'd been amazed at the scenery, unable to pull his eyes away from all the new types of plants, with their flat leaves and smooth stems. His friends had been with him then and it had all seemed a lark. Now he hated this wet, dripping place, every leaf and every thornless tree. Even the air held moisture. One could hardly see a foot in front of one's own face. He longed for the open space and the dry heat of home.

If the girl left any tracks, they'd been impossible to find. Certainly, they'd discovered nothing new across the swamp lake even after a quick but thorough search. All it would gain Ramiro was another bleeding gash on his soul for leaving Alvito and Gomez again. He hadn't gone near them, afraid the sight would strip away all his resolve. They'd turned right around and recrossed the lake, heading to the village. And with darkness coming, they'd soon have to camp or risk falling into quicksand, though they'd made remarkable time. He only hoped Bromisto could help them find the witch's home, and they weren't too late.

If they managed to find the village, that is, and didn't stumble around this swamp for an eternity.

“ . . . and also many
ciudades-­estado
,” Teresa was saying, “including our own, believe Santa Margarita was swallowed by a dragon, but dragons are often associated with snakes. They do say her medallions can ward away—­”

“Have you got one?” Ramiro interrupted.

“One what?”

“A medallion of Santa Margarita?”

“Well . . . no.” Teresa simultaneously pushed a short strand of hair from one round cheek and pulled a small metal disk from a pocket. “Santa Catalina of scholars. She always appealed to me.”

“San Martin for me,” he said, touching the medallion at his throat. He pushed aside a branch and met open space and a beaten track full of muddy ruts.

“That's hardly a surprise . . .” Teresa sputtered to a stop. “Is this the road? The one we came in on?”

Ramiro looked up and down it, recognizing a tall split tree, one side burned black by lightning. A small smile pulled at his lips as he led them out onto it. Now they wouldn't have to stop because of darkness. “I do believe it is. Follow it that way, and we'll reach the village, the other direction . . . would take us home.”

Teresa sniffed. “I hope you're not planning to send me home. I would see this through. And besides, then you'd be alone, cousin.”

Valentía nipped at Sancha, and the mare moved over to give the stallion a wide space. Ramiro had never known the stallion to be snappish, but without Salvador . . . His throat tightened. It had to be done.

“I said you're not sending me home are you, cousin? Ramiro?”

He blinked. “What? No.” He dropped the reins and approached Valentía.

“Well, that's a relief,” Teresa said. “Which way did you say to the village again?” But he was focused on the
caballo de guerra
.

Valentía backed away, shaking his head in warning, and Ramiro held out a soothing hand. “It's time,” he told the horse.

The stallion nodded as if it understood and it stood still so Ramiro could approach. He touched the swathed bundle that was his brother. Heat and time had done their work; even holding his breath there was a sickly-­sweet odor. Had it only been two days?

“I wanted to take you home myself, Salvador,” he whispered. “Wanted us to be together as your mission was complete. But things didn't go so well.” His face twisted as he fought off tears. “I've let you down, brother.” He gripped his medallion until the edges cut into his palm. “Now we must go a different way, and you must return home alone. I swear by San Martin that I'll fix it. I'll be a brother to make you proud.” He could say no more without shaming himself, so he simply touched mind, heart, liver, and spleen and backed away.

“Take him home,” he told Valentía.

The horse pawed the ground as if eager to be gone while Ramiro removed the reins from Valentía's bridle. He stroked the stallion's dapple-­gray forehead.

“The Northerners will be between you and home. You must be careful.” Valentía blew out a breath, and Ramiro smiled weakly. “Yes, I know. You'll do better by Salvador than I did. If you could talk, I'm sure you'd apologize to Mother for me.” He turned and gave a slap to the
caballo de guerra'
s
hindquarters. Valentía took off in a splash of mud and was soon hidden by a curve in the road.

“It had to be done,” Ramiro whispered. They were going in the other direction. Who knew when they would return home? Salvador must be buried among his ancestors and soon. And if they didn't get through, his brother's body would be with his most-­loved horse, while his soul was surely already with San Martin as part of the saint's
pelotón
.

His reasoning was sound.

Then why did he feel like the world had ended?

Teresa held out a hand, and he gripped it tight, setting his jaw to avoid shaming himself. For a long moment, they stood, saying nothing, then Ramiro bent to retrieve Sancha's reins and headed toward the setting sun and the village. There was a job to be done.

They slogged along the muddy road as full dark descended. The moonless night hardly allowed them to see anything, but it was impossible to mistake the cleared ground of the road. Not that Teresa helped. She drooped against Sancha's back, gentle snores adding their rumble to the chirp of insects and chorus of frogs. Ramiro swiped at a mosquito buzzing his ear. The uncanny sense of eyes on his back grew stronger. He'd noticed it since they'd moved onto the roadway.

The sky lightened ahead, but only in one concentrated area. Ramiro frowned. It was much too soon for dawn, the color too red for moonrise.

Fire!

“Teresa,” he hissed. The woman jumped and clutched the saddle to keep from falling.

“What?” she said much too loudly.

“Shhhh. Look.” He led Sancha to the side of the road and took her up among the bushes for concealment.

“The village?” Teresa asked.

“Must be.” What else in this swamp was dry enough to burn?

The red glow got bigger, and now Ramiro could see smoke where the light lit the sky. That smoke rose above the treetops and vanished into the darkness. He took a tighter grip on Sancha's reins and used the undergrowth to get as close to the village as he could. The night had gone so still he could almost hear Teresa holding her breath, as he did himself.

Let him be wrong about the cause of the fire. Let it be an accident with a cook fire. But the sense of eyes against his back grew stronger.

His first glimpse through the branches at the muddy field and the village in its center told him his fear was not misplaced.

One of the squat mud huts burned like a bonfire. Looking more like bees in their yellow-­and-­black uniforms than ever, Northerners threw torches at other homes, laughing when they bounced off or failed to catch fire as if it were a game. A man in a white robe seemed to be directing the efforts by waving a white, forearm-­length stick at the soldiers. Ramiro's blood went cold. Bodies lay sprawled on their faces or their backs, flickering eerily in the glow of the firelight—­a lot of bodies. More Northerners corralled a group of men, women, and children just outside the village in the cleared, muddy field. Dozens of mules stood in a line between the row of houses that lined the road, nervously shifting and pawing in reaction to the fire.

“Saints,” Teresa hissed, as Northerners began stabbing and slashing at the mules. “Appalling. I wonder if this is their usual behavior or an uncommon occurrence based on the war. That person in white seems to be in charge. Is he religious or governmental?”

“I don't think it makes a difference to the ­people down there,” he whispered.

“Every scrap of information can help us find ways to beat them. How they think. What cultural activities they engage in. It's all important to us.” Teresa flinched and looked away from the gruesome sight.

More laughter rang, and Ramiro felt sick inside as the animals stood while they were slaughtered. Swords rose and fell among the dumb beasts, yet not one animal moved. Ramiro forced his eyes away. How long until they started on the ­people?

“Children,” Teresa said. “Look. There are too many children for this village.”

Ramiro stared at the trapped villagers, fearing Bromisto was among their number and fearing even more that he was not. Small figures huddled against taller ones in the semidarkness, most sobbed. “You're right.” In this poor village, he expected children to outnumber adults, but not to this degree. There were dozens, way too many for this tiny place to support. He looked closer, letting his eyes get better used to the growing darkness.

Some of the bodies wore green-­and-­gray uniforms.

His father's plan. The one Salvador had told him about: evacuation.

“Dear God! Some of them are from Colina Hermosa.”

Ramiro reached for the curved bow strapped to Sancha and his quiver filled with his and Salvador's arrows. Thank San Martin he'd kept his armor on. Even with the extra missiles taken from Salvador, he wouldn't have enough arrows, but they were a start. Pushing the quiver over a shoulder, he took his sword from the straps alongside Sancha's saddle and checked his dagger.

“No more time for study. I'll give you ten minutes head start,” he told Teresa, “more if I can. Give Sancha her nose and let her choose her speed. Hang on and don't fall.” He turned to his horse. “Sancha, take her home.”

Sancha tossed her head. She heard him and understood.

“Wait a minute,” Teresa sputtered. “Don't I have a say in this? There are far too many of them. Don't throw your life away.”

“Always see first to Colina Hermosa and its civilians,” Ramiro recited. “Then fellow
pelotón
members, other military brothers, and last self. They'll head straight for the source of the arrows. I'll have to move and move quickly. Do you understand? I don't stand much chance, but I can't be slowed down, or I'll have none.”

It looked like some civilians and twenty
pelotón
soldiers were dead. There were more than twice their number of lifeless Northerners. The men of Colina Hermosa had fought well. Maybe a dozen Northerners remained. He could get two before they came at him. Maybe another two after; and then it would be all sword work. Someone else would have to complete the mission.

He gripped Teresa's leg. “Do you understand? Tell my father I'm sorry. Sancha, the tunnels. Not the front gate. Take her to the tunnels.”

Tears ran down Teresa's face as she touched mind, heart, spleen, and liver, then reached a hand to stroke his cheek. “It isn't the beard that makes the man.” She gave a twisted smile. “Though your beard looks well. Very well. The saints protect you.” She wiped at her face with one hand. “Don't worry about me. I'll hang on. If there's any horse I trust to have sense, it's this one.”

He stroked Sancha, unable to say the word good-­bye. The
caballo de guerra
would never allow another hand to tame her. It was their way: one master for life. “Live wild and free, my friend. I have Northerners to kill.”

“Would you like some help with that?” a high-­pitched voice asked.

A
rough hand on Julian's shoulder shook him awake. “Something's coming toward the gate, sir,” a voice said.

Julian jerked, nearly losing his perch atop a barrel. He glanced around blearily as stiff joints protested his sleeping arrangement. He'd slept in worse places than on barrels, but not for years. Age had a way of catching up to you.

A few oil lanterns were anchored in niches, giving enough light to navigate the gate courtyard but not enough to strip away the night vision of the guards on the wall. His fellow sleepers—­the parents and families of the missing children—­began to stir also, emerging from stacks of supplies and cubbyholes. Word had spread that envoys had gone out to the Northerners, and nothing could keep the ­people away. He couldn't blame them though he would have spared the ­people this if he could.

A black-­lace shawl was draped around Julian's shoulders, and a small fluffy dog lay sleeping on his lap, leaving a wet dab of slobber on his knee. Julian groaned and became instantly awake. Where was she? By the time he set the dog on the ground, Beatriz was headed down the stairs from the upper wall.

“What were you doing up there at this time of night?” he demanded in a last-­ditch attempt to head her off. “How did you know I was here?”

She merely sniffed and lifted Pietro to her arms. “Twenty-­seven years of marriage, and you think I don't know when you're up to something. What have you done?”

Men ran past them, headed for the gate. Julian tried to sneak a glance in that direction. “Twenty-­seven years of marriage, and I'm sure you know,
mi amor
.”