Rift in the Sky (38 page)

Authors: Julie E. Czerneda

BOOK: Rift in the Sky

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Silence, inside and out, as the others absorbed this. He understood. This wasn't good, on any level.

Josel spoke first, radiating
worry
. “The dead Strangers look like Om'ray. What if the new Mindeds think we did this?”

Her twin answered, her eyes widening. “They'll attack us, like Tuana!”

Hush!
Galen projected
confidence.
“You forget. Aryl di Sarc is our Speaker. Leave the Oud to her.”

More loaded on Aryl's small shoulders.

Enris would have winced if he hadn't agreed completely. “Let's get out of here, before we're the ones who confuse the Oud.” Above ground, and with his Chosen.

“What about the artifacts?” Suen asked, eyes flashing. “If they're valuable, we should take them with us.”

Galen frowned, but gestured agreement. “You're right.”

Maybe to a Runner, used to grabbing whatever could be moved in hopes of future gain. Enris fought for patience. “Their value to the Strangers caused this problem. We can't risk bringing them to Sona.”

“We could 'port them to a hiding place,” Netta offered eagerly. Josel nodded, coming to stand beside her twin.

About to argue the goo-stained crates were well hidden right here, Enris felt a
stir.
Aryl. An alert, not quite a warning. “Something's happening above ground.” Something
astounding.

Aryl,
he sent quickly.
We found the crates. And Marcus' people. Dead.

How? The Oud?

Yes, but . . .
There was no easy way to say it.
We think Marcus' people were part of it.
He shared the image of the bristle-eared Stranger.
This one was with them. They killed the Minded for trying to protect the artifacts. That aroused the Digger Oud. Marcus was betrayed by his own.

She grew distant.

Aryl?
Enris stared down the tunnel.
What is it?

Marcus is here.

Chapter 11

T
HE PITTED SURFACE of the old wall was warm beneath Aryl's splayed fingers, returning the last of the sun's gift. The air itself was cooling rapidly; mountain spring, colder than any season in Yena. Her coat hung on its hook in Sona. As if cold or coat mattered.

The ramp from the machine to the ground was metal. It rang with their careless steps. The cliff echoed their voices. The four who glanced beyond their fellows from time to time carried thick black objects in their hands. She marked them as threat.

The remainder were not. Aryl counted five, then a final two came out of the shadowed top, each holding a tether to a platform that floated in midair.

No faces at this distance, but the figure who led the rest wore Om'ray clothing, but wasn't.

Marcus.

Was this rescue?

Something kept her close to stone, held her still, uncertain.

He'd gone to Site Three. Maybe that was a bigger place, with more resources. Maybe this was help coming.

Or it was something else. Her Chosen's sending burned through her mind, left a foul
taste.

Aryl eased around for another quick glance.

On the dirt now. Walking as if they didn't know or need care what lay beneath. Coming this way.

To the buildings. Where the artifacts would have been waiting, except for the ever-unpredictable Oud.

They could know she was here. Marcus had had devices to sense the presence of others. But none looked her way. A pair continued to talk in their incomprehensible words to one another, their tones easy. Triumphant.

Enris. Haxel.
Aryl sent the image of the Strangers, then of the buildings. Received instant
assent
, before all the Om'ray tightened their shields. They would be ready, out of sight.

She smoothed her rumpled, sorry dress and moved to where she could be seen.

Instant chaos. The four pushed the others aside, aimed what must be weapons at her. They were tall and thin, skin scaled like a Tikitik but with heavy fanged jaws that were likely their preferred armament in a fight. Crests rose over their heads and behind where ears might have been.

Aryl kept her hand from her longknife and waited.

A sharp command stopped their rush forward, lowered weapons, produced what sounded like a laugh. Naryn's new knowledge would have been useful, but not essential. This, Aryl understood perfectly.

Someone didn't think she was dangerous.

Fools came, she mused, in every shape.

Not in a hurry; not tarrying either. They reached the long shadow of the cliff and kept moving toward her. Toward the stairs, Aryl corrected to herself. Marcus was still in front. She couldn't explain to herself why she waited without a smile. Why she didn't call out a greeting or expect one.

Then Marcus stepped onto the first rise of stone and sunlight washed across his face.

Across bruises and blood.

Aryl whirled and ran, abandoning the stairs for the wall, dropping to the uneven ground to hit that in full stride. She ran for the grove, her heart hammering in her ears and shouts behind.

Marcus led the way because a terrible thread cut deep into the flesh of his neck, a thread held by the Stranger behind him. He led the wayâAryl dodged by instinct and a stone
burst
where she'd been, shards stinging her sideâhe led because a weapon pressed into his spine hard enough to bow his body.

He ledâshe was in the grove and threw herself forward as nekis
flamed
behind herâbecause there was nothing alive in his eyes.

Aryl drew her longknife,
knew
where she had to be . . .

... and was there.

The brush of fingertips. The shift of hand and blade. They moved no more than this. They had no need.

The Strangers had the technology to save themselves. There was no need to walk noisily into a trap even a stitler would have suspected. But that technology, Aryl judged coldly, was their weakness here. Having beaten their own kind, they felt themselves superior to the “vestigial populations” left on this world . . .

NOW.

... and they died for it.

Enris caught Marcus as he crumpled forward, Aryl's first cut having been through the thread that bound him.

Her second severed the head of the creature at the other end.

It was over, of course, in paired heartbeats. The Tuana held unused knives, giving the Yena startled looks. Being traders, Aryl thought curiously, had they planned to offer a warning?

You didn't warn what could kill you.

Haxel wiped her blade on the nearest husk. “Enris, take the Human to Oran.” Declaring Marcus one of them without hesitation. “We'll deal with what's left in the air machine.” She picked up one of the dropped weapons. Nothing happened when she pointed it. She gave it an irritated shake.

“Only worâ” They turned at the faint, pained rasp of a voice. Marcus didn't try to smile. Aryl doubted his mashed lips could have formed one. “Onlyâworksâfor owner,” he managed.

The First Scout shrugged and dropped the weapon on that body. “Shame.”

“Canâcan'tâ”

“Hush,” Enris said kindly. He cradled the Human in his arms with no obvious effort. “Haxel can manage.”

“That's not what he means.” Aryl stepped closer. “What is it, Marcus?”

A gleam in the open eye. Gratitude or tears? “Think five moreâin ship. Seven, most. Can't letâany go,” he struggled. A finger scratched at Enris' arm, lifted to point at the headless husk in its spreading orange-yellow pool. “Mindâmindâcrawlerâ” He turned to press his face against Enris, his body convulsed in quiet sobs.

Pity later.

They scanned his memories,
Aryl sent to the Om'ray staring at Marcus, her
rage
ice-cold beneath the calm.
They could know about us.

Haxel's scar whitened. “We were going to kill them anyway. It'sâ” She broke off as Josel leaped from where she was standing and stared downward. “What is it?”

Footprints blurred. The dirt softened!

“The Oud!” Enris. “To the Cloisters. Now!” He and his living burden disappeared.

GO!
Aryl sent. And watched the others vanish.

Windows broke the smooth side of the building, made an easy climb to its rounded top. A breeze slipped by her cheeks; she couldn't tell if it was chill or warm. Didn't care.

ARYL!
Her Chosen was not happy. Not happy at all.

I know what I'm doing.

Safe or not, she couldn't leave.

Not without seeing for herself.

Not without being sure the rest died for what they'd done.

The bodies of the not-
real
went first. Aryl lay on her stomach to watch, ready to 'port if the building began to sink. But the Oud left it alone and churned only the ground between.

Quiet fell. Like the still of the canopy before the M'hir Wind, when the world took that final breath.

Aryl stood and walked to the end of the building, balanced on the top of its domed roof. She looked down at the air machine. Sun streaked its surface, shadowed the weapons on its humped back. The tip of the ramp remained exposed, a convenience for those expected back with what they valued.

She smiled.

The first sign of attack was a darkening in the dirt all around the air machine, a
stirring.

The next?

As if a mouth opened in the world, the ground fell away beneath the machine. As it toppled and dropped, fire erupted with a roar from its end. If it was an effort to escape, all it accomplished was to obscure the hole with smoke and violent flashes of light. Aryl flinched, threw her arms over her face, began to concentrate . . .
kaBOOM!

... she was in the air, flying backward amid dirt and stone and scorching heat . . .

... then, she was on the floor of the Cloisters.

Flat on her back on the floor. Surrounded by legs.

Where, she thought giddily, was dignity when she needed it?

And why was everything spinning into darkness . . . ?