Farlanders' Law (The Rose Shield Book 3) Page 11

  Nothing. There was nothing to grasp, nothing to grow, nothing to find. The vault of emotional memory was hollow. She moved to another twitcher, a young man, and found the same. All motivation and desire had vanished. Fear circulated through her limbs. What had she done? If she hadn’t shielded herself, would she too be lost? Her hand trembling, she touched Kest’s cheek. His eyes followed her and then wandered, his response to her touch devoid of significance, as if he’d abandoned his body beneath the ramp and gone elsewhere. No interest in communicating, no curiosity, nothing resembling life.

  She counted. Eighteen lives. Terror swept her; the realization of what she’d done strangled her breath. They would die under there within days, apathetic to food or drink, unconscious of the need for help. She backed out into the sunlight, straightened her jacket, and strolled away, a hand covering her mouth to stifle her cries. She would keep her secret, too horrified and ashamed to tell, and too dangerous a weapon to share.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Whitt woke with a start, the banging on his door interrupting a dream of Far Wolds’ drums at the stead. One glimpse of the night sky assured him it was too early to rise. The pounding persisted, and Tavor buried his head in his blankets. Cale could sleep through a battle and didn’t budge.

  “Whitt,” Lodan whispered, an unnecessary courtesy considering the banging.

  “I’m coming.” Whitt staggered from his cot, shivering in the early Summertide cold. He opened the door.

  “Shafter’s outside.” Lodan rested an elbow on the jamb.

  “What happened?”

  “He wouldn’t say. Wanted you and wouldn’t come in.”

  “Give me a minute.”

  Lodan disappeared down the hall. Whitt yanked on his greens, slipped into his boots, and buckled on his belt. He’d glanced at his armor, hoping he wouldn't require it. Wishful thinking if the clansman sought him in the middle of the night.

  Outside, the moons waned, but the ambient light was bright enough to see by. Shafter stepped from the deeper shadows between the buildings, his flaxen hair hidden beneath the hood of his short cloak. He carried his staff and wore the tall boots and camgras jerkin of the south. Other than his slanted eyes and larger size he might pass for Ellegean—a wise choice when out alone after dark, away from the Farlander quarter.

  “Sim is missing,” he said and waved to another figure in the night. A second clansman appeared at his side. Whitt had met Ranger outside Guardian and several times since. Fewer scars marked his face than Shafter’s, but his aspect was equally disconcerting. Short on words, he nodded a curt greeting.

  “How long?” Whitt asked.

  “Three days.” Shafter rubbed his jaw. “Not long for Sim, but tonight Ranger brought news.”

  Ranger glanced down the road as if expecting unwelcome company. “We were camped up the Whiprill, some of us hunting, others seeking herbs.”

  “Near the dam?” Whitt asked, knowing the answer.

  “We didn’t interfere,” Ranger replied, “and we could have if we’d so chosen. The land suffers, the ground flooded and many creatures drowned or fled. Patterns must reshape, and we wished to feel the form they will take. The kari are unhappy with the trapped water and new decay; the rest will adjust if faced with no more disruption.”

  Whitt understood, and that surprised him, his time with the Farlanders changing his perception of the world. “What happened?”

  Ranger narrowed his eyes, irises reduced to green slits. “We built a base camp near the west tributary, far from the dam, on land unburdened by Ellegeans. Many seek to leave Tor and begin again. We cleared the brush and had erected a frame for the lodge of living trees Sim grew from the soil. We built a cistern and stone hearths, invited the sunlight to shine on us, the water to run pure, and the creatures to share the land. I hung the bones of my mother and father in the tree where I would build my home.”

  “Ellegeans came,” Shafter said, moving the narrative forward. “They took Sim.”

  “Why? What did she do?” Whitt dreaded the answer. Sim never admitted possessing gifts, but she used them and the Ellegean guards weren’t blind. The Cull Tarr called her evil, invoking Founder edicts regarding order, community, and humility. She was a brand burning white hot, and her words seared Ellegean power.

  “They destroyed the camp,” Ranger said. “They trampled her saplings and chopped into her trees, kicked stones into the cistern. They said the land is theirs, and we are thieves, that we would need papers to live there, when all along we thought they would be pleased we had abandoned Tor. Sim used her gift to raise roots, tangle vines, and grow new trees where they killed hers. Raven called a tempest of crows, and another shook the land beneath our feet. The Ellegeans raised their bows and shot Raven. We ran into the forest and prepared to fight, but Sim would not run.”

  “Raven is dead?” Whitt recalled the defiant woman who’d brought word of Sim’s last capture to the Hangman’s Hound.

  “It is my honest belief.” Ranger shared a glance with Shafter before facing Whitt. “We didn’t surrender. We sprinted deeper into the forest and then followed them to Tor. I would have slain them, but Sim also could kill them and chose differently.”

  “She invites them to kill her,” Shafter said. “We will face a war between us.”

  “Did she hurt anyone, kill anyone?” Whitt asked.

  Ranger shook his head. “No Ellegean lost his life or limbs.”

  Whitt sighed and raked a hand over his scalp. Every scrap of Ranger’s story grated against his nerves. Based on the account, the Ellegean guards weren’t wrong in arresting her. She baited them, harassed them, refused to compromise and follow the rules, knowing she invited trouble. Yet, Ellegeance failed in every other respect: violating its own laws, breaking promises, reacting to every Farlander deed with destruction and violence. Tor sabotaged every opportunity for cooperation and undermined their treaties. They didn’t seek peace. The posturing and words of conciliation were all lies.

  A choice reared before him, one with consequences he couldn’t fathom. He could abide by his oaths and obey the law, plead Sim’s case to the high ward, knowing he’d waste his words on deaf ears. Then her life would end, another sacrifice to injustice and a lack of will to take a stand. Power and greed would win again. He’d go on, write a report, file complaints, make no difference, protect no one, and lose more of the world he believed in and hoped for.

  “I’ll get her,” he said.

  “We will accompany you.” Shafter leaned his staff toward the inner city’s gate.

  Whitt paused. Guardian would construe his decision as a betrayal of his oath and disregard for Ellegean law. He’d plead his case to Jagur and beg for a reprieve. For the Farlanders, the choice could cost them their lives, a risk they knew. “Wait here while I get my armor.”

  Back inside, Whitt donned his leather while Lodan leaned on the doorjamb. “Aren’t going to tell me, are you?”

  “No.” Whitt strapped on his breastplate, his baldric with its furred shoulders, and a skirt of leather tasset plates. He nestled two knives in his belt and considered the vambraces for his forearms. “Do you have gloves?”

  “Nothing that will stop a knife.”

  “I’m not worried about a blade.”

  Lodan produced a pair of leather gloves, too large for Whitt’s hands, but they would do. Whitt held out his arms, a tacit request for the big man to work the buckles. “Don’t wake Tavor or Cale.”

  “Can’t guarantee it,” Lodan said as he buckled the armguards.

  “There’s no reason to involve them. I’ll count on them for help when this is done.”

  Lodan handed him his staff and canted his head toward the door. “Don’t get yourself killed.”

  ***

  Whitt jogged toward the gate with Shafter and Ranger. “I’m going in alone.” Shafter grunted, and Whitt halted to share his plan, as flimsy as it was. “You’ll draw attention and that won’t help. I’ll get her, one way or another. Meet us at the s
outh gate. With any luck, that’s where we’re coming out, and I doubt we’ll be alone. We need to rescue Sim without killing anyone, or they’ll hunt us down and hang us all.” He met the Farlanders’ eyes. “If an Ellegean dies, you will lose every sympathetic ear, every hope. If it comes down to it, let Sim and I go.”

  Shafter stared at him with a face carved of granite. “I cannot promise it.”

  “Then be clear about what you risk,” Whitt said. “I’ll meet you at the south gate.”

  The clansmen loped off, vanishing into the outer city. Whitt pulled his hood over his head, all but his face encased in layers of leather and steel. The crag bear plodded its circle as he strode toward the gate and pounded on the wicket with the butt of his staff. The bar securing the door scraped, and hinges creaked open. A guard blocked the doorway. “It’s the middle of the night, Guardian. Pike doesn’t like to be disturbed.”

  “I don’t need Pike. I’m looking for a woman.”

  The guard’s grin revealed a mouth of crooked teeth. “Always thought guardians liked the goods outside the gate.”

  “It depends what I’m in the mood for.” Whitt stepped toward the doorway. “I’m an Ellegean. I enjoy whatever I wish, inside and outside the wall.”

  The guard moved aside, letting him through. “You got a hair’s chance of finding one younger than your grandmother this time of night.”

  “A man’s got to try.” He sauntered down the main road toward the high ward’s hall. The inner city’s lattice of orderly roads was easy to navigate. Luminescence glowed in glass lanterns hung from lampposts, and most of the inner city’s taller and sturdier buildings lay in shadow. The few sleepless stragglers he encountered ducked into alleys or hurried on their way. In head to toe leather, he made an ominous sight.

  He hooked a corner, spotted three guards, and pivoted from their view. A wider loop around High Ward Antoris’s hall was worth the longer walk if it meant fewer challenges. He still lacked a plan, other than to sneak in and sneak out, a scheme seeming more ludicrous by the minute.

  The prison backed up to the barracks, and neither building lay in total darkness. Calming his nerves, he stood in the shadows of an alley within sight of the door. The second bell pealed from the high ward’s tower, and Whitt nearly jumped off his bones. For a stretch of time, no one entered or exited, and he assumed the guards inside were on duty until the next hour, at least.

  He strode forward, staff in his grip, fully prepared to use it. Five paces from his destination, he froze as the high ward’s influencer, Ardal-Mur, stepped from the prison and closed the door behind him. The smug man turned, spotted him, and lurched back. Pain knifed through Whitt’s temples, blinding him. His legs buckled, and he would have crumpled to the dirt without his staff.

  “Guardian, my regrets.” The influencer straightened and frowned, his precise composure returning with his arrogance. “An error in judgment, creeping up on a man of power.”

  The agony in Whitt’s head diminished to an acute warning. A layer of fear skulked behind a swell of admiration, and he rubbed at the ache behind his eyes. “Ardal-Mur, my regrets for frightening you.”

  “Whitt, I recall. What business do you have with the prison?”

  “I might ask the same of you.”

  The influencer chuckled. “Serving the realm. And your excuse?”

  Whitt battled a desire to confide, to trust. He forced his mouth shut, fearing that any attempt at lying would prove transparent. His head reeled, his breath heavy in his chest. He gripped his staff, the urge to appease the influencer fighting a desire to bash… The words rasped out of him, “Stop now or you’re dead.”

  Ardal-Mur backed off, and Whitt swallowed a breath. A sense of the influencer’s lingering authority remained, layered with comfort and geniality. Whitt smiled and swept his hand toward the door with an open palm. “You’re welcome to accompany me.”

  “As you wish.” The influencer pivoted toward the door.

  Whitt dropped his staff, grabbed Ardal’s collar from behind, and jabbed the tip of his knife into the man’s back. Searing pain flared in Whitt’s bones, and he drove the knife deeper, certain he drew blood. The influencer cried out, and the sensation vanished.

  “Better,” Whitt inhaled, shaking off the residue of pain.

  “What do you want?” The man stood immobile except for a slight tremble against Whitt’s fingers.

  “A prisoner from the cells. A Farlander woman arrested west of the dam. You are going to save your life and help me.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “You can,” Whitt assured him. “Get us inside.” The influencer knocked on the door. Whitt relaxed, more secure in his position, his nervousness fading. He pressed on the blade until his anxiety and vigilance returned. “If you plan on waking in the morning, don’t test me.”

  The door opened, unbarred from the inside, and Whitt applied a taste of pressure to push the influencer inside. A hulk of a guard frowned but chose not to question the influencer or his company. Whitt whispered in Ardal’s ear. “Time for sleep.”

  “You overestimate my power.”

  “Now.”

  The guard opened his mouth as the influencer touched his hand. The brawny man’s eyes rolled up, and he dropped. With no choice, Whitt let him fall. If he stepped away from the influencer, he’d be dead. The guard’s bulk crashed into a desk and upturned a chair. A mug shattered on the stone floor before the man’s head bounced.

  “How many more guards?” he asked, shuffling the influence toward the rear door.

  “One. Outside the cells.”

  “Same scenario.” Whitt kept his grip on the man’s collar and shoved.

  The influencer reached for the latch at the same moment the door opened. A scrappy guard scowled, a long knife in one hand, a rapper in the other. “Ardal-Mur? I heard something break. Where’s Eron?”

  “Ardal and I are here to interrogate the prisoner,” Whitt said, pricking the influencer. “Now.”

  The influencer’s hand jutted out, gripped the guard’s wrist, and tugged. The guard crumpled forward, and Ardal dodged sideways. Whitt held onto his collar, pulling him back, the two of them falling over their heels into the room. Whitt’s knife slipped from his gloved grip. Ardal thrashed and twisted around, grabbing for Whitt’s face. Whitt howled as pain and fear thundered through his heart, his head ready to explode. He punched at the influencer’s enraged face, striking until the power stuttered. Then he slammed the man’s head on the floor.

  He scrambled up and belted his knife. Both hands hauling on the unconscious influencer, he dragged the man behind the desk and hastily lashed his wrists behind his back. He grabbed the guard’s rapper and bolted through the open portal toward the cells. A blade flashed, scoring his breastplate. He leapt sideways into an iron-banded door.

  A third guard.

  Braced by the wall, Whitt kicked, his boot connecting with a knee before he spun and drove his heel into the man’s chest. The guard staggered backward, caught his balance, and bulled forward, a blade as long as his forearm driving for Whitt’s gut. Whitt leapt aside, deflected the thrust with his purloined rapper, and rolled in, pounding an elbow into the exposed face. He ducked a blow that glanced off his ear, landing him behind the guard. His boot jammed into the back of the man’s knee. He hooked the thick neck and flattened him. Panting for breath, Whitt drew his knife and held it to the guard’s throat.

  “I just want the woman. Where are the keys?”

  “Table.” The guard spat blood and pointed to a decrepit table by the wall.

  “Up. Get the keys and open her cell.”

  Whitt backed up. The guard rose to his feet, started for the table, and spun. Whitt smashed him in the nose with the rapper, and when the meaty hands flew up to the bleeding face, Whitt drove a knee into his groin. The guard crumbled. Whitt grabbed the keys. “Sim?” he shouted. “Sim?”

  “Over here! Whitt.” Sim banged on a door.

  Whitt darted down the aisle and fu
mbled with the keys. The lock clicked open, and Sim stumbled out, her lip scabbed, the bruises on her face and arms yellowing. The guard growled but didn’t rise, a wise choice. He sat against the wall, glowering.

  “We need to run.” Whitt grabbed Sim’s hand, and they skirted the guard. He paused before entering the front room. The guards hadn’t stirred, their chests empty of breath, and the unmistakable stink of defecation slapped him in the face. The influencer had slain them.

  The influencer. He breathed in Sim’s ear. “Run. Don’t stop or we’re dead.”

  Sim bolted for the door, screamed and tumbled. Whitt charged on her heels but veered and leapt sideways, hurling himself over the desk toward Ardal, the man on his feet. Influenced pain smashed through his body, every bone crushed, the skin flayed from his flesh as he struck the man’s chest. Ardal slammed into the stone wall, hands still lashed behind his back. The loathing on his bruised face transformed to shock and a grimace of pain. His influence snapped.

  “Run,” Whitt shouted. He leapt for the door as Sim scrambled out. The guard from the cells barreled out from the back room as a bolt of agony exploded in Whitt’s head. The guard bellowed, caught in the same spray of power. Whitt shot blindly through the door, stumbled into the road, and crashed into Sim.

  She staggered, caught a fistful of his sleeve, and hauled. “Where to?”

  “South gate.” He grabbed his staff from the road and ran. The influenced pain had dissipated, but his aching body trembled, fighting for breath. They’d scarcely turned the corner when a horn blared, the alarm sounded. Whitt cursed. Guards would bar the gates, and patrols would multiply as men ripped from sleep pounded from the barracks.

  He darted into an alley and hooked another corner, moving south, but the gate no longer his destination. They needed a place to hide. He changed direction again, avoiding the main grid. He glanced over his shoulder at the woman loping silently beneath the moons. Behind her, two guards turned a corner, shouted, and leapt into pursuit. Orders bellowed from the roadways to his left, and he raced to his right.