by David Penny
“There are at least eight of them,” said Usaden, rising from where he knelt to examine the remnants of a small fire. “About six hours ahead, and they think they are safe. Why else would they have camped and made a fire?” He grasped the pommel of his horse’s saddle and pulled himself up.
“Which direction?” Thomas asked.
Usaden encouraged his horse into a walk and circled the place Mandana and his men had made camp. He stopped at the far side, not bothering with any words. When he started to move off, Thomas urged his own mount after him. Kin ran ahead, passing both of them, head to the ground as he tracked a memory of scent.
“What are you going to do when you catch them?” asked Jorge.
Thomas suspected the journey must be taking a toll after his injury, but if it was Jorge refused to show it. Thomas thought it was a pleasant change not to have him complaining all the time, but didn’t expect it to last.
“Kill him, of course.” Thomas barely acknowledged there would be others with Guerrero. They would have to be killed too, of course, but he gave them less thought than a fly that buzzed around his head.
“So you will be judge and executioner both?”
“The judgement is already made, you know that. Now I am merely executioner.”
“How will you do it?”
Thomas smiled. Jorge had accepted the decision and moved on. It seemed they were all changing.
“Mandana died too quickly. I will not make the same mistake again.”
“You may have to if he puts up a fight. The heat of battle, all that manly pride … He’s not old like his father. The man can fight.”
“As can I. I will cut him piece by piece. I, of all men, know how to cut a man and still keep him alive. I will kill him in the end, but he must suffer first, in payment for his sins … his sin.”
“Remind me never to cross you,” said Jorge.
“I would never kill you,” Thomas said. “Or if I had to, I would do it quickly.”
“I’m glad to see you still love me.”
Thomas urged his horse into a canter, wanting to avoid further conversation. He knew Jorge was trying to soften his resolve, to restore some measure of humanity in him, and he didn’t welcome such. Later, when the deed was done and Guerrero was dead, he would let Jorge soften him as much as he wanted, but not yet. Later, he would allow himself to feel again. He would embrace his pain and grief, not run from it as he had done after Malaka. Thomas knew he had never truly grieved for Lubna. Her death had driven him into these mountains, but all he had done was run from the grief, and he knew he needed to embrace it. He wanted to remember the Lubna he would always love in a way she deserved.
He caught up with Usaden as they crested a low rise, and both pulled their horses to a stop. A mile distant, on the far side of a steep valley, nine men on horseback followed a twisting track up a hillside clearly lit by the rays of the setting sun. Guerrero was plain to see even over the distance, his white robes now dusty and stained, but still unmistakable.
Thomas glanced at the sky, trying to judge how many hours of daylight remained, and was disappointed.
“They won’t make camp tonight,” said Usaden. “They can see us as well as we can see them. I suspect they have known we are coming for a while.”
“Then we follow through the night,” said Thomas. He knew there would be no moon, only stars to light their way. He had travelled in such darkness before, and no doubt would do so again if he lived. “We should ride hard and catch them as soon as we can.”
“I would be better to let them draw ahead, to believe they are losing us. Approach too fast and they’ll turn and fight. Better we make them run and tire.”
“Nine against us? Nine against you?”
“Guerrero will have only the best with him. I saw how the others fought— the ones he had trained, the ones loyal to him. Nine against you and I would normally cause me no concern, but this will be a hard fight.”
“Nine against three,” said Jorge, who had caught up with them and overheard the conversation.
“That is what I meant, of course,” said Usaden, but a glance at Thomas told otherwise.
Thomas wished Jorge wasn’t here for this. Not for what had to come next. Even so he took comfort in his presence, in the friendship that had brought him here to be at his side.
He sat and watched the figures across the valley. They didn’t stop, didn’t slow—always climbing, trying to flee from a danger they must know couldn’t be escaped. He saw Guerrero slow and turn, his figure tiny, unrecognisable other than by his robes. The man sat, raised a hand to shield his eyes and looked back at them. To Thomas, it was as if a connection was forged across the distance, linking them.
He raised an arm in salute, pleased when Guerrero turned and bullied his horse into motion.
Soon, Thomas promised himself.
They descended into the valley, crossed a dry riverbed and began to climb the far side. Guerrero and his men had disappeared some time ago, and already the deep valley was falling into an early dusk. The snow-capped peaks of the Sholayr drew the last rays of the sun, but soon they too would fall into darkness.
When it came the ambush was unexpected and sudden. Kin was first to show any sign danger was close as he gave a sharp bark that caused Usaden to pull his horse up short. He kicked with his heels, making the animal back up just as a boulder came crashing down from the right to roll directly over the place he had been a moment before. Thomas put his hand on the hilt of his sword, expecting more rocks. Instead, men came from their left, close already, weapons drawn. They made no sound, not needing to cry or yell like some did. These men were the best of the best, otherwise Guerrero would not have brought them.
Thomas drew his sword and slashed at the nearest man, barely aware of the clash of metal on metal as Usaden set about counter-attacking. Thomas’s strike was deflected, and he knew this fight would be vicious, with no certainty of victory. He struck again then dropped from his saddle. The height was not helping him, and he slapped the animal’s rump and set it cantering away. He glimpsed Jorge still mounted, his own sword drawn, but hanging back from the growing confusion.
Three men worked together, two coming directly at Thomas, the third from the side. Thomas deflected the blade of the first then twisted away to avoid the second. All was wrapped in shadowed gloom, with only the clash of blade on blade until a man screamed as Usaden struck him.
Ice filled Thomas, the familiar cold whose return he welcomed. He let it flow through him, giving him strength, making him invulnerable. And with it he became a dervish, whirling, striking out. He caught a man high on his face and opened the cheek, and when instinct caused him to raise his hand Thomas thrust a knife into his chest. He turned away, raising his sword to stop a killing blow, then ducked beneath it and slammed the knife in his left hand through ribs to pierce the heart. Kin snarled and barked among the melee, biting at their enemies, avoiding their strikes. Thomas had no idea how Usaden fared, for there was no time to consider anyone else. Thomas had killed two, yet still three men confronted him, and he shook his head as though to clear the confusion. This time all three came at him together, barely any space between them. Thomas struck a fearsome blow, aimed at the man on his right, but it was parried, needing both the man’s sword and his companion’s to deflect it. The block sent a shock along Thomas’s arm, numbing him for a moment, and in that instant the third man thrust his blade forward. Thomas turned, but was too slow. He felt a searing burn in his side, and knew he had been struck.
The three took a moment, their eyes watching to judge his injuries, and Thomas took a breath as he tried to work out how bad the wound was. Bad enough, he decided. He wouldn’t die of the injury, but it was slowing him, and he knew that three men were too many for him in this condition. Even so, there was nothing he could do but fight or die, so he steeled himself as his mind played through the moves he would make. He stepped forward and struck, the blow parried easily. The man followed up, coming forward fast
, and Thomas stepped back, stepped again and crashed into a figure coming the other way. He cried out and tried to use his sword. Jorge came past him, robes dancing around his slim body, his own sword flashing. Jorge danced death upon Thomas’s adversaries. He killed one instantly, turned and caught another across the arm, causing him to drop his sword. Thomas followed Jorge, killing the injured man, then they both struck at the last, their swords impaling him at the same moment—one on the right, the other on the left. The soldier’s legs went, and he fell in a tangled heap at their feet.
Thomas lowered his head, breathing hard. “Where the hell did you learn to fight like that?”
“I thought you looked as if you needed some help. Usaden taught me a few tricks when he was training Will.”
At mention of the name, Thomas turned to see Usaden drawing his sword from the body of the last man. Four men lay at his feet, arms and legs tangled together, so keen had they been to kill Usaden.
“Where is he?” Thomas said. “I told you he is mine!”
“He’s not here.” Usaden used his foot to push at one of the men to reveal a face, did the same to another. Thomas could see Guerrero wasn’t among the fallen.
He looked along the slope, but everything was darkness. His enemy might be a hundred paces away or a thousand, and he would never know.
He pressed against his side, cursing the pain. When he drew his hand away it was wet with blood, black in the darkness. And then the darkness came closer and Thomas fell to the ground before Jorge could reach him.
Chapter Thirty-Six
The sky was dark when Thomas woke, but a fire sent flickering light dancing across the surrounding boulders. Thomas rolled his head to one side and saw nothing, rolled it to the other and found Jorge sitting beside Usaden. Both were leaning toward the fire where an arrangement of sticks held a rabbit, which looked close to being ready. Kin lay near the fire, watching the cooking meat.
Thomas tried to sit up but collapsed back in pain, his groan bringing Usaden across. He placed a hand on Thomas’s chest and pushed him to the ground.
“The wound is not serious, but you need to rest. I will bring you food when it is ready. Jorge bound your wound. He says he learned how by watching you do the same for him.”
“Who judged it not serious, you or Jorge?”
Usaden almost smiled. “I did.”
Thomas nodded, satisfied. He lay on the bed of grasses and fine branches that had been fashioned for him, knowing it would also have been Usaden who built the bed. He watched him return to the fire, saw Jorge lift his eyes to look at him, but his expression was unusually serious. Killing a man could do that, but Thomas knew without Jorge’s intervention it would be he who was dead. Thomas closed his eyes, trying to ignore the other fire—the one that burned in his side. It was only pain, and he was used to such.
He woke when Usaden came to bring him the best cut of meat from the rabbit. Thomas tried to sit up and failed, then Jorge arrived. He sat behind and wrapped strong arms around his chest. As Thomas sat upright Jorge wriggled closer, his legs gripping his waist, arms providing more support. Thomas leaned against the warmth of the man holding him and accepted the meat that Usaden fed to him, piece by piece. When it was done Jorge eased him down once more, but instead of leaving he lay close, once more his arms about Thomas to protect him from the cold. After a while Kin came and lay on his other side, the rank smell of his coat a comfort.
“Guerrero?” Thomas asked as he lay cocooned.
“Gone ahead. Usaden says he can pick up his trail, and that dog of yours has been running off and coming back whining—I’m convinced he knows where the devil is. Don’t worry, he won’t escape. He will be yours to kill as soon as you are recovered.”
“That will take too long.”
“Then I will kill him for you,” said Usaden.
“No.”
Usaden watched, waiting. “I loved Lubna too,” he said eventually. “Not as you loved her, but I loved her in my own way. As did everyone who knew her.”
“Not everyone.”
“No, you are right. But know you do not have to do this on your own. Guerrero will be just as dead by your sword or mine.”
“It must be mine,” Thomas said, and Usaden nodded, the matter settled.
It was two days before Thomas could sit unaided, three before he could stand, four before he managed to pull himself astride his horse. Each day Usaden had roamed wide, Kin at his side, until one day he came back to their camp in the evening to say he had located Guerrero. The man was on foot now, climbing ever higher, as if the mountains might protect him.
“Why isn’t he heading for Spanish land?” asked Jorge.
“He knows he wouldn’t be safe there either.” Thomas said, “Not after what they have done. He thinks if he can cross the Sholayr I might die in my pursuit.”
“So he flees ever higher,” said Usaden. “What will you do if he crosses the highest peaks?”
“He won’t make it that far. There is deep snow, ice chasms—it is impossible for a man to climb so high. Even him.” Thomas shifted, easing the ache in his side, but it was an ache now rather than a flame, and he knew he was almost healed enough for what he had to do. “Tomorrow, Jorge and I will pursue him. I want you to return to Gharnatah and protect the household.” Thomas met Usaden’s eyes. “It is your household too now, is it not?”
“If it will have me.”
“Of course it will have you.” Thomas smiled. “Besides, you have trained my son too well already. If I try to eject you I believe he would fight me, and probably win.”
“Eight more years and yes, he will be good enough,” said Usaden.
Thomas expected more resistance, but in the cold dawn Usaden embraced each of them, taking care not to apply pressure to Thomas’s wound, mounted his horse and rode away without a backward glance.
“Maybe we should be taking him with us. Guerrero is dangerous.”
Thomas shook his head. “You and me, as it should be. The two men Lubna loved most, and who loved her in return.”
“Don’t mention that to Belia, even if it is true.”
“She already knows.” Thomas kicked his heels and the horse started a slow walk, which was fast enough for now—even the steady swaying pulled at the healing skin in his side. Kin loped from side to side of the track, never leaving their sight.
Late in the afternoon Jorge said, “I know this place.”
Thomas looked around. They were on a shallow slope, trees to their right, rocks ahead, and beyond lay the looming bulk of the Sholayr.
“How can you tell? It doesn’t look any different to a dozen places we have ridden through already.”
“I passed here when I was searching for you.” Jorge pointed to one side. “Jamila’s village lies that way, half a day’s ride. It is where I bought the bread we ate.”
“Stale bread.”
“Well I’m sorry. Next time you can bake your own.”
“There will be no next time.”
An hour later, just as the last light of the sun was fading, they came across the remains of a small fire. Thomas dismounted and ran his fingers across the charcoal traces. They were cold, but dry.
“He camped here last night,” he said. “I thought we might be in danger of losing him but he’s fleeing in a straight line, directly toward the mountains.” He glanced up at Jorge, still astride his own horse. “How do you feel about riding through the night?”
“I’m looking forward to the adventure. Is there going to be moonlight?”
“You tell me. Was there last night?”
“I was asleep last night.”
“There will be a new moon, but it won’t rise for a few hours yet. We will travel as far as we can while there remains light in the sky, then rest until it rises.” Thomas felt an excitement, a sense of resolution building. Until this moment catching Guerrero had been little more than a dream. Now it was becoming reality. He climbed to his feet and pulled himself into the saddle, grimacing at
the pain in his side.
As they started climbing once more, he began to consider how he would take Guerrero’s life.
When Jorge’s horse stumbled in the darkness, almost tipping him onto jagged rocks, Thomas called a halt until the moon rose. He eased himself to the ground and looked around for somewhere comfortable to rest while they waited. Looking upward toward the high peaks, a glimmer of something caught at the edge of his vision, visible only because the night had become so dark. Thomas narrowed his eyes and stared at the spot, but the longer he looked the less sure he was that he had seen anything at all. He looked east, but although a faint illumination showed where the moon would rise it offered no help yet.
“I think someone has a fire up there,” said Jorge, pointing. “I thought I was mistaken, but if you don’t look directly you can see it.”
“Someone?” Thomas said.
Jorge’s teeth showed white in the dark. “Guerrero, then. There can be no other idiots out here but you and me and him. You know where he has gone, don’t you?”
“How would I know that? I don’t even know where we are.”
“You must have come this way before.”
“Must I?”
“That sorry excuse for a farmhouse you were living in when I found you is close to here. He’s made his camp there, just as you did.”
Thomas looked around, back to where a tiny flicker of red showed now he knew where to look, and laughed. “Well, at least he’ll be good and cold. Perhaps he’ll freeze to death and deny me satisfaction.”
“You lived through being here—the Gods know how, but you did. You’re a hard man to kill, Thomas Berrington.”
“Not as hard as I once was.”
When the moon rose Thomas made the decision to stay where they were. He had an idea in mind. He also wanted to draw out the moment before he encountered Guerrero. It would make the killing of him all the sweeter.
When they reached the hut the following morning, Guerrero was no longer sheltering there, but his fire remained warm. A fresh dusting of snow showed the direction he had fled in.
