by T. C. Edge
“What…why are you here?” he says suddenly, as if he’s in command.
Looking at Rhoth, I consider that he might well be. The leader of the Fangs, I know, isn’t prone to falling under the spells of Mind-Manipulators. Yet today it appears that something has gone awry on that front. Larsson may well have been right.
The old Fang looks to his head tribesman now, and steps forward.
“Rhoth, are you OK? You appear…not yourself.”
Rhoth’s eyes look glassy, tired. He lifts his head and nods.
“I’m fine…just fine, Larsson. You shouldn’t be here. I told the guard not to admit you.” His eyes find Zander and me. “And what are you doing here?” he sighs exasperatedly. “Why can’t I be rid of you…”
“Who are these people, Rhoth?” questions the envoy, his voice deep and rhythmic, as if enough to put you under a spell all on its own. He looks upon us closely. “Ah, you’re from the big city with all the lights I see. Your armour, your weapons. Yes, it is true. Part of the Nameless to take control of the city, no doubt. Don’t look so surprised. We know more about you than you think.”
“And we is?” growls Zander.
The man smiles but doesn’t answer. He looks back to Rhoth.
“Are we to continue our negotiation, Rhoth?” he asks. “These people shouldn’t be here.”
“And why’s that?” I say loudly. “So you can work your mental magic. Yeah, I can see what you’re doing. Rhoth, you’re not yourself. This man is trying to trick you.”
“Trick me?” says Rhoth angrily, standing to his feet. “No one tricks me, girl. You…you know this!”
“Larsson is right,” I go on. “You’re not yourself.”
“I am myself!” he growls. “Now get out of here. Guards!”
The guards hustle quickly through the doorway, guns primed. I hold up one hand to calm them.
“It’s OK…it’s all good,” I say. “Things are fine, don’t do anything stupid now.”
“Stupid was you coming here!” says Rhoth. “This is the village of the Fangs. It isn’t a place for people from the big city. Now go. Get out of here!”
He seems far more manic than usual, his limbs twitching, nostrils flaring. In the other chair, the envoy just sits calmly, a little smile on his face. I know he’s to blame. And so does my brother.
He looks at the man now, and I can see him preparing to strike if he has to. This man has clearly come here for a single purpose – to enlist the support of the Fangs, to use his tricks to get them to either fight or reveal what they know about us.
His presence here says a lot. It tells us that this is no rabble approaching. It confirms that they know far more than we might have thought. They are clearly aware of Rhoth and the Fangs, and even have knowledge of where this village is. Who knows, perhaps one of the Fangs has been a spy all alone, feeding information to the west. Whatever the case, we cannot leave this place with this man still here.
And my brother knows it.
As he prepares to make his move, however, I hear more commotion outside. Suddenly, through the door another figure comes, and I look upon the youthful form of West, striding in with a narrow gaze that immediately falls upon the stranger to these parts, sitting casually in his tree trunk chair.
The expression that slowly builds on his face is one I’ve never seen. There’s a depth to it, a pool of hurtful memory that seems to bubble up through every pore. His eyes peruse the man and go stark, and suddenly I know just why his garb looks so familiar.
It is the same sort of armour, old and weather-worn, that adorned the bodies of the men who destroyed West’s village all those years ago. The memory I saw in his mind of his people being massacred, his parents killed, now strikes again. And before I know it, or can do anything to stop it, West surges straight for the man with a roar of fury, drawing a knife from his belt as he goes.
I have no time to react, and nor does anyone else except Rhoth, standing right there beside the messenger, who looks suddenly frightened as the young Fang pours forward with murder in his eyes.
Rhoth hurls himself across just in time, grappling with West and taking hold of his wrist before the knife can plunge deep into the envoy’s flesh. The man stands and staggers backwards, and West wriggles like a fish in Rhoth’s mighty grasp.
And though he’s spent his life here a mute, only speaking on such rare occasions, now he suddenly finds his voice, roaring loud.
“It was him! His people! They killed my family! They destroyed my village! It was him!”
His voice fills the air, cracking through overuse when it’s so rarely deployed. It’s so loud that, beyond the hut, the villagers must hear, bodies drawing closer to the central shack to see what all the fuss is about.
He calls again and again, his voice slowly growing weaker and his struggling limbs ceasing to try to wrest themselves from Rhoth’s powerful grip. Yet the great Fang himself now appears to be waking, young West’s words breaking him from the spell. His eyes flicker, and his mind fills with the distress of the young man who he took as his son, who he found as a boy, frightened and alone in the wilderness.
I watch, breathless, as the true Rhoth comes back to the fore. He stands tall again, and the crazed look in his eyes is dismissed. He turns to the envoy, cowering against the wall, and his façade curls, framed in fury.
“It was his people?” he asks quietly.
West, panting hard, nods.
“Him…it was him…I know it….”
Rhoth lets West go, and the shack goes still and silent. Then, in a sudden burst, he thrusts himself forward, grabs hold of the messenger, and drags him in front of West.
“Kill him,” he growls.
West doesn’t need to hear any more.
My brother calls out, “No!” for a reason I don’t immediately understand, and the cowardly envoy squeaks in fear and attempts to escape. It’s no use. Rhoth is too strong, and West is too quick. His knife comes slashing, right across the man’s throat, opening it up wide.
And the shack gets a new coating of dark red blood.
235
The sight of the envoy dropping to his knees, fingers manically clutching at his neck as it spurts blood, would have made me rather queasy not so long ago.
The fact that I look at it without batting an eyelid says a hell of a lot about my transition from regular, cleaner girl in the western quarter of Outer Haven, to rebel, soldier, and gifted killer. I watch without much feeling at all as he sinks to his knees and splutters and spits, his final moments of life upon him.
In fact, if there is a feeling within me, it’s one of both hate and justice. If West is right, then this man is part of the barbarian horde that ransacked his lands. And envoy or not, he deserves everything he’s got.
My brother, however, reacts differently.
As the rest of us stand motionless, he immediately darts forward, dropping straight to his knees before the dying man.
“Let him suffer,” growls Rhoth, perhaps thinking Zander is trying to help.
It takes a moment to realise that he isn’t. He’s merely looking for information.
He does so by quickly grabbing at the man’s frantic eyes and wrestling their lids open. It’s clearly not easy. With the blood still spilling, the envoy quickly sinks to the floor, gurgling his last as his eyes go dead. Soon enough, he’s completely motionless, lifeless. I consider that Zander’s missed his shot.
I seem to be wrong on that account. He continues to work, holding the now-dead man’s eyes open as they stare up and go glassy. We all watch as he slips into the messenger’s head for what must be about twenty or so seconds, before grimacing and withdrawing and shouting, “Damn!”
He stands to his feet, shaking his head.
“He was dead,” I say. “How could you…”
“There’s always brain activity for a short while after death,” he grunts. “I had a bit of time.”
“And…what did you see?”
He turns to me, eyes
haunted.
“Nothing good. Snippets, bare details. But enough…”
“Enough for what?” I ask, breathless.
“To tell us Cromwell was right,” he says. “The army is ten thousand strong at least. They’re here to destroy us and nothing more. It’s what they do – they spread from place to place, destroying villages and settlements, gathering enhanced and hybrids to their cause, stealing and looting rations and whatever resources they need to keep on going.”
He turns to West, whose own eyes are still little more than slits, the memory of his past still playing before them.
“Your village…it was them,” he confirms. “They’ve been doing this for years, building their strength. Only now are they powerful enough to strike at their main target.”
“Haven,” I whisper.
My brother nods.
“They call themselves the Cure,” he growls. “A cure for what they see as weakness in this world. But really they’re a plague, ravaging lands and taking what they want. I fear they’re far more powerful than we thought…”
“What do you mean? More Enhanced and hybrids?” I query.
Zander nods.
“I think that even Director Cromwell might be underestimating them. This incoming force of two hundred…they’re some of their finest warriors. And the rest aren’t mere Unenhanced. Their ranks are filled with killers.”
“You got all this from his mind?” questions Rhoth, still escaping the spell the envoy had over him.
Zander turns to him.
“That, and more, Rhoth,” he says. “The man had a telepathic link to someone in the main army. I heard him speak to him with his final thoughts.”
“And what did he say?” growls Rhoth.
“He said he’d failed. That you and the Fangs were not with them. I’m sorry, Rhoth. He said…you needed to be destroyed.”
The big man stiffens and grunts.
“Destroy us?! Nothing of the sort will happen. Not here in my woods. I will defend them till I die.”
“And those that can’t fight?” asks Zander. “They know where the village is. They’ll ransack it just as they have so many others. All your people will be killed. Please, Rhoth, clear out from here. You cannot stay.”
The great Fang looks to West, then to Larsson, and the guards lingering by the door.
“Zander is right,” says Larsson. “Those who can fight, should do so. But the rest need to be safe, Rhoth.”
“Haven,” I say. “We will protect them in Haven. There’s nowhere else…”
“There are plenty of other places, girl,” growls Rhoth. “Maybe Kervan and the Roosters will give them sanctuary.”
“And you think these people…the Cure…you think they won’t know about the Roosters? They know about us all, Rhoth. The Nameless, the Consortium, Haven, and the tribes. Perhaps they’ll be safe in the mountains, but perhaps not. Are you willing to take that risk? There’s nowhere safer than Haven. If you really care about the safety of your people, you’ll send them to the city immediately.”
Zander’s words leave behind a short silence, the challenge to Rhoth laid down. He doesn’t seem to enjoy being spoken to in such a manner, least of all here in his village. But as a good leader, he needs to see reason. And I’m relieved when his fierce eyes begin to soften, and his great, bearded chin dips into a nod.
“Maybe you’re right, boy,” he says.
It’s enough of a concession for my brother to let out a breath.
He turns his eyes back to Larsson.
“Spread the word, Lars,” he says. “The people are to make for the big city with all the lights. All hunters and fighters must assemble. We will not present this barbarian horde free passage through our lands.”
As Larsson nods and moves towards the exit, Zander asks, “Is that sensible, Rhoth? You’ve done enough fighting already. You should go with your people and protect them.”
A gurgle of laughter creeps up Rhoth’s throat.
“Boy, I appreciate your words. But you will never understand how we operate here. We will war with these people, as you are. They come to destroy us all, as you say. We are all allies in this fight.”
Zander smiles.
“I do understand, Rhoth. You want to protect your lands and your home. I understand that full well.”
“Then question me not,” crackles the tribesman’s voice. “But do you part instead – call your friends in Haven, tell them my people are coming and need tending. Put those you trust to the task, Zander. Do that for me.”
“Of course. I will, Rhoth. They’ll be well seen to.”
“Good.” He turns to West and lays a hand on his shoulder. “Revenge, West. We will finally have it.”
I see the two men smile at each other, but can only think that they’ll both die this night. I may well be in that boat too, and Zander. All of us, in fact, might see our ends when the light fades and the moon rises. But once again, such a thing fails to faze me. The threat of death is something I’m quickly learning to live with.
And so far, I’ve met the challenge.
For the next half hour, the camp heaves and rushes. Stepping outside the main hut, I see some dissent and questioning among the people, the likes of Henrik, abandoning his post at the gate, chief among the doubters. Yet with Rhoth, West, Larsson, and the guards who witnessed what happened singing from the same song sheet, all concerns are swiftly put to bed.
They may have a great deal of distrust for Zander, the Nameless, and the city of Haven, but they have no choice but to trust in their leader. We are, it seems, the lesser of two evils, and the city of Haven that they have long feared now looks set to become their sanctuary, to live up to its very name.
As the old, young, and those unable to fight gather their belongings and ready themselves for the trek, I get a good idea of the true numbers here. There are many more than I thought there would be, hundreds now readying themselves for the long march through the woods towards the one place they never thought they’d tread.
Those capable of fighting gather their weapons too, not only men but a good number of women amongst them. A few will go with the rest to offer protection through the woods, but most appear ready and willing to defend the woods with their lives.
Zander, meanwhile, gets on the radio and calls it in, making sure that the soldiers at the gate are prepared to escort them into the city. I ask him just who he’ll trust to help them settle in, and he mentions Sophie as an option given her experience of the Fangs when travelling to the mines.
“Good idea,” I say to him. “Though, she’ll need a good deal of help in arranging them all.”
“She’ll get it,” says Zander. “They’ll put the Fangs up somewhere in Outer Haven for now, close to the walls of Inner Haven. If needs be, they can be transported right to the centre.”
“You mean, if they city comes under siege, and the walls are breached.”
Zander nods.
The rush continues, and soon enough the afternoon is bustling along at a fierce enough pace to suggest that the sun will set before too long and the moon will take its place. I watch my brother pace and grow frustrated, and find that he’s having trouble getting through to Beckett.
“There’s some sort of interference,” he tells me when I ask him what the trouble is.
“Distance?” I ask. “Are we too far from him?”
“I wouldn’t have thought so. We’re further from Haven and I’m having no trouble speaking with them. Could be that he’s got his radio off or it’s damaged or…”
“Or what?”
“I don’t know. Maybe the Cure have some sort of disruptor technology with them to prevent radio signals from getting through. If so, they’re probably getting close. We can’t delay much longer, sis. Beckett needs to know what we’re facing.”
“You’re worried,” I assert, looking into his eyes. “You think Beckett and Colonel Hatcher are outmatched?”
“I can’t be sure. I only got snippets from the envoy�
�s head, but this forward unit is more powerful than we thought. And they have numbers, Brie. We can’t afford to lose fifty of our best hybrids, and fifty Stalkers right now. We think we’re ambushing them…but maybe it’s the other way around.”
“Well then, we go? We have our Dasher powers. Rhoth can catch up if he’s so keen on fighting. They’ll only slow us down, Zander.”
He considers it, and looks at the sky.
“I’ll speak with Rhoth. See where he’s at…”
He rushes off, the village now beginning to clear of those heading for Haven, leaving behind a smaller force of a hundred or so hunters of varying capabilities. I imagine that a lot of Rhoth’s finer warriors were part of the hunting group I’ve spent plenty of time with, many of them losing their lives several days ago in the mountains.
The remainder might just be out of their depth, though it doesn’t show in their eyes. Here, in these woods – their woods – with this toxic mist that seems to mute the abilities of so many Enhanced and hybrids, the playing field is more level. They are, I know, a great boon to our cause.
As I stand and await my brother’s orders, West meanders over to me.
“Revenge, Brie,” he says, his voice running free. “I will finally have revenge.”
I smile at him, but don’t offer any words to douse his flames. No words of worry that he won’t get revenge, that he might well fall instead. No words to make him doubt himself, or those he has fought with for years. Instead, I merely nod, and add my flames to his.
“Yes, you will,” I say assertively. “For your village, for your people.”
He holds my gaze longer than he usually would. So shy at his core, he’s been set loose by the promise of blood, buoyed by the life of the envoy he’s just taken. And even now, I see the spray of crimson across his clothes from the messenger’s neck, war paint for the battle to come.
“And you?” he says. “When will your revenge come? For your father, Maxwell, and your mother, Elisa…”
His words cause a sharp jump in my heart-rate, recalling my parents’ names. And as he utters them, I notice Zander nearby, standing with Rhoth, listening as the big man speaks.
