Dangerous Talents

by Frankie Robertson

  Cele’s throat tightened. This is what Sorn longed to return to. “It’s beautiful.”

  Dahleven was silent for a moment, then nodded. “It is.” Then he gave the signal to continue on. The slope heading down into the valley was much shallower, making for an easier descent than the climb had been. They’d only descended a hundred feet or so when Falsom shouted from the crest above them.

  “Renegades!”

  A second later, arrows began thunking dully into the ground around them.

  “Downslope!” Dahleven shouted. He grabbed Cele just above Sorn’s bracelet and pulled her along as he began to run, his feet slipping in the drifts of needles.

  Cele heard a cry, and took her eyes off her feet long enough to glance behind. Halsten had fallen, an arrow in his back. Ghav turned too, just as more than a dozen black-haired, dusky-skinned men came careening down the slope at them. Ghav hesitated, then resumed his barely controlled retreat.

  The group separated as they fled before the larger force. Falsom, Kep, Ghav, and Fender veered off to the left as the ground dropped down; Dahleven and Cele found firmer footing on a rocky outcropping to the right. Dahleven slowed enough to glance over his shoulder, and Cele followed his gaze. The pursuit had split, too, and five men followed them.

  Dahleven raced down the mountainside, half running, half sliding, sometimes jumping, and Cele went with him, pack banging against her back, arm still locked in his firm grasp. They rounded a wall of rock, and suddenly the ground dropped away in front of them. Dahleven hauled back on Cele’s arm so abruptly she almost fell on her butt, scant inches from the edge.

  “Odin’s Balls!” Dahleven released her and turned to face the enemy that had yet to appear around the upthrust. He started to pull his sword.

  To Cele’s surprise, he slammed it home again, and ran to the rock wall behind them. “Get out of your pack!” he said, shrugging quickly out of his own.

  What? Cele didn’t understand, but she didn’t hesitate. She imitated Dahleven and shucked her own pack, hanging onto the straps.

  He grabbed her free hand, and pulled her into a scrawny thicket growing against the rock-face. He’s crazy! We can’t hide here. The bush wasn’t nearly thick enough to conceal them. But Dahleven kept pulling, and Cele followed, until suddenly she slipped into a fissure in the rock. It was tight, and she could hear him grunt and jerk, then he was free and dragging her through. Her breasts brushed the walls as she sidled in. The pack in her hand stuck and Cele jerked harder on the straps to yank it free.

  The interior opened a little wider but they still had to walk sideways to get through. They turned a corner and suddenly they were in a more open space. A faint trickle of light came from the narrow entrance, along with the distant shouts of their enemies as they discovered their quarry missing.

  Dahleven put his finger to her lips. They stood very still as the men outside argued about where they might have gone. Cele tried not to breathe too loudly. Eventually, the voices moved away.

  Then Dahleven towed her farther into the cave, and the dark swallowed them.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Cele blinked, vainly trying to see in the dark with eyes adjusted to the bright midday sun. The only sounds were the rasp of her and Dahleven’s hard breathing. He pulled her onward, deeper into the stillness of the cave. She gripped his hand tightly, taking reassurance from its warmth and strength.

  A moment later, she lost even that small comfort when Dahleven released her. She heard him shrugging his pack on, so she did the same. Then his searching hand pulled hers to the back of his belt.

  “Hold on,” he commanded tersely.

  Cele felt his body shift as Dahleven drew his sword and heard the slithering whisper as the steel pulled free of its leather sheath. His posture shifted as he raised his left arm over his head. Did he intend to fight their enemies in the dark? But he didn’t turn to face the entrance, but instead continued on, deeper into the mountain, moving at a slow, deliberate pace.

  Cele reached out with her free hand, finding only emptiness. What waited for them in the blackness? The only cave she’d been in was Kartchner Caverns, a well-lit tourist attraction. Were there bats in here? Wild animals? They didn’t have Kep with them to scare cave dwellers away. Fear rippled down her spine. She wished she had a flashlight, but she hadn’t needed one for a morning hike.

  A sharp ting bounced off the rock and Cele jumped. Dahleven must be using his sword to defend himself against stubbed toes rather than Renegades or creatures of the dark.

  The sound of their footsteps, the echo of their ragged breathing, gave her the sense that the ceiling and walls were several feet away. As long as she didn’t run into any stalactites, she’d be okay. With much taller Dahleven in the lead, she stopped worrying about bumping her head and concentrated instead on her footing, though the ground was surprisingly even beneath her feet. The air smelled stale but free of the dank odor of moisture.

  The echoes of their footsteps changed, and Dahleven pulled her to the right. Cele’s hand abruptly encountered stone. They were turning a corner.

  “There’s a drop here. Less than a foot.” After straining her ears for clues, Dahleven’s voice startled her.

  He took her hand from his belt and put it on his shoulder. She felt him step down. He stopped, waiting for her to follow. She found the edge and eased herself down several inches. Again he stepped down and waited. Cele felt her way forward, then carefully lowered herself. They continued down five of the regularly spaced steps.

  Stairs? She thought. In a cave? Not ADA compliant. Cele swallowed the edge of a hysterical giggle. They weren’t tourists, and this wasn’t Kartchner Caverns. Then Dahleven turned another corner and stopped. The space they were in felt like a small alcove, and she was suddenly standing very close to him. He pulled her hand from his shoulder, and Cele’s heart jolted with panic as she lost contact. But he only took a short step away to sheath his sword.

  “Can you find your way back?” She hadn’t planned to ask it, but it popped out of her mouth anyway.

  “Certainly.” Dahleven sounded surprised.

  Duh. His Talent is Pathfinding. “Sorry. I forgot—”

  “Quiet.”

  Cele listened.

  Nothing.

  The dark hung closely, like the deep folds of a heavy velvet curtain, damping even the soft susurration of their breath. No other noise disturbed the endless silence. What are we listening for? She felt as if the world had stopped. Cele concentrated on the reassuring pressure of Dahleven’s shoulder against hers.

  When Dahleven spoke, Cele jumped. He put a reassuring hand on her arm. “It’s all right. They don’t follow.”

  “That’s great! Then we can wait a while and go find the others.” Cele winced at the nervous sound of her voice, but she was glad they’d soon be above ground.

  “No. The Renegades may not follow, but they may well be waiting for us. And the others will be far away, if they still live.”

  Cele heard the slight dip in Dahleven’s voice when he said if they live, and realized how worried he must be for his men. Sorn was dead, as was Lindimer and probably Halsten. They could all be dead, and she didn’t even know who was trying to kill them, or why. So much had happened, she hadn’t even thought about asking questions until now. “Who are these Renegades? Sorn said something about caravans being raided, but we don’t have anything they’d want. Why did they attack us?”

  “The Renegades are Tewakwe who have been exiled from their Confederation.” Dahleven shifted and Cele felt him lower himself to the ground. “There’s room enough to sit.”

  Cele joined him. The floor felt thick with powdery dust and was surprisingly smooth. Obviously manmade. She propped against the wall next to him, shoulder to shoulder. She’d tried to avoid touching him any more than necessary when they shared a blanket. Now she needed the contact. “Why did they attack us?” she asked again.

  “I think they’re working with our own Outcasts to start a war between Nuvinla
nd and the Tewakwe Confederation. If they’re successful, the chaos of war would make it easy for them to pick the bones of both peoples. The first attack upon us I think was pure bad luck. This one, today, was the fruit of betrayal.” Dahleven’s voice was bitter. “Thanks to Knut, they know we discovered their camp and guess their plans. They want to stop us from returning to Quartzholm with that information. If we don’t make it, the Council of Jarls will bring a vote of war before the Althing.”

  “But if they’re waiting out there for us, how are we going to get to this Quartzholm?”

  “We’ll continue on through the mountain.”

  “Through the mountain?” Her voice was a little shrill.

  “These mountains are cross-cut with hidden tunnels. By using them, we’ll avoid the Renegades.”

  Cele took a deep breath of cool, stale air and blew it out slowly, but couldn’t get all the fear out of her voice. “In the dark? Won’t that slow us down a lot?”

  “No, not in the dark. At least, not the whole way. This tunnel isn’t much used, but when we reach the Knot we’ll find torches. We’ll be able to move quickly then. And the tunnels are a shorter path than traveling overland.”

  “Too bad no one left any torches where we came in.” Cele’s voice was still edgy.

  “That’s something I’ll see changed when I return.” Dahleven found her hand and pressed it between his own. “I’ll not lead you astray. This I promise.”

  Promises. In her experience, the promises men made weren’t worth much, but she’d made one to Sorn, and she’d keep it. She wouldn’t judge Dahleven by her father or Jeff. He hadn’t broken a promise to her yet. He hadn’t made any, either, until now.

  *

  “Okay. Let’s go then.” Lady Celia leaned forward to rise.

  Dahleven heard the determination and controlled tension in her voice and nodded to himself. She was anxious, but calm. She’d be all right. He’d known seasoned warriors who panicked in the tunnels, even bright with lighted torches. And very few were comfortable in the absolute dark. He didn’t like it much himself, but he had played throughout the tunnels as a boy, and his Talent gave him the advantage of knowing he could never be lost.

  Dahleven gently tugged her back to rest against the wall. “In a bit. First, we’ll rest and eat.”

  She sagged against his shoulder. “Okay.”

  Lady Celia slipped the waterskins off her shoulders and shrugged out of her pack. He heard the snick! of her belt-pack’s unusual buckle. She drank from the strange bottles she carried and fumbled a bit with the ties of Lindimer’s pack. Before long she worked them loose and soon he heard and smelled her nibbling on dried fruit and jerky. He liked the way she focused on the task at hand. Yes, she definitely would be all right. She’ll be a good companion in the dark.

  A second interpretation of his thoughts followed hard on the first. He traveled down that warm path, indulging in the pleasant images that brought to mind. Her shoulders would be warm and softly curved, her skin soft under his hands. Her feisty attitude promised passion and he could almost feel the velvet weight of her breasts—

  The need to shift to readjust the fit of his pants brought him back to the moment with an embarrassed grimace. At least the lady couldn’t see his discomfort. He tried to redirect his thoughts.

  He remembered her as he had last seen her, dirty and disheveled, legs scratched and scabbed, braided hair loose and awry from the headlong rush downslope, eyes wide in alarm. The image failed to soften his interest. My taste in women has taken quite a turn. He scratched an itch and recalled his own unwashed state with a wry grimace. I’m not much of a prize either, at the moment.

  He tried to remind himself that Lady Celia’s loyalties were unproven, that she could yet prove a threat to Nuvinland, but he no longer could give much credence to that thought, no more than Sorn had.

  Sorn. The memory brought Dahleven up short.

  Sorn was dead barely a day. Dahleven winced. He’d been lusting after the woman who grieved the loss of his sworn brother. The memory of her fingers, clasped with Sorn’s played against the lightless back-drop, as did the image of his brother’s cuff on her arm. Sorn had always drawn sisterly affection from the ladies, but Lady Celia’s tender attention to him in his last hours spoke of more than that. It was a bitter irony that Sorn had finally found a woman who saw him as a man instead of a brother only as he lay dying.

  He felt Lady Celia shiver beside him. Now that they weren’t moving, the underground chill began to penetrate. “Are you cold? Let’s wrap in our blankets,” Dahleven said, suiting action to words.

  “How old are these tunnels?”

  Celia’s voice was still tense, but the musical quality had returned to it. Had it always been so pleasant to the ear? Sorn must have thought so. “We made them a long time ago. We still use them sometimes, especially in the winter.”

  “So that’s how you knew where it was. I thought we were trapped until you pulled us in here.”

  He was tempted to let her believe his sharp planning had saved them, but honesty prevailed. “I don’t know where every tunnel opens to the outside. Luck smiled on us, and my Talent revealed a path of escape.”

  “What do you use them for, when you’re not on the run?”

  “For mining.” And sneak attacks. And hiding wealth. “They’re still in use, though far from here. No one uses these tunnels much any longer.”

  He remembered the last time he and Sorn had been down in the tunnels. When was it? Five? No, six years ago. They’d been long past the reckless age of daring one another to foolhardy challenges. But others weren’t, and they’d come down to the tunnels in search of his young niece Aenid. The girl had gone missing and her mother, Dahleven’s sister Ingirid, was frantic. Dahleven had been out of patience with his sister. After all, Aenid was twelve and not stupid. Sorn, on the other hand, had said all the right things to Ingirid, and then they’d gone looking for the wayward girl.

  When they found her, Aenid had been leading young Ljot and Solvin back to the Knot, the meeting and parting of ways. No one had noticed the boys missing except Aenid. And that was when Aenid had known she was a Pathfinder, too, just like her uncle. For all the good it would do her, since Ingirid hardly let the girl out of her sight. How a sister of his could be so tight on the reins, Dahleven would never understand. But then he didn’t understand how she could choose Jon to marry, either.

  Sorn had become Aenid’s champion after that. And between him and Dahleven, they’d won his niece a measure of freedom. Dahleven imagined the tears his niece would shed when she learned of Sorn’s death. His eyes stung. He might shed a few himself.

  Dahleven pinched the bridge of his nose and cleared his throat. Sitting in the dark like this only made it worse. “Get your things together. We need to move.”

  *

  Cele flinched at Dahleven’s unexpectedly gruff tone. What did I say? Are the tunnels a sore spot with him?

  Dahleven stood and quickly shrugged into his pack.

  “Wait here a minute. I need to, um, go.” Cele could almost feel Dahleven roll his eyes.

  “Don’t go far.”

  “I know, I know. I won’t be long. I’ll just step around the corner.” Cele carefully climbed the five steps out of the alcove, feeling her way slowly along the wall. The further she went, the more the dark pressed on her. She barely turned the corner before she stopped. This was far enough. He can’t see anything anyway.

  As quickly as possible Cele returned to the alcove. Too quickly; she misgauged the second step and fell the rest of the way, her tumble stopped by Dahleven’s feet.

  “Ow! Damn it! Son of a—” Cele grabbed her shin and bit off the curse.

  Dahleven knelt by her side. “Are you hurt?”

  “Of course I’m hurt! Damn it, that smarts!” She clenched her teeth.

  “Where are you injured?” Dahleven ran his hands over her head then down her arms, feeling for cuts and broken bones. His touch was firm and sure and warm.
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  “I’m okay. It’s nothing serious, it just hurts like the dickens.”

  Dahleven’s hands were on her legs as she curled to sit up. His hands found hers clamped to her shin, and gently pulled them away. The cool air stung as it hit the scrape.

  “You’re bleeding.”

  Despite his care, Cele hissed and pulled away from the pain. “Where’s my belt-pack? I’ve got some first aid stuff in there.”

  Dahleven left her side for a moment. Then he was back, pressing her pack into her hand. “I’ve water here.” He steadied her leg with a warm touch on her bent knee, then cool water splashed and stung over her new wound.

  Cele sucked in breath sharply. “Damn. I’m not usually such a klutz—though you wouldn’t know it from the last few days.” She fished around in her pack until she found by feel what she needed. “Here, hold this.” She put a square of gauze in place.

  Dahleven’s hands quickly found where his help was needed and gently held the bandage till she could tape it down. It was awkward, working blind, and their fingers bumped several times. The cloth of his long sleeve brushed lightly against her bare thigh as he passed one hand beneath her bent leg to hold the other side of the bandage without getting in the way of her taping.

  By the time she finished, she had become acutely aware of Dahleven’s nearness. His heat made her shiver. She couldn’t help wondering what it would feel like to have him touch her because he wanted to instead of helping her with some injury.