Black Sword (Decker's War, #5)

by Eric Thomson

  He peered over the edge of the cliff and examined the dark pool at the base of the waterfall, unable to see past the roiling surface and estimate its depth. A second arrow clattered against the rock beside him, accompanied by louder and closer cries.

  Decker risked a glance over his shoulder and saw that several of them had emerged from the tree line, close enough for him to see their snarling, savage faces.

  “Screw this shit.” He scrambled to his feet when he saw one of them nock another arrow, gave his pursuers the rigid digit salute, and shouted, “Bye-bye, motherfuckers.”

  Then, he jumped.

  Twelve

  Decker sliced through the pool’s surface feet first at a velocity of over twenty-five meters per second and slammed into the bottom with enough force to send shock waves of pain through his body. When he tried to push off and head up for air, his right ankle pulsed in agony, indicating that the impact had either severely sprained or outright smashed it.

  His head broke through the surface in time to see another arrow come at him. This one struck his shoulder though it didn’t penetrate more than a few centimeters. He wrenched it out, biting back a gasp of pain and looked up at a dozen dirty faces staring back from afar with unconcealed anger. Decker waved the arrow at his pursuers while the current pulled him away and out of range.

  As the river was about to take him around a bend and hide the falls from sight, he spied a group of hunters making their way to a ragged notch in the cliff. He hadn’t seen it from his earlier vantage point but could tell now it offered plenty of hand and footholds for climbers. They didn’t intend to give up their prey, and between a current that would soon turn sluggish, and a busted ankle, he would lose ground fast.

  Then, the arrow puncture began to hurt.

  “Perhaps, Zack, old buddy,” he murmured to himself, “this time, your mouth has finally made a promise your ass can’t cover.”

  He propelled himself with his arms for a while after finding out the hard way he couldn’t use his right leg to kick. One last set of rapids almost took him by surprise, but he made it through with only a dozen or so added bruises, courtesy of those rocks he couldn’t avoid. Shortly after that, the river widened considerably, and as he had feared, the current slowed to a crawl.

  Decker slowly angled his course towards the left bank, knowing that bad ankle or not, he would eventually have to resume walking. He reached for a mostly submerged log to rest his burning arm muscles for a moment or two when it suddenly moved, and gaping jaws snapped at him.

  Yellowed, glistening fangs narrowly missed his hand, and he reflexively tried to swim backward by kicking with his feet. A new wave of agony enveloped the damaged ankle joint, but it helped move him out of the creature’s immediate range.

  He reached for the knife tucked inside his coverall pocket before realizing that the animal, a reptilian analogous to an Earth alligator, had made no move to pursue him. Momentarily surprised, he quickly remembered from the ecosystem survey that this particular species preferred carrion. Decker would have to die before it showed any interest in him as food. As intruder in its territory on the other hand... If nothing else, the encounter was a timely signal to leave the water and continue on land.

  He crawled up a grassy bank on his hands and knees and used a nearby tree as support while he climbed to his feet. Then, very gingerly, he applied pressure on his right ankle. It hurt but didn’t feel broken, merely sprained. Nevertheless, he would need a crutch of some sort.

  After hobbling along the river for several meters, he found a dead branch that seemed sturdy enough and used the knife to make its length more manageable. He resumed his trip through thinning forest, albeit with a wobbly gait. However, even if his path seemed easier the closer he came to the coastal plains, his progress became more labored thanks to exhaustion compounded by multiple injuries.

  After eating his last ration bar while sitting on a fallen tree trunk, Decker struggled to his feet again. He almost fainted from the effort and had to lean on his crutch while taking several deep breaths to steady himself.

  He needed more nourishment, but in his increasingly confused state, he couldn’t remember which plants were edible and which would end his mission in an excruciating burst of abdominal pain.

  The sun was already low on the horizon when he limped through the last curtain of hanging vines and out onto a grassy lea. Golden grain stalks filled his horizon from side to side, but above, in the distance, he could make out rooftops above a spiked log palisade.

  The tang of salt air tickled his nostrils while the muted cries of avians wafted on the gentle breeze as they soared above the as yet hidden lagoon, looking for their evening meal in the turquoise waters. Decker’s relief at reaching the settlement’s outer edge turned out to be short-lived.

  Yelps echoed between the trees at his back, proof the hunters had not only persevered but also caught up with him. Decker clenched his jaw against the inevitable flare of pain and broke into a longer, faster stride than before, determined to reach the protection of the village walls. Dying at the hands of psychotic cannibals was not how Zack Decker’s career would end.

  With no visible path through the orderly rows of wheat, Decker made his own, crushing stalks in a wide swath, hoping the exiles who had planted it would forgive him under the circumstances.

  A blood-curdling howl of victory filled the air, signaling that the hunters had spotted their prey. Decker didn’t dare waste time looking over his shoulder and increased the pace, aware that he had exhausted the last dregs of his strength.

  A furrow caught the crutch, robbing him of his balance. He fell, landing hard on his hands and knees. The howls behind him rose in pitch, as if the hunters knew Zack was finished.

  He regained his feet in time to see one of the pursuers, clutching a spear and wearing a crazed grin, sprint towards him. Decker had no choice but to stand his ground now. In his condition, he could never outrun the man.

  Putting as much of his weight as he dared on the injured foot, he held his makeshift crutch balanced in one hand and pulled out the knife with the other.

  Eyes locked with those of his pursuer, Decker waited until the hunter came within reach of his improvised quarterstaff, then lashed out at the attacker’s head, leaning to one side, away from the spear point. It grazed his side nonetheless, digging a painful furrow against his ribs. Both he and the hunter went down.

  Shouts of disappointment rang over the open field, but Zack, now moving entirely on instinct, crawled over to the unconscious hunter and rammed the stolen knife in his ear, killing the man instantly. He looked for his crutch, hoping to repeat the same feat with the next man who had a craving for a Decker kebab.

  But when he raised himself above the wheat stalks, he glimpsed the last of his pursuers vanish back into the jungle.

  The reason soon became apparent when he heard controlled voices coming from the direction of the village. He turned and saw an extended line of grim-faced, bearded men, all armed, many of them with wicked looking recurved bows, cutting through the field towards him.

  A grin of relief twisted his bloodied, dirty features. He gave the men a weak wave of the hand, then slumped back and waited.

  Thirteen

  Decker’s eyes opened to a darkened room, with only hints of daylight coming through various cracks. A vaguely antiseptic odor struck him the moment he breathed in deeply through the nose. It hinted at harsh alcohol and various herbal concoctions. His battered and abused body, aching from head to toe, was stretched out on a hard mattress and covered by a light blanket.

  As the fog of sleep cleared, the memory of his wild escape returned, along with that of a slow walk from the field to the village, half-carried by two men. But his recall stopped short of the settlement’s gate, proof he had finally passed out from blood loss and exhaustion.

  He sensed a presence nearby, something quickly confirmed by a low alto voice, feminine but rough.

  “You’re awake now, are you?”

&n
bsp; “Either I’m awake or this is isn’t one of my typical high definition dreams. They usually revolve around expensive booze and willing partners.” The words came out as a rough whisper, and he coughed.

  The woman laughed.

  “You may find either around here if you look hard enough — double entendre intended. But Desolation Island is no one’s idea of a dream. You’re awake all right, stranger. My name’s Delia Ward, by the way.”

  “Zack Decker. Do I have you to thank for cleaning me up and bandaging my various injured bits?”

  “I had help. You’re not exactly small are you?”

  “Double entendre intended once more?”

  She laughed again.

  “No comments, Zack Decker. I’m Valla’s designated healer, on account of my having been a physician before exile, and you’re enjoying the comfort of my little clinic.”

  “Valla? Is that the name of this place?”

  “It is. I’ll venture that you’re a recent arrival, dropped on the plateau by people who figured you’d be better served in the wilderness.”

  “Better served?” Decker chuckled. “You seem to be good at word games, Delia Ward. Yeah. I woke up in a jungle clearing with a headache instead of near a settlement. A bunch of whacked-out hunters captured me less than twelve hours later. They sized me up for a tribal feast, but I escaped.”

  “You’re a lucky man. We hear stories about the wild ones, mostly from people who’ve seen them up close. Few dropped on the plateau ever make it out alive. We used to think the Correctional Service left only the worst of the worst there. But you’re not the first recent arrival to come out of the jungle, looking like death warmed over. The scab on your back, I presume it means someone removed the tracking microchip before setting you loose. Am I right?”

  “I guess so. When I woke up, it was gone.”

  “Someone must really loathe you, Zack Decker. It takes doing to divert a convict like that and make him invisible to the correctional system. You were meant to vanish without a trace.”

  “The galaxy is full of people who hate my guts. I dare say the idea of shoving me into the waiting arms of psychopathic cannibals would appeal to most of them. Mind you, some would think it wasn’t punishment enough. What I can’t figure is why these wild ones exist. I thought truly deranged criminals were warehoused in maximum-security pens on the edge of the Arctic tundra, not allowed to run amok here.” He coughed again. “I’d be grateful for some water.”

  A second light flared as Delia lit another candle.

  “Who knows why the Correctional Service has been dumping the criminally insane here?” She asked with a weary shrug. “As a cost saving measure, perhaps. No one cares about psychos and setting them free in the wild is good for the budgetary bottom line. And so what if they prey on the civilized settlements? We’re of no greater account. To those who knew us before we were condemned, we’re as good as dead. There’s no return from Desolation Island. Now try to sit up. Otherwise you’ll spill most of the water down your chest.”

  Ward’s tone was one of resignation rather than bitterness or anger, making Decker wonder how long she had been here, and for what crimes. He pushed himself up into a sitting position and caught his first glimpse of a prematurely aged woman. Ward had strong if deeply creased features framed by long, silver-flecked auburn hair. Large, dark eyes beneath equally dark eyebrows examined him with a strange intensity as she crouched by his side and held out a wooden cup.

  Rough, calloused fingers brushed Decker’s hand as he took the proffered water, then gently touched the bandages on his chest.

  “I found no signs of infection when I cleaned your wounds, so you should heal quickly,” Ward said. “Sometimes, the wild ones will smear feces on the tips of their arrows and spears - left untreated, it turns nasty. Thankfully, the local microorganisms haven’t evolved to colonize human flesh yet, though I’m sure that will come in due course. Your right ankle is badly swollen, but I felt no breaks. As for the blood loss?” She shrugged. “Time and nourishment. I’ll give you soup once I see if you keep the water down.”

  Decker held out the empty cup.

  “Thanks. I wouldn’t mind another one.”

  “Let’s give it a few minutes, okay?” A brief smile lit up her tired features. “I’d rather not have to clean up any vomit.”

  As Decker opened his mouth to reply, knuckles rapped on an outer door. Ward rose to her full height and said, “Enter.”

  Bright morning light spilled into the settlement’s infirmary as a stocky, barrel-shaped man stepped in. Older than Ward, his tired, almost withered features were framed by the long white strands of his shaggy hair and beard. Like her, he wore homespun clothes, but the boots on his feet came from the same factory as Decker’s.

  “I gather our visitor’s awake?” He walked over to Zack’s cot, betraying a slight limp. “Is he coherent enough to answer questions?”

  “Yes and yes.”

  The man turned his attention on Decker.

  “I’m Matt Hikaru, Speaker of the Valla Settlement Council.”

  “Zachary Decker, at your service. You have my most heartfelt thanks for saving me from the savages.”

  Hikaru grunted.

  “We’ll see about that in due course.” He paused and examined Zack with bright, intelligent eyes sure to miss little. “Nothing good comes out of the highlands. The central plateau is a place of evil, so you’ll appreciate that while we might show compassion to strangers, we’re not a trusting bunch.”

  Decker nodded. “Understood.”

  “The wild ones,” Hikaru continued, “have sent us infiltrators before, men who’ll open settlement gates at night. That they’ve never succeeded doesn’t mean we tend to relax our vigilance. If you’re one of those, you will die at our hands. I’m about to ask you several questions, and if you lie, I’ll know. Liars aren’t welcome in Valla. We live on the edge here and can’t afford to take in folk who we can’t trust to pull their weight. Everything we have, everything we eat, we produce ourselves. It’s a hard existence, but we’re guilty of crimes bad enough to call for exile from the rest of humanity.”

  “Ask away,” Decker replied when Hikaru took a breather. “I owe you for rescuing me. The way I figure it, I was a minute or two away from featuring on last night’s menu.”

  “Likely. When did you arrive on Parth?”

  “Two days ago, shortly before sunset. The savages captured me that night and staked me out in their encampment pending the return of their boss.” He held up his bandaged wrists. “I’m sure Sera Ward can testify to my injuries from the restraints.”

  “I saw the extent of your injuries yesterday,” Hikaru said with a nod. “How did you escape? Few make it out of the interior unscathed.”

  “I pulled the stake keeping my left arm pinned after everyone was asleep — except for a woman who took a fancy to me. When the stake came out of the ground, she was playing their version of a succubus, threatening to take a slice from me if I refused her. The moment my hand came free, I knocked her out, took her knife to cut the remaining restraints, found my clothes and pack, and then ran.”

  Decker then gave Hikaru and Ward a detailed account of his race towards the sea, ending with the appearance of the armed exiles.

  “That’s quite a story,” Hikaru said once Zack fell silent. “Fortunately, your wounds testify to its veracity. Let’s talk about the time before your arrival on Parth. What were you and why a sentence of exile?”

  “I was a major in the Marine Corps, a Pathfinder working special operations. On my last mission, I killed the wrong people and was charged with culpable homicide.”

  “Really? A Pathfinder?” Skeptical eyebrows crept up Hikaru’s forehead until they merged with his bangs. “Every wannabe I’ve met says he was a special ops ninja of some kind, especially when there’s no way to prove otherwise. Want to try again?”

  “Want me to sing all verses of Blood on the Risers?”

  “Okay, wise guy, explain how a
spec ops wonder-warrior snagged the wrong target. I thought you guys never missed.”

  “They were the right targets, but had the sort of connections that made them the wrong ones to terminate.”

  A derisive chuckle escaped Hikaru’s thin lips.

  “Everyone’s innocent on Parth.”

  “Did I say I was innocent? I killed those men. There’s no denying it. They needed killing, and I thought the brass would have my back. Turns out they had no backbone. Politics. So here I am.”

  “Any idea why they left you in the highlands with no tracking microchip?”

  “I guess someone with a lot of pull wanted to make sure my exile turned into a death sentence. Without a tracker, the Correctional Service has no record of my arrival on the island. It means I’ve become an unperson as far as the Commonwealth is concerned.”

  “Maybe.” Hikaru scratched his beard with a thickly calloused hand. “Have you ever tasted human flesh?”

  Decker, who had been half-expecting the question, made a grimace of disgust.

  “No.”

  Hikaru’s eyes narrowed as he tried to gauge the truth in Zack’s reply.

  “Okay, Zack Decker. I have what I need. The council will debate whether to admit you as a member of our community. Like I said, we can’t afford to take in potential liabilities when we need everyone’s sweat and toil for our survival. Expect people come for a look at you later. We vote tomorrow.”

  “And if you don’t admit me?”

  “Once you no longer need medical care, we’ll give you food and send you along the coast to try your luck with another community. But everyone is wary of newcomers from the interior. We prefer the Correctional Service to deliver our newest citizens in the expected manner. That means deposited outside Valla’s walls, since we’re the largest village and therefore the de facto clearing house.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “We shall speak again after the vote.” With that, Hikaru turned on his heels and left.