by Jenn Reese
“Odd truly cares for you all,” he said. “These devices must have required a steep trade.”
“Kludge comes first,” Mags said, as if no other explanation were needed. “And that includes you now, too. I just hope the homer signal screams loud enough to reach our receiver. Rumors say Strand is holed up in the mountain somewhere. You go in too far, and we won’t be able to find you.”
“Then give my last position to the others. It will be better than nothing,” he said. His plan had many risks and only a small chance of success. He liked to think that Aluna would approve.
Odd ambled over just as Mags was using skin glue to hide the last traces of the incision in his arm.
“Squirrel spotted our target over the next ridge,” he said. “Girl says he’s got the weirdest upgrades she’s ever seen. Not just horns like Pocket, but horns.” He held his hands out half a meter from either side of his head. “Face like an animal, she says, but I don’t know about that. Seen many a punched-ugly face in my years, and never seen one yet that surprised me.”
Odd pulled a thick rope from his waistband and waited.
Dash stood, touched fingers to his heart, and bowed to Mags. “Thank you.”
She nodded and shooed him with her hand. “Just don’t get yourself killed now that I’ve spent so much time on you.”
“I will try not to invalidate your work,” he said. Although, truthfully, the homing beacon would continue to function even if he was killed. It was one of the benefits of his plan that he had chosen not to mention to the others.
Dash put his arms behind his back and stood quietly while Odd tied them together with his rope.
“I wish I had thought to take one of the fake restraints we used on Aluna and Calli when we first joined you,” Dash said. “If they see how we have weakened the rope, they may suspect something.”
“Most folk are lazy. Won’t even check,” Odd said. “You want me to keep your swords? Won’t use them or anything. Won’t mess with your changes or nothing. Just to keep them safe till you get back.”
“Yes, thank you,” Dash said. He had forgotten about the swords. Of course they would be taken from him, and better for Odd to have them than for someone in Strand’s army to wield them against an ally. “My retractable blade is hidden in its sheath at my waist. I will not be entirely unarmed . . . unless they are less lazy than you say.”
“Lazy,” Odd repeated. “The whole lot of them.”
Pocket ran up to them, his face scrunched with worry. “Squirrel says they’re getting ready to move and we have to go in now.” He rubbed his hands on his pants. “I’m not sure I can do this. Maybe someone else should try.”
Odd put a meaty hand on the boy’s shoulder, and Dash felt a small pang of regret. He had experienced the weight of Odd’s affection perhaps for the last time.
“You can do it and you will do it,” Odd said.
“Didn’t earn your name for nothing,” Mags added.
The boy’s name wasn’t Pocket, but Pickpocket. Dash had been surprised to learn that the boy was named for more than the secret compartments hidden in his limbs. Surprised, and pleased. Pocket had a crucial role to play in their upcoming maneuvers.
“One last piece before we go,” Dash said. “Odd?”
“You ready?” Odd asked. “This might hurt a touch.”
Dash lifted his chin, held his breath, and nodded. He watched Odd pull back his massive arm and squeeze his hand into a fist. A fist that seemed the size of Dash’s entire head.
The blow fell, and Dash found himself on the ground with no real memory of how he had gotten there. His cheek ached and burned and felt as if it were already swelling to twice its normal size. A trickle of warmth dripped down his brow and he wondered for a moment if his entire skull had been crushed, and if he would ever be able to stand up again.
He was vaguely aware of Vachir whinnying, of her hoof scraping the ground not far from his head and her hot breath huffing in his face.
Then Odd reached down, grabbed him by the arm, and yanked him back to his feet as if he weighed no more than a feather.
“Well hit,” Mags said. Dash tried not to wince as her fingers probed his face. “Looks a mess, but there’s nothing broken. The cut will bleed good and long.”
Dash stood there, swaying slightly, and said nothing. The world felt muted, as if his friends spoke in the distance. Only the thunderous throbbing in his head seemed real.
“Thank you,” he finally managed. “I appreciate your restraint.”
Odd slapped him on the arm. Dash groaned as the reverberation made his skull pound even more. “Hitting is the one thing I’m good at,” Odd said. “Don’t get to do it nearly enough. Even the little love taps like that one make me smile.”
Love tap?
“Get yourself ready, now,” Mags said. “Best be moving.”
Dash nodded. He could feel blood drip down from his brow and spot his cheek. At least Aluna, Hoku, and Calli were not here to see his face. Then again, Aluna would probably have attacked Odd with her talons, even though he was only doing as Dash asked. He never minded when Aluna came to his defense. It was . . . refreshing . . . after a lifetime of fighting for himself almost every day.
Vachir bent a knee so Dash could hop on her back more easily. He had wanted her to run off and hide until this was all over. A horse of her caliber would be a tempting prize to bring into Strand’s army. But Vachir disagreed, and Dash did not argue. She was her own person and he would not deny her a role in this if she wished it.
“Don’t know how many eyes they have out here,” Odd said. “Best play our parts now.” He thumped Vachir on her rump, and she whinnied angrily. “Sorry,” Odd grumbled. “Still not used to a four-feet with a brain.”
Odd, Mags, and Pocket wore grim expressions as they flanked Dash and Vachir. Dash lowered his head and let his body slump in the saddle, doing his best to be a wounded, defeated traitor.
They walked through the outskirts of what appeared to be a major stronghold for Strand’s army. Men and women gathered in organized clusters, cooking food in huge pots over their campfires, sharing stories, and even trading tech. Dash saw more bizarre enhancements than he had even thought possible. He had a hard time looking away from the man with slitted eyes and fangs who had grafted spotted animal fur to his torso and legs. He had made himself into a Human cat.
Some Upgraders looked up as their small group passed, but most continued with their gossip and their tasks. They saw only a plain, dirt-covered prisoner being brought to justice. He was nothing to them.
Odd handled the first army official who approached them. She identified herself as “Winder’s left-hand woman, second only to Winder’s right-hand man and to Winder himself.”
“Got a special prisoner,” Odd said. “Need to see Winder. . . . Unless there’s someone more important than him around?”
“More important than Winder?” The woman barked a laugh. “No one of that particular description, unless you talking about one of the old man’s own children, Fathom or Scorch!”
“Well, can we talk to one of them, then?” Mags asked. “Or send us direct to Strand, if you want.”
“Oh, sure, if you want your limbs ripped off and your face melted for fun,” the woman answered. “Because that’s going to happen, or worse, if you waste the Sea Master’s or Sand Master’s time with a silly little nothing like this.” She poked Dash in the leg with a finger sharp as a dagger.
“They’ll want this boy, I promise you,” Odd said. “We’re willing to bet our lives on it.”
The woman looked Odd up and down, then sighed. “Follow me. I’ll take you to Winder and we’ll let him decide what’s to be done with you. Don’t be surprised if he slices you into pieces on the spot, though.”
She trudged through the camp and people scattered to get out of her way. The five of them followed. And somewhere out there, watching, was Squirrel.
The groups of soldiers grew thicker and better equipped as they neared Win
der. What appeared as a ragtag army on its outskirts had become an organized, clearly experienced force at its core. Dash imagined his fellow Equians with their swords and spears and bows lining up to fight this heavily armored, heavily weaponized army. Despite their ferocity and skill, his people would be killed in great numbers.
“There he is,” the woman said. “There’s Winder.”
Squirrel had been right; Winder was no ordinary Upgrader. From his waist up, the man was covered in brown hair splotched with white, like the hide of a horse. His head, so massive it dominated his three-meter frame, had a long snout ending in wide nostrils. Some of the Equian herds raised cows, and Winder reminded Dash of a bull.
“Minotaur,” Mags whispered. “One of the splinters Strand made up for himself.”
DASH TRIED TO TURN HIS HEAD to escape the pungent odor emanating from Winder’s mouth, but the minotaur gripped Dash’s chin in one of his huge, hide-covered hands and held it in place. He could feel Vachir trembling underneath him, but thankfully she stayed still and did nothing.
“This runt doesn’t look dangerous enough to scare an itsy-bitsy bird,” Winder said, “and you think the mighty Karl Strand cares if he lives or dies?”
“He does, and so does Sand Master Scorch,” Mags said calmly. “They will both care very much.”
Winder pulled away from Dash and crossed his arms over his chest. “And I suppose you want to take him to Strand all by yourself and take the reward,” Winder said. “Greedy Gizmos. No eye for the big picture. No head for strategy. For tactics!”
“Don’t want the reward,” Odd said. “Just doing our part for the war. For Strand. Helping him bring about a better world, and all that talk.”
“Oh?” Winder said. “And so you want me to march up to Strand with this little nothing and risk my reputation on your say-so?” The last few words came out as a growl.
“Talk to the Sand Master,” Mags said quickly. “Tell her who you’ve got. Tell her his name — Dash from Flame Heart herd. Friend of Aluna. And say you got Aluna’s horse, too. You say it just like that, and she’ll know right away.”
Winder appeared to be thinking. Dash heard the thump-thump-thump of his massive fingers along the metal bracer on his other arm. Finally, Winder reached into one of his belt pouches and pulled out a small device no bigger than the leaf of a tree. He motioned to some soldiers milling around their area. The men and women immediately stood and encircled their group.
“If Sand Master Scorch doesn’t know the boy, then you’ll all die at my feet,” Winder said. “You still want me to call?” He held the device up, his finger poised above its surface.
“Call,” Odd said. “We’re speaking true.”
Winder punched a button on the device. Dash glanced over at Pocket and was pleased to see the boy entirely focused on what Winder was doing. He had stayed quiet until now, hopefully too small and inconsequential to be of interest to Winder, but his part of the plan was quickly approaching.
Winder held the device half a meter from his face and spoke into it, just as Dash had spoken into the comm screens he’d found in Coiled Deep. Someone spoke on the other end, possibly Scorch, but Dash could not discern her words.
“Flame Heart,” Winder repeated. “And there’s a horse. And some mention of a person named Aluna.”
The minotaur’s eyes widened and his head snapped back.
“Yes, Sand Master,” he said. “At once. By the gate. As you wish.”
The tension crushing Dash’s chest eased its grip slightly. One step closer to Scorch. One step closer to his fathers.
Winder turned off his device and stowed it back in its pouch. He pointed to his soldiers. “You six, pack my tent and things. I’ll be making a delivery. One of you tell Tank that he’s in charge until I get back.”
Once the soldiers started to move and not all eyes were focused on Winder, Odd and Mags made their move.
“See? What did I tell you?” Odd said, landing a heavy hand on Winder’s shoulder. It almost looked small resting on the huge creature’s arm. The minotaur barely seemed to notice.
Mags moved to his other side. “Need help transporting the prisoner, do you? We can hunt and cook, better than what you’re eating now, I’d wager.” She pulled a grilled squirrel torso from her long coat and held it up under Winder’s huge nose.
Meanwhile, Pocket snuck around, sly as a desert fox, and slipped his hand into the mess of bags and pouches affixed to Winder’s waist. The boy yanked his hand back so fast that Dash worried he’d been hurt or discovered. Dash caught just a glint of something small and shiny slip from Pocket’s hand into one of the hidden compartments in his calf. And then Pocket was back, hanging by Mags and doing his best to look innocent and invisible. A good little thief, Dash thought.
Winder shoved Odd and Mags out of his way and stomped toward Dash and Vachir.
“Hood! Rope!” Winder called. A soldier rushed forward and threw a rope around Vachir’s neck. Another came carrying a sack of black cloth. Dash felt a knot form in his stomach. The soldier yanked Dash to the side, almost pulling him off Vachir, and shoved the hood over his head. The world plunged into blackness.
The kludge was gone. He could not see them, he could not hear them. His world became filled with the chaos of clanking soldiers and orders barked too close to his ears. His only comfort was Vachir, calm beneath him despite the storm everywhere else.
Vachir jumped forward, and Dash cursed under his breath. They had yanked the rope around her neck too harshly. Now it was his turn to stay still and let the game play out. The time for weighing options and making choices was gone. They were now prisoners, truly cut off from their friends and powerless against their enemies.
Dash thought he heard Odd’s voice calling over the crowd and twisted in his saddle. Something hard slammed into his face. His head felt loose, as if it had become unfastened from his neck.
“Eyes front,” a gruff voice said.
He tried to calm himself. When he trained falcons, the hood was often the most important part of the process. It acclimated the birds to Equian touch and kept them still and at ease. But as soon as the hood was removed, the falcon was alert, ready. As fierce as it ever was before.
If he wanted to survive this ordeal — not just in body, but also in mind — then he must find a way to be like a falcon.
They traveled for hours, stopping only once so Winder and the soldiers could drink and relieve themselves. No one gave him or Vachir water or food, or checked their wounds. He wanted to talk to Vachir, to offer words of comfort, but he was not that foolish. Instead, he bent forward and pressed his cheek against her neck. Vachir whinnied softly.
When Dash had first proposed this plan to the kludge, they had been against it. Squirrel had wanted to sneak into Strand’s secret lair somehow and keep the group together. But Dash had fought hard for this — it meant less risk for the others, a better opportunity for getting crucial information to Aluna and Hoku, and the chance that he might see his fathers one last time.
Erke and Gan had already been given to Scorch. If he was lucky, she would imprison him and Vachir in the same place.
If. If. If. There were too many variables, too much left to chance. Scorch might kill him the moment she saw him. Because of the hood, he would never even see the blow falling.
The air grew colder. They were walking up, into the mountains. The soldiers in their group grunted more often, and occasionally one of them commented on a part of the landscape. Dash listened closely to everything they said.
Eventually, Winder called, “Halt.” Hands pulled Dash off Vachir and dragged him forward.
A familiar rhythmic thudding broke through the silence. Hoofbeats! He wanted to drop and put his ear to the ground, but a soldier held him in place. Instead, he closed his eyes and counted. Four horses, approaching fast but beginning to slow. They pulled something behind them, a vehicle with two large wheels that crushed the earth as they rolled.
The horses slowed, their harnesses
jangling, the wheels of the transport sliding to a stop. Someone jumped down and walked toward them, boots crunching the earth with each step.
“Sand Master Scorch, I’ve brought the boy and the horse, as you commanded,” Winder said, far more humbly than Dash had thought him capable of being. Scorch strode forward as if Winder had said nothing.
Dash tensed as she stalked closer and closer. His hands were tied behind his back and he was essentially blind and surrounded by enemies. Even if he could reach his sword, they would cut him down before he managed to extend the blade. And then they would kill Vachir.
Scorch stopped in front of Dash. He could feel her there, a predator waiting to pounce. He tried to step backward, but a soldier held him firmly in place. Scorch leaned closer until he could feel her hot breath through the cloth over his ear.
“Are you in there, little failed Equian?” Scorch whispered. “If it’s really you, then I’ve got a nice present for you.”
Scorch ripped off his hood. The sun blinded him. He squinted and blinked, trying to recover his eyesight. When the white glare finally began to subside, he found Scorch had moved to the side, giving him an unobstructed view of her vehicle.
A chariot. He had seen books depicting the ancient carts. But instead of harnessed horses, Scorch’s chariot was being pulled by four Equians.
“Erke! Gan!” Dash cried. His voice cracked.
His fathers were tied to the chariot as if they were animals. He saw cloths tied around their mouths and tight ropes binding their Human hands behind their backs. Their horse flanks were wet with sweat and bled from Scorch’s lashings.
Erke looked up at Dash’s outburst and his eyes widened. Gan made a strangled noise through his gag.
Dash felt his heart swell. Tears formed in his eyes and slid down his bruised cheek. It had been almost three years since he had seen them. Even now, with all of them prisoners facing death at Scorch’s hand, he felt nothing but relief at seeing them again.
No matter what happened after this, regardless of how each of them went to their endless night, they would know that he tried.
