by E. C. Blake
After more hours of rumbling darkness, they stopped again. This time, emerging into early twilight, Mara saw that the landscape had changed: there were more hills, more trees, and no sign of human habitation except for a squat brick building with tiny barred windows. The Watchers chivvied all of them into it and slammed the thick black door behind them. Mara heard the rusty bolt slide shut and the heavy clank of a padlock.
As one, the five girls turned to see Grute leaning against the far wall, watching them. He leered. Alita clenched her fists and took a step toward him. He straightened, leer fading. “You won’t do that again,” he growled. “Caught me by surprise, is all.”
“You’re big,” Alita said softly. “But there are five of us. You gonna try anything?”
Grute gave her a long, hard stare, then very deliberately turned his head and spat on the ground. “Don’t flatter yourself.” He grabbed one of the dirty blankets rolled up and stacked in one corner of the cell and spread it out on the stone floor. “I hope you all have sweet dreams tonight, ladies,” he said as he sat down on it. “Nothing but nightmares ahead for you where we’re going.”
“Where is that?” Prella asked, her voice trembling a little. “Where are they taking us?”
Grute bared his teeth. “A mine,” he said. “A deep, dark mine. Full of men. A whole lot of men . . . like me.” He pursed his lips and made a loud smacking noise. “Like I said, sweet dreams.” Then he lay down, rolled over, and ignored them.
“I can’t work in a mine,” Simona said, a hint of panic her voice.
“Work or die,” Alita said. “Me, I’ll work.”
“Me, too,” Kirika said. Her voice held a strange hoarseness. She had sat down on the floor with her back to the wall and her bony knees pulled up to her chest. She was staring at the dark lump of Grute in his blanket.
“I’m scared,” Prella said in a barely audible voice.
Alita put an arm around the smaller girl’s shoulders, her movements and expression fierce as a hawk’s. “I’ll be with you,” she said. “We can help each other.”
“We can all help each other,” Mara said, putting her arm around Prella’s shoulders, too, over top of Alita’s. Simona joined them, taking Mara’s free hand in hers.
Only Kirika stayed where she was. “The camp will be full of men like him,” she said, still staring at Grute. Her voice dripped loathing. “Like . . .” Her voice dropped almost to a whisper. “Like my uncle.”
Mara blinked, puzzled; then suddenly understood and felt sick inside.
“I miss my uncle,” Prella said, oblivious, and Alita and Mara exchanged a half-horrified look of exasperation.
They broke apart so they could get blankets and spread them out in a line along the wall on the far side of the room from Grute. Then they sat in silence as the room grew darker, each lost in her own thoughts. It was almost pitch-black before Mara heard the bolt slide open. One of the Watchers came in with a lantern, which he hung on a hook by the door. The other followed, carrying a tray of food—hard black bread, thin gruel with stringy bits of beef in it, a pitcher of water. Then they went out again.
They ate by the lantern’s dim light, Grute rousing himself to take his share—and more than his share—gobbling it down noisily before belching, peeing noisily into the filthy bucket in one corner, and then, giving them all a leer, settling down again on his blanket.
Mara hated to even touch the stiff, grim-caked wool, but it was better than the greasy black floor . . . though not by much. She lay down, staring at the lantern, which promptly sputtered out.
So far from home, Mara thought in the sudden darkness. In so many ways. Tears, hot in the chill air, rolled down her cheeks. She heard a muffled sob from elsewhere in the room and knew she wasn’t alone in her grief. How much farther? And what’s waiting at the end?
She didn’t find out the next day, or the day after that, or the day after that. Four nights they spent in prisons just like the first, obviously built to house unMasked on their way to . . . wherever. She learned a little bit more about all the girls except Kirika, who simply would not talk about herself, and far too much about Grute: his father a drunk, his mother a prostitute, his older sister following in her mother’s footsteps. In the middle of the second night Simona woke to find Grute standing over her. Her scream brought the Watchers running, and they shoved Grute to the ground, cursing and kicking him; but when they’d left, Grute sat up, contemptuous. “I’ve been beaten bloody by better ’n them and never made a sound,” he bragged, but he didn’t bother any of them again that night, and after that they took to sleeping in shifts, one of them awake at all times.
On the fifth day, the road, which had never exactly been smooth, began tossing them around inside the wagon like seeds in a rattle. At one point Mara’s head smacked the side of the wagon so hard she saw stars. Gingerly exploring her skull with her fingers a few minutes later, after the ride smoothed a bit, she winced as she touched a good-sized lump. Then the wagon lurched and she promptly smacked her head again.
The lunch break came as a blessed relief. This time, when they emerged into daylight, high, wooded slopes surrounded them, the rough track winding along the bottom of a valley. The air had a chilly bite. “We’ve climbed,” Alita said, looking around. “We must be getting close to the mountains.”
“Shut up,” one of the Watchers ordered.
They ate, and clambered back aboard the wagon for more bone-shaking travel. Mara had no way to tell the passage of time, but she thought at least two hours must have gone by since lunchtime when she heard frantic, furious shouting. The horses screamed, the wagon jerked sharply right . . . and then, almost in slow motion, tipped over onto its side.
Simona yelled as she slid down on top of Grute, kicking all the way. He threw up his hands to protect himself. “Stop it!” he shouted, just before she sprawled across him.
Kirika and Alita slid down beside Mara in a tangle of arms and legs, and then the shrieking Prella landed right on top of her, knocking the breath from both of them. As they lay there, helpless, mouths agape like landed fish, the doors of the wagon were flung wide. Figures, black silhouettes against the sunlight, lurched forward, grabbed all of them by the arms, and pulled them out into the cool air.
Mara, doubled over, unable to straighten, supported by gloved hands on each arm, saw nothing but booted feet and rutted dirt. Her new captors dragged her off the road and propped her against a tree. As her breathing slowly returned to normal, she held the ribs bruised by Prella’s fall and stared around, trying to figure out what had happened.
The wagon lay on its side in the middle of the road, which was completely blocked by an enormous felled tree. The driver was under the wagon, motionless, neck twisted at an unnatural angle. The Watchers were also dead, but not from the crash: one lay only a few yards from Mara, the feathered shaft of an arrow protruding from the back of his neck. The dirt beneath his body was dark and red. He stared sightlessly up at the sky. His black Mask had shattered with his death, its pieces lying in crumbling shards all around his dead face, streaked with the blood that had poured from his nose and mouth. Mara swallowed, and looked away.
She counted eight attackers in all, both men and women. All wore tunics, leggings, and jackets of forest green, brown capes, and high brown boots.
They did not wear Masks. The sight shocked her almost as much as if they had been naked.
She looked around for the other children. Alita, Prella, Simona, Kirika and Grute huddled together near the wagon in which they’d been riding, guarded by a tall woman with long red hair pulled back in a tightly braided ponytail. She held a drawn sword in her hand. Mara, for some reason, had been isolated.
Who are they? What do they want?
One of the attackers broke away from the group around the lead wagon and strode toward her. She looked up as he approached, then quickly looked away again. Except for her father, Mara
had never seen a grown man unMasked. She could feel herself blushing furiously.
The man stood above her. She stared resolutely at his scuffed brown boots. “You’re Mara?” he said. “Daughter of Charlton Holdfast, Master Maskmaker of Tamita?”
That brought her head up, shock erasing embarrassment. “How . . . ?”
The man looked about the same age as her father, which made it even stranger to see him without a Mask. “Never mind how we know. Just be assured you have nothing to fear. We will not harm you.”
Mara cast her gaze down again. “Who are you?” she whispered.
“My name is Edrik,” the man said. “Look at me.” He knelt beside her, and his hand grasped her chin. Gently but inexorably, he lifted her head until she had no choice but to gaze once more into his blue eyes. “You must get used to looking at men and women without Masks,” he said softly. “Because as of this moment, you are part of the unMasked Army.”
Mara’s eyes widened . . . and then flicked sideways as another green-clad figure trotted up. His face, freckled, framed by shaggy blond hair, she had seen before. “Keltan?”
“Hi, Mara,” said the boy from the basement. He grinned. “Surprise!”
Edrik glanced at him. “So she is the same girl?”
Keltan nodded. “She is. I thought she must be.”
Edrik’s eyes returned to Mara’s face. He studied her a moment longer, then got to his feet. “I’ll leave her in your care, then,” he said. “Stay with her while we finish up with the wagon.”
He strode away. Keltan placed his back against the tree trunk and slid down it until he was sitting beside Mara. She glanced sideways at him. He grinned at her again. “Told you the unMasked Army wasn’t a myth.”
“Sorry I doubted you,” said Mara. She looked back at Grute and the others. “Why aren’t I with them? Was that your doing?”
Keltan snorted. “Me? I’m nobody. Just the latest—and least—recruit. No, you’re here because you’re special.” She glanced back at him, puzzled. He spread his hands. “You’re the daughter of the Master Maskmaker.”
“Were you the one who told them that?” Mara asked. Then she shook her head. “No,” she said, bewildered. “It couldn’t have been you. I told you my father was a Maskmaker, but I didn’t tell you he was the Master Maskmaker!”
“I had nothing to do with it,” Keltan said. “I never mentioned your existence. I assumed you had gone off to your Masking like a good little girl and were lost to the service of the Autarch. But he,” he nodded in Edrik’s direction, “somehow, knew different. He not only knew who your father is, he knew you’d failed your Masking and were coming our way on this wagon. When he told the unMasked Army the plans for this raid, he described you, and gave your name. Good thing, too! I wouldn’t even be here if I hadn’t said I thought I’d already met you, in that coal cellar when I was on the run in Tamita.”
“But . . .” Mara stared at Edrik. “How could he know all that?”
“Wish I knew,” Keltan said. “Presumably someone told him.”
“You mean, like a . . . a spy? In the city?”
“Maybe. Probably. But I told you; I’m the least of the least. They’re not telling me.”
Mara rubbed her face with her hands. Her head still throbbed from the wallop it had taken in the wagon, and her ribs ached.
A horse whinnied, the sound full of fear and pain. Mara looked up. Both horses had gone down in the traces. One, apparently uninjured, had struggled back to its feet and was being cut free. But the other remained on its side, flanks heaving, head writhing, eyes white and rolling. A woman who had been kneeling beside it shook her head, stood, and drew her sword. Mara closed her eyes for a moment, not wanting to watch.
The horse screamed, then fell silent. When Mara opened her eyes again, it lay still, blood spreading out into the dirt beneath it.
The sound of axes on wood rang out as the unMasked attacked the wagon, smashing the wheels and everything else they could. “Do they do this often?” Mara asked Keltan. “Raid the wagons?”
Keltan shook his head. “No,” he said seriously. “In fact, they never do it. Their recruits have always been those who escape before their Masking. They don’t trust those who fail their Masking. Too many of them have already gone . . . bad. Those kinds of recruits would be worse than useless.”
Mara, thinking of Grute, nodded. “There’s at least one like that in this group.”
“That’s why the others are still under guard,” Keltan said. “But something is different. Maskings are failing more often.” He nodded at the group of children. “Two or three times a month. And those failing the Maskings are no longer just those who are already twisted. Some are just ordinary children. And some are . . . were . . . Gifted. Until recently, the Gifted never failed their Masking.”
Oh, good, Mara thought bitterly. I’m special.
“And somehow, the Army heard about the failure of your Mask, Mara,” Keltan continued. “Somehow they knew the daughter of the Master Maskmaker of Tamita would be in this wagon, and for some reason that was enough for them to launch this raid.”
“But . . .” Mara didn’t know what to say. “What good could I be to them?”
“Don’t ask me,” Keltan said. “I told you—”
“Least of the least. Yes, I remember.” Mara stared at the wagon, its wheels smashed to kindling, holes gaping in its side, roof, and bottom. It would never roll again. “They should burn it,” she said venomously, thinking of that wagon and others rolling, month after month, from the warehouse that had once been her grandfather’s, carrying children to a horrible fate . . .
“Can’t risk the smoke,” Keltan said. “The mining camp is still half a day down the road, but there could be hunting parties in the forest, and the next supply wagon from Tamita is due to pass this way in a few hours but could be ahead of schedule. We want to delay the Watchers learning about the attack for as long as possible.”
Edrik, who had been examining the wrecked wagon, turned and shouted, “Time to go!”
A lead had been attached to the bridle of the remaining wagon horse, which obediently followed one of the unMasked toward the forest while others chivvied the children to their feet. Keltan stood up, too, then leaned down and reached out a hand. “Come on,” he said. “Edrik will tell you more later. But for now, we have to move. We’ve got a long journey ahead of us.”
Mara let him pull her to her feet. His hand lingered in hers as they walked past the shattered wagon. As she gazed at it, she felt a sudden fierce joy at the thought that no more children would ride in its stinking darkness to an unknown fate.
But there are other wagons, she thought. The fat man is still waiting in the warehouse like a bloated white spider. The Maskery will see more blood and tears. More children’s faces will be torn apart. More children’s families will be torn apart.
But the unMasked Army was proof that there was another way to live. Maybe, just maybe, they could put a stop to it all: all of the evil committed and suffered in the name of the Autarch.
And maybe, just maybe, she could help.
I’d like that, she thought fiercely, as they left the road behind and climbed the slope into the woods. No, I’d love that.
SEVEN
Cold Water
THE UNMASKED HAD LEFT their own horses, four in all, hidden among the trees above the road. To Mara, who had never ridden one, they looked intimidatingly large as she approached them side by side with Keltan (although she’d let go of his hand; at some point during the climb it had suddenly seemed embarrassing to still be holding on to it, and she’d released him with a muttered, “Sorry.” Keltan had opened his mouth to say something, but then swallowed the comment unvoiced.)
Edrik stood patting the neck of the nearest horse, a rangy-looking gray mare. The mare turned and looked at Mara and blew out air between its lips—Pbbbt!—as if disg
usted by the sight of her. “I don’t think it likes me,” she said nervously.
Keltan laughed. “It’s just a horse.”
“And I can’t ride.”
Keltan shrugged. “Don’t worry,” he said. “We won’t be riding.”
Mara blinked. “But . . . I thought . . . can’t we ride double?”
“Not on our horses,” Edrik said, turning away from the mare. “We don’t have very many, and the ones we have are too valuable. Riding double is hard on the horse, because the second rider is sitting on the weakest part of the horse’s spine. It’s also harder for the horse to balance. And a nervous rider sitting with her legs dangling down onto the horse’s flanks? No thanks. A spooked horse in the terrain we’ll be going through would be no fun for anyone.”
“But in stories—”
“Story horses aren’t real horses,” Edrik said. His mare chose that moment to let fall a sizable amount of dung. Edrik glanced at the animal. “Thanks for so pungently making my point,” he said dryly, and Mara couldn’t help laughing.
“Believe me,” Keltan said under his breath as Edrik turned away to organize the rest of the group, “you’re better off walking. I gave it a try. Better sore feet than a sore . . .” He grimaced. “Well, never mind. Let’s just say I’d show you my bruises, but we don’t know each other that well.”
Mara laughed again.
The first thing the unMasked did was open their saddlebags and provide the rescued youths with clothes to replace the girls’ prison smocks and Grute’s thin pants and top. Behind a screen of underbrush that provided a modicum of privacy, Mara, Alita, Kirika, Prella, and Simona pulled on the same green leggings and tunics worn by the unMasked Army, plus warm brown cloaks and brown leather boots.
Warmer than she’d been since the warehouse, Mara joined Keltan again while the unMasked formed into a column. Edrik led the way on his gray mare, with two other riders behind him. Mara and the others from the wagon would walk behind the riders (“Watch where you step,” Keltan said under his breath, and Mara laughed again), accompanied by two dismounted unMasked, plus Keltan. One other unMasked would lead the horse freed from the wagon, while the final mounted unMasked would bring up the rear.
