One of his men says, “Semper, the signals.”
Darius looks up at the ridge and frowns. He says, “Send them forward.”
The man that spoke swings his arm around in a wide circle and points up the hill.
I don’t know what it all means, but it sounds like Darius had been holding some forces in reserve, and he’s sending them into the battle now. This is good because it means Patrick has been having success. But it’s bad because it means Darius is even stronger than we thought.
He looks back at Freda. “Enough. I am a busy man. Say hello to your husband for me. In the afterlife.” He turns his horse, and as he starts back toward the town he says, “Kill them now.”
Finally. A fight.
At that moment, a clamorous roar erupts from the town, and people start running from between the buildings into the field. Why would Darius keep his reinforcements so far from the battle? No fight for us then. Our only choice is to flee into the woods, try to get away before they can reach us.
But Garrett doesn’t spur our horse in flight. Instead, he whoops and shouts, “Hooray, Sam!”
Darius and his men look confused as they stop and stare at the flood of people spilling across the white snow. I squint into the brightness of the snowfall.
“Loop,” laughs Garrett, “come on. You really can’t see? It’s not that far.”
He’s right. It’s not that far. “I can see a lot of people, if that’s what you mean.”
Darius curses. “Come on,” he says as he kicks his horse forward and gallops wide around the approaching crowd. His men follow on his heels, kicking up snow and mud as they go.
“It’s us, Loop,” Garrett says.
The people running at us. They’re Tawtrukkers, the ones who have been prisoners, Darius’ slaves for six months. They run uneven, some stumbling on hidden gopher holes or their own exhausted feet, some carrying weapons.
Freda gasps. She slides off her horse and walks right at the middle of the throng, snow caking on her boots.
“Sam,” Garrett says. He points at a smaller group in the middle of the crowd. To me they’re still a kind of a blur, but it’s clear they’re better fed, stronger, bigger, and more confident than the released prisoners. They number a half dozen or so, all together, and I try to pick out Sam—
But one figure stands out clearly—a roundish, short, dark, wobbly man. “Micktuk!” I cry. He raises a hand and waves as if he’s heard me, but they’re too far away. “Go, you dope,” I say, poking Garrett in the ribs.
We ride forward, and as the distance between us disappears, I see what caught Freda’s eye. Dane is there, among Sam’s Southshawans and striding beside Micktuk.
Freda, ahead of us, starts jogging, and Dane breaks ahead of the group. They meet between us and hug tight. I am happy for them. But Micktuk. I want to ask him how they survived the fire, how they met up with Sam—
The horse veers suddenly to the left.
“Where are you going? I want to see Micktuk! Garrett!”
He says nothing but kicks the horse into a trot toward the town.
Within seconds we’re surrounded by hundreds of Tawtrukkers. Many say something as we weave through them, past them. I smile at some, touch the upstretched hands of others. But there’s one ahead that Garrett is aiming for, and I recognize him the moment I see his long stride, the little hitch in his left leg from his hip injury, the bald, hatless head gathering snowflakes in the gray morning.
Before Garrett even stops the horse, I slide off its side and run to my father, leaping into his arms so hard that I almost knock him to the ground. His chest shakes with a deep laugh, but it’s fragile. Not the strong, solid, Smith laugh I remember. He seems smaller, more frail. But he hugs me tight, and there’s still power in his slender arms.
After a few seconds, he releases me and pushes me back but keeps his big hands on my shoulders. He looks me up and down.
“You’ve grown. Taller. Stronger. And…”
He swallows, clamps his jaw shut, takes a deep breath. Does he see something bad in me? He stares into my eyes, then touches his hand to my cheek. “Older.”
I know he doesn’t mean just six months older. I know what he means. He’s grown older, too. His dark eyebrows have grayed, and new wrinkles that have nothing to do with laughter crease his eyes. I wonder what he sees in me. Does he see all the killing? Does he see the cruelty and rage and hatred that sometimes fills me up so much I want to scream?
“You’re so beautiful, Lupay. I’ve heard things about what you’ve done. And I’m proud. You’re not the girl who left in the spring to wander in the woods for a few days. I could see it when you returned, when all this started…”
His voice trails away, and his eyes stare into the distance, but he recovers after a second or two.
“It will be over soon,” he says with a weak smile.
Over soon. “Oh frick,” I say as I step back. Did I just say frick in front of my father? “Oh. Sorry.”
He smiles. “Don’t worry. You can use any words you like around me now. You’re all grown up.”
Grown up or not, I’ve left the day’s work undone. “Darius,” I say, and the blackness covers my insides again as I think about him and his men riding away. “I can’t let him get away. I’m sorry, Papi, but we can talk when this is really all over.” I return to the horse and say to Garrett, “We have to go.”
He doesn’t move. He just points above the town where smoke rises in the distance. “What’s that?”
“Is he burning the town?”
“No,” my father says. “Too far away. That smoke is over the lake.” He looks around, feeling the air. “Not enough wind to push smoke over the lake like that.”
“Boats?”
“Whatever it is,” I say, “we have to go. C’mon, Garrett!”
I climb onto the horse, and we weave our way through the last of the released prisoners. The slow ones lag behind, some struggling just to walk, but they move with the same determination of freedom and revenge. Once past them, we speed through the empty town. Whatever small number of men Darius kept here didn’t put up much of a struggle. We reach the far edge of town in a few minutes.
Three long boats far from shore are unfurling big, white sails in the snowfall, oars pushing hard against the gray-green water of the lake. The other six boats and the wooden dock they’re tied to are ablaze, hurling white smoke angrily into the sky.
“He’s on the middle boat,” Garrett says. He doesn’t bother pointing. His words fall on the snow with frustration and bitterness. “Hey, go!” he yells at the horse, and we launch south along the lake so quickly I nearly fall off.
I understand. I feel his anger, his frustration. Ten times worse. That man out there on the boat, he is responsible for all the bad that’s happened to us in the last six months. He’s responsible for Shack’s death, for the burning of Upper and the destruction of Sikwaa, and so much more. And now he’s getting away, back to his own home and his friends.
As we gallop the road south along the edge of the lake, toward Lodgeholm and Emerald Bay and Southshaw, I watch the boats picking up speed on the open lake. Trees block my view, but now and then I see a man standing in the middle boat, looking our way, watching us. Our horse snorts with her effort, and even at full gallop it seems the boats are outpacing us.
“Garrett,” I say, loud in his ear so he can hear me over the wind and his rage. “Garrett! Stop!”
After a few seconds, he lets the horse slow to a walk. But we don’t stop.
“We can’t catch him,” I say as gently as I can.
“I know.”
We let the horse walk slowly along the road for a few minutes as we sit in silence. I don’t know what he’s thinking about. Maybe Shack. Maybe his father. I don’t know. But I can feel the tension in his body unravel as the snow falls around us in the silent morning.
We round the point and see the hulking shape of Lodgeholm, now covered with a white sheet of snow. Blackened, charred be
ams rise out of the whiteness, and two big, stone chimneys stand at either end, pointing like accusing fingers skyward.
The horse stops, and we sit just looking. I hold my arms wrapped around Garrett’s chest, warming him and feeling his warmth in the cold morning.
Darius got away. We won’t get to kill him. But there’s been enough killing. It feels over. He’s gone, and he won’t ever come back. I press my cheek into Garrett’s back and hug him tight.
“Look,” Garrett says.
I raise my head and rest my chin on his shoulder, looking up the hill at the Lift Poles that mark the first part of the ridge trail to Sikwaa. Where we ran when we escaped the Lodgeholm inferno.
At first, I see nothing. Then, slowly, I pick out movement among the trees, almost like some of the trees are moving. But no, that’s stupid. It’s people. A lot of people.
I tense and reach my hand around behind me to make sure my whip is still there. Garrett presses the horse forward at a slow walk, toward the approaching people.
“Subterrans,” he says. “Lots of them.”
“What?” I look again. He’s right. It’s hard to see from half a mile away, but the faces are pure white, and the clothing is dark gray. Not the rich blue and pink I remember from their underground city, but dark gray, almost the color of the lake.
“And… others,” he says.
As we get closer, more and more people emerge from the forest. Dozens. Scores. A hundred or more. Maybe twenty of them are clearly Subterrans, but the rest are… Southshawan? Eighty or more Southshawans coming out of our woods, at Lodgeholm, with twenty Subterrans. Of all the things I didn’t expect to see today, this might be the most unlikely.
The last two figures emerge from the woods, and even from this distance I recognize them at once. One is dressed in Tawtrukk clothes: Tom. The other wears a long, gold-colored robe that flows behind him, open and exposing a deep, sky-blue outfit underneath. Fobrasse.
What the…
Tom waves. The rest of the people stop for Fobrasse, who waits for us to reach him.
I recognize a few of the Southshawans from the one night I stayed there, that extra night that made me too late to save Lodgeholm. Judith and Gregory stand out at the front as we approach. Judith looks worn out, a thousand years old. Gregory is not much better, but he was old already and they’ve come a long way. Both look only a little more gray than the snow around them.
As we arrive, Judith says, “Lupay. I am so happy to see you.” Her voice is dry and thin, like exposed grass after a long, hot summer. Her eyes look like she wants to cry but has no tears to do it with.
“I—” What do I say? That I’m happy to see her, too? I don’t think that’s true. I was happy to see Dane, but his mother… no. “I’m a little surprised to see you, Judith.”
Garrett twists to try to look at me. “That seems a little rude, Loop.”
“Do not worry,” Judith says, and she gives a little smile that seems genuine. “I know Lupay is not one for idle pleasantries, and I imagine that’s the kindest thing she could possibly say to me. She’s a girl of truth.”
Judith makes it hard not to respect her. Oh what the hell. The war is over, right? I should try to act like it.
“Let me try again,” I say. “Welcome to Tawtrukk, Judith. Gregory, you are welcome, too.”
“Better,” says Garrett with a smile. “I’ve heard about you both,” he continues to Judith. “My name is Garrett Shiver. You and those who come with you are welcome here.”
“Thank you,” Judith says. “Although Fobrasse and the Subterran people have offered us exemplary hospitality since we ventured from Southshaw to come here three weeks ago, I do not wish to hide underground any longer.”
Fobrasse sweeps up with Tom close behind. “Lupay! My dear friend. And this is the young man Tom told me about, to be sure. Garrett, is it?”
“Yes, sir.”
Sir? Garrett, you fool, he’s not worth that kind of respect. He’s a buffoon, and you’re only going to feed his ego. Fobrasse puffs up like someone just filled him with hot air.
“I am Fobrasse, mayor of Subterra,” he says with a sweeping bow.
I try hard not to sigh too loud.
“And I bring news.”
I perk up at this. “Go on,” I say. I wish he would just get to the point and stop prancing around like a rooster in a yard full of hens.
“The battles are finished. I am happy to say that when my Subterran people joined with the Tawtrukkers—we can thank Tom for convincing me of that—the remaining Southshawans surrendered. Beyond the initial skirmish, there was very little bloodshed today.”
Garrett asks, “How do you know this? We left the battle an hour or two ago, and it’s miles away.”
“My dear boy, Subterran communications are quite advanced. I have scouts, and tunnels all through these hills, of course. News travels faster than you might realize.” He looks smug and superior, but who cares? If he’s telling the truth about the Southshawan surrender, he can ride on my shoulders all the way back to Lower, and I’ll personally clean and press his robe and cook him the best meal he’s ever had.
I could fly right now. It’s over.
Tom steps forward. “There’s a lot to catch you two up on. Let’s get these people to Lower and out of the cold, okay? Come down here and walk with me. We’ll talk on the way.”
I slip down off our horse to the soft ground, followed by Garrett, who then helps Judith up onto the horse.
“I can’t wait to hear it.” I kick at the snow as we walk, watching it swirl around my boots.
CHAPTER 26
My father sits at one end of the long table, Fobrasse at the other. I try to ignore all the changes Darius made to our meeting hall. This table is the biggest and most intrusive. Instead of us all sitting at the edges, equal in status and equally exposed, we now sit with this behemoth hunk of wood dividing us. It makes me tense. I can tell it frustrates my father, too.
They’ve been boring me all morning talking about dreadful things like food rationing, winter shelters, tools for building new boats. They haven’t once talked about going after Darius. Dane and Freda, Judith and Gregory, my father, Fobrasse, that officious man from Upper—they all lean on the table and shuffle papers and scribble calculations in the dim light of lanterns and candles.
Two Southshaw men have been included, but not Patrick. He appointed someone “smarter than me,” he said. The other is from the surrendered army, one of Darius’ inner circle. Why they even let him in, I have no idea. Freda said it was important, so I guess it must be. My father agreed. Whatever. In any case, they’ve already agreed to go back to Southshaw as soon as we can give them wagons and food for the trip. I wish they’d go right now. They can walk.
My father said the ones who want to stay will be welcome. I hope some day I discover that I inherited a little of his patience and forgiveness.
The windows and shutters are closed against the cold, but the roaring fire in the hearth at the far end of the table does little to warm the big room.
I stand and stretch. They could be talking about the moon, or corn seed, or raccoon pelts. Who knows? I haven’t been listening for a half hour. “I’m going to get some more firewood,” I say to no one in particular. No one in particular seems to notice.
I pull on a heavy coat and shove a knit hat down over my hair. I glance back as I open the door. My father winks. I roll my eyes at him and slip out into the white morning, smiling to myself like crazy.
The snow fell all day yesterday but stopped before nightfall, and the hills are draped in a white shawl. Gentle sounds of village life fill the square. The only sound missing is the clang of the smith’s hammer—the smith is inside the great hall, negotiating and calculating.
Garrett will be at my house, helping my mother with something. Maybe rebuilding shelves, or cleaning out rats and ivy from the neglected cellar. I wave at Ginger, who’s walking toward the lake with a group of children all bundled up in heavy coats and thick b
oots. Susannah walks behind them and smiles at me, her hands tucked tight into a furry muffle.
I walk the few hundred yards to my house slowly, appreciating the morning. The big tree out front is unchanged, and the house stands sturdy, even if its red paint seems dingy against the pure white of the snow in the yard and on the roof. Smoke drifts from the chimney, and the windows glow with brightness and warmth.
Even though I saw my mother last night, even though I slept in my old bed, even though I woke to the smell of fresh baked bread and frying eggs and onions—even though I was home last night, I can’t believe I’m walking up to my own front door again. It feels… better than anything.
I stop to knock, but this is where I live. I don’t need to knock. Silly.
I push open the door and hear laughter from deeper in the house echoing around the empty sitting room just inside. Although Darius took most of our things, the empty space is filled with such warmth and love I almost can’t stand it. I kick snow off my boots, step inside, close the door behind me with a soft click of the latch, and pull off the hat and coat.
The laughter and voices are indistinct in the kitchen. Maybe Garrett is helping my mother cook? Lunch will be especially good today, then.
I walk in, expecting to see my mother at the stove and Garrett cutting apples or something, but I stop dead on the threshold when I see the radiant smile of that beautiful Southshaw girl, that friend of Freda’s. Kitta. What the…
“Lupay, wonderful,” my mother exclaims, her face already a broad, beaming smile before she’d seen me. “I thought you were busy with your father.”
“I—um, I wasn’t really needed.”
“C’mon, Loop,” says Garrett, who indeed is sitting at the table cutting up apples and setting them aside next to a pie crust shell. “Tell the truth. You were bored.”
The three of them laugh again, and I instantly hate the tall, thin, beautiful, yellow-haired girl with the musical laugh. She sits across from Garrett at the table, rolling out more dough for a second pie crust shell. Flour dots her cheek in an unbelievably cute way. Garrett reaches across and, with one gentle swipe of his thumb, wipes it away.
Forsada: Volume II in the New Eden series Page 28
