A nester bore down on him. Blade saw the man's wild eyes and though he was close enough to smell him, knew the man could not see him. He pulled his shuriken out and threw it, turning away to catch it as he Fetched it back even as it completed its arc across the raider's gullet. The nester's throat blossomed crimson. With a gurgling cry, he lurched from his saddle, dead before he hit the ground.
Thomas got to his feet, running. Too hot wood exploded, showering him with splinters that caught fire as they rained down. He cupped his arm over his face and found the swing doors.
Blade kicked the barn door open. A trooper was shoulder to shoulder with him before the door stopped bouncing. He knew the man, Kopek, a grizzled veteran. "Get them out before the lower level catches. That hay'll go up like plastique."
The trooper nodded.
Harley let out a shivery neigh. The stall holding him was half stove in as the animal had exhausted himself trying to kick free. Lather dappled the gelding's neck and flanks. He rolled a wild eye at Thomas as Thomas stepped in and grabbed his halter. He mounted bareback. His packs were slung at the stall's rear. He ground his knees into Harley's ribs and backed the horse in close enough for him to sling his packs over the gelding's withers and pull his rifle out.
His rifle had been customized to hold three smaller vials. He packed the chamber, cranked it. Harley lunged out of the stall as soon as Blade freed him. Smoke stung his eyes. He leaned over the gelding's thin neck. Mane whipped his face and eyes. The horse plunged for the open doors with a grunting neigh. Other mounts being freed by Kopek jostled them as they speared into the fresh air.
He lost the Projection for calmness then, unable to hold it indefinitely without the ability to concentrate. Behind him, he could hear Kopek's hoarse, smoke-choked voice cursing at the beasts as they raised their voices in panic.
He swung past Irlene and shouted, "Get someone in there to help Kopek!''
She nodded her heat-burned face and continued passing buckets. Harley shook his head, foam splattering her as Thomas kneed him away.
Rifle in hand, mane knotted in his left fist both to guide and steady himself, he rode out toward the broken roadway. He could see the nesters regrouping and exchanging ammo. With a whoop of his own, he drew their attention, let go of Harley's mane and squeezed the gelding's barrel tightly with his legs.
The chestnut was running on sheer nerves. Blade aimed his rifle over Harley's bobbing head and fired, swiveled, fired, swiveled and fired again. Without bothering to watch the results, he threw himself forward onto Harley's neck and slipped to the left wither as he turned the horse in the same direction. He was no longer a target and the swiftly dodging Harley ran as though he knew his life depended on it.
Behind him, a wall of flame roared up, eating away green lawn and weed, succulent and wild Shasta daisy, rushing toward the raiders. Charlie, he thought, would have lulled him for using those defoliants if he'd been alive. The river of fire would not stop for a half mile. His only hope was that the broken road would be a firebreak between the chemical and Warden manor.
He pulled himself upward on Harley's back and grabbed to keep both himself and the saddlebags steady. He circled the gelding, popped open the chamber and dropped in two lethal vials. He did not want to be downwind when those bullets shattered and released their deadly contents. Blade looked up and slowed Harley's pace, watching as the raiders split up into groups and came round to outflank both him and the militia. He could not see who directed them, but he'd marked several different clan fetishes and that they even rode together surprised him.
He could not see the orphan barracks for smoke and dust and confusion—and did not know if a Protector gave the house an illusionary shielding, or if the nesters had broken through.
He thought of Roanne's unreal voice proclaiming her own death. He'd gotten Lady out, but the others were still in there. Perhaps trapped. Yet the vials in his rifle contained undiscriminating death—he would be no help there. Shrill screams came from both directions, and, in the end, Thomas whirled Harley uphill, to where nesters formed a line against Warden manor.
Harley gave a sudden grunt and wheeze and launched himself into the air. Thomas saw a downed nester's face flash under the horse's hooves. He dragged his boots up out of the man's grasping reach. There was a dull thunk as a rear hoof hit something solid coming down and then they were away. Blade never looked back.
The air stank with the pungency of the defoliants and smoldering death. He steered Harley clear of it, eyes watering, but slowed the gelding down to a walk. He used the cloud bank of smoke as cover, getting as close to the back of the line as possible.
An upper turret of the manor was on fire, black smoke roiling out as crawling figures on the roof dumped water on the hot spot. The nesters had trenched themselves behind the bodies of their mounts—some dead, most of them hog-tied and thrown on their sides. They were unaware of him. The chemical fire he'd started was now a blackened mass, embers and ashes and smoke drifting around.
It was mid-afternoon. The wind off the ocean should blow soon. It would change the direction of the wind blowing now. The only question was: how long would he have to wait and did he have the time?
He shrugged his white scarf about on his jacket collar, where it lay sodden with sweat and fear around his neck. Harley put his head down, blowing for air. Stick figure fire fighters got agitated on the Warden manor roof, and dark smoke began to billow up in earnest. He could hear the screams of the occupants. Breeze or not, he would not leave Lady to that death.
A cold tickle across his forehead. His scarf billowed up sluggishly, a damp sail to that omen.
Harley was spent. Blade dug his boot heels in viciously, hand fisted deep in the horse's mane. "C'mon!"
Between curls of smoke he rode. Harley was wheezing with every jump—they had to hear him, had to know he was bearing down at their backs. He did not care.
He pumped both shots as nesters yelled in fury. They scrambled to their feet to turn about, crossbows and rifles now aimed at him. He squeezed his knees and gave Harley the signal to jump as the vials shattered on impact.
The gelding refused. He ran at the line, bulling his way through as a cloud of yellow-green gave out a fatal hiss and obscured the fighters.
They broke through. Harley stumbled, going downhill toward the crescent driveway. Thomas held his breath, as weak as that first stirring of ocean breeze had been. His scarf snapped outward behind him as they staggered into the driveway, a line of death at his back.
Lady met him at the door. Her face gray with psychic fatigue. She literally fell into his arms as he dismounted and reached for her.
"They're leaving."
He nodded. "Kill enough of them and they will."
She looked over his shoulder. "You said you'd never use that stuff—that or the defoliant.''
"I guess I lied." He smelled the ash and smoke in her hair, and the underlying gentle herbal smell that was always Lady. He pressed his jawline into the soft mass of her hair, and held her tighter.
From somewhere to his flank, Governor Irlene said, "They're on the run. The troopers are after them." She sounded out of breath.
"Good. And Kopek?"
"He . . . didn't make it out. The hayloft collapsed on him."
A pang went through Blade's tiredness. That shouldn't have happened. "A damn shame," he said.
"Yes," the governor responded. She waited as Blade released Lady and stepped back. "You've got some real heroes among the new candidates."
"Where's Alma?" Lady said immediately. She gathered up Thomas' hand as if she could not bear to lose all contact with him. She turned on one heel to face the governor as she did.
Irlene had shed her new dusky rose riding jacket. Her undershirt was smudged and torn. She did not answer Lady, looking at Thomas as she said, "They broke in at the barracks—"
His thoughts raced. What he had hoped was illusionary shielding had been disaster.
"Three wards are dead, the rest are saf
e. With the exception of four who are missing."
"Who's dead?" he asked evenly. Lady's hand gripped his as if for life.
"Roanne, baby Tranh, and Valentin. The baby died of smoke inhalation from the fire. Roanne was guarding the door. Franklin said she put out some admirable effort before they slit her throat.''
"Wh-what about the missing?" said Lady. Her throat sounded dry.
Irlene looked at her. She frowned. "Alma's one of the missing. Nesters took four of the wards with them."
Blade wheeled and grabbed for Harley's mane. "I'll be back—"
"No." Irlene's voice was sharp. "That's not necessary. Troopers rode out on their heels—they won't get far."
Blade looked at the woman. "Irlene," he explained, "they don't need to get far. Those children were bait. They won't be kept alive any longer than they need to be. They're just trying to pull enough troopers after them to pay a decent blood price."
The governor's jaw tightened. "Then," she said, "we don't need any more fools riding into a trap."
Lady had lost his hand when he'd moved so suddenly. She reached out now and put her hand gently over his arm. "She's right," she said.
He knew they were right. He dropped his arm from Harley reluctantly. "Damn. I know it."
Irlene looked at Lady. "We're still here. We still have Protectors waiting to be passed, and sworn in."
Lady put fingers to her forehead as if stilling an inner pain. She smiled weakly. "You're right, Governor." Her lips tightened. Thomas knew she hated the implication, but the governor was right. Life goes on.
Chapter 7
"I know you're tired," Franklin said soothingly to Stanhope, "but we've got to complete your testing."
The tall boy nodded. There was an underlying pallor to his naturally dark skin, a fatigue that all of them who had used their Talents to Protect felt. Their abilities came out of a deep psychic well—difficult to dredge up and difficult to return to often. Thomas understood the effort Stanhope would be making.
The white bandage sling stood out against his blue tick shirt and dark trousers. He'd dislocated a shoulder trying to fight off the raiders who'd taken Alma and killed Roanne. He'd acquitted himself well and, as far as Thomas was concerned, he'd already passed any testing required of him.
Blade had not had his own testing from Gillander, and just a summary testing when he'd returned with the Butcher for his bounty. Ironically, if he'd undergone a ritual testing, he might never have been made a Protector, his own abilities had been so dammed up at the time, but no one alive had known that. He caught Lady looking at him and wondered if she was sharing his thoughts, however briefly. She was clever at that.
She smiled faintly and looked away, once more intent upon the young man who faced them.
The barracks had lost a bedroom wall and door to fire and axes. The windows and shutters were thrown open to air out the smoke and smell of battle. Tomorrow, carpenters would be in here measuring, cutting, and hammering new boards in place. They could not match the plastic paint that had coated the house originally and wore like iron. The repaired wall would stand out like a scar across a woman's face, a reminder of what had happened here.
Franklin looked at them. "The three of us will each devise a test of a Talent which Stanhope may or may not be known to have. His reactions and abilities will be what we judge."
In other words, they were going to judge him as much on what he couldn't do, and how he might handle that when it was asked of him, as on what he could do. Thomas nodded to show he understood.
There was a shuffle of shoe soles from the other room. No one dared stand in the doorway, but Thomas knew the rest of the children had their ears pressed to the wall in curiosity, to listen to what was happening to Stanhope. He said, a little too loudly, "There are going to be a lot of flat ears in the barracks tonight."
Franklin grinned. "No doubt. All right, I'll begin. Judges, please remember that we will all evaluate all test results, not merely those we've conducted personally."
Stanhope blurted out, "C-couid we just get started?"
Lady laughed softly. She put a hand on his knee. "Franklin's just telling us the rules."
The boy looked up at her. "I'm just edgy," he said, apologetically.
Thomas answered dryly, "I wouldn't know why."
Franklin got down on one knee beside the youth in the chair. The room was bare except for a simple four-legged table with a few objects resting on top of it, nothing remarkable, and a few stools. It seemed odd to have the wind and no wall at their back, but under the circumstances, no one complained.
"Stanhope, I want you to Fetch the rice bowl from the table for me. And it must not drop or break before you release it in my hands."
There was a sharp intake of breath from the other side of the wall. The whites of the boy's eyes showed as he glanced toward the doorway. "All right," he said numbly. He closed his eyes briefly.
Franklin murmured softly, "Just build that phantom arm we talked about. Just build it . . . and reach. Nothing that you can imagine is outside your grasp."
They watched the young man who sat immobile in his chair, the starkness of his bandage setting off the richness of the face bowed over his chest. Thomas thought he would be a handsome man . . . there was character in the squared jaw and flat cheekbones. His neck was scarred where gills had been cut out—many of the survivors had that attribute. It was, after all, what had kept them alive in the beginning. They had gone back to the ocean after the disasters, most of them living on and around Catalina for the first years, filtering back to the mainland only afterward. Now, generations later, those gills were not necessary. He did not know if Stanhope had had his gills cut for cosmetic purposes or medical ones. Those not utilizing their gills or born with immature ones, faced disease and pain through them, and surgery was an attractive alternative.
Stanhope opened his eyes and looked across the room to the table. He held out his hand. The rice bowl rose steadily and answered his movement, floating across the distance to settle in his palm. He handed it to Franklin who said nothing and let no emotion show on his Asian moon face.
Stanhope might more properly have sent the bowl to Franklin, but then he would not have been able to maintain the control the Protector said he wanted of the Fetch. Normally Thomas would wonder abut the confidence, or lack of it, prompting such a control choice. Today, after all they'd been through, he knew the boy had to be tired.
Lady said, "Thomas, you're up."
She had a set to her mouth that told him she didn't wish to be argued with. Whatever she had in mind, then, would be extremely taxing. Thomas shrugged. He moved from the young man's side and hunkered down in front of him.
"I could teach you dowsing, but I won't. Why?"
Surprise blossomed in Stanhope's eyes, but no more than the startlement in both Franklin and Lady's faces. "I—I don't—"
Thomas held up a finger, silencing him. "Think it over. You'll have an answer."
The boy blinked. He sat very quietly, so quietly that
Thomas knew how hard his heart pounded, for he heard it like a drum within his own senses, and he could feel the steady throb of the boy's wounded shoulder. Thomas hid his smile then, for he knew the boy was Reading him, or trying to, for an answer. He firmly shut the boy out.
Stanhope's face reflected abrupt dismay. Then he said uncertainly, "You can't teach me to dowse because it's illegal. And . . . and I've heard you say that any fool can learn to dowse, but finding clean water, that's the hard part, and that's the DWP's job. So, I guess, that's why."
Thomas stood up. Stanhope's flint brown gaze followed him. "Am I right?"
He smiled. "Tell you later."
Lady gave him a puzzled stare. "You, too," he said to her.
She made a face before pulling up a stool to sit opposite Stanhope. "Okay," she said. "Two down and one to go. How are you feeling?"
"I think I'd like to sleep for a week."
They all laughed. "We know the feeling."
She patted his knee. "I'll make this quick." She was wearing aa apron over her good blue dress now and from its pocket she withdrew a house rat. It was as big as both her fists together, a small cousin of the wolfrat. This one looked about tamely, unafraid. Its whiskers trembled as it tasted the air, and its tail lashed about.
She set the rat on Stanhope's knees. "I want you to kill it," she said. "Burn an ulcerous hole in its side, turn its flesh to decay. Or maybe you'll choose to close its throat up and choke it to death. Or still its heart. However you want to do it. But kill it.''
The beige furred creature had been somebody's pet, no doubt, for it sat now on Stanhope's lap totally unafraid. It looked up with dark eyes, whiskers still atrem-ble.
"I can't—" Stanhope seemed out of breath. "I can't
do that!"
Thomas stood very still, wondering what her game was. She was a Healer and she had hoped Stanhope would follow in her tracks. Was she trying to show the boy the other side? Or was she speaking to Thomas as well, things she should not be saying to him in front of others. Anger and hurt both welled in him and he fought to keep them from showing. He must not upset or influence Stanhope in any way.
"Of course you can," she coaxed. "Remember when you set that leg. How you felt where it was wrong and you just 'nudged' it back into place. Now I'm telling you to feel where it is right . . . and 'nudge' it out of place."
Stanhope twisted his head to one side. "Nooo," he said. "I couldn't—" His eyes got wide as his thoughts explored the possibilities.
He could. Thomas knew the thought as if he'd originated it himself. He could turn the heart inside out instead of calming it. He could shift bones, clench guts or lungs. He could kill. He watched as Stanhope lifted a hand and cupped it over the rat, torn between petting it or crushing it.
Charles Ingrid - marked man 02 The Last Recall Page 8
