‘This way!’ He screams the words as he leaps to his feet and watches her hesitate. ‘That way’s a trap. They’ll capture you. Quick!’
He steals a look at the approaching Fe’ls. There is no time to waste.
Her eyes flick from his to the clearing and back. She changes direction and runs towards him.
‘Follow me.’ He grabs her hand and drags her towards the cover of the forest. The dog runs close beside him.
Behind them, the Fe’ls are gaining, but he knows better than to look back. Even across the distance that separates them, he has read the bloodlust that drives them. The girl is labouring. Unused to running, her muscles are tightening and her breathing becomes ragged. The line of trees seems to get no closer.
A blade hisses past his ear and buries itself, hilt-deep in the ground in front of them.
They are too close. One of the Fe’ls has sprinted out ahead of the pack, the red mane of his hair framing his bearded face. The curved blade in his hand, bloodstained and threatening.
Too close.
The girl stumbles.
She will never make it.
‘Baron!’ He shouts the dog’s name and flings a wordless command at it, praying it is understood. The dog stops running, turns, and faces their pursuer, fangs bared, hackles raised. The Fe’l hesitates, as the huge animal lets out its hunting cry and bounds towards him. As the dog closes in, he grips his blade and as it leaps for his throat, he slashes at it. But the blow is deflected.
Huge forepaws slam into his chest, pushing him backwards onto the ground and canine jaws close vice-like around his throat, tearing the flesh and crushing his windpipe, stifling his scream and releasing the huge tide of his lifeblood.
The impact has knocked the blade from his hand and his fist clenches and unclenches, then the tension drains from his muscles and his hand falls limply to the ground.
The last thing he sees before his vision dims to black, is the huge dog’s bloodstained muzzle and the unthinking hatred mirrored in the depths of those black-brown eyes.
The dog turns at the Master’s silent command, but before it can head for the trees, a dagger cuts through the air and pierces the flesh at his hip, striking the bone. The animal leaps with pain, dislodging the blade, which falls to the ground. Then it limps after its master and the girl.
Once inside the shadows of the Wood, Bran does not slow the pace. For these are not the Patrols, or even the Guard. These are the Fe’ls. They will not be cowed by stories of the traps and devices with which the Espers protect their realm. They will pursue their quarry into the depths of the Green, until they are stopped.
So they must keep running.
Bran knows this part of the Wood. The narrow paths between the trip wires and counterweighted branches, set throughout the undergrowth to trigger the release of nets or cages or bone-bruising impacts. He learnt them as a child, on those long walks with Carlin, learning the language of the trees and the secret codes carved into the ancient trunks, marking a safe passage through the labyrinth of traps and snares.
Their route weaves among the trees, so that they are hidden within a few metres of entering the Wood. Behind them, the first of their savage pursuers triggers one of the perimeter traps. Which one, Bran is not certain, but the scream brings a smile to his face.
They are safe now.
The Fe’ls will not venture far into such a dangerous and unpredictable place.
– You don’t actually have to kill anyone. Carlin’s words, remembered. You only have to make them think it’s a possibility. Of course, the traps become more deadly the further they venture in. Pacifism isn’t the same as suicide. If they won’t take the warning, then at some point you have to show them that it’s a fatal mistake to proceed. But it has to be there only as a last resort. Luckily, few Outsiders have ever made it that far. We don’t cause enough trouble for them to risk their lives trying to eradicate us.
Another scream and the sound of an undisciplined retreat widen the smile on his face. He can see the tension draining from the girl’s frame.
‘Come on. You’re safe now, but we can’t go back that way. I’ll have to take you back to the Village, until we can work out a way to get you home.’ Then he remembers his manners. ‘I’m Bran, by the way.’
‘Sharonne de Vries.’ She holds out her hand. Bran stares at it for a moment before remembering the etiquette. Strange custom. He takes her hand and shakes it slowly, in the manner he has observed when Family members and their high ranking servants meet. For a moment, she remains the frightened girl, grateful and relieved, but then the training of her station reasserts itself.
Her manner stiffens and the girl he watched sketching beside the ruined wall, the girl he guided to safety, is replaced by a creature of a different kind. ‘My father will reward you well. Are you aware whose life you have saved?’
He is aware, of course, but years of hard experience have taught him not to reveal what he has learnt from the unguarded thoughts of Outsiders.
Sharonne de Vries, only daughter of the most powerful family in the South.
‘Come on, Sharonne. If we’re going to make the Village before nightfall we have to get moving.’
But the girl does not move. The realisation has dawned.
‘You’re Esper, aren’t you? No one else knows this forest so well.’ She pauses, suddenly nervous. ‘How do I know you’ll let me go home? The Esper and the Families aren’t exactly on good terms. How do I know you won’t—’
‘What? Kidnap you and hold you for ransom? Keep you prisoner in the WildWood for the rest of your life? I guess you don’t. I guess you’ll just have to trust me, unless you think you can walk out of here without ending up in a hole, or dangling from a tree somewhere.’
Lowering the Shield, he allows a feeling of peace and calm to leak out and watches her face relax slightly.
‘Believe me, Sharonne.’ He places a hand on her shoulder and she does not pull away. ‘You’re quite safe.’
Beside them, Baron whimpers quietly. He is standing with his rear leg raised slightly and a shining slick of blood is matting the hair around the wound left by the dagger.
Before Bran can bend to look at it, the girl is on her knees, running a delicate hand over the area, to assess the damage.
‘It’s deep.’ Lifting the hem of her skirt, she uses it to wipe away the seeping blood. ‘How far to the Village? He’s going to need some help – and quickly.’ The stiff formality has disappeared as quickly as it came.
‘Let’s get moving,’ he says.
This time she doesn’t resist.
Much later, she sits staring into the flames of the fire, in the hut that he shares with his aunt and uncle. The dog lies asleep on the floor to the side of the fireplace, a white bandage tied around his hip to cover the stitches.
Without looking away from the fire, she reaches down to stroke the animal gently behind his ears. Bran lies back on a pallet watching her.
‘I think he saved our lives, you know,’ she says, almost to herself. ‘I mean, if he hadn’t—’
‘I know.’ The dog stirs slightly, remembering the pain perhaps. ‘I don’t think we’d have made it to the Wood, before that Feral caught us.’
‘You could have. On your own. Why did you do that – risk yourself to save me? I mean, there’s hardly any love lost between the Esper and the Families. It’s not like we—’
‘I had a friend once. Carlin. A mentor, actually. Almost every- thing I learnt that was worth learning he taught me. He was born in the Wood, but he lived half his life in the old city, among the rats and the dog packs and Ferals. There’s an ancient Clan that lives in the ruins: the Sect, he called them. They spend their lives studying the Old Ways – what some people call the magic. But it’s not magic. It’s all the things men knew once, knowledge that disappeared gradually over time, but it was all written down and for centuries the
Sect has preserved it and studied it. Kept it alive.
‘He told me once. “You never judge,” he said. “To think you know something or someone, without taking the time or the effort to really find out, is the worst form of arrogance. And to let something – or someone – die without trying to save them is the worst kind of neglect. All life is precious. And everything we choose to do – or not to do – leaves its echoes in eternity.” He was a great teacher.’
‘He did a good job.’
Sharonne turns her face nervously towards him, her eyes reflecting the yellow of the flames. She hesitates, but only for a heartbeat. ‘Thank you, Bran.’
He smiles and nods slightly, but says nothing.
Beside the fire the dog stirs, but does not wake.
9
Mykal
‘No-go Zone’
Old Bourne
December 10, 3382ad
LEANA
The Fe’ls camp is a ragged collection of lean-tos and rubble piles. Tomas has slipped from his horse and lies full length on the ground behind a ruined wall, surveying the scene and making his plans.
To the side of the rough road, the bodies of the sentries lie, red-stained and motionless, pouring the last of their redundant lifeblood into the dirt.
They never knew what killed them. Her special talent made sure of that, and the fact of it makes her shudder. Every time she watches a kill, a small part of her dies, knowing that she shares in the responsibility. And, every time, she swears that there will never be another – that she would rather die than be responsible for the smashing of bones, the rending of flesh – the instant of pain and surging terror that ushers in the moment of death.
But in the end, the survival instinct is too strong and the dream of freedom fuels a stubborn will – to stay alive, to watch for the moment when it offers itself. To be ready.
The Tribe, the Hawks, the Fe’ls: they are all savage hate and violent drives, differing only in degree. Since the Fall, they have preyed upon each other and upon the weaknesses of others. They will continue to do it, until there is no one left to die.
And if she did refuse Tomas’s demands; if she stood her ground and Saw for him no more – what then?
Then she would die and Nem would lick his lips and smile as he killed her. And still the killing would continue, as if she had never lived.
Fe’l or Tribe, farmer or Hawk or Esper, they would fall and they would die, but she would not know it, for her mind would be as silent as the emptiness she reads behind the dead sentries’ staring eyes.
The emptiness scares her more than the shame or the self-loathing and it is that fear that keeps her alive. The fear and the hope.
The fault is theirs. The deaths are on their consciences – if they possess them. She is not responsible.
The argument is weak and she knows it, but it sustains her, while she waits for her chance to break free.
She could have protected herself, of course: thrown up the Shield and driven back the wave of fear and agony that always washes through her at the moment of death. But she didn’t. She never does.
Perhaps it is a form of penance for her role in their deaths or a fatal fascination. It could be any number of things, but all she knows is that the intensity of it keeps her strong. And for what is about to come, she will need all her strength.
Tomas slides back down the slight incline, stands up and addresses Nem and the other men in a whisper. ‘I count twenty. Women and children mostly. Maybe five, six men. If we strike quick, we can catch them before they react.’ He turns to face her. ‘Esper, sweep the area. I don’t want any surprises. This has to be quick and deadly.’
Leana crawls towards the break in the ancient wall. She could scan from below where she stood, but looking out on the terrain makes the Seeing easier, more precise.
Tomas’s eyes are sharp. Leana counts twenty unsuspecting thought-patterns. She is about to turn away, when she catches the swelling tide of minds, approaching the camp from the opposite direction. Men and a few women, returning from a raid. Twenty, maybe thirty of them, arguing and laughing as they walk. They are out of sight for now, behind the tumbled shells of the buildings, but in a few minutes they will enter the clearing where the camp lies protected.
And when they do . . .
A plan begins to form in her mind, simple, audacious and dangerous. And in that moment the dream of freedom shifts clearly into focus.
Turning, she makes her way back, stumbling to her knees halfway down the rubble incline and sliding to a stop beside the stiffening bodies of the sentries.
Tomas is watching her, so she must be very careful. Quickly, she slides a hand down behind the dead man’s body and removes the dagger from its sheath on his belt, then slides it into the deep pocket of her tunic.
After that she bends to wipe the blood from a scrape on her knee. Looking up at him, she reads the unspoken question. ‘You were right,’ she says. ‘Just twenty.’
Tomas catches Nem’s eye and nods in her direction. The huge enforcer walks over and grabs her roughly by the arm, to complete the familiar ritual. She is too valuable to risk injury or death in the danger of battle, but they cannot afford to take the risk of her escaping during the confusion, so once her job is done, her wrists are tied and she is tethered like one of the horses until the fighting is over.
Then she is forgotten, as the battle-lust swells in them.
She watches them spread out through the rubble, until they form a semicircle surrounding the unsuspecting camp. Then Tomas is on his feet, sword raised, yelling out his battle cry, and they sweep down towards their victims.
As the screams begin, Leana sets to work. With the tips of her fingers, she manages to draw out the dagger. Luckily, it is sharp. Turning it in her hands she almost drops it, but recovering it cuts the tip of one of her fingers painfully on its razor edge.
Then she goes to work, holding the handle in her fingers and moving the blade slowly with the heels of her palms. It is painstaking work, as she cannot move the blade more than a few millimetres at a time.
Beyond the wall, the yells and screams of the battle echo from the shells of buildings, and the clash of metal on metal rings out. She has the Shield in place to protect herself from the swelling tide of death – the terror and the pain, the hatred and the anger.
Finally the fibres of the rope part and one of her hands is free. Taking the dagger in her free hand, she quickly dispatches the remaining rope. At that moment, the noise beyond the rubble changes, as the Fe’ls’ raiding party joins battle.
Reluctantly, she lowers the Shield, seeking out Tomas’s thought-pattern from among the chaos. His sense of shock is almost physical. The hunter has become the hunted, as he casts about for an escape route. His men have turned to face the new threat, but they are out-manned and disadvantaged by the terrain and their lack of experience fighting among the rubble.
Tomas watches as Nem collapses beside him, an arrow protruding from his gushing throat. Then they are upon him. He goes down under a crush of bodies, swinging his sword to the last.
Leana rushes to where the horses were hidden, but her way is blocked by a huge Fe’l warrior approaching from the opposite direction, drawn there by the noise of battle. She slides to a stop, but there is nowhere to escape. With the battle behind her all but over and the monster in front of her, she has nowhere to run.
Then, suddenly, the huge man collapses from the knees, as he is struck in the side of the head by a rock the size of a small watermelon.
– Quickly, this way. Now! The words are a hoarse whisper inside her mind and she lowers the Shield in an attempt to locate its owner, but he has a Shield of his own in place.
An Esper. The discovery shocks and pleases her, even in this moment of danger.
– Beside the wall. Here!
At last, she sees him. He is camouflaged among the
rocks to her right. She scrambles towards him and, grabbing hold of her wrist, he drags her into a gap between two remnants of an ancient wall, just as the first of the Fe’ls emerges from the battle site.
– Don’t make a sound, he warns. Then he bends and takes hold of a large stone, pulling it towards him. It moves easily, tilting in his direction, and she realises that it is attached to a small metal trapdoor, just large enough for them to squeeze through. He urges her through with a movement of his head, and she finds herself climbing down a steep ladder. He follows her inside, closes the trapdoor above them and slides into place four large bolts.
The space is dark and she feels the tremor of apprehension, but it is not pitch black. At the bottom of the ladder, she finds herself in a long passageway, lit at the far end by a dim blue glow.
Then he is standing beside her, smiling, though she can barely make out his features in the darkness.
– You’re safe now. There is no trace in his mind-tone of the tension she is still feeling. As if to emphasise his point, he continues in wordspeech. ‘That was a pretty gutsy effort, but I don’t know how far you thought you were going to get on that horse of yours. The noise of that fight would have brought the Ferals out from all over. They’re like roaches in a drain. Bang a pipe and they all come pouring out. You wouldn’t have got half a click – even with your Esper powers. No way out. I’m Mykal, by the way.’
He holds out his hand, but she just stares at it. Smiling, he takes hold of her hand and shakes it.
‘There’s a few things you’ll have to learn, if you’re going to make it around here. You hungry?’
She realises that she is. She nods, unable to form the words to answer him.
‘Let’s get on, then.’
10
For My Life
‘Fortress de Vries’
Old Bourne
December 10, 3382ad
BRAN
‘We could tell them that you live in one of the outlying villages.’ Sharonne stands facing him, the sun illuminating her hair from above. She is truly beautiful. Behind her, the walls of the Fortress are visible between the trees. ‘They never leave the grounds, unless it is to hunt. It would not be hard to fool them – especially if you can read their thoughts.’
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