Tarc turned to his father, “What if you shot a lot of them? If they were dropping one after the other, the soldiers might panic and run themselves. The townspeople could pick up their swords and chase after them.”
Daum stared at his son, comprehension dawning on his face.
When the door to the stable creaked open Daussie drew her knife and quietly sat up, listening. She heard the groan that the ladder made when someone climbed it, then Tarc whispered, “Daussie, it’s me. Are you doing okay?”
“Yes, though my feelings are still hurt from you calling me ‘retarded.’”
“What! I didn’t say that, well… I haven’t for a long time anyway.”
“Yes you did. When those soldiers wanted me to saddle their horses, you told them I was too retarded to do it.”
Tarc could sense the amusement in her voice. This was Daussie? he thought wonderingly. “Uh, how are you… dealing with this so well. It isn’t…”
“Isn’t like me?” Daussie finished for him.
“Um, no.”
“I know. Something happened when that man grabbed me. I thought my life was over. And then… when you killed him… I felt like I got my life back. I’m… I’m still afraid,” she said musingly, “just not panicked like I was before.”
Tarc had walked around to the end of the stack of bales. Startling her, his voice came from the end of her little hidey hole. “Um, okay… I brought you a sandwich.”
To her astonishment, even in the black darkness of the stable, he put the sandwich right in her hand.
Chapter Nine
Arvil Tornesson pulled back his curtain and peeked out, wondering who might be crazy enough to be tapping on his window in the middle of the night with Krait’s men patrolling the streets. His eyebrows rose. It was that skinny kid from the Hyllis’s tavern. It looked like he’d had a growth spurt since the last time Tornesson saw him. He was taller and considerably more muscular.
Tornesson lifted the curtain further and looked both directions. The square was empty, as was the street in front of Tornesson’s house. He cracked open the window, “What do you want?” he asked irritably.
“It’s Tarc Hyllis sir. Can I come in for a few minutes? It’s dangerous out here on the street.”
Tornesson grunted, “I’ll meet you at the door.” When he cracked open the door the lad slipped in carrying a long package of some sort. He was a handsome young man, even featured, healthy looking, with straw colored hair “What’s that?” he asked, suspiciously indicating the package.
“It’s a bow and some arrows. My dad, you know, he’s called ‘the Archer?’ He’s going to try to assassinate Sheriff Krait if they call another one of those meetings in the square and start killing people again.”
Tornesson narrowed an eye, “And you’re telling me because?”
“If he shoots out your upstairs window, no one will be able to see him.”
Tornesson drew his head back in astonishment. “You must be kidding! To where Krait stood on the stage the other day would be an impossibly long shot! I know your dad’s good with a bow, but not even Daum could make a shot like that very often!”
“Daum can do it,” Tarc said, putting all the confidence he could into that statement.
“And when he misses? And those soldiers figure out the arrow came out my window? It’d be our death sentence!”
Tarc looked him hard in the eye. “Daum’s death too,” he said quietly. “He’s willing to take the chance.” Tarc shook his head slowly, “He won’t miss.”
Tornesson drew back, shaking his head, “You don’t know what you’re asking boy!”
Tarc leaned forward, feeling bad about what he was asking this man to do, but feeling in his heart that someone had to do it. “I do know what I’m asking. It could be a terrible price. But think about what’s been happening in our town. Men killed. Women raped. Our freedom destroyed. We can’t live this way, and I would hope that you can’t either. Take your family and move in with relatives… just let us use your window.”
Tornesson felt guilty. His children already lived on their own, it was just himself and his wife in this big old house nowadays. With a heavy heart he said, “Let me talk to my wife.”
***
As Tarc crossed the big room the next morning, he passed a table and heard snatches of a conversation, “…loved it…was twistin’ an’ squealin’ like a… Abe was holding her man at sword point an’…”
Tarc had reached the table he’d set out to take an order from before he realized that he’d just listened to one of the soldiers bragging about raping someone. Hair rising on the back of his neck Tarc turned to stare at the man who’d been talking. Hate welled up inside him. His knives itched between his shoulder blades.
Tarc’s train of thought was interrupted when one of the men at the table he was serving barked, “Halfwit! Did you get that order?!”
Tracking back through his auditory memory for a second, Tarc realized that he could in fact remember all three orders from that table. He marked them on the chit as he repeated them back to the soldiers, then turned for the kitchen to put in the order. Behind him, he heard the soldier turn to his table mates and grunt a laugh, “Turns out, he’s only half as stupid as I thought he was.”
The big doors opened, and Krait came in as Tarc entered the kitchen. A tired looking Eva nodded at several plates she’d set ready on the counter. Tarc gave her the new order, picked up the plates and headed back out. Krait had just seated himself at the big table with his lieutenants. Tarc passed behind him with the plates and heard him say, “What!? Six!”
Krait had been easy to hear, but his lieutenant spoke quietly as if trying to keep a secret. All Tarc heard was, “… all in the left eye…” and, “… hysterical rumors spreading…”
Tarc set the plates down at the next table and asked for payment. The men at the table glanced over towards Krait, as if wondering whether they had to pay again today. Seeing Krait in an apparently thunderous mood, they dug for coin.
Turning towards the kitchen, Tarc saw a table that needed clearing right behind Krait. Stopping there, he listened to Krait’s lieutenants speaking of unrest among their troops. Tarc hadn’t thought of the soldiers holding his town in thrall as individuals with weaknesses and strengths, but began to think of them that way as the lieutenant described their reactions. “… think there’s some evil demon… afraid of their own shadows… might start deserting…”
Krait’s reaction was predictable, spouting vitriol and saying any deserters “would wish they’d been stabbed in the eye.” He paused a moment, his lieutenants saying nothing, then said, “The bastard that’s killin’ my men is gonna be sorry! We’ve taken this town, and no one’s going to drive us away from this fat prize. Someone… someone in this shithole place knows who’s killing my men, and we’re going to find out who. Let’s round up the men in this town just after noon and take ‘em back to that square. We’ll start decimating them and tell ‘em we’re just going to keep going until somebody gives up the bastard that’s been killing our guys!”
Krait launched into the details of the plan at that point, but Tarc had been cleaning up the table for a suspiciously long time already and had to move on.
As the morning rush slowed, Tarc sought out Daum and told him the news. His father stood for a moment, eyes closed, a deeply sad look on his face. “I guess Garcia’s plan is a ‘go’ then,” he sighed.
In the late morning, Tarc and Daum set off, as if on an errand. They managed their route so that they entered the square near the stage and walked past it on the way to Tornesson’s house. As they walked from the stage to the house, Daum counted his steps to obtain an accurate range. Tarc took him around the house and they went in the back door that Tornesson had given Tarc a key for.
Tornesson and his wife heard the door opening and came into the kitchen that the Hyllises had entered. Tornesson had a grim look on his face, “Already?”
Tarc and Daum nodded. Daum said, “Tarc heard Kr
ait talking this morning. They’re planning to gather the men in the square again shortly after noon. Thank you for letting us use your home. I know it puts you at great personal risk.”
Tornesson sighed, “Nothing like the risk to you, Hyllis.” He eyed Daum, “Have you measured off the distance? I’m not much of an archer, but that seems like an extremely long shot!”
Daum shrugged, “You’re right of course. It’s difficult, but I think it’s possible. I’ve got an entire quiver of arrows.”
Tornesson raised a dubious eyebrow, “Once that first arrow misses, Krait won’t be standing still any longer.”
Daum shrugged, “We’ll just have to hope that first one doesn’t miss.”
“You’re sure you want to do this?”
“No, but I don’t want to live in this horror show either,” Daum said sadly.
Tornesson looked grim, but he showed Daum the hidden room that he had told Tarc about. Daum would be able to hide in there when the soldiers came to roust the men from their homes out to the square. Tornesson also showed Daum how to bar the heavy door to the stairs. It was meant to keep the upstairs a safe place and would protect Daum from attacking soldiers today.
After Tornesson left, Daum followed his son up the stairs to the room overlooking the square. Tarc showed him where the bow was hidden and he strung it. He drew it hard a few times to make sure it was sound, then unstrung it. He sighed, “I haven’t shot this bow for a long time,” he said wistfully. “I really should have practiced with it before trying to do something this hard.”
Tarc said, “Just aim high and get fairly close. That should be good enough.”
They opened the window overlooking the square just wide enough to give a clear shot at the stage. They propped it that way so that it wouldn’t have to be opened at the critical moment and wouldn’t creak in the wind. Tarc moved a chair so that Daum’s quiver could be readily propped on it in a position that let him easily draw new arrows.
Daum gave his son a hard hug. “In case you haven’t realized it Tarc,” Daum croaked, “I’m very, very proud of you.” He held him at arm’s length, “Be careful out there. Don’t do anything rash!”
Tarc could say nothing around the frog in his throat. He embraced his father and started on his way back to the tavern.
Although Tarc was too nervous to eat, Eva tried to feed him lunch. Garcia came in and said, “Better his stomach is empty when they round him up. A full meal when you’re being marched into a situation like this can sit like a stone in your gut.”
Plaintively, Eva asked, “Can’t you hide in the hayloft with Daussie? Daum’s already placing himself at terrible risk, you shouldn’t have to go to that square too!”
Tarc wondered if he should point out to Eva that he was needed in the square. He would have thought that she might have recognized how important his talent was to what Daum was trying to accomplish. Maybe she was in denial about it, even to herself?
For a moment Tarc thought that Garcia had saved him from having to explain this when he said, “When the soldiers come here to roust out the men, it’ll be bad enough that Daum and Dodge are already gone. If Tarc was gone too they might take you Eva.”
However, Eva responded calmly, “That’s okay. I’ll gladly go in Tarc’s place.” She turned to Tarc, “You go hide with Daussie.” It was a command not a request.
For a moment Tarc wondered how he could explain to his mother with Garcia right there. Suddenly he remembered—he reached out with his ghost and grabbed a little bit of the air right beside his mother’s ear. He created a tiny voice there, which said, “Mama, I’ve got to go. I have to guide Daum’s arrows.”
Even Tarc couldn’t hear the tiny voice, though he stood only a few feet away. However, Eva’s eyes widened and her hand flew to her ear, telling him that she heard him. Her eyes then turned to stare at Tarc. They softened, then she merely said, “OK.”
Tarc blinked and wondered if she realized that she had responded to a statement no one else could hear. Garcia said, “Okay what?”
“Okay, Tarc can go to the square.” Eva’s eyes welled with tears and she clasped Tarc to her. In a voice suddenly husky, she snuffled into Tarc’s shoulder, “You be careful, hear me?”
“Yes Mama,” Tarc said in a quiet voice.
Garcia had loitered in the street just up from the tavern so that he would be swept up when the soldiers came through. Although they had been looking for Garcia, they didn’t actually know what he looked like, so they simply marched him along with others. When the soldiers brought Tarc out of the tavern, he and Garcia worked their way towards each other through the crowd of men being shepherded toward the square.
Slowly the soldiers packed the town’s men into the square like they had the time before. Tarc worked his way through the crowd before it got too tightly packed to move, moving towards the right front corner of the crowd over which Daum’s arrows should be passing. Though he didn’t understand what Tarc was doing, Garcia stayed right next to him. Moving toward the front was not difficult as the townspeople were trying to get away from that area, however it was more difficult to move to the right as people were instinctively avoiding the center.
Tension built in the crowd as they were packed in more and more densely until they could hardly move. Swords drawn, the soldiers paced around them angrily, though Tarc had the impression that some of them appeared nervous. Krait was nowhere to be seen and Tarc began to worry that perhaps he might not even come.
Then Tarc began to worry that Daum had been found in the Tornesson house. We should have set up some means of communication! Signals or something! He glanced at the window, realizing that it would be easy for Daum to wave something at him.
Then it clicked. He looked again at the window and used his ghost to project his voice into the room. “Dad, are you okay? I’m using my ghost to send my voice. I can see into your window—wave something back in the room a ways. Wave once for ‘yes, I’m okay,’ and wave twice for, ‘no, there’s a problem.’”
Daum had been standing far back in the room, on a chair in the shadows where it would be hard to see him. At first, Tarc’s voice startled him. Despite the fact that the voice seemed to come from the middle of the room, Daum was gripped with fear that Tarc was in the house with him, captured by soldiers and dragged there against his will. When Tarc said he was using his ghost to project his voice, Daum felt startled to realize that his son had found yet another surprising use for their talent. He wondered if he could do the same to answer Tarc, but decided that this would be a poor time to experiment. Instead he stepped down off the chair, moved closer to the window while keeping his body out of view and waved the butt end of an arrow quickly past the window.
Tarc’s voice said, “I saw a single wave, so I’m assuming we’re still on. Unfortunately, I don’t see Krait anywhere. I was thinking that perhaps you could send your voice back to me. But since you can’t feel very exactly where your ghost is like I can, sending it down here right now and having it wind up next to someone else in the crowd might cause probl… Oh, that gave me an idea…”
What idea?! Daum wanted to shout.
Tarc’s attention had returned to the square. Still no sign of Krait. As his eyes swept over the soldiers, looking for Krait he noticed one of the soldiers who looked particularly skittish. Wondering desperately if this was a good idea, Tarc projected his voice to just behind the man’s head. Speaking in as low and slow a tone as he could imagine, he said, “You’re gonna die, with a hole in your eye.”
The man spun around, a panicked look on his face, swinging his sword so that it barely missed one of his fellows. The other soldier, a sergeant, hissed at him, “Face front, Stort. The problem’s that way.” To emphasize his words, the man pointed his sword toward the townsmen.
Again, Tarc projected a voice just behind Stort’s head. This time it said, “Asshole.” Stort’s eyes widened and his head involuntarily turned part way back over his shoulder at the sound.
Unfortunatel
y for Stort, his head’s turning at the same time as the word, “asshole” came from his direction, only served to convince the sergeant that Stort had uttered the insult. The sergeant took one step forward and delivered a hard punch to Stort’s kidney. As Stort dropped to his knees, gasping, the sergeant turned to the man next to Stort and said, “Take him to detention. Five days bread and water for insubordination.” The sergeant picked up Stort’s fallen sword and laid it on a bench behind him.
Encouraged, Tarc looked down the line of soldiers, picking another who looked flighty.
Garcia nudged Tarc in the side, faintly whispering, “A free sword on the bench!”
Tarc nodded, then projected his voice just behind the flighty looking soldier. Once again he whispered, “You’re going to die, with a hole in your eye.”
The man’s eyes widened and he developed a twitch in one cheek, but he didn’t turn.
Tarc went down the line, doing the same to any of the soldiers who looked the least bit unsteady. He got varying reactions, ranging from startled looks, to one who dropped his sword and ran.
A set of four archers Tarc hadn’t noticed sent a flight of arrows after the running man, but none of them hit. He disappeared around a corner.
Tarc saw that the sergeants standing behind the front line men were beginning to look a little stressed themselves, presumably unsure what was happening to their men. He tried sending a louder, singsong voice, behind even the line of sergeants off to his right. This voice moaned, “We’re all going to die, with holes in our eyes.”
Several of the sergeants spun to look, though the rest of the men, frightened by what had happened to Stort, kept their eyes to the front. Tarc did the same, sending his voice off to the left, then further to the left, then down the left side of the formation and off to the right side of the formation.
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