She had a special knack for pointing out Shane’s shortcomings, and pride ranked high on the list. She’d told him before he’d set sail: Sometimes you have to lose a battle to win a war.
Beating up Maddox wouldn’t put him in charge of the militia, and it might even get him thrown out of the camp.
But, oh, how he wanted to trash this guy.
He burst into motion, leaping over the spiked ball and smacking Maddox three times before his feet touched the ground again. He ducked under Maddox’s next swing and slapped his staff against the man’s knees. For every one of Maddox’s attacks, Shane struck the general two or three times. Maddox was tough, but he could only take so much.
The crowd was closing in around their circle, strangely quiet. There was no cheering or jeering or slapping of backs. But they observed with focused intensity, almost as if they sensed their own lives depended on the outcome.
A glint of light caught Shane’s eye, and it struck him as odd because it came from above the heads of the crowd. There was a figure up on the watchtower, he realized — a girl, clutching the railing as she watched them. If she was a guard, she didn’t look the part. She wore a flowing robe. Her face was deathly pale. And the glint of gold …
Shane could swear the figure was wearing a crown.
It was all the distraction Maddox needed. He finally connected, smashing the morning star’s spiked head into Shane’s side. The impact sent him flying, and the crowd parted, leaving him to crash to the ground.
Maddox loomed over him, spitting a glob of blood into the dirt by Shane’s head.
“Looks like our little Devourer bit off more than he could chew,” he said darkly.
Shane dreamed he summoned a panda.
The animal wrapped him in its arms.
Shane was protected, and all the hurt just fell away.
He lay there in the dirt some time before anyone came to help him.
“My name is Viktor. I’m a healer,” said the man who finally crouched at his side. “How do you feel?”
“I feel like I just got slammed with a great big spiked ball,” Shane ground out. His side was on fire.
Viktor chuckled, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening. “That’s a good sign, actually. I’d be worried if you felt otherwise. I’m going to make sure nothing’s broken.”
He ran his hands over Shane’s tunic, pressing lightly against his side. Shane winced, but the healer breathed a sigh of relief. “No broken ribs. Let’s remove your tunic and get you bandaged up.”
Shane struggled to sit up. “No,” he said. “I’m all right. Thanks for your help.”
But he couldn’t quite manage to stand on his own. The pain in his side flared when he tried lifting himself from the ground.
“The dirt is no place for pride, my king,” the healer said in a low voice. “Please, let me help you.”
Shane hesitated, then finally nodded. “Okay,” he said. “But not out here.”
The man offered him a hand up. Once on his feet, Shane found the pain more manageable. He could walk on his own, though slowly, and he shuffled after the healer.
Viktor’s tent was white canvas, lighter than the greens and browns of most of the camp. It was large enough for two cots, a trunk of tools, a small bookshelf, and a larger rack of tonics, herbs, and powders — plus a furry gray animal a foot in length, with perky, rounded ears and a twitching pink nose, who crawled excitedly from surface to surface.
“Don’t mind Josie,” he said, smiling. “She’s always happy for company.”
“Possum?” Shane asked, slowly lowering himself onto a cot.
“Fairy possum, actually,” Viktor answered. “Native to Stetriol. A natural bond. We grew up together.”
The healer rummaged through the trunk for bandages while Shane, wincing, lifted his tunic over his head. He saw the man’s eye drawn immediately to his chest. And little wonder: Where his tattoo used to be, Shane now had a strange scar, which wound its way down from his chest and across his stomach in a vague, waxy outline of a crocodile.
“You can see why I like to keep my shirt on,” Shane said.
The healer was surprised … but Shane noticed he wasn’t completely shocked. He didn’t ask if it hurt, or how it had happened, or whether Shane had been able to summon Grahv since the tattoo had faded and warped.
“You’ve seen something like this before?” Shane asked.
Viktor rubbed his short gray beard. “Just once. I thought he was the only one.”
“Who?” Shane asked. “Someone in the camp?”
“I can’t say. He swore me to secrecy…. I’ve already said too much.”
The man dabbed at Shane’s side with a wet cloth. It stung where it came into contact with the angry little welts left behind from the morning star, and Shane sucked air through his teeth.
“I could command you,” he said.
“I am loyal to my king and country. But I’ve sworn an oath as a healer.”
“What are you doing here, then?” Shane said. He lifted his arms to allow the healer to wind a bandage around his torso. “Why not go home? Why join up with a militia if you’re not a man of war?”
Viktor snorted. “Men of war are in short supply here. Have you seen this so-called militia in action? Most of them are children who don’t know what to do with themselves. They all lost something in the war, and it’s left them afraid to go home, or angry at the world, or desperate for purpose. If you ask me, the leader of this camp is taking advantage of that need in them.” He tied off the bandage. “Regardless, the people here need healing, and I do my best to provide it.”
“I have something that might help with that,” Shane said, and he pulled a small object from a pouch on his belt.
Viktor gasped when Shane opened his palm to reveal a small mushroom that glowed an eerie purple in the low light of the tent.
“I’ve never seen anything like that!” exclaimed the healer. “Where —?”
“I’ve traveled far and wide. Found some interesting things. And when my tattoo started to change, I learned that eating these helped with some of the … stranger side effects.”
“Side effects?” The healer looked stricken, and Josie hissed in agitation. “What sort of side effects?”
“Just trust me,” Shane answered. “If someone in this camp is having any … skin issues …” He tapped his bandaged chest. “You want to give them this.”
He smiled and handed over the glowing mushroom.
Viktor nodded. “Thank you,” he said. Then, when Shane rose to leave, he placed a hand on Shane’s shoulder. “I’ve been a healer for many years,” he said. “In Stetriol. The bonding sickness … it plagued me my entire life.” He smiled sadly. “Whatever ills the Bile brought us, it cured that sickness. I know we have you to thank for that.”
Shane was so used to scorn and blame that he had no idea how to respond to the man’s gratitude. He felt a tightness in his throat and settled on a quick nod before throwing on his tunic and ducking out of the tent.
He felt a little guilty for lying to the healer.
If there’d been another way, he’d have taken it. But Viktor was an honorable man, and Shane knew better than to try to come between an honorable man and his oath. It’s what made Greencloaks so impossible to deal with, after all. Compromise wasn’t in their vocabulary.
But honest people were easy to trick because they expected honesty in others. The healer had no reason to suspect that Shane would lie about the strange mushroom — the mushroom that, in truth, was perfectly edible but held no medicinal properties as far as Shane or Yumaris could discover.
Viktor would seek out whoever it was in the camp whose tattoo had changed in the way Shane’s had. If Shane watched him, he’d give away the identity of the very person he’d been determined to protect.
If someone else had Shane’s … affliction … he needed to know.
His eyes drifted upward, back to the watchtower that rose from the campground’s barrier wall. No figur
e stood upon its parapet, but Shane could swear he felt eyes watching him from its dark interior, and he shuddered.
Shane dreamed he summoned a falcon.
Through its eyes, he saw the world spread out before him as if from a great height.
He was untouchable.
Shane was sparring on the training grounds when a cry sounded from near the gate.
“The raiders! The raiders return!”
The girl Shane had been facing threw her staff aside. All around them, people stopped what they were doing and turned toward the gates.
Shane gripped his own staff more tightly. If they were under attack, why would anyone do otherwise?
But the buzz that rippled through the crowd was a buzz of excitement and eager anticipation. The raiders weren’t attackers — they were allies.
Shane fell in with the crowd making its way toward the entryway as the gate opened noisily.
“Clear a path,” growled Maddox, and he stepped through the crowd, taking the opportunity to shove Shane aside. Shane caught himself, but not before he’d stumbled into a boy, who cast him a hostile look.
A small band of warriors appeared in the open gateway. Unlike most of the men and women of the camp, they each sported complete sets of Conqueror armor, black and red and silver, with gleaming weapons on their backs or hanging from their belts. With them were three warhorses dragging sleighs laden with boxes and canvas sacks.
Here, at last, were the true warriors. It was obvious just by looking at them.
There was a moment of utter silence as the armored band stepped across the threshold. Then a great clamor broke out as the people all around Shane lifted their voices.
“What news of Stetriol?” called out a woman.
“Do you bring weapons?” cried a man.
“We need grain!” said another.
“Quiet!” Maddox barked. “Quiet, now!” And though the crowd continued to grumble, no more shouts went up.
Shane scanned the five armored figures as they removed their helmets and saluted Maddox. Their bearing was disciplined, but Shane could see in their faces that they basked in the attention their appearance had generated. All except for one, a dark-skinned boy about Shane’s age, tall but slight, who mimicked the movements of the others but scowled as he did so.
“It was a fantastic success, sir,” one of them said to Maddox. Her black hair was braided long on one side and shaved down to her scalp on the other. She looked dangerous, Shane thought, even before he saw that her weapon of choice was a brutal two-handed sword she wore on her back. “We took three vessels for all they were worth.”
“There’s much more plunder down at the edge of the forest,” another one added, an Amayan teenager with the barest wisp of a beard growing upon his freckled cheeks. “It was more than we could bring up at once, but we have the essentials with us.”
They were pirates, Shane realized. This small band of Conquerors had been sent down to the coast to prey upon passing ships.
“Excellent.” Maddox beamed. “Well done, all of you.” He slapped the scowling boy on the shoulder. “See now, Karmo? I said you’d get the hang of this.”
Karmo narrowed his eyes. “I suppose a person can get used to just about anything.”
Karmo was the only one among them, Shane realized, who didn’t appear to be carrying a weapon.
He did, however, wear a tight bandage around his left forearm.
Viktor had stepped to the forefront of the assembled crowd, his neatly trimmed beard and small stature a sharp contrast beside Maddox. While the general fawned over his elite band of pirates, the healer organized volunteers to unload the sleighs and begin sorting the goods. The people of the camp seemed to respect Viktor, and they hustled to do as he asked.
Shane made sure to volunteer, and he kept one eye on the raiders as he set to lifting boxes.
“There is news of Stetriol, I’m afraid,” the woman warrior told Maddox. “It’s been occupied.”
“Occupied?” Maddox echoed.
“The Greencloaks have taken over,” she explained, real hatred in her voice.
Shane almost dropped a box.
Maddox snorted. “It’s almost better this way, Yeffa,” he said. “We were expecting a fight when we took the castle. I’d much prefer that fight to be against those dogs. I’m sure you feel the same, ‘Greenslayer.’ ” He flashed his broken teeth. “We’ll restore our rightful ruler to the throne over their dead bodies.”
Shane busied himself with his task, fairly certain he wasn’t the rightful ruler Maddox had in mind. He looked up at the watchtower, but the mysterious figure had not returned.
“We’ll be ready, sir. In the meantime …”
“In the meantime, every ship you overtake is a ship that can’t supply our enemies. You’ll return to your post in the morning.”
Yeffa saluted.
By now Viktor had set aside a small cache of boxes, which Shane knew must be supplies for healing. “Karmo,” the healer called out to the sullen young raider. “Help me get these to my tent, would you?”
This caught Yeffa’s attention.
“I’ll have Fito help you,” she said.
The healer stopped mid-turn. “I asked Karmo.”
Yeffa placed her fists against her hips. “And I don’t like other people giving my people their assignments.” She inclined her head toward the scruffy teenager. “What’s wrong with Fito?”
“Think careful, now,” Fito said, running a finger along the ax in his belt. “You don’t want to go hurting my feelings.”
“He’s quite sensitive,” added Yeffa.
For a moment the healer just stood there, his gaze moving between the raiders, whose spiked armor caught the light of the sun. Maddox looked on with amusement, and the entire crowd seemed to hold its breath even as everyone pretended not to be watching.
Finally Viktor threw back his shoulders and stared Fito down. “So you know the difference between saffron and safflower, do you?”
Fito squirmed a little.
“No? Well that’s okay, though, because you can read the labels.”
“Aw,” Fito said. “You know I can’t read nothin’.”
The healer turned back to Yeffa with an expectant look.
She clucked her tongue. “Karmo. Help the man.”
And there wasn’t a doubt in Shane’s mind: Karmo was the one he was looking for.
News of the Greencloak presence in Stetriol spread quickly, and Shane could sense the mood in camp turning sour. Most troubling was the fact that as people discussed the development, they tended to glare at him. He felt eyes on him wherever he went. Eyes and blame. It was clear who they held responsible for the outcome of the war.
The one person who didn’t seem to have ill thoughts for Shane was Karmo — but only because he appeared lost in his own darker thoughts. Shane had watched the boy emerge from the healer’s tent with a fresh bandage on his arm and the same scowl he’d worn since arriving. Rather than reuniting with the rest of the raiders, whose boisterous laughter could be heard from across the caldera, Karmo set to pitching in around the camp, delivering more of the goods they’d brought up from the coast.
The evening meal was especially spirited that night. The raiders had returned with salt and spices, and the cooks had made use of it, teasing new flavor out of the routine bowls of stew and soggy vegetables.
Shane ate in silence while all around him the Conquerors gathered into animated clusters and talked worriedly about the news of the day. Maddox’s desire to take Stetriol from the Greencloaks had stirred up a lot of concern, but the fearful talk of those around Shane was all but drowned out by the raiders, who competed to speak over one another as they shared tales of their glory. In addition to the woman warrior from Nilo and the scruffy Amayan pirate, there were two young men who appeared to be Hundred Islanders. They both had swirling, wave-like tattoos upon their faces, and their features were so similar that they had to be brothers. Karmo sat among them, but he was most
ly quiet, and he excused himself early.
As he stepped out from the canvas cover of the dining area, he scratched absently at the bandage on his arm.
Shane wasn’t wholly surprised when Karmo made a break for it later that night.
The Niloan boy had paced the campground for hours, waiting for the raiders to turn in for the night. Shane was just gathering the courage to approach him when a cloud passed across the moon, deepening the darkness of the night, and Karmo slipped between two posts in the tall wooden wall and was gone.
Shane cursed under his breath and quickly but quietly dashed to the breach in the wall, squeezing through after him. If Karmo got too far ahead, Shane might never catch him.
But there was really only one direction Karmo could go. From the fort atop the mountain, it was all downhill to the ocean.
Shane moved as quickly as he dared, fearful of taking a wrong step that would send him tumbling down. He kept peering ahead, hoping to catch a glimpse of Karmo in the moonlight. He could hear the gentle shush of the ocean beyond the trees, and knew he was quickly running out of island.
Suddenly the hair on the back of Shane’s neck rose. The air around him seemed to crackle.
And a body slammed into him from the trees to his side, tackling him to the ground.
Shane landed on his back. Karmo was on top of him, pinning him down and drawing back his fist.
“Wait!” Shane cried, holding up his hands, but Karmo’s fist found his jaw and Shane saw stars.
“I said wait,” he growled, and he shoved at Karmo. The Niloan boy tumbled back, slamming into a tree, and Shane scrabbled up to his feet. He raised his fists in a defensive stance.
From the ground, Karmo shook his head as if to clear it. “You’re stronger than you look.”
“And you’re a poor listener,” Shane said, but sensing the danger had passed, he unclenched his fists and massaged his aching jaw.
The Book of Shane Page 12
