by Bryan Davis
Adrian tried to smile, but the laborious trudging kept his face taut. “The Creator? I see that you slaves never lost your faith, even after all these years.”
“Some have, and I am thankful that I am not a slave.”
Adrian glanced at her earnest face, brow arching up and eyes wide. He would ask more soon, but with the gas tank in sight and shelter only seconds away, his questions could wait.
He stopped in front of an old tool shed, head high and deep enough for only a modest collection of digging tools. He set Cassabrie down and pulled the door handle. The door swung open and fell off its rusted hinges, splashing into the muddy wash. Inside, the shed appeared to be empty. With the pipeline construction at a halt, maybe the workers had taken all the picks and shovels with them.
With a nod, he guided her inside, and the two sat on the dirty wood floor. They had just enough room to lean their backs against the rear wall and cross their legs to keep their feet out of the storm. Adrian unbuckled his belt and leaned the scabbard against the side wall.
The wind blew over the roof and cast an arching drip line in front, keeping the water out of the shed. About thirty paces away, a metal tank sat at the end of the pipeline collecting gas. At least it should be collecting gas if someone had managed to turn the valve at the source line. If not, this mission would be a dangerous waste of time.
Shaped like a barrel, the tank stood as high as the tallest of men and at least as big around as Jesse the butcher, all five hundred pounds of him. Obviously they would have to roll it to the portal site.
“Is that my gas tank?” Cassabrie asked, pointing. “The dragon described something like that.”
Adrian nodded. “It will be yours if all goes as planned. So far, every step has been a misstep. I was supposed to talk to the dragon at the portal, but you showed up instead. And it’s too dangerous to be there now, especially for you. It’s better to wait here for one of my people to arrive. It shouldn’t be long.”
Cassabrie hugged herself and shivered again. “It is certainly cold in your world.”
“We’re in our autumn season. It will get even colder.” Adrian looked at her trembling body and the droplets falling from her hair. The poor girl needed some warmth.
He slid his arm around her and pulled her close to his side. Leaning her head against him, she sighed through her words. “You remind me of my brother.”
“Your brother? How old is he?”
“Oh, he is dead. He died of old age a few years ago.”
“Old age? How could you have a brother that old? What are you? Fifteen? Sixteen?”
She snuggled closer. “Let us talk of other things.”
“Okay,” Adrian said, stretching out his reply. “How about the slave issue? You said you aren’t a slave.”
“I was a slave, but not now. I was promoted, at least in a sense, not like how other slaves are promoted. I went to the Northlands to be with the great dragon king. We are not slaves there, not really. We are the dragon’s servants, to be sure, but we serve him gladly. Even Arxad serves him, one dragon bowing to a greater one.”
Adrian looked down at the young teen nestling in the crook of his arm, barely visible as lightning flashed split-second portraits of her wide-eyed face. She had just rattled off an explanation that raised a handful of new questions. Promoted? Northlands? A dragon king? Slavery versus servitude? Obviously it all seemed so natural to her, yet it sounded like a foreign language.
Thunder rumbled, shaking the ground. Another peal joined it from the opposite side of the sky, sounding like an echo of the first angry call. With new flashes illuminating her face, Cassabrie’s eyes darted from one boom to the other, her smile expressing pure delight. This visitor from another world feasted on discovery.
“Why does Arxad send you to leave messages?” Adrian asked. “Wouldn’t it be safer for him to make this transaction? After all, a dragon can certainly protect himself better—”
“He cannot come.”
Cassabrie’s reply was terse, sharp. A new flash revealed a knitted brow and a slight frown.
Adrian blew out a long breath. That question had pierced a soft spot. Was the dragon so callous and cowardly that he would force a defenseless girl to venture into an unknown land? He couldn’t know what perils lurked. Maybe the dragons looked upon their slaves as dogs, useful for dangerous tasks, yet expendable if the worst happened.
“Since Arxad didn’t come, that means you must have delivered the hat to this world.”
“I did.” Her tone still carried a hint of irritation, but not as much as before.
“Did you meet its owner?”
She shook her head. “Arxad brought the hat to me from the southern regions. He didn’t tell me anything about whose it was.”
“Hmmm.” Adrian stayed silent for a moment, watching the driving rain in the light of staccato lightning flashes. While waiting for either the gas tank assistant or an attack from Prescott’s goons, he could ask a hundred more questions, but Cassabrie seemed reticent now, as if annoyed by her own presence here. This cold, blue-skinned girl remained a mystery beyond words.
For now, patience seemed to be in order. Soon he hoped to step into her world and learn the answers to all the questions that ached to be asked. But would he have to pass into that realm with his sword swinging? Since Arxad had guaranteed only entry into his world and not freedom for the slaves, it seemed that this dragon lacked both the authority to unchain the captives and the power to protect his human guests. And perhaps he was also a coward.
As another lightning bolt lit up the shed, Adrian caught a glimpse of his sword, still leaning against the wall, and a hatchet in a belt holster in one corner, apparently left behind by a worker. Soon he would be able to use his training for something other than guarding the rear quarters of a pompous governor. Being the tail feathers of that prideful peacock had provided a lot of opportunities, and now the step for which he had prepared for years lay only moments away.
Cassabrie let out a quiet sigh and nuzzled close. Adrian slid his hand into hers, again feeling her unnaturally cold fingers and her increasing tremors. Her unusual trust, unguarded affection, and trembling frail body blended into an arrow that plunged through his heart.
Sympathy flowed and with it a flood of words, giving substance to his passion, as if his own inner voice echoed what his father had taught so many times. You draw your sword for one purpose, to defend those who trust in your strength. And let your arms provide more than the swing of a blade. Give love to the weak. Give them warmth. Whisper words of comfort to those who keep your heart strong.
As cold rain continued to whip around in the stormy wind, Adrian embraced Cassabrie with both arms and kissed her on the head. “Fear not,” he whispered. “You’re safe with me. No matter what happens, I will never forsake you. I will do whatever it takes to set every captive free.”
Marcelle followed Darien as he marched near the edge of Miller’s Creek. While windblown rain pelted their bodies from the left, they trudged along the right side of the flooded bank. With the sky growing darker as evening progressed, she stayed within three steps of the splashing boots in front of her. Of course she could keep this up for hours; her training had seen to that. But Darien wouldn’t recognize her abilities. In fact, he had already made a stabbing comment.
“Let’s step lively, men,” he had said only moments ago. “With her short legs, Marcelle will have to jog to keep up, but such is the liability of traveling with a woman.”
As she forced herself to keep pace without accelerating into a running gait, she tightened the strap that held her bag in place on her back. Darien would find out soon enough what his liabilities really were, soon being the operative word. By her reckoning, they had less than half an hour before the gas-collection tank would fill up and begin making noise. The bad weather had slowed their progress so much, she had thrown her planned timetable into the scrap heap long ago.
Barely visible another ten paces ahead, a short, thin scout
led the way, carrying a coil of rope over his shoulder and retracing the route he had taken when trailing the Gateway rebel past the boundary. To her rear, four other soldiers kept pace, each one almost as tall and muscular as Darien. The number in the planned company had started at three and had swollen to seven, but Darien, in spite of Marcelle’s chiding about squishing a cockroach, refused to explain the reason, citing “customary practice in stormy weather.”
As they marched in verbal silence, ways to subdue all six floated around in her mind. The scout wouldn’t be a problem. He would likely flee at the first sign of violence. Darien was the obvious first target. A blast from the photo gun—accidental, of course—would fuse his feet together, and when the others bent over to give him aid, a few quick slices across their legs would render them immobile. Since Darien’s crossbow hung in a harness at his side, he wouldn’t be able to load and aim before she disarmed him. Still, even in her imagination, the task seemed impossible. They would have to be total buffoons to allow themselves to be fooled like that. But what else could she do?
She patted the photo gun, tucked away in her waistband and under her tunic to keep it out of the rain. Would it stay dry enough? Should she time her mutiny to coincide with their approach to Adrian’s location? With his help, subduing all six might be possible, but it would be better if the soldiers didn’t know the whereabouts of the portal or the plan to deliver extane. If they learned the truth, merely immobilizing them wouldn’t be enough. They would have to die.
Marcelle gripped the hilt of her sword. Waiting until they found Adrian seemed to be the only option. If she killed the scout too early, she could never pick up Adrian’s trail in this running wash. In that case, she would have to go straight to the gas line and hope to arrive in time to complete the deal with the dragon, but darkness and floodwaters had erased her mental map. Could she find the tank now? Probably not in this storm.
As her previous plan reentered her mind, she shivered. Could she really kill the soldiers? What had they done but obey orders? They were fools to march under Prescott’s banner, to be sure, but should death be the penalty for lack of wisdom? Would the grieving widows and fatherless children lament any less if told that the man they wept for shouldn’t have put on his uniform? Of course, if evidence came to light that revealed Darien as her mother’s murderer, she could kill him with pleasure, but that would be little solace if the others had to die with him.
Shaking her head, she trudged on. Maybe the solution would become clear soon, but, to this point, it seemed that the rain symbolized bad luck, and all her plans were washing away.
Soon, the scout slowed. He pushed aside a branch, exposing a clearing. As rain continued to pour, Darien signaled for her and the trailing soldiers to come closer. Drawing his black sword, he peered into the opening, waiting, listening. With the wind rustling the trees and a cascade of droplets pattering the swollen creek behind them, any sound Adrian might make would surely be drowned out.
After nearly a minute, Darien turned and slid his sword away. “He is not here, nor anywhere within range of our voices, so we may converse freely.”
“How do you know?” Marcelle asked.
“If I am allowed to stand still, I can detect the presence of a man from a hundred paces away.”
“Even if he is downwind?”
“It is not his odor that gives away a man’s location; it is his thoughts, his attitude, his fear. I assume he left this place in search of shelter.”
Marcelle laughed. “So now you’re a mind reader as well as a soldier. Were you raised by gypsies, or did you run off with the circus when you were a boy?”
He nodded at the soldiers. “Take her.”
A soldier grabbed her elbow and held her arm in place, and a second did the same while the other two drew swords and stood at her back. Marcelle tried to jerk free, but her captors held her fast. Glaring at Darien, she kept her voice in check. “What are you doing?”
“Ensuring the success of our mission.” Darien lifted her tunic, pulled the photo gun from her waistband, and slid it inside his own clothes. “I told you that I am well practiced at divining the secrets of the heart. Your loyalties are not with the governor.”
Marcelle jerked again, but the soldiers pinned her arms to her sides. “What are you talking about? I am a noble, the daughter of a noble. My father is Prescott’s personal accountant. We eat at the head table every evening. I am not one to bite the hand that feeds me.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not.” Darien slid her sword from its scabbard and set the point against her throat. “I must, however, trust my instincts, and disarming you for the remainder of this quest will allow me to keep my head from being impaled.”
Rain pelted the blade, sending a rivulet against her throat and down her chest. As the point pricked her skin, she resisted the urge to swallow. How could he have known her thoughts? Was he truly a mind reader? Rumors had long swirled about Diviners, people who could feel trouble riding on the wind, but weren’t they always female, the witches Orion had burned at the stake?
Again forcing her voice to stay calm, she looked him in the eye. “I was never a threat to you, and now that I am disarmed, your gorillas can let me go.”
Darien pulled back the sword and nodded at the soldiers. When they released her, she rubbed her wet sleeves, trying to restore circulation to her stinging arms. She ached to give him a tongue-lashing, warning him of certain demotion once Drexel learned of his insult, but without blade or gun, giving him another reason to kill her would add to her growing pile of stupid moves. “So,” she said, her tone quiet and submissive, “what are you going to do now?”
“There is a shelter not far from here, a shed, really, but enough to keep out the storm. If our prey knows about it, we might find him inside, already trapped in a snare.” He slowly rotated, searching through the angled curtain of rain. “It’s at the end of the gas line, but finding it in these conditions will be difficult. The rain probably washed away his tracks, and I’m not sure of the pipeline’s exact direction.”
“And complete darkness will be upon us in mere moments,” the scout said. “We could use our lamp, of course.”
“Not yet. Being seen by our prey before we see him is not a good hunting maneuver.” He looked at the scout. “Do you know the way to the gas line?”
The scout pointed back the way they had come. “I know where it emerges from the ground. We could follow it, even in the dead of night.”
Darien shook his head. “It branches from that point. Even if we chose the right path, it would take too much time.”
A high-pitched whistle penetrated the storm’s din. Marcelle cringed. It was the collection tank. The stupid thing picked the worst possible time to sound its alarm. It might as well have shouted, “I’m over here! Come and ruin the freedom fighters’ plans!”
“What’s that noise?” Darien asked Marcelle.
She shrugged. “How should I know? A bird, maybe?”
He stared at her, his eyes probing. “You know better, don’t you?”
She scowled. Maybe a dose of anger would shield her thoughts. “If I know better, then read my mind. Maybe you’ll learn more than you want to know.”
“Impudent wench!” He slapped her savagely across the cheek. “If your father was half a man, he wouldn’t allow you to play with swords.”
The slap stung, but Marcelle refused to grimace. With her mind unguarded, she hurled a string of vile insults his way, each thought punctuated with a silent snarl.
Darien laughed. “I cannot read your thoughts, my dear, but I can read your malice. You have stripped your façade and stand naked, so you can lay your pretense aside.”
Marcelle wrapped her arms around herself, covering her cold, wet chest. This monster’s gaze seemed to pierce through anything. “The storm is getting worse,” she said, forcing a hard shiver. “We should return to Drexel and allow him to judge who is and who is not loyal to our land.”
“I will not return without comple
ting my mission,” Darien said. “Putting an end to this idiotic conspiracy will be a feather in my cap.”
“No cap will ever fit that swollen head of yours, but a feather is appropriate for your plumage.”
He used Marcelle’s sword to cut a strip of cloth from the hem of her tunic, exposing her side to the cold wind. “Your tongue is sharper than your blade.” He wrapped the strip around her jaws, gagging her, and tied it in the back. “And I prefer to avoid its fury.” He then took the rope from the scout and tied her wrists together behind her.
She grunted through the gag. If only she could say what this self-worshiping dung beetle deserved.
Darien handed the sword to the scout. “Use this to cut through the underbrush. We will head straight for the whistling sound and learn what bird calls us to its nest.”
SIX
ADRIAN peered through the veil of rain, but darkness allowed only a blurry view, nothing visible beyond three feet in front of the shed. Water seeped from the cobbled floor, soaking his trousers and Cassabrie’s dress and cloak. No matter. They had dried very little anyway, and she didn’t seem to mind. At least her chilled body wasn’t getting any colder.
As he listened to the competing noises—peals of thunder in the distance, rain splashing in deepening pools, and whistling wind tossing the trees into a rustling fury—another sound drifted in, a constant whistle that pierced the chaos, like a flute playing its highest note while the rest of the orchestra tuned their instruments.
Adrian gave his head a mind-clearing shake. How odd that he would construct such a comparison. Music had never been his forte. Rhythm, yes, but sweet melodies and harmonies had always been someone else’s role.
“What is that noise?” Cassabrie asked.
