Diplomats and Fugitives (The Emperor's Edge Book 9) (45 page)

Mahliki. Ashara was convinced she hadn’t bought enough time for her to escape. Maybe she could use her talent to warn someone, Basilard or one of the others.

But how? They were miles away by now, and none of them were stalkers or even practitioners. They wouldn’t hear any call she sent through the network of the forest. Even if they had been attuned to the trees, she doubted she could send a message that far. Still, she should try. To make sure they knew what had befallen Mahliki—and her. Mahliki might be more important, in the world’s view of life, but Ashara would selfishly hope she might lead someone to find
her
.

She closed her eyes and wriggled her hand into the moist, loamy soil beneath the shrub. Not surprisingly, even her fingers hurt. The dirt stung her bleeding scrapes, and she thought her pinkie was broken. It wasn’t the only bone in her body that was. Resolutely, she focused on her hand, and then the roots beneath her hand, roots that touched the tips of the roots of the next bush over, which touched the roots of grasses, which touched the roots of a scrub oak farther down the river.

One couldn’t send words through plants, but she could impart a signature and sometimes an idea. She struggled to share a simple message with the forest, of loss and of needing help.

The concentration required made her head throb, pulses of pain that matched her heartbeat. She knew that if she didn’t stop, she would pass out. But maybe that was all right. Then her body wouldn’t hurt. But she feared that her head wound would swell and that she might not wake up again, that her children would never know what had happened to her, that they would think she had abandoned them, that she hadn’t cared enough to come back.

Warm tears leaked from her closed eyes, trickling down the sides of her face. One more time, she sent her mental energy out through the network of roots, trying to imprint her message on the forest. And then, despite her fear that losing consciousness would mean death, she passed out.

• • • • •

Basilard was not going to make it to the trail before the flood washed over him.

He raced toward the cliff face, hoping he could somehow climb above the water’s reach. He didn’t know if there would be time to scramble high enough up the rock wall, but he had to try. The wave of water roared closer, logs and people caught in its foaming clutches. As he sprinted for the cliff, he spotted a dark shadow at the base and remembered the half-collapsed cave he had passed on his way up the canyon.

With no time to debate his choices, he veered toward it, almost diving into the hole. Maybe it was the wrong decision—maybe he would drown—but he was certain he didn’t have time to climb. If the water struck him while he hung on the cliff, he would be as hapless as a dandelion seed on the wind, torn from his perch and carried downriver.

He had no sooner leaped headfirst into the cave than the wall of water reached him. Basilard gulped in a huge breath of air an instant before it swirled into his hiding spot, the icy chill swallowing him. The current tugged at his legs and tried to pull him free.

At first, he braced his hands and feet on either side of the narrow tunnel, simply fighting to hold his position. He wedged himself in successfully, but the water was filling in the space around him and would soon reach the ceiling if it hadn’t already. And then what? He couldn’t hold his breath for long.

He pushed one hand up the wall, fighting the tug of the current, trying to move deeper into the cave. Blackness surrounded him, and he couldn’t see a thing. He could only navigate by touch. Maybe the cave climbed upward, and he could find a spot higher than the water level, a spot where he could stick his head out and breathe. The current tugged off one of his moccasins before he could do anything about it.

As he inched along, his lungs starting to ache, he worried he would come to a dead end or that the tunnel would veer downward, where gravity would be his enemy. If he couldn’t find a pocket of air, he would have to risk turning around and exiting the cave, trying to swim in the raging water.

His knuckles scraped against rock. Grimacing, he patted around, trying to tell if the tunnel had dipped down. No… It had ended. Without an air pocket.

Basilard backed up, fear curling through him as his burning lungs told him that he had been under for at least a minute. He maneuvered to the front of the tunnel far more quickly than he had crept in, letting the current tug at him and guide him toward the exit. But his moccasin jammed into something before he could swim free. He tried another spot, probing with the toes of his bare foot. They encountered wood. A log?

Confusion mingled with the fear already rampaging through his body. There hadn’t been a log before. He spun in the water, being carried downriver no longer his main concern. What if he couldn’t get
out
?

He shoved at the log, but it had been jammed into the entrance of the cave. Precious air bubbles escaped his mouth. The urge to take a breath nearly consumed him, even though his brain knew that would be deadly. In the darkness, he groped above and below the log, trying to find a way around it. There wasn’t enough room at the top. But at the bottom… There.

He thrust his arm through, the current outside tugging at his hand. He groped and found a rock to grip at the corner of the cave entrance, then pulled as he kicked and sucked in his belly, trying to squeeze himself through the gap. His shoulders were the broadest part. Frustration and the need for air made him frantic. He pulled harder, and his torso finally slipped free.

His vigorous movement caused the log to fall away from its spot. It tumbled down, nearly crushing him. He rolled free, shoving it away, even as he was pulled out into the water. The current spun him around. He clawed at the water, trying to figure out which way was up, which way would lead to air. His hand tangled in the branches of some tenacious bush hanging onto the bottom, or perhaps that was the side of the canyon. He clenched down, grabbing the fragile handhold with all of his strength. The current continued to pull at him, but his grip kept him from being swept away. Now if he could just find some air…

He lifted his face in the direction he thought was hope, even though he knew he was too far underwater if he was holding a bush on the canyon floor. But to his surprise, his face broke the surface. His lungs spasmed, and gulping in that first breath of air hurt. He expected to swallow water along with it and tried to make his gasp tentative, but his deprived body did not listen. Fortunately, the river was quieter than he expected. The current that had clutched at him down below, trying to tear him from the cave, meandered past on the surface. The water even seemed to be lowering as he floated there, one hand entangled in the bush while he sucked in deep breaths of air.

When he lifted his head, he realized what was happening. The great wall of water that had chased him down the canyon had peaked, then traveled past, leaving the quieter backwater in its wake. Backwater that was calming down and diminishing. His heel bumped against the ground, and he realized the level had already dropped to four feet or less. Without letting go of the bush, he righted himself, both feet touching down, rock and the root of the shrub under his bare foot.

A strange sensation traveled through him, a wave of unearthly awareness. It reminded him of a telepath’s link and had him looking around, wondering if that shaman might be about. In the darkness of night, Basilard could not make out much, but he could tell that the water still stretched across the canyon, from wall to wall. He doubted anyone else was standing close to him. All of the lanterns that had been lit before had disappeared, swallowed by the flood. Concern over whether Sicarius and the hunters had escaped the canyon touched him, but he pushed it aside for a moment, trying to understand what he was feeling. It wasn’t that sensation of being watched that he sometimes felt when the shaman was around, but more like a warning from a friend. Or even a cry for help. But he didn’t know any practitioners and certainly not any telepaths.

With the current now riding about his hips and continuing to drop, Basilard released the bush and took a step in the mud, turning for a better view of the canyon downstream. As he did so, the sensation—the feeling of being called—vanished.

He almost dismissed it as a figment of his imagination, but a hunch made him reach back and grasp the bush again. Nothing happened. He patted the mud with his bare foot until he found that exposed root again. The warning pinged in his mind once more. This time, a distinct image came with it, of the shaman attacking Ashara and Mahliki, and of Ashara wounded and in pain, unable to move as she lay next to a waterfall. Basilard tried to focus on it, certain this was not some delusion his own brain had come up with—he hadn’t even been thinking of Ashara before—but it fragmented, like wisps of smoke driven away by the wind.

That waterfall. It seemed familiar. He thought he had been to that spot before.

A wave of regret washed over him. Basilard hadn’t meant to send Mahliki and Ashara into trouble; he had thought he was protecting them by directing them away from the rest of the party. Ashara. This wasn’t even her battle. It never had been. Basilard clenched his fist, wishing he was in front of Shukura now, so he could stab the man for sending her on his duplicitous errand. The idea of her stranded and in pain propelled him into motion. He had to find her. But if the shaman was after her, Basilard would need help. He needed to find Sicarius first.

Wishing he could cry out, calling the names of his comrades, Basilard was forced to push his way down the receding river in silence, the mud sucking at his feet, trying to ensnare him again. He hoped Sicarius had made it through the flood unscathed. He was the only one who might be able to kill that shaman.

Chapter 19

By the time morning came, Ashara was tired of lying around in pain and waiting for death. Her situation would not improve on its own. By the light filtering through the forest canopy, she spotted her pack a few feet away. It had fallen off as she had plummeted and appeared as battered as she. The containers holding her potions and salves might be broken, but she hoped some of her concoctions might be salvageable. The healing salve was not liquid, so even if its jar had been smashed, she should be able to scrape up some of the unctuous goo. She only hoped it would do something. It had been designed to help knit together cuts and sooth bruises, not heal internal injuries and broken bones, and she had no doubt that she had those. Pain in her back and her ribs stabbed her with each deep breath, and all she had to do was touch her abdomen to bring tears to her eyes.

Ashara needed the attention of a healer far greater than she, but she had no idea where she would find one out here. She didn’t think she could walk. She couldn’t even reach her cursed pack. Trying to do so made her gasp with pain, and sweat soon broke out on her forehead. Still, she forced herself to lift her head and shoulders, to lean toward it. The flap was still tied closed, and she cringed at the idea of struggling with the buckle with her broken fingers, but she stretched toward it anyway.

Almost there. Almost there….

A pale-skinned hand dropped onto the pack before she reached it. Ashara was too wounded and weary to twitch in surprise—or bother admonishing herself for not hearing the owner’s approach. When she looked up, identifying Basilard’s concerned face above the hand, she slumped in relief. She didn’t know if he could do anything for her, but at least she would not die here alone.

Not taking his eyes from her, Basilard unfastened the pack and opened it. He grimaced at the mess he saw inside, but he must have known what she wanted, because he went straight for the salve, what remained of it. The jar had indeed broken. He pulled out the ceramic bottom, a lump of salve resting on it, and rested it on the rocks beside her, rocks that were stained by her blood.

Lie back, please.
Basilard pointed at the ground behind her, perhaps not believing she would understand. He cradled her shoulders, guiding her back into a reclining position.

A second man came into view, looking down at her from the other side of the stream. Sicarius. This time, Ashara did chasten her senses, irritated, despite everything, that she hadn’t felt their arrival.

Basilard pointed at him, signed a few words that Ashara was too tired to track, then pointed up to the top of the waterfall. That reminded her that there was more at stake here than her injuries.

“Mahliki,” she whispered, wincing at the pain in her ribs that came with speaking. “Tladik—the shaman—has… platoon of men… I’m afraid they got her. Tried to give her time to escape… They didn’t want me. Only her.”

Sicarius listened to her, then climbed up the cliff beside the waterfall. From her position on her back, she could watch him scale it, almost gliding up the thirty feet as if the most perfect hand and footholds were helping him.

“They might have… picked him… to be a…” Ashara realized she had yet to mention her profession in the army and stopped herself. She did not want to confess that to Basilard, not now.

He touched a finger to her lips, the gesture surprisingly gentle—caring. Then he extricated his arm from behind her shoulders.
Speaking hurts, yes? Do not hurt yourself.
He pointed at her body in a couple of spots, and she interpreted the rest of his signs as an explanation that he would do what first aid he could for her.

“Smear me all over with that.” She twitched a finger toward the salve. “Please. And there’s a potion in there… if it’s not broken. Helps with stamina. Maybe… might help me. Also an arrowhead… in my shoulder.” She cringed at the idea of him digging it out, but she did not want the salve sealing the puncture wound and leaving the arrow inside.

Quite a list.
Basilard smiled and went to work, applying the salve at the same time as he probed her gently, checking for internal injuries and broken bones. As much as she wanted to be strong, to pretend the wounds were nothing she couldn’t handle, she gasped often at the examination, and tears gathered in her eyes. Basilard paused to touch her face a few times, his fingers light, apologetic. It had been a long time since anyone had cared if he hurt her, but she was in too much pain to appreciate the sentiment.