Servant of a Dark God (34 page)

“You don’t know that.”

“You don’t know that they haven’t.”

“It’s the only way.”

“Just act normal,” said Nettle.

“Will you shut up with your normal nonsense.”

“I’m Captain Argoth’s son. It will count for something.”

“Yeah,” said Talen. “That’s why I was standing around this morning at the city gate batting horseflies from my naked body.”

“As soon as they realize you’re gone, they’ll know. They’ll send one back for help. The rest will watch the area. And the woods here don’t run unbroken. They’ll see you.”

“No,” said Talen. “They won’t.” But he knew they would. By the stinking lord of pigs, they would.

Unless he hid so well, so quietly, like a mouse in a tuft of grass, that they’d have to be standing right on him to know he was there.

“Just get me to the bend in the road,” said Talen. They didn’t have dogs, and it would be dark before they could bring them. That was the only thing he had in his favor.

Talen caught another glimpse of the men, perhaps a half-dozen rods behind. There were eight of them, all Shoka.

The wagon bumped along, making it difficult for Talen to keep himself flat and out of sight in the wagon bed. At this pace they weren’t going to make the bend. “Speed it up,” hissed Talen.

“We’ll say you’re sick.”

“It won’t work,” said Talen.

Behind them, the men urged their horses into a canter.

“Faster,” said Talen.

Nettle flipped the reins and Iron Boy began to trot. The wagon bounced off a rut.

Talen readied himself.

It was odd, but the sensation of energy and well-being he’d noticed passing through the city gate had not vanished. If anything, it had built. He felt as if he could keep pace with a horse, maybe outrun one.

Of course, that was stupid. Still, with every jolt of the wagon his strength grew. He could feel it, like a crazy itch seeping through him. He wondered about the ginger cookies. This would not be the first baker to mix a come-back into his breads. Come-backs were something to make a body depend on his bread, something besides taste to make a person come back and continue to buy. Of course, such herbs were outlawed in the New Lands, but it had been a Whitecliff baker. He probably didn’t think such rules applied to him.

“We’re almost to the bend,” said Nettle.

The men were closing fast. One of them yelled out.

The wagon passed into the shade of trees and out of the the men’s sight.

Nettle reined in Iron Boy to slow the wagon.

Talen rose to his feet.

“You’re not going to have time to find cover.”

Not if he ran into the woods. The forest floor was covered with leaves that would crackle underfoot. If they didn’t see his tracks, then they’d be sure to hear any step he took.

Talen looked up. The trees here were massive giants. All the lower limbs had been cut by clan road gangs, and the closest branch towered more than a dozen feet overhead.

It was an impossible height for him. Except, he knew he could reach them. His limbs ached to jump. What did he have to lose?

Talen stood on the wagon seat and eyed the limb of a towering elm in front of them. The branch was as thick as his leg and hung almost twenty feet above the trail.

The tree limb was too high. He knew it. But he couldn’t help himself. His legs cried out for a sudden burst of power. He had never imagined his growth would come upon him in this fashion.

He stood on the wagon seat and held his hands out to the side for balance. He would jump a bit to the side just in case he missed.

“You’ll never make it,” said Nettle.

“Maybe my legs are as quick as my hands.”

“That wasn’t quickness back there with Fabbis,” said Nettle. “That was you grabbing a snake that was just about dead.”

No, Talen thought. It had been as live and wriggling as any serpent he’d ever held. Not to mention that he’d moved quickly enough to take both Fabbis and Cat off guard. Talen steadied himself; he was still a bit light-headed, but the itch inside him had built. He could feel the power.

The sound of the horse hooves beating the ground sped from a canter to a full gallop.

“They’re on us!” hissed Nettle. “Sit down!”

Talen focused on the branch. “Tell them I struck out on foot after leaving the gate.”

He was almost there.

The galloping sounded as if it were right behind them.

The wagon passed underneath the branch, and Talen leapt.

He soared.

He must have got a bounce from the seat, because the branch was suddenly within reach.

He grabbed it with one hand, and the wagon passed below him.

Talen reached up with his other hand and swung over.

It was impossible that he’d made the jump. He looked down. The distance between him and the ground yawned below. Lords, a fall at this height would break his leg.

He wanted to whoop. Such a leap.

Nettle turned in the wagon seat and stared up at him, his mouth hanging open. Then Nettle’s attention snapped to the bend in the road.

Talen got to his feet, and in one, two, three balancing strides, worked himself to the far side of the trunk and flattened himself against it. Nettle was now on the other side of the tree.

The first rider rounded the bend.

With a thunder, the others followed. By this time Nettle had pulled the wagon to the side of the road, as if giving faster travelers the right of way as courtesy demanded.

Please, thought Talen. Let them ride on by. Let them ride on by.

But the horsemen did not. They pulled their horses to a stop and commanded Nettle to hold.

Talen dared not move, dared not even attempt a glance below him. He tried to meld into the trunk. He couldn’t see what was going on, but he could hear.

“Where’s the Koramite?” one of the men asked.

“And who are you?” asked Nettle. “I haven’t seen you before.”

“You’ve seen
me
,” another man said, the anger clear in his voice. “Now where is he?”

“I don’t need to answer your questions,” said Nettle. “You can address your concerns to my father.”

“It appears,” the second man said, “that your father has made the wrong friends. And he’s not here to protect you.”

“What do you mean?”

Metal scraped against metal—a sword being drawn!

“Where is the Koramite?” the man demanded.

“Don’t threaten me,” said Nettle.

A pause. A scuffle.

“Stop,” said Nettle, his voice distressed. “He left on foot the first chance after we passed through the gate.”

Talen wished he could see what was happening. All he could see was the bark before him and the rumps of three horses.

“We saw two sitting on this wagon seat.”

“That’s what we meant for you to see,” said Nettle.

“You lie.”

Nettle cried out in pain.

Talen almost leaned out to get a better view. What if they had found the hatchlings back at the farmstead? If they had, Nettle was in terrible danger.

“Fool,” said Nettle. “I rode with that barrel and sack of potatoes next to me, all covered with cloth. He’s gone, flown!”

“You’re lying,” the second man said. He raised his voice. “Search the woods.”

A SHORTNESS OF BREATH

T

alen could hear the men fanning out in the trees below him, their boots crunching to the leaves. One man called out to the others, telling them to look for spoor in the leaves. Another told Talen to reveal himself or face harsher consequences.

He pressed himself further into the rough bark of the elm. He could not see any of them at first. Then one man with a black-and-gold-checkered scarf tied at the back of his bald head walked into view in front and below him.

The man held a short sword out in front of him. If he turned around and looked up, he’d see Talen as clearly as a pig at a party. And there was nowhere Talen could go. If he moved, if he scuffed one bit of bark to fall below, someone was sure to see.

Lords, this was a bad idea. Talen thought of his experience with Ke in the tree back home just the day before. You couldn’t escape someone in a tree. Why had he jumped up here?

The man with the gold-checkered scarf turned around, scanning the brush around him.

If they saw him, what would he do? Not climb higher. He’d tried that with Ke. He’d have to go lower. Or, like a squirrel, he could run along the limb of one tree to another until he had put enough distance between him and his pursuers to drop to the ground and run like a madman.

The man in the checkered scarf examined the ground. He turned his back on Talen, squatted and examined the forest floor more closely. Then he looked up at the trees in front of him.

He began to turn about, to scan the trees.

Talen couldn’t spring to another limb of this tree. It would rustle the leaves.

He looked about for any escape. To his left he saw a small stub sticking out from the trunk. It was barely enough to stand on.

The man continued to turn.

If he could use that, if it didn’t break under his weight . . .

Talen quickly stepped to the stub.

It held, and he gripped the rough elm bark to steady himself.

The move hadn’t taken him totally from the man’s view. But Talen couldn’t go around to the other side of the tree because that was in full view of the road. He looked up. The next branch was too fat to grab easily, and far too high above him anyway.

Despite Talen’s fear, his limbs felt miraculously full of energy. His legs—it felt as if they carried nothing, as if his entire body weighed no more than a feather.

He could make that leap to the next branch above him. He could leap and hang there if he had to. His arms felt that strong.

Talen could almost see the profile of the man’s face. One more turn and he’d spot Talen.

Standing on the branch stub, Talen coiled himself as best he could.

The man began to turn.

Talen sprang.

The power in his legs was immense, but it wasn’t enough.

Perhaps the perch had been too small. Or perhaps it had twisted just a bit at the last moment. Whatever the cause, he didn’t make the branch. Didn’t come close.

He reach out for the trunk of the giant old elm, his fingers spread wide, reaching out with toes and knees, reached out and grasped it in a bear hug. He clung to the rough bark with all his strength.

He expected to fall, to dash his worthless brains on the ground below. But he didn’t. His fingers, like his arms and legs, were full of life, and he clung to the trunk like some great, four-legged insect.

It was odd. He had to breathe like he was straining under a great weight, but it did not feel like a great weight. It felt easy and natural.

He looked down. While he hadn’t made the branch, he was high enough to be covered by a large block of leaves.

Light-headedness washed over him. He was panting. Hyperventilating. But he couldn’t stop. He felt dizzy. The world below began to spin. He was going to lose his grip.

Talen closed his eyes. The fat branch above was not so far away. If he could shinny up to it and rest, he was sure the light-headedness would pass.

He reached up, his arms and legs wide, moved his foot, reached up again. Climbing the trunk was as easy as climbing a ladder. In moments, with barely a scrape of sound, he reached the branch. He dared not open his eyes because he knew the dizziness would take him. With a final move, he pulled himself on top of the branch and straddled it. He would have lain on his stomach, but he was panting, straining, laboring for breath. He was suffocating.

The edges of his vision began to blur.

Talen struggled for another breath, but it wasn’t enough. He’d never felt panic like this before. He couldn’t get his breath.

The world slid to the side; Talen’s vision narrowed. He was passing out, and the last thing he thought was that he’d better collapse onto this branch squarely because he didn’t want to fall from this height.

BAKER’S HERBS

T

alen found himself face-first on the branch. He was still straddling it, still panting, but not suffocating like he had been before.

He reached up and felt the wetness on his cheek. He’d bloodied his nose. Bloodied a small circle of the branch for that matter.

The men stood below him. “He’s not here,” one said. “There’s not one leaf that’s bent out of place.”

“Then he jumped out earlier,” said the one who had first commanded Nettle to stop. “Where is he?”

“I told you,” said Nettle. “He’s headed west. They’ve got family out there.”

“Maybe we’ll take you along just to make sure.”

“Have they arrested my father?” asked Nettle.

Talen heard one of the men spit.

A beat passed.

“No, they haven’t,” said Nettle. His voice changed. It rung with confidence. “Perhaps you should know that my family dined with the warlord just last week. Maybe I should pass your names along to him. Put in a good word.” This last he almost hurled at them.

They did not immediately respond to Nettle’s threat.

One finally spoke up. “We’re wasting time here.”

“He’s not telling us something,” said another.

“Interrogate him then. I told you we should have broken up into groups. I’m going back to look for spoor by the gate.”

Saddles and harness creaked below as men mounted up. A horse stamped its foot.

“I’m going to be watching you,” a man said.

“Good,” said Nettle. “Then when it comes to it, we’ll know exactly where to find you.”

The men urged their horses forward with grunts and clicks. Then the horses thudded away.

Talen dared not say a word. Perhaps it was a ruse, one or two of them staying behind.

He waited, the itch to move began building in his limbs again. Or maybe it had never gone away. His breathing had eased, but he was still light-headed.

“Talen,” Nettle called up.

Talen didn’t dare move.

“They’re gone. Talen,” Nettle hissed. “Get your Koramite arse down here. We need to put some distance between us and that pack of turncoats.”

Talen looked at the ground so very far below. How in the world had he gotten so high? “I don’t know how to get down,” he said.