Skillful Death (66 page)

I look him in the eye. I don’t even consider trotting out my old lie about waiting for a transmission.
 

“Tomorrow,” I say.

“The Skomin farm is large. Where will the meeting take place?”

“The cedar grove.”

Peter returns to his group and I hear them plotting.

“Tell your men to set up the devices in the cedar trees. As soon as it’s dark—no later. Set them for maximum sensitivity. If anything bigger than a dog walks through those woods, I want the whole thing to be splinters in an instant,” Peter says to the squat man.

One of the women speaks next. “What about the snipers? If we position them along the road, we should be able to take them out before they’ve even approached.”

“Set them up, but only as a precaution,” Peter says. “They could already be positioned on the other side of the road.”

“We could still send patrols to the south of the grove,” the woman says.

“Good,” Peter says.

What they lack in strategy, they seem to compensate with manpower. As I listen, they commit enough forces to take out an army. I wonder how their fighting has remained bloodless for so long.
 

The squat man pulls out a device. It’s some sort of radio, I imagine. He starts to convey orders.

“And tell them to drop a ladder for us as soon as they can get a squad over here,” Peter says to the squat man.

I have to think of a way to warn Bud. I was supposed to get these people to the cedar grove, but they’re engineering a sophisticated surprise attack. This is beyond what I thought they were capable of. If Bud is as ignorant as I was, he will be in deep trouble.

“Wait,” I say to Peter. “This is supposed to be a peaceful meeting with Constantine.”

“We know the nature of this meeting,” Peter says. “He hopes to inspire us to fight with the other Providentials. We will grant him his wish.”

How does that expression go? “If you can’t spot the patsy at the table…” I guess the same applies if you look around the table and believe that
everyone
is a patsy.

“It will be a massacre.”

“And it won’t be the first,” he says. So much for the idea that blood had never been spilled. “And if Constantine is successful at luring the others to the cedar grove, then it will be the last. We’ll finally end this war. While their leaders are trying to extract the spirit from Constantine’s chest, we’ll be free to circle around and capture the center of the village.”

“But if they do extract his spirit, they’ll have the power to overwhelm you,” I say.

“That’s all nonsense. It’s all lies they tell children to keep them from exploring beyond the bamboo.”

My options are few. I could try to fight this bunch. They’re old, but one versus six will likely end poorly for me. I could go along with them, but they’ll probably find little use for me once they’ve eliminated Constantine. I’m not going in that damn tunnel again. I decide to exercise my last option.

I run for the mouth of the cave. Peter doesn’t try to stop me. I don’t think he realizes my intention until it’s too late. I fling myself from the edge, launching as far as I can. Below me, the surface of the emerald pool is at least forty feet down. I splash down near the center of the pool and plunge deep into the cool water. My ears pop and I fight my way back to the surface. My clothes weigh me down and my shoes make my legs feel like lead.

I pull myself to the opposite edge of the quarry pool and begin my climb. The wall isn’t as tall on this side, and I’m up the rocks in no time. I glance back. Peter is leaning out through the entrance of the cave, looking up towards the top of the cliff above him. I run off into the woods and begin to circle the quarry. I need to figure out how to find Bud.

♣
   
♢
   
♡
   
♠

The artistic Providentials have ordered a group to track me down. I hear them behind me just as I reach the area devastated by the artificial storm sent by the logical Providentials. I’ve got a hunch and it proves correct. The people following me don’t want to enter the clearing. A lifetime of living under the trees has conditioned them.

For me, it’s a beautiful sight. The wind has ruined hundreds of trees. Some pulled their roots straight from the ground as they were laid flat. Others have been stripped of their branches and leaves but the trunks still stand. The blue sky overhead looks foreign after spending so many days in the forest. It’s foreign but gorgeous to my eyes. So much for Bud’s idea that the trees will fill the sky immediately.

I hear a metallic clank behind me. Next to me, the split trunk of a fallen tree explodes in wood chips. Someone is shooting at me. I hunch over and weave into a cluster of branches. Two more shots ring out, but neither comes close. I work my way deeper into the clearing.

I follow the toppled trees, hoping that they’re taking me in the right direction. My pace is terrible. In a couple of spots the wind has torn everything away and all that’s left is soft dirt. In those spots, I can run, but most of my path is littered with downed branches and trunks that I have to crawl over.
 

I reach an area where the clearing splits. I imagine that two different storms must have crossed paths. I can’t tell which path to choose. The sun is going down so I have some sense of which direction is west, but I don’t know how far we traveled in those tunnels. I climb a downed trunk to get a better view. I hear shots instantly and bark explodes around me. I leap back down to the dirt. If the aim of these guys is any indication, perhaps Bud’s not in trouble.

From what little scouting I can manage, it seems that the clearing is wider to the right. That will take me east. I think that’s the right direction to go. I dash between two trunks and then across an open area, expecting a shot to knock me down with each step. The ground slopes down and I sprint across it. I’m crawling through a thick wall of leaves when I hear the next shot. Leaves flutter to the ground and I dive down too. That was too close. I swear I felt the bullet pass right by my head.

Maybe if I move to the other side of the clearing, I’ll be out of range.

A flash of light catches my eye and I bury my head in my hands, afraid that the next shot is coming.
 

I’m still alive.

I peek out and there’s the flash again. The light is red and it flashes in three quick bursts. I blink and see the source. There’s a woman standing in the forest—a few trees deep—and she’s holding a light. She flashes it three more times. She’s trying to get my attention.

When I lift my head a little more, she waves. She’s wearing green. There’s a gun strapped to her back. She could have shot a dozen times by now, but still she waves. She turns and beckons me to follow. My chances of living are pretty slim. I’m not sure that I have anything to lose. If I crawl, I think I can make it most of the way to the woods.

They must see me moving. I flatten my body and pull myself along the ground. It’s excruciating work.

The woman is deeper in the woods, but I still see her waving me on. I reach the end of the trunk I’ve been using for protection. Now I’ve got at least twenty paces of open space between me and the woods. With no cover, I’ll never make it. These guys aren’t exactly expert marksmen. They’ve had a dozen chances to hit me and I’m not even wounded, but even a random shot might tag me in the wide-open space I’m looking at.

The woman keeps waving.

I shake my head and point in the direction of the shooters.

She nods. At least I think she’s nodding. She’s far enough away that I can’t exactly see her perfectly. If this is a trap, it has worked. I’m out of options and I’m putting my trust in this woman. Again, if she wanted to shoot me, she could have done so before she even bothered to signal. So, if it is a trap, it still might be better than being shot.

She puts up both hands and motions with both of her palms towards the ground. “Stay down,” she says, with her hands. Then she waves me forward again.

What the hell. Daylight won’t last much longer anyway.

I stay low and I run.

Shots erupt from the woods, but not from the side I expect. These aren’t the deliberate, spaced shots of a sniper. This is rapid, automatic fire. If I had to guess, I would say this is suppressive fire, meant to drive the snipers to cover so they can’t get a clean shot at me. I hear a shot buzz over my head and I glance to the right and see a line of people hiding behind trees and shooting. They’re covering me.

The woman is waving frantically.

I don’t stand straight until I reach her.

“Follow close,” she says, “and run fast.”

She plunges into the woods and I’m right on her heels. She weaves between the trees at an unbelievable speed. Either she’s lucky, or she has an uncanny knowledge of this forest, because she ducks around branches and behind boulders with complete disregard for what may be on the other side. I have to abandon caution to keep up.

She doesn’t tire.
 

It has been a long day for me and I’m panting when she gets to the bottom of the hill. She floats uphill. Her toes lightly touch roots and rocks and her feet seem to hover above moss and ferns. I couldn’t move that delicately at any speed. I charge up the hill behind her, trampling and stomping.
 

“This way,” she says, pointing.

She starts down the hill and leaps from a ledge of rock, landing on a slippery-looking fallen log. She doesn’t slow. I stop at the edge and look down. It’s got to be at least six feet down. I turn and lower myself down to the dirt below.

When I spin back around, she’s gone.

She has run away without a trace.

I look back, get a sense of the direction we were headed and then run downhill. My feet crunch in the leaves, but I’m moving fast and nobody is shooting at me. Out here in the forest, I shouldn’t have any allies. Who are these people?

I keep running, drawing deep draughts of cool forest air as I run. My body feels good as I stretch out my strides. Another flash of light stops me in my tracks.

It’s blue.

I look up and see a man. He’s wearing green and brown, like a movie-version of Robin Hood and he’s waving me to the left. What the hell, it worked out well last time. I run in his direction.
 

This guy is not as light on his feet as the woman, but every few steps he makes an incredible leap. I can imagine that tracking him would be nearly impossible. You’d be following his tracks for a couple of paces and then you would have to fan out and hunt for the next footprint. Each leap heads off in a random direction.

We’re running along the side of the hill. Keeping up with this guy is easier than with the woman. Somewhere behind us, we’ve left the wind-damaged forest and the snipers. My leader leaps across a creek and I splash through it. I jump as far as I can, but I only make it halfway across. He speeds up. He’s pulling away from me as he ducks under low-slung branches. I just don’t have his speed.

“Hey,” I call out, when I can spare a breath.

He doesn’t slow or turn to find out what I want.

He’s gone.

“Damn it,” I say between gasps. I stop and bend over to catch my breath. I’m not at all surprised when a green light draws my eye. Flash-flash-flash. A boy is signaling me from the top of a ledge. Flash-flash-flash.

If they want me to recover faster, they should stop and explain why. I hold up a single finger to the boy—not the rude finger—and take a few more deep breaths to settle my pulse.

Flash-flash-flash.

“Okay,” I say.

I jog to the ledge and jump up on top.
 

The boy’s feet are so fast that I can’t even see them work. I run at a comfortable pace and the boy is soon pulling away. He slows and lets me catch up. Knowing that he’s making a concession for me, I push myself a bit harder and we move. I get the feeling he’s dialed back to around seventy-five percent to accommodate me. The boy darts and weaves. I do my best.

He stops.

There’s a group here—two people on horseback and a woman holding the reins of a riderless horse.

“Get on,” she says.

The man and woman riding are both carrying sidearms. We’re not running from those snipers anymore, we’re running towards something, and I’m curious what it is.

I’ve never ridden a horse before. I took a mule-trip to the bottom of the Grand Canyon once, but this looks like it will be different. On the back of the mule, I could almost put my feet on the ground. This horse’s back is taller than me. When she sees my hesitation, the woman holding the reins interlaces her fingers and offers me a boost.
 

I shake my head. I grab the saddle in both hands and lift my foot to the absurdly high stirrup. I have to use one of my hands to set my foot in the stirrup and the horse takes a half step. I hop on my right leg a couple of times and then jump and pull. The saddle shifts under my grip and, for a second, I think it’s going to slip down the side of the horse. I swing my leg over and have to reach down to settle my right foot.
 

This is going to be hell.
 

The man takes the lead and kicks his horse into a run. My horse follows. I have a death-grip on the reins, but I move my hands down so I can hold the saddle as well. I’m going to bounce off. Each time the horse’s feet spring off the ground it tosses me in the air and I land hard when its feet hit again. I can’t hold on much longer. The woman rides up next to me.

“Slouch,” she yells.

“What?”

“SLOUCH!”

My muscles are tensed for the next impact. Relaxing them seems like the worst possible idea. What the hell, I’m going to fall off anyway. I let my lower back curve and when the horse hits the ground my spine acts like a shock absorber. Suddenly, it feels like I might be able to stay on. I even smile slightly as I get into the rhythm of the horse’s stride. I imagine that from the side I probably look like the letter S, but we’re making good time.
 

My fellow riders are sitting tall and pretty in their saddles, maybe even leaning forward a bit.

Even with my sloppy new technique, I don’t think I’m going to last long. All the bouncing and flopping is just too unfamiliar. My horse launches off a ledge, stretching out its front legs, and we float through the sky. The forest floor comes up to meet us and its legs beat a quick patter on the ground below.