WARP world (39 page)

The boy whimpered as he fell onto the lifeless body of his grandfather but was quickly yanked upright, his hands bound with rope behind his back.

Dagga stalked toward Seg. Obviously the encounter at the temple had instilled new wariness. When he was an arm’s length away, he looked Seg up and down, then pressed the tip of his knife against his stomach. “Should gut you right here,” he pulled the knife away, “but there’s others want you breathing. For now.”

Dagga turned to one of the constables that waited at the doorway, and waved his knife at Seg and Ama’s packs, lying on the ground. “Dump ’em out. Don’t touch nothing.”

The constable complied. As he set to work, emptying both packs on the dirt floor, others brought the Kenda family inside. The husband and wife, hands tied, tried to offer some comfort to their boy as they bunched together under the guards’s weapons.

“Surprised?” Dagga asked Ama. He slid a hand inside his coat and pulled out a scrap of paper, which fell open to reveal part of the map Seg and Ama had used to plot their route. “Left this in the rat nest.”

The circles around places of possible shelter—including the Kenda village in this valley—might as well have been drawn in blood. Seg’s mind flashed back to that last night in the safe room and an injured Brin stumbling and knocking everything off the table–including the maps. In all the drama of the moment, they had forgotten about such damning evidence.

Dagga let the map fall from his fingers. “Think no one knows about your filthy little Kenda secrets? Nests and tunnels, whistles and code words, and…” he turned, walked to the door and tugged a blue and yellow flag from the hands of one of the constables. He walked back to Ama and stuffed the flag down the front of her shirt, where it jutted out like some absurd flower, “Signals.”

Seg pressed his lips together and reminded himself there was nothing he could say now that wouldn’t make things worse. As if sensing Seg’s thoughts, Dagga turned to him and rested the flat edge of the blade under his chin.

“Shasir call you a demon. Gonna send you up to T’ueve. Gods’ll rain your blood from the sky.” His eyes wandered over Seg and, as they lingered on his bandaged arm and shoulder, his lips curled into a sneer of contempt.

Dagga pulled the knife away and moved it to Ama, tracing it down her cheek, “Got a long list of them that want your blood, Kalder, but I’m a loyal man. Corrus gets you first. Don’t think there’ll be no friendly chat this time.”

Outside there was a sound like thunder, which grew steadily louder. Hoof beats. Horses and armed riders, Seg guessed. Dagga backed away a few steps, admiring the scene with obvious satisfaction. With the toe of his boot, he pushed at the items from Seg’s pack. Spotting Seg’s knife, he sheathed his own and picked up this latest trophy. He raised a surprised eyebrow as he weighed the light weapon in his hand, then ran a finger along the blade’s edge.

“Sharp,” he muttered, approvingly. He walked back to Seg, paused in contemplation, then dug the tip of the knife into a section of exposed skin on the upper part of Seg’s bandaged arm. With a flick, he tore open a piece of flesh, wiped the blade off on Seg’s bandage, and slipped the knife into his belt.

Seg had managed to keep quiet despite a flush of panic. Though not immediately lethal, his blade contained enough toxin to warrant concern. Without an auto-med to counteract it, the huchack venom in the blade would kill the skin tissue around the wound, which would fester and ultimately lead to blood poisoning.

I’ll be dead long before that happens
, he thought. Grim consolation.

Dagga reached inside his coat once more and this time he withdrew a single huchack spine, wrapped in a piece of rough fabric. He displayed it for Seg, handling the spine with care. In contrast to the knife blade, these spines were deadly.

“Know what these are, don’t you? Found a bunch of ’em in the men at the temple and on the boat. Any that weren’t killed outright died quick. Died hard.” He bent down and picked up the pistol with as much care as he had handled the spine. “This what shoots ’em?”

Seg sealed his lips tightly together and stared straight ahead.

Dagga nodded, then moved to the huddled family, hooked his hand into the crook of the wife’s arm and yanked her away from the others. She shrieked as he pointed the pistol at her leg.

“Seg…” Ama pled.

“Yes! Yes, it’s a huchack pistol,” Seg blurted. When Dagga paused, he continued spitting the words out, “Huchacks are a kind of swamp dwelling slug from…from the islands where I come from. Their spines are poisonous. I crafted a weapon to fire them. Leave the woman alone and I’ll tell you more.”

Dagga pursed his lips and nodded. The woman sobbed. Then there was a whir and several clicks as Dagga pulled the trigger. The shot lacked the noise of a burning powder weapon but the effect was no less severe, as the spines sliced through the woman’s leg. A red bloom spread out across her dress and she screamed, lost her balance and fell to the ground.

“NO!” Ama yelled.

Seg’s muscles tightened; his free hand curled into a fist as he watched, unable to stop the torture. He felt Ama’s weight hit his shoulder as the constable pushed the gun harder against her head to silence her.

Dagga ignored Ama’s pleas, and the woman’s wails of pain, as he inspected his handiwork. Then he turned the pistol on Seg, “Care about the water rats, do ya, Lord Whatsyername?”

Seg’s mouth went suddenly dry; Dagga growled out a laugh.

“Bring all the rest to the Shasir,” Dagga ordered a constable, who hurried to re-pack Seg’s gear with a fearful eye to the strange instruments. Dagga nodded to the pistol. “Judicia’ll want this.”

Seg felt the slight weight of the digifilm in his pants pocket. Dagga had not stolen everything from his World, though Seg could find no satisfaction in the knowledge.

The Kenda husband bent down awkwardly to comfort his wife, who writhed on the ground. The venom was in her system. If the wound itself didn’t kill her, the poison would take care of the job.

Dagga waved the pistol at Seg and Ama, “Load these two up, get ’em on their way, lock the rest inside.”

The guards shoved Seg and Ama forward, out of the boathouse and into the dark. The rain had stopped but the ground was slick and puddled. At least sixty men, mounted on horseback, surrounded the property; any flicker of hope was extinguished at the sight.

Seg turned his head to see uniformed men barricading the boathouse door. Dagga snatched a lantern from one of the constables, strode to the side of the building, and hurled it up through the small window with a
crash
.

Seconds later the smoke started, as the flame hit the tinder-dry goods stored inside.

“Move it!” the guard behind ordered as he directed Seg to an open cartul.

Muffled shouts and banging rose from inside the boathouse, echoed seconds later by Ama’s long cry of rage and despair.

Seg felt as if someone were filling his stomach with molten lead. Even when Ama had dragged him under the water at T’ueve he had not felt so helpless.

“Seg! No!” Ama screamed as they were dragged apart. She dug her feet into the mud, trying desperately to stop the guards as they pulled her away, slapped shackles on her wrists and ankles, and tossed her in the back of the waiting cartul. Hers was fully enclosed, the windows barred.

Seg was shoved into the other cartul, where his one free wrist was locked in a metal shackle, connected to the rough wood wall of the cartul by a length of heavy chain. He strained forward but the chain allowed him no more than a few inches of free movement.

“Secured,” the guard shouted.

Dagga marched across the muck, his boots made a heavy suctioning noise with each step. He stopped next to the driver. “Largent Temple. Stop for nothing. Get him on that skyship. I’ll be in Alisir three days from now. I expect a dispatch.”

“Yes, Head Constable,” the driver answered, the respect in his tone underlaid with fear.

As he walked away, Dagga paused, leaned in close to Seg and stated flatly, “She’ll die slow.”

Seconds later the cartul creaked and rumbled forward. Ama’s cartul rolled in the opposite direction. Seg caught only a glimpse of her face before his cartul passed behind the boathouse. Flames licked out the window, lighting up the night, and black smoke poured out between cracks in the wood. Over the sounds of the horses, cartuls and the shouts of the constables, he heard the screams of those trapped inside the inferno.

Seg stared at the scene, numb. He didn’t smell the smoke, didn’t feel the chill of the night or the metal shackle digging into his wrist, didn’t notice the blood leaking from the cut Dagga had given him, or think about how long it would be before the venom started to rot the skin and turn his blood toxic.

He only heard Ama, calling his name.

Viren spat out a mouthful of benga juice and tucked the stick into the pocket of his coat. Beneath him, his horse whickered, as he shifted his crossbow to his right hand.

Prow’s horse snorted. “This is crazy,” Prow whispered. To which Viren had no answer.

This
was
crazy. Twenty Kenda, with only crossbows and sefts, hoping to take out six squadrons of trained Damiar constables armed with bangers. Nothing this bold, or stupid, had been tried in generations. Succeed or fail, tonight’s ambush might as well be a declaration of war.

But Brin had been adamant: stop Dagga and save Ama and her mysterious companion, Seg. Just as Brin had predicted, Dagga had torn T’ueve inside out in search of his prey. Then, with his small army, he had set off on the trail of the fugitives. Viren, with his much smaller band of rebels, had followed close behind.

Just before sunset, two events had roused Viren’s suspicions. First, a skyship had landed at the Largent Temple. Then, shortly after, Dagga had taken his army and two cartuls, one a prison transport, and headed south. With most of the valley empty, the only likely destination would be the few cottages where Seg and Ama might have taken shelter.

Prow let out a low whistle and Viren returned the same. In the distance, there was a rumble. The copse of trees on either side of the road was good cover but meant the Kenda wouldn’t be able to see the convoy until it was right on them.

He heard the whistled signal pass down the line, all the way to the bridge. Under the bridge, one of the men waited to light the fuse on their precious store of Shasir black powder. Dagga’s men might anticipate an ambush but they would never expect their own tricks in the hands of Kenda. The explosion would create useful chaos and dropping the bridge would cut off this road to the temple. After that, their only hope was to hit hard and fast, free the prisoners and run.

The rumble grew louder, the thunder of hooves. Viren’s heart kept time with the pounding. He gripped the reins tighter, turned his head toward the bridge and let out another set of whistles to pass along to the bridge man.

Soon the ground began to tremble. The convoy, perhaps sensing their vulnerability as they entered the woods, was picking up speed. He heard the sounds of the men urging on their horses. The first rider appeared, the white and blue uniform obvious even in the dark. Viren held his horse in place, raised his crossbow, and waited for the cue to attack.

More riders passed, sending up waves of muddy water as they splashed through puddles. Then there was the familiar creak of a cartul. Viren turned to Prow, his question apparent even in the dark. Why hadn’t the bridge blown yet?

Through the trees, Viren could see a single figure in the back of the open cartul. Lord Eraranat was getting a rough ride tonight. It would get rougher if the convoy crossed the bridge. Then the cartul passed. The first riders would be arriving at the bridge. Viren shook his head. What had happened? Was the powder wet? Had the man lost his nerve? The window for rescue was closing. Once Dagga had Seg and Ama on that skyship, they were lost.

“Bilge sucking son of a—”

An earsplitting BOOM echoed through the trees.

Viren’s horse skittered sideways at the noise. “Come on,” Viren said to Prow, and turned his horse toward the bridge, weaving through the trees at a fast trot.

The bridge came in sight, intact for the moment, though it sagged and creaked ominously in the middle. Stunned by the blast, the riders on the bridge remained there as the structure gave way. Those at the front-edge of the column tried to outrace the spreading collapse; the others were pitched off the bridge and into the river. A few, no more than four, made it safely to the opposite side.

The screams of men and horses echoed in the damp night air, while those still on land reeled and goggled at the disaster. A few moved toward the shattered bridge, and leapt down from their horses to help the men who had fallen into the river.

“Form up!” a constable shouted. The order came too late. Crossbow bolts whizzed into the disorganized cluster. Exposed and unprepared, guards fell without firing off a single shot.

The air was ripe with the sweet and metallic smell of gunpowder, the ground littered with the dead or dying, parts of bodies and debris from the explosion. Horses kicked up mud, red with blood. Fragments of the bridge continued to creak and break, dropping into the rushing water. Screams of pain and panicked shouts heightened the swelling fear.