Authors: Benjamin Tate
Well of Sorrows (21 page)
“What have the scouts reported about the Bluff farther north?”
“It continues, with minor rockfalls and a steady decrease in height, but they haven’t seen any evidence that the Bluff itself ends anytime soon.” He caught Tom’s gaze. “If we’re going to make it to the upper plains, this will have to be it.”
Tom sighed, scanned the rockfall again.
He didn’t like it. It was too steep, especially near the top, near the mouth of the slide, where the Bluff cupped it to either side, the collapse forming a fairly large indentation in the facade of the cliff. The wagons would never make it.
“If we go slow,” Korbin said from behind him, “and have the wagons switch back and forth across the length of the scree, I think we’ll be fine. But it will take most of the rest of today to scale it.”
Walter stepped forward, fists clenched. But he kept his voice calm, controlled. “We need to reach those heights. For the Family. For the Company. We need to lay claim to that land before anyone else.”
Tom bowed his head, closed his eyes, and swallowed the gritty taste of grass and dust in the back of his throat.
“You heard the Proprietor,” he said. “Secure everything loose inside the wagons, tie everything down. The slide is mostly rock. It’s going to be rough.”
Everyone who’d gathered to argue and listen in dispersed, a sense of excitement passing through them in a low murmur. They’d been following the Bluff for ten days, the scenery barely changing. There’d been no viable location to set up a settlement—no rivers, no lakes, only narrow streams and creeks, all meandering southward toward the river they’d left behind. They’d run out of the dry flatbread, and most of the smoked meats, and while small game was in abundance, Tom had grown tired of the taste of rabbit and fowl. They needed to find a major water source and some larger game soon, and the reports from the scouts searching northward weren’t promising.
“What do you think?” Arten asked, stepping up to Tom’s side.
Tom shook his head. “It’s a risk. I’d rather set up the town down here, but we don’t have the water resource we’d need, nor the wood. We’ve only seen copses, the trees too young to be used for anything useful. So if Korbin thinks we can make it to the top with the wagons . . .”
Arten grunted. “Let’s see how stable the rockslide is first. We can always stop and continue north.”
“I’m not so certain of that.” Tom nodded toward where Walter and Jackson stood at the base of the slide itself, the first wagon already starting to crawl up the slope along its base, angled sharply to the north; it was too steep to head directly up the side. The wagon rocked as it was pulled over the rough stone. One of the guardsmen led the wagon, cutting through any tangled undergrowth in the way. “Walter’s intent on getting to the upper plains. He’s been searching for a way up since we left the Falls.”
“And he’s right.” When Tom raised his eyebrows in question, the commander added, “To the Court, the difference between having a settlement down here or up there is significant. The Bluff is a boundary, and the Carrente Family position will be stronger if Walter can establish a town, or even an outpost, on the far side.”
The wagon had reached the edge of the slide, and both men watched in silence as its driver and the group of men around it turned it so it could head back toward them, a little higher up the scree. Tom drew in a sharp breath when a few rocks gave way beneath one wheel, the stone clattering down the short distance to the grass, but the horses didn’t falter.
Once the leader was on its way, a ragged cheer erupted from the rest of the men and women still on the ground, and the second wagon started out.
“I’ll feel better about it once we’re all safely at the top of the Bluff,” Tom said, then searched for Ana. He found her at the third wagon, with Korbin and his wife, Lyda. He headed toward her, smiling as Ana reached out to touch Lyda’s growing stomach; Arten moved away, toward Walter and Jackson and the rest of the Armory.
“Has he started kicking yet?” Ana asked.
“Not yet,” Lyda said, her voice soft, her face radiant in the sun, a glow that Tom had seen in Ana’s face when she was pregnant with Colin, a vibrance that had shown through no matter how sweaty, grimy, or dirty Ana’s hair and face had been.
Lyda’s hair was lighter than Ana’s, her face rounder, skin smoother. But Tom thought the differences had more to do with the difference in their ages.
“Hmm,” Ana said wryly, then smiled. “It won’t be long now though.” It was the first smile he’d seen on her face that wasn’t tainted with anger or weariness or regret since they’d left Trent. A pure smile, touching her eyes, trembling in her hands.
When she drew away from Lyda, one hand going to her chest and the hidden pendant there, Tom took her other hand and kissed it.
She gave him a questioning look, but he shook his head. The wagon beside them gave a lurch and started forward, Korbin and Lyda moving to follow. “He’s a lucky man,” Tom said.
“I was worried about her when they told us they intended to come with the wagons,” Ana said. “I thought they’d head back to Andover, since they were expecting a child.”
“Why were you worried?”
They started after the wagon, walking hand in hand, watching where they stepped.
Ana glanced ahead, to make certain that Lyda and Korbin wouldn’t overhear. “She seemed a little . . . soft. Delicate. I wasn’t certain she’d be able to handle the walking or the work. But she’s handling it better than some of the others.”
Tom nodded. Ahead, the wagon had reached the first turn, Korbin overseeing the change in direction. The wheelwright shouted for help.
Tom squeezed Ana’s hand. “I’d better go be useful,” he said, then jogged forward. As he put his shoulder to the side of the wagon and shoved hard, he saw Ana rejoin Lyda, both cutting up ahead of the horses. And then sweat ran down into his eyes, and he focused his attention on getting the damn wagon to move.
Afternoon grew steadily into evening, and the wagons zigzagged their way up the slide, each pass getting shorter as the rockfall narrowed. The first wagon passed the neck of the slide an hour before sunset, struggling up the last section into the bowl that had sunk into the upper plains beyond, where the ground was flatter and less rugged. They reached the top of the Bluff moments later, whistles and cheers echoing down the scree from above. Tom paused to stare up at the men waving from the heights and smiled, relief coursing through him. All down the trail, people clapped and whistled in response, the excited conversation that had died down after the first hour of climbing returning with laughter and claps on the back. Dogs barked, tails wagging, and goats bleated.
“I told you it was possible,” Korbin said, and Tom turned, gave him a grin. Korbin smiled in return, pushed his glasses up onto his nose.
Behind him, Tom saw the ground beneath the back wheel of the wagon slip.
“Watch out!” he barked and surged forward, rock and dirt cascading away from the wheel in a small avalanche. The wagon began to tilt as he brushed past Korbin—
Then his shoulder slammed into the corner of the wagon, his feet sliding in the dirt. For a moment, he thought the ground beneath him would give way, that his weight would set the entire slope tumbling down to the plains below, but his boots found solid stone and held.
The weight of the wagon began digging into his shoulder. He gasped, sweat already sliding down into his eyes, down his back. He heard shouts as men began converging on the wagon from all sides. Korbin dodged in behind him, sending another cascade of dirt down the hill, loosening Tom’s footing briefly, and then the wheelwright added his strength to Tom’s.
“Henri!” Tom bellowed. “Get the damn wagon moving! We can’t hold it forever!”
He heard Henri curse the horses, heard the whip snap, the wagon shuddering, gouging deeper into his shoulder, but it didn’t move. Someone scrambled next to Korbin from the far side, near the front wheel, another avalanche of stone rattling down the slide. Tom blinked the sweat from his eyes, stared down the steep slope toward the wagons below, saw men surging up the fall toward them, stumbling on the rocks—
And with no warning at all, the stone beneath Tom’s feet gave way. He spat a curse as he kicked, feet digging into earth and stone, and then he was falling.
He heard Ana scream, “Tom!” her voice cracking with fear, and then his shoulder slammed into the rockfall, pain shooting up into his shoulder from his elbow as he spun and rolled, stone sliding with him. He didn’t cry out, didn’t have time. He ground to a halt a short way below and to the side of where Korbin and another man—young, no more than seventeen—were frantically trying to hold the wagon upright.
But the wagon began to tilt, to slide downward toward him as the ground for ten hands to either side suddenly gave way. The rear wheel crunched into the ground and splintered, the entire wagon shuddering as it struck. The weight inside the wagon shifted, slammed into the downhill side, cracking the side of the wagon, pushing it outward. Tom heard Henri roar, heard the horses shriek as the twisting wagon wrenched to the side and began to overturn.
The ground beneath Korbin and the younger man slid away, dragging them both downward, pulling them away from the wagon’s edge. Korbin hit hard, spun in the loose dirt, his glasses jarred from his face, sunlight glinting on the rounded glass, on the frames—
And then the full weight of the toppled wagon crushed his chest.
He never made a sound.
The younger man beside him screamed—an animalistic, terrifying scream that shuddered down into Tom’s bones. The wagon rolled, already beginning to break up, and slammed into the younger man’s legs. Supports snapped, wood cracking with sharp reports, and then the wagon rolled over Korbin and the other man completely, dragging Henri and the two shrieking horses with it. It tipped, ground into the slope, starting a huge avalanche of stone and debris, disintegrating as it rolled, horses kicking, a cloud of dust rising in its wake. Men and women scrambled to get out of its way farther downslope.
The wagon below it didn’t have a chance.
The disintegrating wagon crashed into it halfway down, tipping it over as if it were made of paper. The animal hide covering imploded as it skidded, wheels snapping beneath it, and then it and its team of horses joined the mass of tumbling wood, stone, supplies, and bodies on their way to the plains below.
Tom lay on his side against the stone of the rockfall, stunned, hand clutched to his arm where pain still shot from elbow to shoulder. He watched, gasping, as the dust rose, as the wagons reached the base of the slope and crashed into the grass. He listened to the clatter of stone as the slide settled, listened to the distant splintering of wood as the wagons struck and came to rest, but all of these sounds were muted, barely piercing the thunderous beating of his heart.
And then he heard more rocks clattering behind him, felt pebbles pelting his back. He jerked to the side, expecting to see the ground above him giving way again, but then Ana skidded to a halt beside him. “Tom! Tom, are you all right!”
Tom hissed and bit back a blistering curse as she touched his arm. “Don’t touch it,” he yelled, laying his head back against the stone. For a moment, his vision wavered, filmed over with a vibrant pulsing yellow. He grew lightheaded, but he gasped, closed his eyes, and fought it back.
“Thank Diermani,” Ana whispered, her hands covering his body, feeling for more wounds, searching for blood, although she kept clear of his arm. Her voice shook with relief, the terror he’d first heard there buried beneath. He heard her muttering a prayer, her movements frantic, and then she seemed to relax. “Nothing but the arm,” she said, and now he could hear the tears.
He opened his eyes, saw her bowed head, one hand raised to her face to shield it. She was shuddering, barely holding herself together.
People shouted, bounded down the slope to either side. He caught a glimpse of Lyda, her face blank, yet intent, and he suddenly lurched up into a sitting position.
“Lyda!” he shouted in warning. He could hear the sickening crunch as the wagon crushed Korbin’s chest, could see the smear of blood it had left behind—
And then Lyda screamed. A high, piercing scream that reverberated in Tom’s skull, that sank claws into his gut, that tightened his chest with juddering grief. She screamed until she ran out of breath, choking on it, then she sucked in air and screamed again, the sound thicker now with phlegm, harsher.
At his side, Ana jerked, her hand falling away from her face. Her reddened eyes searched the slope below, where Tom could see Sam trying to hold Lyda back from Korbin’s body. It had come to rest in the sliding debris nearly thirty hands downslope. His chest was unnaturally flat, caved in and bloody. His head angled downhill, face upturned to the sky. The priest, Domonic, was leaning down next to him, but he was obviously dead.
“Holy Diermani,” Ana said, voice raw. Her expression smoothed from terrified relief into a grim, hardened calm.
Without a word, she stood, folds of her dress held in one hand, and began picking her way down toward Lyda and the body. Tom watched her a moment, then struggled to his feet. Lyda broke free from Sam, her screams faltering, and stumbled to the ground beside Korbin’s head, stones shifting away at the movement. Her hands shook as she reached down, as she cupped his face, then traced his features, his forehead, his jaw, his mouth. Her entire body shuddered, back arched as she bent over him, her forehead dropping to meet his, arms cradling his head. No one near her made a move. Sam stood back. Domonic sat back on his heels, caught Tom’s gaze with his own and shook his head, his face stricken. No one moved except Ana. They stood, some heads bowed, others tilted toward the darkening sky, all of them silent.
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