WARP world (40 page)

In the confusion, the Damiar guards pulled together. The first banger shots cracked out as they struck back blindly at their tormenters.

“NOW!” Viren yelled, though the Kenda rebels were already charging from the trees, bearing down on the terrified and disororiented jumble of guards.

More smoke and shouts filled the air, dying men wailed and fallen horses littered the road or ran in riderless panic. Through the disorder, Viren saw how close they had come to failure the open cartul was right at the bank of the river where the jagged remnants of the bridge stuck out from the earth like accusing fingers. The driver was trying to turn the cartul away from the edge but was slowed by the knot of men and horses around him.

“HEYYUP!” Viren shouted, and dug his heels into the horse’s belly. Head low and crossbow raised, he charged for the open cartul and driver.

A constable was headed right for him. Viren tugged the reins to one side, the horse swerved. On his left, Prow overtook him, seft held out in front. The constable tried to correct but he was in Prow’s path now. The seft caught the constable on one shoulder, tore it open and launched him from his horse.

Viren arced around the constables who had closed ranks. He slowed slightly as he sighted the cartul driver. The hefty man stood in the driver’s box, grasping the reins with both hands and shouting at the others to clear a path. Seg, chained in the back of the cartul, crouched as low as he could to avoid banger fire and stray bolts.

With a sharp pull, Viren halted his horse and squeezed the trigger of the crossbow. There was a soft
thwep
, as the bolt released. The driver stiffened in place. One hand reached up to the bolt in his neck, then he dropped, his upper body dangling out of the box.

Once more, Viren spurred his horse forward and leapt onto the driver’s box, while the battle raged around him.

“You!” Seg shouted over the din.

“Where’s Ama?” Viren shouted back, as he pulled the cartul reins from the dead man’s fingers.

“Dagga’s taking her to Alisir. We have to get her!”

“Get down!” Viren shouted, and ducked as he spotted a constable raising a banger. The shot rang out but whizzed by harmlessly. He yanked the dead driver upright and patted him down quickly until he felt hard metal. “Have to get you out of here first,” Viren yelled as he passed the key to Seg.

Beside them, a horse reared and fell, smashing into the side of the cartul.

“HEYYUP!” Viren called as he slapped the reins down and guided the cartul to the left and the road that led downriver.

Viren looked over his shoulder to make sure Prow and his other man, Ruch, were following. Seg had one end of the key in his mouth, the other jammed in the lock, head tilted to one side as he struggled to free himself.

“Hang on!” Viren yelled as he veered the cartul to one side to avoid a low hanging limb. He heard a
thud
and looked back to see Seg, loose from the shackle, had been thrown against the cartul wall. Well, he
had
warned him.

Now on a clear path, Viren put the four-horse team to work as they galloped ahead. He would need to put some distance between himself and the constables. Prow and Ruch soon flanked him, keeping pace and ducking branches that hung over the narrow riverside road.

“Where’s Kalder?” Prow shouted.

“Other direction,” Viren answered, bouncing up out of the seat as the cartul hit a rock.

“More Dammies coming!” Ruch yelled.

To his dismay, but not his surprise, Viren heard the shouts of reinforcements arriving from the north. Across the riverbank, more riders approached. Though the bridge was gone, those on the north side had bangers and it looked as if they were setting up to use them. For now, those constables following the cartul on the road were being slowed by the rebels.

“Ruch, pull up,” Viren ordered. He pulled back on the reins and called over his shoulder to Seg. “Get up here, time to go.”

Seg gave Viren a look that questioned his sanity, but climbed up to the driver’s box, waving his free hand as he wobbled precariously. As the cartul slowed, Ruch rode up closer to the side where Seg waited, and shifted forward in his saddle.

“Watch your step,” Viren said, transferred the reins to his left hand and grabbed Seg by the collar of his shirt with the right hand, then maneuvered him toward the waiting rider.

“Storm!” Seg shouted as he balanced on the driver’s box. His free hand stretched toward Ruch, clawing the air.

Viren kept one eye on Seg and one on the road as the sounds of hoof beats grew louder. “GO!” he shouted, shifted his grip, grasped Seg by the waist of his trousers and pushed.

Seg lurched forward and dropped, legs spread, onto the saddle behind Ruch. He slid sideways, feet kicking wildly, but Ruch reached a hand behind and held him in place until Seg wrapped his hand around the man’s waist. Banger shots cracked through the air, ineffectual scattered fire from the frustrated constables on the other side of the river.

“Get him to his people,” Viren called to Ruch, as Prow leapt from his horse and into the back of the cartul to act as decoy. “See you on the other side!” The road curved south, away from the water, and the cartul followed.

“Blood for water,” Ruch answered, then veered right, closer to the river’s edge.

“WE’VE GOT HIM! THIS WAY, MEN!” Viren shouted, to draw the constables away from Seg.

To both his chagrin and pleasure, they took the bait, leaving Ruch and Seg to follow the narrow footpath west, along the riverbank.

Seg clung to Ruch, feeling like a rag doll as they bounced along the path.

“We’re gonna follow the river as far as we can. There’s some old homesteads further down, we’ll cut south there. Hide out if we need to,” Ruch explained.

“We need to find Ama, ” Seg said, as forcefully as he could muster.

“Too dangerous, there’s constables,” Ruch swayed slightly, “constables all over this valley.”

As Ruch swayed, Seg felt something hot and wet between his fingers, which gripped the man’s coat at the waist. “Are you wounded?”

“Just a graze,” Ruch answered but his labored breathing spoke otherwise.

Seg swore softly but nodded. Every jounce of the fast-moving horse delivered spasms of pain, which narrowed his vision to a black tunnel that threatened to close over him. The terrain sloped downward as it followed the river gradient, beside them the churn from the water increased with the growing rapids. The rain, earlier that evening, had left the ground slick and made the going difficult. Ruch fought to control the horse’s gait; the effort obviously cost him and he let out the occasional grunt.

“Might have to…” Ruch’s hand loosened and the reins slipped through.

“No, don’t!” Seg snapped, as the horse, sensing its freedom, picked up speed. “Stay awake. You have to control this animal!” Seg ordered and watched the reins fall from Ruch’s grasp. His hand, at Ruch’s waist, was soaked in blood. “At least get us stopped so I can help you.”

Ruch let out a gasping breath and started a slow slide from the saddle, pulling Seg down with him as he fell.

Darkness. Pain radiated in lightning waves from his damaged shoulder as Seg came to from the momentary blackness. He wiped dirt from his eyes and saw the horse trotting away, growing smaller on the path as he lay there, helpless. He rolled to his side; Ruch was face down in the mud.

“Come on,” he said, and levered himself upright into a sitting position. “Come on, you,” he ordered Ruch, grasped the man’s collar and rolled him over. “We have to keep moving.”

Ruch didn’t respond. His body was limp, unmoving, his torso wet with blood, his face plastered with mud.

“Fan out!” came a shout from above, followed by the sound of constables riding through the trees, not far in the distance.

Not all had followed Viren, it seemed. From the sound of it they were closing in, fencing him against the river. Seg looked at Ruch for a moment longer, then gave him one more shake. His head lolled from side to side. Gone.

Leaning to one side, he pushed himself up and off the ground, staggering slightly as he found his footing. One more quick glance to Ruch’s body confirmed the worst, and he bent down to remove the knife and sheath from his belt.

The snap of branches told him the riders were getting closer; he could not hope to outrun them. He glanced back at the river, his only means of escape. But this time there was no Ama to help him, to breathe for him or keep him afloat. He could kick his legs and pull with his one arm, for a few moments, but in that rushing water he would be dragged under and drowned before anyone even had a chance to shoot him.

“Down here! Over here!” The shouts were louder now.

Debris was still floating down from the shattered bridge. His eyes moved to a large chunk of timber as it bobbed and raced through the waves.

“There!” A shot pinged off a rock; a constable on the opposite bank had spotted him.

Seg jammed the sheathed knife into his boot. He took a couple of deep breaths, set his timing, then ran. At the water’s edge he leapt, soaring for a second before splashing down. The current seized him and he kicked madly, head tilted up, as the wooden beam floated just out of reach. His fingers brushed the surface, the beam rolled, then he finally gripped a splintered section.

With a grunt he pulled himself to the beam and wrapped his arm around it.

More shots spattered the water as the river dropped again, picking up speed and tossing rider and beam over white liquid haystacks. The foam created by the turbulence offered no support and Seg, clutching the wood as if he were choking the life out of it, slipped under. At least he had learned to close his mouth, to time his breaths.

The water spit him up to the surface again. He gasped a quick breath before another set of waves pulled him down. He had no way of knowing if the constables could still see him, but he knew that he was moving faster than any horse.

Down, under, cling. Up, surface, breathe. The motion played over and over, allowing him not a second of rest. All heat leached out of him, sucked into the water. There was no thought, only the instinct to hang on and steal air whenever the bucking whitewater allowed it.

The ride lasted an eternity. At points it seemed that simply letting go would be best, but he did not. At last, the river flattened, slowed, quieted. The beam drifted to one side and Seg could see shore and a beach, its sandy soil black in the moonlight.

When he felt he was close enough, he forced his hand and arm to release the beam. With numb legs, he kicked the short distance to shore, grasping at the thick stalks of praffa grass that dotted the shallows, to pull himself along.

Land. He had made it.

Once he had dragged his body out of the river, he curled up on the sand and shivered. He couldn’t stay here but he was too spent to move yet.

At least he could breathe freely now.
Small mercies
. Ama had said that.

He closed his eyes, clenched his chattering teeth and dug his hand into the sand to pull himself up. To his left, he saw a short, sagging pier extended out over the water, to which no boats were tied. Small droplets of moisture assailed him as a cold drizzle pattered down again.

“Water,” he muttered, with a grunt. Everything hurt, though the systemic ache damped out individual complaints. With a pained wheeze, he lifted himself to his knees.

“Move,” he ordered himself.

Using his hand for balance, he thrust one leg out in front, then pushed up. In the soft sand, he staggered left, then right, stumbled forward a few steps and fell to his knees again.

“Karg!” he swore and hammered a weak fist into the sand.

The second attempt was better but he was moving too slowly. If any of the riders came after him, he would not be hard to catch.

To his right, in the tall, bushy praffa grass, he spotted a mound of fishing nets. It was better than wandering around in a daze, waiting for capture. With leaden, laborious movements, he crossed the short expanse to the nets, taking the time to erase each boot mark from the sand as he went.

The pile was heavier than he imagined and it took every remaining drop of his will to lift the nets and squeeze himself beneath it. Once underneath, the weight threatened to crush him. Luckily the soft soil let him dig out a nook. The air was putrid and stifling but he had shelter from the rain and some measure of warmth.

Between the pain that enveloped him and the knowledge that his hunters were out there, searching, his eyes remained open through the night.

At intervals, there were some distant shouts and muted hoof beats that jolted him back to alertness and stopped his heart, but none of the riders lingered or noticed his hiding spot. Eventually there was nothing but silence and Seg allowed himself a ration of hope.

Seg stifled a cough as he surveyed the landscape in the grey morning light.

Not far down the beach from the net mound that had sheltered him through the night, he spied a battered wooden building. The door hung open on broken hinges. A short walk, he could make it. Ruch’s knife hung from his belt, pitiful defense.

Evade contact. Gather survival materials. Either get into a safe position for extrans, or return to extrans point.
Basic training dogma. He swayed where he stood, then stumbled forward with as much speed as possible.

The shack was decrepit, but reasonably watertight. He peered in cautiously. It appeared to be a Kenda Port House, though significantly more primitive than the one he had visited in T’ueve. The smell wafted out of the room, a horrid stench of rotting fish, old sweat, smoke, mildew and something much worse than all of those together. A bar dominated one half of the main room, the bottles smashed on the racks, the tables and chairs overturned or broken. In the back, behind the bar, he could see a door, possibly to a storage room or the Port House keeper’s lodgings, probably both.

Bar. Alcohol, he was going to need that. He glanced at his arm, where Dagga had cut him. The skin had already puckered from the touch of the huchack venom. Tissue was lost, dead, and the effect would spread until the gangrene poisoned his blood and killed him.