Parabolis (25 page)

“Where are we going?” Dale asked.

“You want to get out of the city, right?”

Sparrow steadily picked up the pace. It had been months since Dale had run like this. He could feel his chest burn and his legs grow heavy. Too proud to ask Sparrow to slow down, Dale pushed himself until the spit turned pasty in his mouth. Ten minutes in, Dale was breaking a sweat. After another mile, he got his second wind. He remembered what it felt like in the Academy—those ten-mile runs in full gear. They ran east toward the outskirts of the city. The endorphins kicked in.

More and more people flooded the streets. People were fleeing the Central District, the site of all the scheduled festivities. Others who had decided to forego the crowded city center poured out of their homes onto the streets. They came out looking for answers. By the reaction of the crowd, Sparrow and Dale could see the word was spreading. The men rushed about. They wore a determined expression, but their eyes were blank. The women gathered children and belongings. Dale wanted to tell people to leave their possessions behind, but he knew it would be futile. He would be trying to reason with an unreasonable crowd until he too, would be swallowed up with them by the advancing army.

When the two reached the fairgrounds, the city had reached a fever pitch. The stables next to the little racetrack appeared abandoned. The main entrance was shut. Sparrow knocked. When there was no answer, he began to pound on the door. It finally cracked open. An old man holding a candle peered nervously out at Sparrow and Dale.

“The hell you think you’re doing? You’re gonna break down my door.”

“Old man, you better get out of the city,” said Sparrow. “Balean soldiers have invaded.”

“Bale? Is that what all the ruckus is about?”

“Yes. But before you go, we are going to need a horse.”

“Horses aren’t for sale. Sorry.”

“I’ll give you a fair price,” Sparrow said, producing a coin purse from his pocket.

“You deaf? They are not for sale.”

He tried to close the door but Sparrow lodged his foot in the crack. He shoved it open with his hand.

“Old Dingo. I know who you are. You’ve sold horses before or at least you’ve supplied some for the Carousel Rogues. You can’t take them all with you. So you can take my gold and ready me whatever horse you please, or I can cut your throat and take whatever I please.”

The old man frowned.

“You a Rogue?”

Sparrow didn’t reply.

The old man glanced over Sparrow’s shoulder at Dale.

“There ain’t enough gold you can carry for two.”

“I only need one,” Sparrow replied.

He grumbled. Then he snatched Sparrow’s coin purse. As he walked back into the stable along a row of horse pens, he continued to grumble to himself. “‘Get out of the city,’ my ass. And go where? Is an old man supposed to find a new place and start over?” He scoffed. “Like hell. I’m staying right here. With my horses.”

The old man stopped and turned to the men following him. “You two stay right here. I’ll bring out your horse.”

At the end of the row, the old man pulled a horse out. By the light of a kerosene lantern he strapped on a saddle. He walked the horse back to them still grumbling, “Damn near impossible to live without light. This one is a standard young colt. He’s not the fastest. Truth be told, he’s slow as shit. But he’s a good horse. He’s tough—got good stamina.”

“He got a name?” Dale asked, putting his hand on the head of the chocolate brown horse.

“You can call him Shit Storm for all I care. He’s your problem now.” Then he looked over at Sparrow. “You’re not a Rogue, are you, squinty? You’re not wearing a black rose.”

Sparrow didn’t answer his question. He gestured to Dale that they had better go.

As they walked away, the old man followed them back to the entry. “Well, whoever you are, you tell the Silver Fox or whoever’s in charge that we’re square now. I don’t want to see you people around here anymore. I’m done.”

Without acknowledging his words, Dale and Sparrow stepped out. Outside they heard a rolling hum. They both looked up to the source of the sound and saw what looked like a belly of a flying whale.

“The hell is that?” Dale wondered aloud.

Just beyond it, they saw another one. And another. A fleet flying past them toward the heart of Carnaval City.

“
Rohar
, you need to leave. Now.”

Dale nodded and mounted the horse.

“Head north out of the city through the river mouth,” Sparrow continued. “Ride along the northern coast but get off the beach as soon as you can. There’s a quarry six hundred strides north of the city. As soon as you pass it, cut across west into the Lowers. You can travel under the cover of trees.”

“You going to stick around?” Dale asked.

“I have unfinished business here.”

“Well, keep an eye on Mo for me, will you?”

Sparrow nodded.

“I can never thank you enough. For everything.”

“You’re my friend. You don’t have to thank me.”

“I know I don’t. Thank you, Sparrow.”

“Take care,
rohar.
”

Dale kicked the horse into a gallop and started down the road. In his heart, there was a kind of fear he had never felt before.

Dale’s heart sank at the sight of the Royal Navy’s ironclad warships anchored just off the coast, north of the city. Dozens of landing crafts were launched off the ships and were transporting Balean soldiers to shore. They had overcome the Republican naval blockade. Soon, the waterfront would be overrun and his breaker expropriated by the invading force. Dale put it out of his mind and kept riding. By midnight, he had reached the quarry and was cutting west into the Lowers. As he rode, Dale saw bursts of fire rising over the silhouetted city he had left behind. Solid black forms loomed above the burning skyline, the skyships hanging like castles from the clouds.

For the next few days, he traveled at a steady gait, stopping only to steal some sleep and water the horse. He rode through the night and made his stops during the day, rationing the berries and nuts he had gathered in the Lowers. Extending from the rolling hills near Carnaval City, up along the west and across the foothills of the Borderland Ridge, the Lowers was an expanse of dense forest that separated Groveland from its uninhabitable West, known as the Wilds.

Days passed. The world at war receded. Amidst the trees, lush hills, and open prairies, the scene Dale left behind felt to him like a dream. No crackling of gunfire, no earth-moving cannon blasts, no smell of smoke and powder. Only the sounds of crickets and a running brook nearby. Dale saw in the distance an abandoned farm submerged in overgrowth. The wild grass swayed as it had for thousands of years, before the Republic, before the war, before him. In this place, in the open, in the silence, everything was as it should be.

A week later, Dale was reacquainted with reality. From the cover of the forest, he saw a Balean checkpoint on the road leading to the Ancile. Dale sat staring at the checkpoint in frustration. If he could remain on his current route, he was only a day’s ride from the Ancile. As it was now, he would have to backtrack, travel east out of the Lowers to maneuver his way around the checkpoint. After weighing all the options, Dale retraced his steps along the Lowers until he could no longer see the checkpoint. Then he left the cover of the forest for the first time since his flight out of Carnaval City.

Feeling uneasy, Dale dismounted and quietly walked the horse. There
had
to be other soldiers around. He reasoned that the further he was from the checkpoint, the less likely he was to run into a night patrol. But just as his fear of being discovered began to subside, he heard a shout from the prairie trails to the south.

“You there! Stop!”

Dale looked and saw a small detachment of five Balean scouts on horseback. They were a mere twenty-five paces away. Dale was caught in between the checkpoint and this scout patrol. In the open road, there was nowhere to hide.

He jumped onto his horse, yanked the reins and kicked him into a full gallop back toward the Lowers.

“Hey!”

The shout was followed by rifle fire and the whiz of bullets. Dale looked back and saw the five horsemen in close pursuit. Having already extended itself from the long flight out of Carnaval City, Dale could feel the horse faltering between his legs. By the time they climbed a knoll and ventured beyond the tree line, the scouts were on him. As they neared the Wilds, the forest grew dense, the gaps between the trees narrowing.

With his sword drawn, the lead Balean scout came riding up along Dale’s right side. Crouching low, Dale gave his horse a swat. “C’mon, Shit Storm!”

Dale heard a “swoosh” and suddenly, he no longer felt the rider beside him. Another rider came up on his left. Dale glanced back to see that he had a pistol drawn. Hearing the same “swoosh,” this time Dale turned on the sound to see an arrow hit the rider in the chest, knocking him off his mount. Dale pulled the reins and jumped off his horse. As he regained his balance, he drew his sword and turned to face his pursuers. Imagining that the scouts were upon him, Dale was surprised to see that they had halted near the spot where the other two had fallen.

Trying to control their jumpy horses, they nervously looked about for the source of the arrows. Before any of them had much time to think, Dale heard the sound of three more arrows fly past his head in short order. They each hit their mark. Dale watched as one of the horses galloped away with a body slumped on its saddle. He spun around to look for his hidden deliverer and saw a large man, carrying a huge sword, step out of the thicket behind him.

It was Alaric Linhelm.

“Champion?” Dale was asking himself as much as asking Alaric.

“Ex,” said Charles Valkyrie as he emerged with a long bow in hand and a quiver full of arrows strapped to his back. The Emmainite was dressed like a proper ranger—machete sheathed to the side, a leather rucksack full of supplies.

“Man, am I glad to see you guys,” said Dale.

“That’s the same patrol we were ducking. Of all the trees in the forest, you had to lead them here.”

“How was I supposed to know you were here? What the hell you doing here anyway?”

“Long story. You?”

“Long story.”

At last, Selah stepped out through the curtain of wild growth behind Valkyrie. Aside from the traditional haircut, in appearance Selah had left everything else of the Benesanti behind. She was outfitted for adventuring—a pair of equestrian pants, knee-high brown leather boots, a long fur-lined coat. And she wore a saber on her hip.

“Hello, Dale.”

“Prioress,” he said, sheathing his sword.

“No time for pleasantries, unfortunately,” Valkyrie said. “These scouts will soon be missed. The dead one, that horse could lead him right back to the checkpoint. We need to hurry.”

They determined they had no time to give them a decent burial. The best thing to do was drag the bodies into the thicket. Selah helped Dale remove one of the bodies from the clearing. She appeared unfazed by the violence and death.

“Where are you off to?” she asked as they pulled the body of the other scout by the ankles.

“The Ancile.”

“The Ancile? Why? It’s likely swarming with Balean forces.”

“I need to find my brother.”

“Well, forget it, kid,” said Valkyrie, as he walked past with the horses he retrieved. “You might as well stroll across the border waving the Meredian flag.”

“Where are you all going?”

The ranger looked to Alaric for an answer.

“North,” the ex-templar curtly replied on their behalf.

Valkyrie slipped his bow over his shoulder and began un-strapping the horses from their harnesses. “We were on the main roads most of the way,” he said. “We cut into the Lowers when we saw the first patrol.”

Valkyrie removed the saddles from both the scout horses and their own, and sent them running off to the south.

“What’re you doing?” asked Dale.

“The Wilds’ no place for horses. You better do the same with yours if you plan to join us.”

Dale looked around. He didn’t have much of a choice.

Valkyrie drew his machete and began hacking away at the vines. Alaric knelt next to the bodies and bowed his head in a moment of prayer.

“It’s the first time he’s seen battle since taking his oath,” Selah explained.

Dale held his gaze on her and said, “It’s good to see you again, Prioress.”

“Selah. You can call me Selah.”

As the others ventured into the dense growth, Dale lingered a moment with the bodies. There was no mourning. He relished the fight. These Baleans had invaded his country and aggressed war against his people. For the first time, he identified with Emmainite villagers—the villages he’d raided as a Republican Guard. How they must have longed to see him as he saw these Balean scouts.

Dale walked over to his horse and stroked his muzzle. He was grateful for Shit Storm’s faithful service. After giving the horse what was left of the nuts and berries, Dale sent him south with the other horses. Then he followed his new companions into the Wilds.

Atrek by foot through a pathless labyrinth of stubborn growth required a certain tenacity that few possessed. The dense forestry and the wall after wall of thorny, and at times poisonous, growth made some areas of the Wilds virtually impenetrable. And what paths they carved were not much better, often cutting along treacherous slopes. The cover of night, once their ally in the Lowers, had become their nemesis in the Wilds.

Aside from Charles Valkyrie, at one point or another, each member of the party found him or herself either caught or tripping on vines and dead foliage. Only the ranger seemed to know where to find sure footing. Leading the group, he had the benefit of the dim light cast by their only lantern illuminating his steps.

For Dale, walking through the Wilds with Selah did not feel so burdensome. As soon as he saw her, he was again captivated. Whatever happened on the Groveland Express had not worn off. But his feelings were torn. This journey for him started with Darius. His brother was Dale’s singular thought as he rode out of Carnaval City, getting to the Ancile his only objective. Dale’s commitment to finding Darius had muted any feelings he had for Selah. It was impossible for him to feel that strongly about two unrelated things at once.