Well of Sorrows (18 page)
Authors: Joshua Palmatier
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.
When Ana finally reached Lyda’s side, her arms falling across the woman’s shoulders, Tom glanced to the ground.
There, not three paces away, Korbin’s glasses lay against a rock, sunset flaring in one shattered lens.
7
HE GROUP BURIED KORBIN, HENRI, AND THE DRIVER of the second wagon at the top of the Bluff the next day, a good distance away from where the land had collapsed and formed the rockslide. Two children had also been riding inside the second wagon, and they were buried next to the men. One of the mothers wept openly. The other mother, older than the first, simply stood next to the grave, one of her other children, a boy, resting on her hip, a second clinging to her leg. She stared, stoic and unmoved, out over the plains, her movements desultory, her face blank.
Its lifelessness sent a shudder through Tom, and he shifted his glance toward the fathers, both of them standing at their wives’ sides, heads bowed, faces grim. The younger looked haunted, eyes a little too wide.
“—as we give this mortal flesh back to the earth,” Domonic murmured, “as we give the light of their souls back into Diermani’s Hand, into his keeping forever.”
Tom turned toward Domonic as the Hand of Diermani finished the litany and transitioned into a prayer. Tom glanced around those gathered, taking in Lyda’s reddened eyes, her hand resting protectively on the swell of her stomach, the Armory, their clothes sweaty from dragging whatever was salvageable from the wreckage of the wagons and from digging the graves, and Walter, the future Proprietor glaring down at the gaping holes in the ground, his face angry and pinched, as if the dead men had somehow sabotaged the attempt to climb the Bluff.
Tom felt his stomach turn. Walter had ordered the attempt, practically demanded it. He’d known that someone might die during the ascent, but he wasn’t going to take responsibility for those deaths. Tom could see it in his eyes.
“Aldiem patrus,”
Domonic murmured, reaching down to grasp a handful of dirt from the heap beside him. At each of the other four graves, men scooped up their own handfuls, all except Korbin’s grave. There, Lyda took the dirt in hand, Ana at her side to steady her.
“Diermani arctum verbatis.”
Domonic tossed the dirt into the open grave, all the rest doing the same, everyone murmuring Domonic’s last words under their breath as they did so. The young mother broke out into fresh sobs, as her husband brushed the dirt from his trembling hands.
Then everyone stepped back, distancing themselves from the dead, and those designated to inter the remains slid forward with shovels, filling in the graves as quickly, yet as solemnly, as possible. Most signed themselves with Diermani’s tilted cross, mouthing their own additional prayers wordlessly, heads bowed. Only a few didn’t participate in the rituals at all, not speaking or signing themselves.
As soon as the dead were buried, Tom moved toward Walter. He gripped the young man’s shoulder as he said, “You couldn’t have known that would happen—”
Walter twisted out of his grip roughly, irritation flickering across his face. “Of course I couldn’t have known,” he spat. “We needed to get to the top of the Bluff. For the Company. For the Family.” He looked directly at Tom and Tom silently willed the bastard to keep quiet. With a dismissive snort, Walter said, “It was worth the risk, worth the deaths.”
Tom tensed, knowing that Lyda and the others had heard. He could feel the resentment building from behind, prickling along his back.
Unaware, Walter turned to glare out over the plains. “We still have half of the day left to travel,” he said curtly. “We should get started.”
The resentment escalated, murmurs rising. Tom said through a clenched jaw, “Where should we head?”
Walter glanced toward Jackson, who nodded. “Southeast. I want to see if we can return and find the river.”
“Very well,” Tom said, and turned toward the others. “Let’s head out.”
He should have said something to placate those that had heard Walter’s words, to ease the resentment. Everyone was still on edge, emotions sharp and brittle.
But he didn’t.
Those gathered broke for the remaining wagons, dispersing slowly. Ana moved to join him, leaving Lyda in Sam’s hands.
“How’s Tobin?” Tom asked.
“Considering both of his legs were crushed by the wagon, he’s doing fine. We’ve loaded him into the back of Paul’s wagon. I’ve done what I can to ease him, to clean the wounds and set them, but we’ll have to wait and see. If they become infected, we may have to cut them off.”
Tom grimaced. “I didn’t hear him moaning during the burial.”
“He passed out about an hour ago, thank Diermani.” She shuddered, leaning into Tom’s side, arms wrapping around his waist. Around them, the drivers had climbed into their seats, the wagons beginning to move forward, Walter and the Armory taking the lead.
“I don’t like it up here,” Ana said.
Tom scanned the horizon, frowning. The plains up here looked no different from those beneath the Bluff. In the distance to the east and north he could see hills, the faint purple shadows of mountains; to the south, nothing but more grassland. “Why?”
Ana shuddered again, tightening her hold. “Can’t you feel it? There’s a weight up here, as if the air is heavier. And it’s harder to breath. Like what Paul said happened to the wagon earlier, when he was thrown. Except here it isn’t just in one spot, it’s everywhere. I noticed it as soon as we reached the top of the Bluff.”
Tom drew in a deep breath, let it out slowly . . . and felt the skin across his shoulders crawl. He’d noticed the shortness of breath but had shrugged it off, attributing it to the exertion of the climb. But Ana was right; there was a denseness to the air, as if something were pressing down on him from above. He felt heavier here.
And it felt as if someone were watching.
He scanned the horizon again but saw nothing. He frowned, thinking about Cutter and Beth.
“It’s just the change in elevation,” he said, hearing the falseness in his own voice.
Ana snorted.
“What are they?” Sam asked.
Nate answered gruffly, “Dinner.”
Those nearest to Nate turned toward him. Tom grinned.
“We’ll never be able to keep up with them on foot,” Arten said. “We’ll have to use the horses, try to drive them toward the hunters.”
“You’ll never take them with swords,” Nate said. “At least not easily. They look fast.”
“Bows. We’ll have to take them down with arrows.”
All the men and most of the women had gathered at the edge of the hillock overlooking the grassland to the east, where hundreds upon hundreds of animals grazed in a herd larger than anything Colin had ever seen before. The animals were like deer—tawny, thin-legged, lean of body and neck—but unlike the deer from Andover, two long pointed horns sprouted from the males’ heads, near the ears. And these deer were smaller than those from Andover by a few hands, with white chests and faint streaks of white lining their sides.
Colin’s father turned toward everyone assembled. “Anyone who’s experienced with a bow, get your weapons and report back here. Paul, start unhitching the horses. We’ll use the Armory’s mounts to drive the beasts toward the archers, but the workhorses can be used to hem them in. Everyone else, stick close to the wagons. Get the children inside the wagon beds. We don’t know how these horned deer will react.”
People began scattering, men rushing to the wagons to begin removing the workhorses from their harnesses, women herding the children to wagons, lifting them up and into the shade of the hides. Arten and the rest of the Armory made for their own horses, handing their swords off to younger men. A smaller group began pulling bows and quivers from the wagons, stringing the bows with smooth motions, settling the quivers across their shoulders so the arrows were in easy reach. Excitement coursed through the expedition, everyone talking, the dogs tearing out across the plains, pausing to stare at the distant deer, ears perked up, before reluctantly racing back when their owners shouted or whistled.
Those who were to be part of the hunt started gathering near Tom. Colin felt the exhilaration prickling against his skin. When Karen touched him, a tingling sensation raced up his arm, and he jumped.
Karen grinned. She nodded toward where the men were gathering. “You’d better get over there, or you’ll be stuck here watching the little ones.”
Colin grimaced. “I can’t use the bow, and there aren’t enough horses for me to ride.”
“But you have your sling, and they’ll need men to help drive the animals. You can shout, can’t you?”
Colin straightened. He doubted he could take one of the strange deer down with his sling, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t try.
Grinning madly, he sprinted for the wagon where he’d tossed his satchel, retrieved his sling, and tied it on as quickly as possible, eyes on the men. Karen rolled her eyes and shook her head, as if asking Diermani to explain the stupidity of men. Colin ignored her.
Sling secured, stones thrust into his pockets, Colin dashed toward the group of men, arriving just as Arten barked an order and those on horseback spun their mounts and took off toward the plains at a trot.
His father gave him a curt nod, then addressed the group that remained, all on foot, most carrying bows. “All right. Arten and the others will drive the animals toward the fold in the land over there.” He pointed toward where a depression in the land narrowed down to a small gap between two banks of earth. “We’ll set the archers on the banks. You can shoot down into the depression. The rest of you need to line up to either side. Try to get them to funnel down into the opening. We don’t want them rushing up the banks and overwhelming the archers.”
“How do we do that?” someone asked. “We aren’t on horseback.”
“Grab something to wave or flail about, make noise, yell and shout. Anything you think may startle them and get them moving in the right direction.”
The men nodded and then broke for the banks and the gap between them, spreading out. A few ran back to the wagons, returning with long sticks, one bringing a length of bright cloth, another a blanket. Others simply removed their shirts, wrapping the sleeves around their hands so they could wave the material overhead.
Colin jogged across the rough ground, stalks of grass lashing his legs as he moved. He watched the herd of animals, saw Arten and the group of horses break apart, the workhorses spreading out to form a wedge pointed toward the dip in the land where Colin and the rest were settling into position. Arten and the Armory banked away, cutting around the herd. Some of the animals—singletons that roamed on the outside edges of the main group, like scouts— raised their heads, watching the horses as they circled around behind the herd, their gently curving horns sweeping back over their bodies. The plains were dotted with shifting shadows as scattered clouds moved overhead, and far to the north, black storm clouds darkened the horizon, moving east. They flashed an ethereal purple as lightning struck inside their depths, but the herd and the expedition were too distant to hear thunder. A thick slash of gray cut down from the dark clouds to the plains, where it was raining. The storm was moving away from them though, and after the storm at Cutter’s and the few showers they’d experienced since reaching the Bluff, Colin felt a mild relief. He’d grown accustomed to the strange heaviness in the air over the past few days, but when it was raining, especially when there was lightning, the air seemed to sizzle, to shift and flow around him like water.
Colin shuddered, and thoughts of Cutter suddenly made him wonder where Walter was. He scanned those nearest to the depression in the ground, then turned toward the wagons.
Walter and Jackson were both standing in front of the wagons, hands raised to shade their eyes from the sun as they watched the activity, the two isolated from the rest of the members of the expedition by a significant distance. Jackson pulled something from his satchel, then sat down in the grass, scribbling madly. Walter pulled a waterskin out and drank, his gaze turning from where Arten and the others had begun to cut into the herd toward where Colin and the rest waited.
He caught sight of Colin and lowered his waterskin with a grimace, as if the water had suddenly taken on a bitter taste.
Colin jerked his attention back to the hunt, the muscles in his shoulders tensing. He spat to one side, but the acridness in the back of his throat, like bile, didn’t go away. His hand kneaded the leather pocket of his sling, the ties biting into his forearm as he flexed the muscles, and he forced himself to stop with effort.
