Charles Ingrid - marked man 02 The Last Recall (10 page)

"Is she—"

"I don't know," the healer said tersely. "Now go join the others."

"Yes, ma'am." Alma turned away.

Lady twisted on one knee. "Wait! Alma, was there any problem when you came out to get us?"

"Nothing. I didn't even know Roanne was lying down—"

Thomas looked at Lady. "Awfully quick," he said.

"Yes." Lady chewed on a lower lip. "All right, honey," she said. "Go see if you can hurry Franklin up. We're almost out of water here."

The girl's body seemed to swell up even as they watched helplessly. Lady dredged every drop of fresh water she could out of the laving basin, but there wasn't enough to wash Roanne down properly for cooling. She unbuttoned the dress front as the girl heaved for breath.

Suddenly, Roanne went stiff as a board. Her breath rattled out of her chest.

"My God, Thomas," and Lady threw him a stricken look. "I think she's dead!"

Chapter 6

The girl suddenly went limp, sinking back into the cot. Thomas searched with his Intuition but met a dark, chaotic pool of thought. Lady placed her palms on the girl's rib cage and began to pump in rhythm. "Can you breathe for me, Thomas?"

He hesitated. Who knew what disease the girl carried? He shook off his hesitation, moved to the side of the cot and leaned down, arranging her head and cupping her jaw loosely. But as he took a deep breath, Roanne fought for one of her own. Her eyes flew open.

Lady stopped pumping. The girl's eyes rolled up and then down until she stared out at them, unseeing.

"Path of the dead," she said. The tone of her voice brought up the hair at the back of Blade's neck. "Riding, riding, too close. No warning. Massacre."

"She's seeing Charlie's death," Thomas said. He felt sick to his stomach and took a step away from the cot.

Lady frowned. "Maybe. It could be Precog."

"Foresight? Thought she had little Talent," he answered.

"I could be wrong! That's why we bring in other testers for the candidates." Lady sponged up the last of the tepid water and mopped the girl's forehead. "We're listening, Roanne," she said soothingly.

With a gut-wrenching noise, the girl turned away and retched, spewing all over the flooring to the side of the cot. Thomas jumped back to avoid the spray. Lady wiped her mouth clean and brought Roanne's face back toward hers. The girl never blinked, her eyes wide open now as if she were dead. The healer repeated, "We're listening."

Thomas was spooked. He backed up, saying, "Not me. I'll get Franklin." He turned away.

"Blade! She's Projecting her own fear, can't you feel it?"

Sweat had beaded up on his forehead. He could feel the nerves quaking in his hands. Abruptly, he blocked himself and the near panic that had threatened to overtake him like an unstoppable tide washed away. "I didn't even feel her," he said in wonderment.

"No."

There was the sound of boots in the stairwell and a rich, young voice called up, "I'm here. How is she?" as Franklin Brown stepped into the room. He handed a pail of cold water to Lady and answered himself, "Oh, my God. What's happening?"

"We don't know."

The round-faced, rotund young man went for a mop and came back, applying himself to cleaning up as Lady wet the rag thoroughly, washing Roanne's face, neck, and wrists. Thomas washed her feet and ankles. The girl took another deep, shuddering breath.

"Warning! No warning."

Franklin turned, mop in hand, his dark hair falling into his eyes. "Is that her?" he asked.

"Yes. Spectral voice?"

The young Protector shrugged. "I don't know—I've never heard one. That's not Roanne's normal voice."

Lady bathed the girl's thick neck where her cords stood out in tense agony. Thomas stood impatiently, but he could not blame Franklin for not knowing the answers to their questions. Franklin had been an apprentice of Alderman Brown, one of the Protectors slain at the massacre, and though well-trained, he was not experienced in his position. Strain drained away his normally calm attitude. Thomas would not add to that strain.

Roanne bolted upright on the cot. She grabbed for Lady's hand. "They're coming, oh, they're coming and this time I'll die!" She blinked several times and then began to sob.

Blade looked at Lady as she took the girl in a heartfelt embrace and held her tight. The wards were raised here, schooled, and graduated, but Roanne hadn't left yet because she had shown some potential for Protector Talents—and she was one of the wards who had survived the College Vault attack.

"That's not regressive memory," he said suddenly. And he knew what it was Roanne was seeing. Knowledge galvanized him into action. "That's Foresight—and if she's right, we're all in trouble. Franklin, take care of her, get the kids together and keep them here! Use whatever Talents you can to protect yourself.''

He grabbed Lady's wrist, hauling her to her feet, dragging her out of the room and downstairs.

"That's one of the nastiest bouts of breakout fever I've ever seen," he said to her as he tugged her along.

"What's wrong?"

"We're about to be raided—and Roanne didn't see much hope for our chances this time, either." He paused at the doorway. He pointed at Stanhope. "Shutter the windows and barricade the back door.''

"Yessir."

Lady balked at the doorway. "I'm staying here."

"We need a link of Protectors up at the house. Franklin's got a handful of raw Talent here. He doesn't need your help."

She looked back, torn. Her fear showed in her expression. "Roanne saw herself die."

"Lady, I need you up at the house."

She gave then, so quickly he almost went over backward. He caught himself. He could see nothing between the barracks and the house. But his senses roiled ... a raiding party was thundering down on them. Lady sensed it, too. Her skirts boiled about her ankles as she began to run. They bolted for it.

"Shit! The one time I don't hassle the sentries."

"It's not your fault."

"And my rifle's in the stable with my packs. Shit, shit." He reached out and steadied her as she stumbled. They flew over the last ten yards of lawn. He vaulted the refreshment table, yelling, "Raiders!" Lemonade foun-tained across the patio as tumblers went flying. Celebrants scattered into a drill too well known.

Governor Irlene met him on the patio. Lips tight, she said, "I'll get the troops." She brushed past him en route to the stables where the peninsula troops were quartered because of the size of the gathering.

Shankar had left his sunny spot, but his nemesis loomed in the French doors. Thomas looked about. He pointed at Bartholomew. "Get everybody in that you can, and keep away from the glass."

The knobby man's warts bristled as he said, "What is it?"

"Raiders. We might have enough time to meet the attack."

He paused belligerently in the door frame. "I don't see or hear anything. There's been no alarm sounded."

There was a
shoop
and
thunk
as an arrow parted his hair and buried itself deep in the doorjamb. The shaft quivered from the impact.

Bartholomew ducked sharply indoors, commanding, "Everybody down and into the hallways—get away from the windows!"

Thomas pulled Lady into a crouch with him. The bricks were already very warm from the morning sun. He could feel the heat reach his face. He edged backward. The patio's low rock wall gave them some cover, but it was barely knee-high. Lady brushed her lips across his temple in farewell. "I'll go inside. I'll do what I can."

What Lady could do was a hell of a lot. "I'm for the stables and weapons rack."

"All right." She crawled into the house quickly, even her careful movements drawing another two quarrels, one into the wood and the second bouncing off the glass doors above her as she reached up for the latch.

He stood up and made for the stables. He could feel her cloaking, a warding against objects, not a shield he would care to stand up and dare the enemy with, but helpful now. He could smell smoke, pungent and thick, and he heard the scream of panicked horses and mules. The stable was on fire, flames licking its crest. Fire arrows had led the attack here. Their only luck lay in the fact that it was the roof which had caught first. The tremendous heat of combustion was bleeding into the sky, not building up inside the bam. It would give them some time—but only a few minutes. A barn was extremely inflammable and every second counted.

There was already a bucket line forming from the horse troughs in back. Irlene led the troopers. She looked up as he ran past, aiming for the weapons rack in the tack shed. Her voice yelled after him, "Get the animals calm, and we can try to get them out!''

Thomas rounded the corner of the barn. Its side faced a v/ide expanse, all open, all now unguarded, and he saw the raiders.

He crouched down on one knee as they swept in over the broken roadway and across the lawns. They weren't Mojavans, though his Intuition had told him that—when Denethan attacked, he did so with Projections of dark, abject fear so thick it could almost be sliced with a knife. Talents like Denethan's were why Protectors like him existed. He felt a kind of relief that an alliance he'd staked his integrity on was still intact. Now he had a different enemy to face.

With screams of hatred, the raiders charged at the stables, boot heels pounding the ribs of their ponies. Dirt and grass clods flew through the air. They were nesters, but they might have been comancheros from a laser disk movie. Blade hit the dirt, Projecting peace and coolness to the panicked beasts within the barn. His only hope to Protect the water line would be to get them out of the line of tire—but he knew Irlene wouldn't leave until the animals were gotten out of the barn. He felt Lady's shielding leave him abruptly and knew the main house was under attack as well.

He gathered himself and stood. He built his own cloak, not of invisibility, but of inviolability and repugnance. The eye glancing at him would slide away, repulsed, unseeing. Nesters pounded past, whooping and hollering, their crossbows in hand, fetishes swinging from the chestbands and the bits of their horses. Their matted hair swung wildly. Clay streaked their faces, not in ritual painting, but just for the additional bonification of their already bestial features. He saw fresh scalps hanging from the saddlebag straps. He thought he knew why the sentries had not triggered their alarms.

A nester bore down on him. Blade saw the man's wild eyes and though he was close enough to smell him, knew the man could not see him. He pulled his shuriken out and threw it, turning away to catch it as he Fetched it back even as it completed its arc across the raider's gullet. The nester's throat blossomed crimson. With a gurgling cry, he lurched from his saddle, dead before he hit the ground.

Thomas got to his feet, running. Too hot wood exploded, showering him with splinters that caught fire as they rained down. He cupped his arm over his face and found the swing doors.

Blade kicked the barn door open. A trooper was shoulder to shoulder with him before the door stopped bouncing. He knew the man, Kopek, a grizzled veteran. "Get them out before the lower level catches. That hay'll go up like plastique."

The trooper nodded.

Harley let out a shivery neigh. The stall holding him was half stove in as the animal had exhausted himself trying to kick free. Lather dappled the gelding's neck and flanks. He rolled a wild eye at Thomas as Thomas stepped in and grabbed his halter. He mounted bareback. His packs were slung at the stall's rear. He ground his knees into Harley's ribs and backed the horse in close enough for him to sling his packs over the gelding's withers and pull his rifle out.

His rifle had been customized to hold three smaller vials. He packed the chamber, cranked it. Harley lunged out of the stall as soon as Blade freed him. Smoke stung his eyes. He leaned over the gelding's thin neck. Mane whipped his face and eyes. The horse plunged for the open doors with a grunting neigh. Other mounts being freed by Kopek jostled them as they speared into the fresh air.

He lost the Projection for calmness then, unable to hold it indefinitely without the ability to concentrate. Behind him, he could hear Kopek's hoarse, smoke-choked voice cursing at the beasts as they raised their voices in panic.

He swung past Irlene and shouted, "Get someone in there to help Kopek!''

She nodded her heat-burned face and continued passing buckets. Harley shook his head, foam splattering her as Thomas kneed him away.

Rifle in hand, mane knotted in his left fist both to guide and steady himself, he rode out toward the broken roadway. He could see the nesters regrouping and exchanging ammo. With a whoop of his own, he drew their attention, let go of Harley's mane and squeezed the gelding's barrel tightly with his legs.

The chestnut was running on sheer nerves. Blade aimed his rifle over Harley's bobbing head and fired, swiveled, fired, swiveled and fired again. Without bothering to watch the results, he threw himself forward onto Harley's neck and slipped to the left wither as he turned the horse in the same direction. He was no longer a target and the swiftly dodging Harley ran as though he knew his life depended on it.

Behind him, a wall of flame roared up, eating away green lawn and weed, succulent and wild Shasta daisy, rushing toward the raiders. Charlie, he thought, would have lulled him for using those defoliants if he'd been alive. The river of fire would not stop for a half mile. His only hope was that the broken road would be a firebreak between the chemical and Warden manor.