Charles Ingrid - marked man 02 The Last Recall (26 page)

The sky had lightened to purple-gray and the birds had awakened when the tired horse went to its knees, throwing Alma over its shoulder and rolling onto the hard ground. She landed with a loud grunt, air whooshing from her. The horse got back to his hooves and stood, head down, breathing gustily. As she blinked away her momentary confusion, she listened past the bellows breath of the horse.

The forest stayed quiet. Whatever it was that had been driving them steadily all night appeared to have retreated. Alma took a deep breath and forced her stiffened body up.

The horse had stumbled at the far edge of the reservoir's lip. As the sky lightened, she could see the water's expanse before her, growing from black to purple to gray-blue. Her exhausted mount began to move to the water as if drawn. She trailed after it.

The buckskins clung to her as if pasted on. Heedless of the chill, Alma rushed past the horse and into the water. She began to scrub herself, shivering, movements frantic as if she would wash away all that had happened to her.

The horse thrust his muzzle into the water, sucking it up noisily. Alma stopped her wash. She let him swallow three, four, times convulsively, then she took him by the bridle to lead away before he could founder himself.

The beast went stiff-legged on her, the whites of his eyes rolling in stubborn disobedience.

She threw her entire weight on the reins. The horse gave way reluctantly as she kicked him in the stomach.

She sloshed along the shore line until she could find a shrub strong enough to hold him and snubbed him there. The beast gave her a mournful and resentful look.

"You'll thank me someday," she told it. The horse looked doubtful.

Alma waded back into the water. She could smell herself and the smell of the dean's assault on her. Ice-cold or not, she would not leave until she'd cleansed herself. She scrubbed until the buckskins sagged about her, stretched by the weight of the water and by her vigorous attention. She fisted one small hand in the waistband to keep the trousers up and leaned over to scour her hair. The smell of bruised pine rose in it. She nearly choked on the aroma. She would never be able to breathe that fragrance again without thinking of what had happened to her.

Emotion welled in her suddenly. Overwhelmed, Alma sank to her knees in the bitter-cold water. What was she going to do? No one would ever look at her in the same way again. Why hadn't she fought? Why hadn't she done something, anything, to stop it? Her self-trust had been violated. She felt useless and helpless. She began to cry. The spilling tears felt scalding hot on her chilled face. She could never go back and face them as long as they knew.

Alma dug her hand into her eyes. She couldn't tell them. As long as they didn't know, they would treat her the same. She staggered to her feet, stripping off her sodden clothes. Her pack would be in camp. So would the dead bodies of Jenkies and his brother. She would tell Sir Thomas they'd died defending her. It was the truth.

She simply would not tell them their defense had failed.

Gasping at the cold morning breeze as it struck her, she strode down the shore of the reservoir, the nester pony draggling behind her. Her determination flagged when she reached the camp. Scavengers had been at the camp. Alma would have sicked up again, but her gut was empty. She dry heaved until she could scarcely breathe. Then she found her pack and a clean set of trail clothes. She would have to build a cairn for what the coyotes had left of the two boys. She pulled the poisonous darts from their flesh—the coyotes had worried at their extremities, staying away from the contaminated wounds—and set the weapons aside for Sir Thomas to examine.

She ducked her head and put together her latrine shovel. Between the thin scrapings of the dry, hard ground, and the rocks she could find, they would have a burial. Alma paused, thinking. Blade had always said that dying was easy. It was living that was hard.

She bit her lip and began to dig.

Alma wrestled a last rock into place. It was easily midday. Heat shimmered off the reservoir, striking her like a dagger. She wobbled back to the horse line and sat too abruptly. Her arms trembled from the effort she'd gone through. The nester pony put his head down and licked at her arms. For the salt and water, she supposed. She pushed his muzzle away.

She should eat something. Somewhere, somehow, things had to go back to normal. She put her face in her hands. She did not think that would ever be possible.

Thomas gripped the bones in his hand. Buoyed by the knowledge that Lady had once walked through this mountain,
through an explosion,
on the ghost road, he levered himself to his feet. The color had gone gray, lifeless, all warmth from the bodies asleep around him. He and he alone walked this road. He reached down for the strength to fuel it and found such hatred and anger that he nearly fell under its blunt force.

The dean and his people had hated long and deep. The ghost road flared under his feet with a black heat that rippled as it stretched before him. He let his senses encompass all that it had to feed him. His mind felt as though it were a black cloud stretching outward and upward. The strength of the anger made him gasp.

Rarely in his life had he underestimated an enemy. The dean had resources he could barely guess at. But whenever and wherever he touched on the ghost road, the dean was there, a filament that ran through the entire fabric of the Vaults. No man could live that long . . . could he? No one man could hate that much . . . could he? Thomas felt himself repulsed. Yet he forced himself to reach after that resonance because it was the one which would lead him free of the Vaults.

Like a snake whipping toward him, a tendril of darkness came after him. Thomas paused, steeled himself, then reached for it. A shock thrilled through him. He clenched his teeth and stood, grounding himself in his powers and himself as it threatened to burn away all that he had ever known.

A ghost was an echo of what had been. Here on the road, it was as real a presence as he was, and hed never dared reach for such a thing before. It had always been his hope to pass by, as quickly and unseen as possible. The road was a distortion of time and distance and he'd used it only to get from one place to another far faster than mortal flesh had been meant to do.

Now he grasped that which would trap his existence for its, swallowing him down and absorbing him forever. He knew what death was and would swear that was what speared him now, icy and absolute, its touch piercing him the second hed taken the ghost into hand. This was no Gillander, reluctant to have him, yet at the same time covetous of his life. This was an enemy bent on annihilation.

But the dean was alive, was he not? Then how could his ghost grasp Thomas now?

The snake threw a loop around him, tangling his ankles. Blade tore a morning star from under his collar and sliced it away. The metal bit cloud so quickly, he damn near sheered off his boot shank. He stomped himself free. With it came a loosening of the emotions cutting through him.

He kept hold of the filament, reeling it in, and when the apparition of the dean reared before him, he stopped. He knew the man only because of his size—taller even than Blade, but this was a dean who was literally a shade of his former self. Hed gotten Sean and muscled. Thomas would not have recognized him at first. But then the man turned, looked behind him and, although he could not possibly have seen him, the hooded eyes fastened on him.

He would have recognized that calculating look anywhere.

"Show me," Blade whispered. "Show me your bolt hole."

The dean turned back and Thomas followed.

It was the tunnel Machander had sniffed out. Both the dean and Blade passed through the soft dirt as if it had not been there, although Thomas felt the weight of it, like walking through mud waist-high. The tunnel took several abrupt turns. Thomas felt his link with himself stretching thin as the overpowering hatred of the man threatened to inundate him.

At the tunnel's end, a trap. He watched as the dean dropped to one knee and prepared it. Then left through a bulkhead door which could only be opened one way— from the outside.

The filament snapped in his hand.

Thomas stood and felt the weight of the mountain bearing down on him. He could have brought the boys here all the way, only to meet defeat at the end. The tunnel's seal could only be opened from the outside. The trap would have obliterated and confused all that. They would have died here, pretty packages to be laid at the dean's feet whenever he chose to return.

Alma,
he thought. If he could draw her near. If he could lead her to this point, from the other side, Alma could free them.

For the briefest stretch of time, he'd seen the other side of the door. The dean had stepped into open space. She would not have to dig to find the bulkhead.

Lady had always had a tenuous link with Alma, although the girl could not really be said to have Talent. But it was that link which had saved her life once before, if only he could draw on it now.

He was a good sender, if not a receiver. He built his image now of Lady and Alma together, reaching for him on the pathway between the Warden manor and the barracks, in happier times, Alma rushing to meet them, reaching for Lady and then him. . . .

To draw on his Talent on the ghost road leeched him. He could feel his strength draining away like muddy water down a bathtub drain. He felt himself stagger and go down. The weight of the mountain leaned on him, grew close, bled away his air. He would lose the road entirely and find himself enmeshed with the soft dirt currently blocking this passageway.

He would die here.

Alma.

She heard her name. She lifted her face from her hands, felt the air caress her tear-bloated features, and saw nothing. But she heard. She looked toward the ruined crown of the mountain which held the Vaults. A mule pawed the dirt. One of the pack donkeys let out an earshattering bray.

Through it, she heard her name again, whisper soft.
Alma.
She stood up and cast about. What could make a sound she could hear through anything?

It was not something she could put a finger on, but it sounded like Sir Thomas. It held his confidence, his determination ... the hardness that permeated his manner. His stubbornness, Lady had called it. That man, shed said to Alma more than once, would float upstream if he fell in a river.

A third time, she caught her name, and more.
Follow.

She stood, hesitant. To leave the camp again, alone. The thing which had been in the brush might still be out there, although the horse-line did not look uneasy.

She took up her shovel which was big enough to dent the skull of just about anything she might connect with. She went in search of a voice that could pass through stone and time.

She followed it to the broken mountain and, there, began to search for a hidden door.

Alma stopped in frustration as the voice left her.

"Come back!" Her own echoed. "Dammit, how can I find you?"

Faintly, softer than whispers, softer than any noise except the beat of her heart and the velvet flow of her blood in her veins.
Alma,
he answered. She followed it again.

He knew when she'd heard. He knew when she'd gotten to her feet and come in search of him. But then he lost the strength to call her further. The road sucked him dry like a spider does its prey. If he moved, he'd shatter, mummified to brittle dust. If he called her again, his soul would spool out of his mouth with his voice, to be lost forever.

The road would have him if he did not withdraw now. He'd lose his anchor and die.

He knew when she smashed her fist into rock and bramble, yelling, "Dammit! How can I find you?"

He could not leave his task unfinished. He dredged up the last of his strength and called her to him.

When he heard the shovel hit the outside of the door with a dull clang, he knew he'd done it. He let go of the road abruptly. The tunnel imploded on him, dust motes striking him with the force of hammers. He could feel himself whirl away, unraveling with the speed of light.

"Sir Thomas? Sir Thomas?" Trout, making faces at him as he tried to wake him. The boy's cold, dry hand across his forehead. Drakkar leaned from the other side.

Thomas groaned.

"He's alive," Drakkar said, and grinned.

His head pounded. His mouth felt like it was still filled with the ashes of the hatred that fueled the road. The healer took his hand away. "We're all awake now. Bottom says it's been a night."

The cook's stomach was the best timepiece they had. Blade struggled awake and found his sides strapped firmly, so firmly he could scarcely draw breath.

"What ... is this?"

"In case your ribs are broken. And Jeong found something else that might help. Take two of these with a little water."

He peered at the capsules. "What is it?"

"Something called aspirin." Trout looked tremendously pleased. "We can't formulate it now, but it's in a lot of our older literature. We found packets of it in the desk drawers. Should be good for the pain."

He needed to get on his feet. He took the two pills and swallowed them dry while Drakkar fetched a water skin., The aspirin was horribly bitter. He made a face. Then, "Where's Stefan?"