The Rebellion (54 page)

He straightened and the overguardian brought the dice again.

At the first throw, twelve marks faced up.

“The Pole,” Bram intoned.

On the second throw, three marks faced the sky, and we gathered around Rushton to decide which three should represent us.

“I have some skill with the pole as a weapon, but twice I have failed,” Hannay said despondently. “I am not afraid, but I think you should not choose me.”

“You did not fail,” Angina said. “I made you brave, and when I was hurt, you made yourself brave.”

The coercer smiled wanly and ruffled the empath’s hair. “Let us say you showed me the knack of it.”

“I will do it,” Miryum said stoutly. “Pole fighting is my specialty, and if it is aggression they want, I am the person to give it to them.”

Rushton nodded. “I name myself as well to this, for I, too, have some skill at the pole.”

“We need three,” Miryum reminded him.

“I have not learned the pole, but I am strong,” Daffyd offered diffidently.

“Why not,” Rushton agreed, sounding almost cheerful. I guessed he was glad to be involved rather than watching.

“What if they are not to fight with the poles?” Dameon murmured, but Jakoby had called for Rushton to nominate his team for the third game. Malik spoke, and the chosen six were marched off to the armoring tent.

When Jakoby explained this game, my heart sank; we had misjudged yet again, for the game did not involve the common sport of pole fighting. The title referred instead to a long, slender piece of wood run between two high stands. Two of these scant bridges were erected before our eyes, to stand less than an arm’s width apart.

The object, Jakoby said, was for the members of each trio to cross the pole from end to end, one at a time.

Hannay groaned. “Badly as we have done already, we cannot hope to succeed now. No coercer fears heights more than Miryum.”

Our only consolation was that the rebel team seemed no happier. I kept my fingers crossed that at least one of their people would also be afraid of heights.

The six returned carrying short staves, which were clearly to be used for balance. Even at a distance, I could see Miryum was white and tense, as Jakoby told them each team must begin at opposite ends and proceed at their own pace.

“Begin,” Bram shouted.

Rushton went first, crossing with an obvious lack of fear and the grace and balance that had served him so well aboard
The Cutter
. The first rebel had no hope of matching him and made his own crossing slowly and carefully, sweating and swearing at every step. By the time he reached the other side, Daffyd had already taken Rushton’s place and was making his way carefully across the pole.

The second rebel was far more agile. He swarmed up the ladder and stepped out onto the pole with confidence. He looked across at Daffyd and smiled.

My heart pounded uneasily as he came level with the grimly concentrating Daffyd.

The rebel swung his stave out without warning and dealt Daffyd’s a hard thump.

Panicking, the farseeker dropped his stave and swayed. The rebel laughed, holding up his own stave for another blow. But he stepped forward, failing to notice Daffyd’s stave had fallen to straddle the two poles, just beneath the rebel’s feet. He lost his footing and fell with a terrified scream.

“Lud help him,” Miky whispered, but my eyes were riveted to Daffyd, who was still swaying dangerously.

“Use your arms!” Rushton cried.

Slowly, Daffyd lifted his arms, and after a long, tense moment, he stepped forward again, only to misjudge.

Kella screamed as he fell but, at the last second, he caught hold of the pole. He hung there for a long moment before beginning to make his way hand over hand to the other side.

There was dead silence as he climbed down the ladder and crossed to where the second rebel lay in the red-stained sand, motionless.

He looked up at the two rebels, who had made no move toward their fallen comrade.

“He’s dead.”

“Go!” snarled the first rebel to the third, shoving him. The red-haired man licked his lips, then began to mount the stand.

I looked across at Miryum.

She was trembling violently, her face paper white, her eyes fixed on the dead rebel.

Rushton cursed audibly and set his hands on the ladder at the finishing end.

“Look at me, Miryum,” he urged from across the sandpit.

She lifted her head.

“Put your hands on the ladder. We’ll climb up together. Do exactly as I do, and don’t look down.”

Seeming half mesmerized by his fierceness, she obeyed, putting her hands around the first rung.

And so they climbed.

The third rebel was halfway across now, but moving very slowly. The first rebel shouted and jeered at Miryum, calling her a great stupid sow, but her entire attention was focused on Rushton.

They had reached the top of the ladder and were facing one another. “Come,” Rushton invited softly. “Walk across to me. Come as slowly as you wish and don’t look down. Don’t think. Just step out.”

She did not move.

I closed my eyes, unable to bear the tension.

“Lud save us. She’s doing it!” Hannay whispered incredulously.

I took a deep breath and opened my eyes to see Miryum had indeed taken up a balancing stave and stepped out onto the narrow pole. She walked forward, step by slow step, her eyes fixed on Rushton’s as if they were her lifeline. She reached the center of the pole. The exact center.

Then I saw her eyes sweep down to where the rebel lay.

She stopped.

“Come on,” Rushton urged. “You’ve come this far.” But she was like a statue, frozen with terror.

“Come on,” Daffyd shouted from below. “Reach down and swing the rest of the way like I did.”

“She can’t,” Hannay murmured, his own brow beaded with sweat.

“I’m strong!” Miryum cried in an agonized voice. “I’m strong!”

For one dreadful moment, I thought she was going to jump.

There was a cry of anger from the rebels, and I saw that Rushton had come out from the other end using his hands outstretched to balance himself. In moments, he and Miryum were facing one another. He spoke too softly for us to hear what he said, but it was clear that he was coaxing her. The third rebel had reached the end and was jeering and exhorting the coercer to join the dead rebel on the ground.

Miryum shook her head at Rushton.

He reached out, talking all the while, until he was also grasping Miryum’s balancing stave.

“No!” Miryum moaned as he pulled her gently toward him.

“Yes,” Rushton said calmly, firmly. “For Obernewtyn. Walk, Miryum.”

And, incredibly, she did. He walked backward, leading her slowly, feeling his way with his feet and instinct.

When they were safe, I cheered myself hoarse with the others, blinded by tears of pride. Miky and Angina were nearly crushed to death by an elated Hannay, and there was not a dry eye among us.

The rebels roared, too, hissing that it was a cheat.

“How so?” Jakoby inquired of Malik, who had made the charge formal.

“He helped that fat cow. She would not have made it without him.”

“That is true,” Jakoby said, and for a moment her golden eyes were full of irony.

“The Misfits show great courage and great devotion to one another,” Bram said. “Perhaps too much, for if the girl had fallen, she would undoubtedly have taken their leader with her. A wise leader does not risk himself in this way. Not for a lone warrior.”

He went on to praise the single-mindedness of the rebels in trying to thwart their opponents but suggested they needed to temper zeal with thought, since they had lost another player and were now down to eight.

“There must be some warriors left in case a battle is only one of many in a war.” He expressed regret at the dead rebel as the body was carried away, but none of the other rebels seemed overly disturbed by what had happened to their companion.

The next game to be played was called “the Ride.”

41

“I
AM FOR
this,” I told Rushton, for a swift probing had told me there were horses in a corral just behind a clump of trees.

For a moment, our eyes met.

“Yes,” he said. “But, Elspeth, we have to do more than win this with speed and grace. We won the last game, I am sure, but we have to show some aggression. It sounds as if these Sadorians value that in the rebels, and we’re losing because of it.”

“I’ll try,” I said.

When Rushton named me to Bram, Malik named himself.

We were brought to the small herd of beasts I had farsensed and bade to choose our mounts. Malik immediately selected a huge gray gelding with intelligent eyes. He had clearly chosen the most powerful beast, but a race among horses sometimes had more to do with endurance than strength. I paused for a moment and swung myself into the corral to walk among the other horses.

I beastspoke at random, asking who was stronger and faster than all the rest. Suddenly I found myself face to face with the little mare Faraf, whom I had aided at the city gate the day I arrived at Sutrium.

“Greetings, ElspethInnle,” she sent. “It seems our paths are twined. As you see/discover, my escape did not bring me to the freerunning barud.”

“You were captured?”

“Yes, and sold to these. As funaga go, they are not bad/evil. Yet I dream of the freerunning.”

“Choose,” Malik snarled impatiently.

Ignoring him, I explained my need to the mare.

“The other/funaga has taken the strongest among us. But you had better choose me, for I am small and not strong,” she advised.

“Why? Will the strong/wise other let us win? My need is very great.”

“He would if I ask it, Innle, for he knows what you are. But they will feed us a garrug/a leaf that some call
prickleberry
. It causes a madness that infects/burns the brain. Better to ride a weak mad horse than a strong one.”

I bit my lip to keep a smile of triumph from my mouth as I led Faraf out.

Malik looked down at the slender mare incredulously, but a servitor merely offered us a choice of saddles. The rebel chose a great solid armored thing with sharp metal spurs. On Faraf’s advice, I took one that was light and deep-seated. I chose the simplest bridle but removed the metal bit. When we were brought back to the isis pool, a space had been cleared, and Jakoby explained what Faraf had already told me. We would get onto the horses, and they would be fed the prickleberry, which would madden them temporarily. We would sit on them until the drug took effect. When one of us was unseated, the game would be ended.

“This weed will not kill the horses as it did the bear?” I asked, trying to recall what I knew of prickleberry.

Jakoby’s brows lifted. “The bear did not die from the garrug. Its heart was weak and burst under the strain of battle.”

The shadows were long now, and I prayed this game
would end the day. If we won, it would leave both sides equal, and perhaps that was the best way to win this fight.

“Courage,” Faraf sent as I mounted her. The saddle felt stiff and hard against my backside, and the metal stirrups pressed my feet uncomfortably. A servitor brought a nosebag, and as Faraf ate, a thought came to me of how we might further impress the rebels.

“Faraf/littlesistermind, if you will let me into your thoughts/open to me, I can block the effect of this leaf so that it will not madden you.”

“I will open, but already it begins to affect me.”

This was true, for her whole body was already twitching. I sent a probe into her mind and examined the effect of the prickleberry. It moved swiftly, but I was faster, blocking nerve paths and sending it by innocent trails to the bowel, where it would be voided. Still, some of the drug remained in her system, so I took control of her nerves and immobilized her completely.

Gradually, the trembling faded, and she stood quietly.

Malik’s horse, meanwhile, was pacing about, shuddering and shying at nothing. The rebel’s face was pale, and he held the rein cruelly tight, ready to saw on the horse’s mouth the minute it tried anything.

Without warning, the animal gave a shrill whinnying shriek and reared up.