Authors: Jane Fletcher
Martez had been at the rear of the wagon, helping the injured female outlaw down. Her arm was draped over his shoulder. Ross’s shout made Martez look up at the same moment that his dying follower landed like a sack of potatoes on the ground. Martez hesitated for only the barest instant. As Deryn again drew the bow, he shoved the woman away and ducked from under her arm. He dived, snatching up the dropped sword, and then carried on rolling.
Deryn loosed the arrow, but even as her fingers released, she knew her aim was off. The arrow did no more than nick Martez’s shoulder. Before she could draw again, he was on his feet and leaping for the cover of the trees, and then he was gone.
Cautiously, Deryn urged Tia back down the road. The sword would give Martez the advantage if he charged her at close quarters, but as she neared the wagon, the fading sounds of him crashing away though the undergrowth were reassuring, if only in the short term.
Ross was still tangled in the cart harness, half upside down, with his feet on the driver’s seat, but luckily, now the shouting had stopped, the horse looked to have given up any thought of bolting in favor of investigating what remained of the roadside vegetation. The outlaw on the road was unmoving, either dead or dying. The female outlaw was sprawled gasping on the bed of the wagon, and scarcely a greater threat than her comrade. Nevin lay beside her—or most of him did. A trail of red led Deryn to where his head had rolled, a few yards back down the road.
She grimaced, wishing she could find it in herself to be more sorry. A halfhearted prod of guilt tried to stir her conscience. Why had she not seen this coming, and stopped it? After all the time she had spent with Nevin, how could she have underestimated his incompetence? Yet even if she had predicted this, Deryn knew she would never have been able to make Nevin relinquish the Witch-Lord’s sword, or make him take better care of it.
“Nevin…he…the sword…”
“It’s okay, Ross. It’s going to be okay.” Deryn untangled his arm and helped him back onto the seat.
“But…but…the sword—”
“It’s okay. I’ve got the bow and I’m going after Martez. I’ll get the sword back, and make him pay for Nevin.”
Ross took a deep breath, visibly composing himself. He was surprised, but not terrified. “Do you want me to come with you?”
Deryn shook her head. An ounce more brain matter and adequate training and Ross would be a decent soldier. It was not his fault that he had neither, but as things stood, he would be more hindrance than help. The sounds of Martez’s flight had faded, but was he still running away, or was he silently returning, with an attack in mind?
“No. You stay here and guard the wagon. We don’t want Martez to sneak back and make off with it.”
“Martez has got the sword.” Ross’s eyes flicked toward Nevin’s body as he spoke.
“Yes. But we’ve got the rest of the Witch-Lord’s weapons.”
“Are you going to take them all?”
“No. We’ll share.”
Deryn caught her lip in her teeth. How best to allocate them? The dense forest would work against the bow. Getting a clear shot at Martez was unlikely. Equally, the matted undergrowth presented ideal opportunities for an ambush, and in close combat, the sword had the advantage. Yet there was no point leaving the bow with Ross. His marksmanship was worse than useless. The carthorse would be in as much danger as Martez. Ross’s own feet would not be safe.
The helmet would put any fight beyond doubt once Deryn caught up with Martez. But could she leave Ross with just the shield? Although he could not be hurt while he held it, presumably he could still be overpowered and have it taken off him. The helmet would make Ross safe, requiring nothing other than sitting with it on his head, a task that would not strain his abilities. He would not need the shield as well, but was it any use to her? Deryn shook her head, answering her own question. The shield was large, heavy, and a handicap to moving quickly and silently though the forest. Nor could she hold it and shoot the bow at the same time.
Deryn straightened her shoulders. The bow was her weapon of choice. The forest was her home ground. She could take on anyone there, regardless of demon magic.
“Ross, keep hold of the shield. Then Martez won’t be able to hurt you, even with the sword, and if you put the helmet on, he won’t be able to fight you anyway. Wait until I’m out of sight and then don’t take it off until I come back. I’ll stand down there”—Deryn pushed the shield into his hands and then pointed—“and wave when it’s all safe. Tie up the prisoner again, not that I think she’s going anywhere. Okay?”
Ross nodded. “Okay.”
Deryn jumped from the wagon and stared into the forest. Was Martez still running? Or was he lying in wait for when she would pass within sword’s reach? Until she knew exactly where Martez was, the important thing was never to take the route he expected. Deryn jogged up the road, toward higher ground, and then stepped under the cover of the towering pines.
The heavy not-quite silence of the forest enveloped her. Deryn let her ears take over, but there was nothing except the normal sounds of a forest in winter. The rustle of the wind through the treetops overhead; the crack of shifting snow on the branches; the flutter of a bird’s wing; the beat of her own heart. Eyes came next. Despite the dense cover of pines, a dusting of snow had reached the ground. Prints of deer, fox, and other animals were clear, but no human feet had passed that way.
In all directions, the undergrowth was matted tangle of brown and yellow, the dead remains of summer. With a few thorny exceptions it would be easy to push through, but not without creating a lot of noise, as Martez had already demonstrated. Deryn had entered the forest on a faint animal track that would allow her to advance quickly yet silently, but she could not expect the deer to have made a path that went exactly where she wanted.
However, time was not an issue. She could go as slowly as she liked. Eventually, Martez would have to stop and rest. All Deryn had to do was to keep going just a little while longer than he did. She was younger, in better shape, and last night she had slept on a bed, not crammed into a five-foot-square pen with two others. Admittedly it had been Alana’s bed, and she had not gone to sleep immediately, but when she did, she had slept very soundly.
Smiling at the memory, Deryn crept forward under the trees, on a course set to intersect with the line Martez had taken. After ten minutes of stealthy progress, she spotted an avenue of broken plant stems and twigs. The track was clearly made by something in full flight, and Martez was far and away the most likely prospect, but she needed to be sure. She did not want to end up on the trail of a panicked moose.
Before approaching, she double-checked her surroundings for any patch of vegetation big and dense enough to conceal the large man. A clump of vine maple was the only possible candidate. Deryn shifted to one side, until she could get a view straight through it. Only once she was sure did she creep close enough to see the imprint of boots. An accompanying splatter of blood confirmed that her arrow had clipped Martez, but the quantity did not suggest the wound was serious, or that it would hamper him. Deryn retreated a few yards, so she was close enough to see Martez’s trail, yet distant enough to give her a chance to get a shot off if needed, and then carried on.
For another half mile she followed the trail of trampled undergrowth. The route crossed over a low ridge and then led down into a dip, where rocks broke through the covering soil. The tree cover here was thinner and the vine maple grew dense, supplemented by spikes of evergreen scotch broom. Deryn stopped and crouched down under cover. If Martez was going to try to ambush her, this was the sort of spot he would pick.
The hollow was silent, with no movement except for a woodpecker, hopping up a trunk. Then Deryn spotted a quiver run through a patch of thicket. Maybe it was another bird, but the motion had seemed a little too dispersed, suggesting it was caused by something large. Martez’s trail ran straight past the spot without stopping, but of course, the outlaw would have the sense to go on a little way and then double back.
Was he there, waiting for her to go past? Deryn smiled. If so, he would have to wait a very long time. She raised her bow.
Normally, shooting blind into bushes was a good way to waste arrows, but the Witch-Lord’s bow had an infinite number of arrows to waste. Deryn released the string. The leaves did not move as the arrow passed through, but Deryn heard a muffled gasp. On the third shot, Martez broke from cover, bounding away from her in wild flight.
Deryn smiled. Now that she knew exactly where he was, she could risk a closer pursuit. She could also follow in his footsteps, letting him do all the hard work of breaking the trail. Not having to plow through the undergrowth meant she could stick to a comfortable jog, while he would be getting more and more tired. Occasionally, she caught a glimpse of his back between the tree trunks, but mostly, she followed by ear. She had no need to try catching him. Much easier to wait until he collapsed from exhaustion.
Are you watching this, Shea? I hope you enjoy it.
When the sound of crashing stopped abruptly, Deryn froze. What was Martez planning now? His trail was heading down a steep incline. The lower branches of the trees merged with the undergrowth, blocking Deryn’s view, but she could see that the light was markedly stronger, denoting a break in the tree cover. Were they reaching an area stripped by forest fire? In which case, she might get a clear shot at the outlaw and hasten the end of the chase. Was that why Martez had stopped running? Had he decided to turn and fight? Deryn took a tight grip on the bow and advanced with caution until she reached the edge of the trees.
The break was caused by a narrow ravine, thirty feet deep, slicing through the hillside. The walls were dirt and loose shale, too steep for trees to cling to. Twisted roots broke through the sides. A small river cascaded over the boulder-strewn bottom, cutting a black line through the white snow.
Martez had slithered down and was trying to clamber up the far side—something he was finding very difficult to do, largely because one of his hands was bandaged and missing fingers, while the other was holding the sword. He was a sitting target. Deryn stood on the lip of the gully and raised the bow.
The attempts to climb the gully wall were getting more and more frantic. His toe found purchase and he levered himself up a foot or so, but he still had a long way to climb. Martez must have known that he was running out of time. He threw a desperate glance over his shoulder, and froze, his eyes locked on the arrow that had formed on Deryn’s drawn bow.
For tense seconds, neither of them moved, but then Martez relaxed, sliding back to the floor of the ravine. He faced Deryn and smiled defiantly. “Are you hoping I’m going to surrender?”
“No. I’m hoping you’ll give me the excuse to shoot you.”
“You like killing people?”
“Not normally. Just you.”
“Yeah. You threw your knife at me before. Why?”
“It’s too much to expect you’d remember me.”
“Ah. You’ve got a grudge. Well, come on, you’ll have to give me a few clues. I’ve lost count of the people who’ve sworn revenge on me.” Martez paused, frowning thoughtfully. “Say, it wasn’t that family, four years back in—”
“No.”
“Just, you look a bit like—”
“It was a mining camp. Nine years ago. You’d found a demon wand of fireballs in some ruins.”
“Oh, yes, there. My gang got wiped out. I didn’t think we’d got any of your crew, though.” Martez’s manner was as if they were old friends, reminiscing.
“Just one. My lover. Her name was Shea.”
Martez gave an exasperated sigh. “Why do people always want to tell me their names?”
“Because it’s all you’ve left us with.”
“Yeah, okay, Shea. You’re pissed at me for killing her.”
“I loved her.”
“She wasn’t just a quick fuck, then?”
Deryn’s hand holding the bowstring was shaking. Her aim would not be good. At the close range, it would not need to be. She took sight, aligning the string with the side of the bow.
Martez clearly saw that he had pushed his taunting too far. He threw the Witch-Lord’s sword onto the ground and raised his hands. “Go on then. Shoot me.”
Deryn had never killed in cold blood. She tried to inject passion now, shuffling images in her head like a pack of cards—Shea riding her horse as if she was melded with the animal, her face in the lamplight as she climaxed, her body pale and lifeless as she lay in her grave. It did not work. She could not do it.
I’m sorry, Shea.
Deryn lowered her bow, although she still kept her fingers hooked on the string. “Climb back up here.”
“What you going to do about the sword?”
“I’ll come back and get it, once you’re secure in the wagon.”
“You know the marshal will take it once you get to Oakan?”
“Yup.”
“You’ll get a few pissy little coins as a reward.”
“Yup.”
“So why not hang on to the weapons?”
“Because I don’t want to become an outlaw, like you.”
“Think about it. It’s a great life.”
“Weren’t you the one who was complaining about being cold so much of the time?”
“You and I could—”
“I’m going to watch you hang, and remember Shea.”