Forsada: Volume II in the New Eden series Page 4

My father’s jaw tenses and his eyes narrow, but otherwise he doesn’t move. Turner stalks around the room like a caged coyote. He seems to be waiting for my father to speak again so he can interrupt. Good for you, Papi, don’t give him the satisfaction.

  After a moment, Turner gets the hint and stops stalking, stares at one of the empty spots on the bench. “And last I checked,” he speaks at the vacant space, his words clear like the peal of a carefully swung hammer, “your term as President ended some months ago.” He pauses, his stance triumphant, the lesson delivered with his back to the man and his face to where the man should be sitting. What a jerk.

  If my father is seething inside, he doesn’t show it.

  “That’s right, Marshall. But when I was President, if someone—anyone—thought Tawtrukk was about to be destroyed, I’d have wanted them to call a Council.”

  Turner chuckles softly, and I can feel the tension in the bodies warming up the stale air around us. He turns to face my father and appears to relax. He thinks he’s won something, I can see it in his smug grin, hear it in the soft, throaty chuckle. “But, Ryne, you’re not President. And I am. And I believe our rules exist for a reason. Breaking the rules, for any reason, undermines our very society.” The rooster struts across the room, passing before us in the middle. “We have so few rules and so many freedoms. Would you have no rules at all? Would you have emergency Councils called every time snow falls on the road, or lightning strikes a Lift Pole?” He runs his hand through his thick, wavy, black hair.

  Oh dear god, my father will take this abuse forever if no one stops this buffoon, and we’ll all die here like stupid chickens. No, even chickens try to escape from a burning building.

  “Would you have a young mother call an emergency Council because her three year old skins his knee? Would you have—”

  “Shut up, Turner.”

  Garrett’s voice is followed by a few gasps from the edges of the room.

  Turner stops dead in mid stride, then slowly pivots on one foot to look in our direction. His eyes focus on each of us in turn, except Garrett.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice dripping with mock interest. “I thought I heard something, but it must have been the wind through these open windows.” He glares at my father a moment too long, then returns to his strutting. I glance at Garrett, whose eyes smolder with hatred. Shack is giving him a “knock it off” look. But Garrett’s right. There’s no time to let this fool have his little power trip.

  “Now, where was I before that impetuous interrup—”

  “Garrett said shut it, Turner.” Finally my anger has bubbled over.

  “Lupay!” My father steps toward me, his voice full of father’s warning.

  Go ahead, everyone gang up on me. It’s better that way. Maybe they’ll hear this time.

  “No, Papi, I won’t be quiet. There’s no time.” Motion from Turner draws my glare, and I force myself not to pull my knife out and point it at him. His mouth opens to speak, but I won’t let him. I can’t let him. I need to speak for Darren Block. For Karen Sharper. For their baby. For Harper Jiroe, and all the others that can’t speak up anymore.

  Turner swells and booms out, “Ryne, silence your daughter, or I’ll expel her!” He marches up to me and towers over me, a full foot taller than I am. He looks over my head, past me. “She shouldn’t even—”

  “Back off, Turner, and let her speak,” growls a voice much too close to us. Shack’s joined this fight, thank god. And bless his lack of self control. He holds his knife out, loose but deadly in his hand, where everyone in the room can see it, especially Turner.

  CHAPTER 5

  “This is unacceptable!” Turner shouts, but he backs away and backs down.

  “Son,” my father says, “this is totally un—”

  “Papi!” I have never before yelled at my father. It stops him cold, as if I’d just punched him right in the mouth. There’s pain in his eyes, just as if I really had.

  But this is far too important. “Listen, everyone!” I feel like I’m shouting, but the room has fallen so silent I could whisper and everyone would hear. “We’re all dead if we don’t move fast. Southshaw has an army on its way here, and the only thing they want is to kill every one of us.”

  Like in the square a few minutes ago, the reaction is mixed. Turner scoffs and smiles, and those who want to be like him follow like ducklings. Fine. Let them wait for slaughter. Good riddance. If they don’t want to listen, who needs them. But others look stricken, or confused, or doubtful.

  “Look at me!” I screech, my voice breaking and my anger erupting into the room. “Look how I’m dressed! This is Southshaw clothing. A boy’s clothes. I’ve been to Southshaw. I’ve seen what none of you has!” I can’t hold back, even though I’m probably terrifying them with my wild ranting. “Their leader, a man named Darius, wants to kill us all. They think of us as mutants.” The pain of that moment when Dane first called me mutant pours over me like water on hot rocks, but I push aside the memory and hold on to the pain, forcing it into my voice.

  “They’ve destroyed Lodgeholm already. And yes, that means they’re not far behind us. A few hours, maybe. A thousand of them, at least.” The vision of their foul, putrid camp fills my head, and my voice trails off. What’s the use? There are so many. I had thought maybe we could fight, resist, beat them back. But when they arrive, they’ll walk right over us like walking over an ant hill. I slump my shoulders, and tears begin to fill my eyes.

  No crying, Lupay. No crying. They already think you’re nuts. If you start bawling now, they won’t believe a word.

  “I watched an arrow cut right through Harper Jiroe’s chest,” Shack says. He sounds shaky, and I know he’s seeing the memory in his mind. I will never forget it, like I will never forget watching Dane bring that hatchet down on Baddock’s neck. Some things can never be erased.

  He continues narrating as the memories slide through my mind. “We woke up as many as we could. They came before dawn. Most didn’t get out. They burned the building. Fricking cowards. So many burned in there. Dead. You should have heard them screaming.” He trembles as the images overwhelm him. He frowns at me. “I didn’t believe at first, either. Lupay, I’m sorry.”

  Garrett finishes for him. “It’s true. It’s all true. They’re coming. And we don’t have much time. Almost no time at all.” He turns to my father, ignoring Turner. And that’s his mistake.

  Turner laughs loud and long, too forceful and hollow. “All of Southshaw comes to destroy Tawtrukk? Why would they do that, after three centuries of peace?”

  We all know that it hasn’t been peace so much as complete separation by mutual hatred, but before I can say anything he continues. “And we’re to hold an emergency Council and take up arms and march against some phantom army at the word of three known pranksters? Ha, ha!”

  He comes up to me and pinches my cheek, winks, and smiles too broadly.

  “Good joke, kids. You nearly had us on this one. Ha, ha!” He struts around the room again, encouraging his ducklings to quack along with him. When he’s on the far end of the room, he turns and gives us a hateful smile. “The knife, especially, was a good touch. Very convincing, William.” He cocks his head to one side, a curious look in his eyes. “Did you stage that fight with your father? Was even he in on this joke?”

  My father puts his arm out to stop Shack from charging at Turner, but Shack hasn’t moved. “Put the knife away, son. Violence has no place in a Council. No matter what the provocation.” I can’t believe my father’s voice can sound so calm with this stupid rat wasting time. Every word from his mouth means less time to prepare for Darius. Or to run.

  “It’s no fricking joke, you ass,” hisses one of the two Lodgeholm men, breaking his silence. From the raw hate poisoning his words, my father is restraining the wrong man. “Lodgeholm… there’s nothing left. Everyone’s dead, except the few who escaped with us.”

  “Where are they, then?” Turner is trying to maintain his hold on the audience,
but clearly even his bravado is slipping.

  “We split with them in the woods, and Greg and Martin led them on the ridge path to Sikwaa. Like the boy said earlier.” The man is middle aged, his face soot-scarred and his skin fiery pink. I notice his hands for the first time. They’re streaked with white and scarlet welts outlined in black. He was one of the last out. He probably had to push aside burning beams to make it to the door.

  I’m surprised he hasn’t killed Turner himself by now.

  “Go ahead, Trey,” my father says. So my father knows him. I don’t remember him, but then I don’t know many of the Lodgeholm folks well. “Tell the Council what you saw.”

  Trey’s eyes gloss over as he steels himself for the description. He tells of being roused by Garrett, of leaving behind everything he owns, of barely making it out before the building collapsed, of having seen the terror in the eyes of children and women who did not escape. He tells of Shack’s bloody assault, of the tragic heroism of Darren Block. By the time he’s done, every face in the room either melts with tears or smolders with rage. Except Turner’s. He’s pale as a Subterran, and he looks sick.

  There’s a silent pause after Trey’s final words: “At least thirty perished. It would have been worse had the caravan not left yesterday for Upper.”

  Garrett steps forward with urgency. “And now the army is on its way here.”

  “How do you know!” Turner has regained himself, and he shouts the accusation at us. “You fled. I’m not saying I blame you, under the circumstances, but no one knows for sure what their intentions are. It could be just a border raid, just a—”

  I can’t stand his voice. “Haven’t you heard anything, you… you… buffoon!” I yell at him, not caring if my voice screeches. “No one knows? I know! I know. Darius wants to kill us all. Border raid? Really? Southshaw is fifty miles away. There’s nothing between them and Lodgeholm for thirty miles. That’s one long way to come for a border raid. After, as you say, three centuries of peace.”

  I feel the silent encouragement of my father, Shack, Garrett, even the two Lodgeholm men. I don’t give Turner time to gurgle out protests. “I know this. I’ve seen what Darius can do. You want to know why I was away so long? I was captured!” A gasp goes up, and I force myself not to look in my mother’s direction. Anywhere but there. “Yes, that’s right. Captured by a band of Southshaw thugs, Darius’ men. They would have killed me, but… I escaped. I heard what they wanted, though. They wanted war with Tawtrukk.”

  “War?” Now Turner won’t be denied. “Ha! Why? Why would they want war against us?”

  “Because they think we’re mutants.”

  “What? That’s preposterous.”

  “I don’t care what you think. They’re convinced that God wants us all slaughtered. They want blood, and they won’t stop until they get it.” Now I look to my mother for strength, but I only see a frightened woman, older than I always thought.

  “We need to defend ourselves!” This is a voice from one of the benches, where a young man stands up, his fists balled and his arms rigid. “Right now. We need to gather weapons. Send for help from Upper.”

  Another stands, a man behind Turner. “No! If what Lupay says is true, then they’re too many. We can’t stand up to a thousand, not with a week of planning. We need to negotiate.” I see in his eyes a pleading question to me, but I can’t give him the answer he wants. He wants to believe I’m wrong, that Darius can be negotiated with. But I know that’s not true.

  Turner points one finger in the air. “Yes! We can negotiate. We need to meet the Southshawans at the bridge, hold them there. At the worst, it will buy us some time.”

  “Time?” Is he stupid, deaf, or insane? “No amount of time will help. Our only hope is to get the hell out of here. We could move to Upper. Together, we could resist them. Maybe.” I’d hoped we could hold them at the bridge, too, but out of the hundred in this room, only a handful could put up a good fight. We’d be dead within hours. “We need to go now. Not in ten minutes. Now.”

  My father’s voice peals out again, ringing authority. “Vote! We must decide. There is no time for debate.” He looks to Turner for acknowledgement, and Turner responds with a sharp nod.

  “Those in favor of negotiation, stand up now!”

  I flop to the floor to make sure I’m not counted, even though I’m not a Council member and can’t officially vote. Shack and Garrett drop also, as do the Lodgeholm men, a visible show of our opinion. But it has little effect.

  All of Turner’s ducklings stand. Many of the standing men glare at their wives, who slowly rise to join them. We wait almost a minute, but by the end of the minute only nine of the hundred Council members are still sitting. I feel like throwing up. My stomach, empty from the long night, heaves, and I choke down the bile rising.

  My father has joined my mother at the bench. Both are standing.

  “It’s decided, then.” Turner looks satisfied and smoothes his gray shirt.

  “What?” Shack leaps to his feet. Earlier, outdoors, he looked powerful and strong shirtless and covered in the scars of the battle. Now, though, with the grim grayness of all the adults around us standing and watching, their decision made, he just looks childish. Like a tall, whiny boy. “Didn’t any of you hear?”

  “Son, it’s time you left the room. And all of you who are not part of the Council. We thank you for your testimony.” Turner doesn’t seem as triumphant as I expected.

  Shack begins to protest, but my father comes back to the middle of the room. “Shack. Your work is done. The Council has voted. It’s done.”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I look at my father, whose ashen face looks tired and creased in this dimness. I appeal to my mother, but she looks stonily at my father, ignoring me. Are they just going to walk to their deaths? Did they hear nothing I said?

  Garrett now tries to say something, but my father shushes him. This can’t be happening. I’m drowning. I can’t breathe. All these people, all my people, my friends’ parents, people who laugh and sing and dance and raise rabbits and hike the hills and swim in the river… they’re all choosing death.

  But I won’t. I won’t walk with them into Darius’ hands. I won’t help Darius one bit.

  I can’t stay here. My head clears, and I stand. “Shack, Garrett, come on.”

  “What? Where?”

  “I don’t know. Upper. Sikwaa. North. Somewhere. Away from Darius.”

  “What, and leave everyone?”

  I pause. I look at my father, who should tell me not to go but does not. I look to my mother, who continues to avoid my eyes. Why, mother? Do you love me so little that you won’t disobey the Council and do the right thing?

  “Yes.” It hurts in my chest to say the word. “I won’t just walk to slaughter. I’m not a sheep.” Anger swells inside and comes bubbling out again in words so fast I’m not even sure they’re coming out clear. “All of you!” I shout at them. Some look away or at the floor, others sneer at me. “Little ducklings walking into the coyote’s mouth! The coyote won’t talk. He’ll just eat you up.” I want to say more. I want to tell them something that will change their minds.

  “You all—oh!”

  I stomp hard on the wood floor, kicking up dust which swirls behind me as I charge out into the morning sunlight. I go halfway into the square and stop, unsure where to go and what to do now. Garrett and Shack come jogging up behind me. A moment later, the two from Lodgeholm join us.

  Garrett stands before me, fear and expectation in his eyes. “Okay, Loop. We’re with you.”

  It doesn’t make me feel much better.

  CHAPTER 6

  Gasping, we reach the overlook at the edge of the cliff. I doubt anyone’s ever hiked up here faster, or carrying more gear. And I doubt anyone’s ever been this thirsty. The sun feels more like August at noon than a June morning.

  “Maybe we should have brought some water,” rasps Shack as he shrugs off the four saddlebags full of tools and weapons and cloth. H
e slumps, his hands on his knees. When he looks up at me from under his cascade of brown hair, he grins, sweat dripping from his nose..

  “Water, we can get anywhere,” huffs Garrett, whose burden is half of Shack’s but still heavier than I expected he could carry this high, this fast.

  The three of us gaze down at the river, blue and cold and swollen from the melt of a heavy winter. We’re a thousand feet above the valley floor where the river’s narrow canyon flattens and widens into a series of meadows and marsh before fading into the lake at a long, sweeping line of beach. It’s a view we’ve shared dozens of times when we’ve had nothing else to do. From here we look down on almost all of Lower—dozens of houses, my father’s forge, the commons hall, long boats tied to the dock, and the bridge that connects Lower with the road to Lodgeholm.

  A clutter of twenty ant-like figures moves slowly along the river road toward the bridge. It’s the “negotiating party.” Everyone else lingers in the square or is out of sight. The smart ones would have gone home. If there were any smart ones.

  Garrett points, and I raise my hand to shield my eyes from the sun. I follow the line his finger makes on the landscape, anticipating the route the negotiating party will travel. It won’t take them long, a few minutes at most, to reach the bridge.

  “No, there,” he whispers.

  I track across the bridge and south along the road, a mile or so to the point where it disappears around the sloping ridgeline. My eyes are good, but his are better. At first it’s just a blur of green and brown, blackened by the glare of the sun’s reflection on the adjacent lake. Then I see what he’s pointing at.

  A single man on a horse, sauntering with a slow, sure gait. He’s only just come around the bend, and for several seconds we watch him progress as if he’s reluctant to move. Could it be? Could Darius be coming alone to negotiate, as Turner predicted? Where is the army? Surely he wouldn’t be that far ahead—

  There are more. Three on horses, then three more, come around the ridge. They lead a narrow line of men, the beginning of a long army that snakes behind along the lake road. They must stretch a mile or more.