Justice and Utu (16 page)

W
AITANGI
, S
ATURDAY EVENING

E
veralda went still as a cold blade pressed into her throat. It was too dark to see her captor clearly, but his body was all over her, pressing her down like a landslide, choking the air from her. He was naked, or nearly so, and he lay atop her with all his weight, his whiskery face pressed to hers. He licked her cheek, and chuckled as she squirmed in revulsion.

Another man bent over them, a dark silhouette in the sky. ‘Shanks, is that her?' The voice was young, with modern intonations.

‘'Tis a one-eyed girl, like Mister Venn said,' the man on top of her replied. ‘Yes, this is her, Byron my friend.' Shanks removed the blade from her windpipe and sheathed it, but he kept his hand over her mouth. His body was soaked in seawater. A third man appeared in the corner of her vision, holding a long musket. He was peering warily up the overgrown path towards the Treaty grounds.

‘Bring her to the boat,' Byron ordered. ‘Hayes is sailing in
thirty minutes. Without her, they'll be blind.'

‘Why not just kill her?' Shanks rasped.

‘She's an asset,' Byron whispered. ‘Venn doesn't waste assets. He sensed her tracking him. Without her, they cannot follow us. Come on, Shanks; let's go.'

Shanks didn't roll off her, though. Instead he hiked her skirts up over her thighs, rough hands scraping her skin while she lay helpless, terrified. Her left eye throbbed and her belly churned.

No … please …

‘Gimme two minutes with her, Byron,' Shanks grunted.

Byron scowled. ‘Not here, fool! Come!'

Shanks spat in disgust, a wad of spittle that splattered over her face. She heard herself sob. Her brave dreams of using her Gift in some powerful, aggressive way seemed like a stupid joke now. They were going to kidnap her, and who knew what else, and she felt utterly helpless in their hands. Her eyes stung as helpless fury boiled up inside her.

Shank's stinking breath washed over her as he yanked her to her knees. ‘One sound and I'll slit your throat, you ugly slag,' he snarled in her ear. His rough face was burnished copper by the sunset. The tattoo of an anchor adorned one cheek.

I am not passive. I am not a victim.

She fought her left hand free, as her mind reversed the rune stone in her hand.
Kaunaz
was shimmering in her mind, and the power gathered behind her left eye felt like a swollen pumpkin. She spun it, slowly, shaping it to her will.

The tale of Balor and his deadly eye seethed through her mind.

I can do this … I can shape my future …

She wrenched off her eyepatch as flames billowed from it.

An eruption, a torrent of burning light, engulfed her attacker. He lifted away from her, screaming and clutching his face. The light burned across her right eye's retina, but she was far from blind. All the world seemed visible to her as she sat up, her left eye scorching the night.

The third man, the one with the musket, scrambled backwards, lifting his long gun and trying to turn it. Like a searchlight her left eye found him, and its fire struck him, too, like the blast from a furnace, hurling him onto his back, a hole in his chest. His gun went off, shattering the night's silence, but the man sprawled like a broken doll. Shouts broke out from all about the tiny peninsula.

Evie turned to face Byron. He was a young man, heavily tattooed, with a haircut that was close-cropped with patterns carved into the scalp, a modern style. But the pistol in his belt was of this Ghost World, and he lifted it towards her.

She burnt it, so that the weapon went molten and exploded in his hands. He cried in shock and pain, staggering backwards to the water's edge. She gathered her energies again, feeling them running low as she did, and threw one last burst of fire in his direction. It sizzled across the waves, causing steam to hiss, but he had already plunged beneath the surface.

If he came up again, she didn't see it. She was still waiting for him to surface, trembling and shaking uncontrollably, when the first of the constabulary found her. Something was running from her left eye, down her cheek. She put her left hand to it absently, and tasted it. Blood. She plastered the patch over it, with hands that shook uncontrollably.

Part of her still recoiled in horror. She thought about how
Mat had described feeling after he'd burnt the man outside the gaol — at the time she'd thought him overly sensitive, but not anymore. Another part of her exulted, though, however hard that was to acknowledge.

I am not passive. I am not a victim.

K
ORORAREKA
, S
ATURDAY EVENING

M
at braced himself, but no blow fell as the warriors roared past, shouting their battle cries. Behind them he heard shouts and orders. More warriors appeared, many with guns, which they quickly aimed.

‘Mat!' Wiri ran from the undergrowth. ‘Get down, you idiot!'

Mat threw himself to the ground, Damien following, as the first volleys from both sides thundered. Musket balls whined above them. Two warriors shrieked and fell. Then the war-party roared as one and charged. Damien rose, sword in hand, and went with them. Mat swallowed, and gave chase.

‘Dame! Wait!'

To his left, he saw Hobson fire a pistol, then draw a cutlass. Flashes of flame and billowing smoke filled the tangled undergrowth. There were two dozen rough-clad Europeans strung out before them, frantically reloading. Mat saw Damien slash at the midriff of one, who folded over. To his right a
soldier shot a charging warrior in the face at point-blank range, then went down bludgeoned by the taiaha of a closely following second man. Flames roared to his left, accompanied by the crackling of magical energy. Asher Grieve was there, clutching his walking stick and scowling, his hands shaping darkness and lashing about with it. A warrior screamed and fell, a rope of darkness tearing his throat out. The warriors gave ground fearfully.

‘Asher!' Mat called, to distract him.

The wizard saw him, and shouted to those about him: ‘Him! Kill the boy!'

Eight muzzles turned his way as a cold bony hand gripped his shoulder … and another mind gripped his … Muzzles flashed, as he tried to do something … anything …

The alien presence in his mind flooded him, not so much with knowledge as instinct. He saw the air ripple about him, as if he was underwater and someone had coated him in an air bubble. Then the volley of musket balls struck the bubble.

And hung in the air.

Then dropped.

Eight lead balls pattered to the ground, while he gaped, his heart almost bursting itself apart. He saw whose hand gripped his shoulder: Donna Kyle's.
‘What did you do?'

‘Stasis-shield.' She never took her eyes from her father. ‘What has Jones been teaching you?'

The war-party regrouped, and leapt forward again with a ragged cry. The rank of men before Asher raised their muskets, bristling with bayonets, to meet the charge. The vicious collision of bodies and weapons became a deadly mêlée.

Behind his defenders, Asher Grieve melted into the smoke.

 

Onwards they pressed. Mat had found Damien again, holding his bloody cutlass firmly. One of the warriors was hovering beside Damien with a fascinated stare. Both were bloodied and gasping for breath. ‘Hey, Mat, welcome to the game!' Damien called, bending over and panting. ‘These guys are Nga Puhi. Hone Heke's men. They're going to help us get the Treaty back.'

‘Tiriti,' agreed the warrior beside Damien.

‘This is Hotu,' Damien introduced him. ‘We've been teaming up on the soldiers. Hotu is nuts in a fight,' he added admiringly.

‘Is any of that blood your own?' Mat asked.

Damien shook his head. ‘I've had tougher fights at fencing club. Does no-one train these people?' His face took on a faintly sick cast. ‘It's almost too easy.'

The warrior Hotu put a hand on Damien's shoulder. ‘Good fighter,' he said in a pleased voice. ‘My brother.'

‘Brothers,' Damien echoed, slapping the Nga Puhi's back. Mat had never seen Damien look so alive. It worried him, his friend's love of danger.

Damien glanced across at Wiri and Hone Heke, who were conferring hurriedly a few yards away. ‘What's next?'

Wiri hurried over, and Mat quickly brought him up to date. Wiri knew the name of Bully Hayes well, and commented, ‘Hayes is slippery as an eel.'

‘Hayes,' Damien snarled, clearly thinking of Shui and her scarred throat.

‘Lena's down there somewhere,' Mat told Wiri.

Wiri took it in with a worried look, and turned to Donna. ‘Are you ready?'

The witch stretched luxuriantly, half an eye on Hobson, who was staring at her with undisguised interest. ‘Isn't this fun?' she said. ‘Shall we press on?'

The next half-hour saw them surging from cover to cover, under sporadic but occasionally intensive fire. There seemed to be close to fifty men strung out in the forests, covering the retreat. Not all were recognizably Venn's, either; many were garrison of the town. Once he saw the British uniforms, Hobson found Hone Heke, and begged a halt to the advance.

‘Chief Heke, these are government men we're facing now. In fact, you could say that they're my men. We have to stop!'

‘When they give me my tiriti back, then I will stop,' the rangitira replied in an implacable voice.

But halt he did, when suddenly a man carrying a huge crucifix above his head emerged from the trees. ‘
Messieurs!
Cease fire, I beg you! Spare the town.'

Hone Heke spouted a flood of orders that brought his men to a halt. Hobson joined him, and made a disgusted sound. ‘Who's that?' Damien wondered aloud.

‘It is Monsieur Antikaraiti,' Hone Heke grinned mischievously.

‘Bishop Jean Baptiste Pompallier,' Wiri clarified. ‘He's French, a Catholic bishop.'

Mat peered down at the man. He was robed for the altar, wearing purple-and-white vestments and a tall peaked hat ornately embroidered. He had a lean Gallic face, wavy dark hair peppered with grey, and an expression of steely
determination. Although it had been his house that Lena had been kept in, the bishop had not sounded like a willing accomplice. ‘Why did the chief call him “Antikaraiti”? Doesn't that mean Antichrist?'

Wiri smiled. ‘Yes, it does. Henry Williams's Anglicans often produced anti-Catholic pamphlets, calling Pompallier all manner of names, including Antikaraiti. One iwi didn't know what the word meant. They thought it was some title that Pompallier was entitled to, and began using it to his face. It kinda stuck, here in Aotearoa. Never fails to get a laugh. Except from the bishop, of course.'

Mat looked at Pompallier and decided that laughing wasn't something the bishop did a lot of. ‘Will Heke stop the attack?'

Wiri nodded. ‘Probably. Heke respects religious people. He left the church untouched when his men sacked Kororareka in 1845.'

Damien pointed out Hobson's animated arguing with the bishop. ‘What's Hobson got against him?' he asked.

‘Being English and Anglican, he probably doesn't like French Catholics,' Wiri replied.

‘Good enough for me,' Damien growled. ‘I don't trust anything French after Mururoa, the
Rainbow Warrior
, and the '99 Rugby World Cup semi-final. But Venn's going to get away while they argue the toss.' He flexed his sword-hand meaningfully. ‘If they hurt Shui because of us, I'm going to nail all of them.'

Wiri joined the discussion going on below, while the Nga Puhi warriors chafed, and Donna fretted angrily. Finally the bishop made some kind of gesture of forbearance, blessed the small gathering with a sweep of his hand, then walked back
towards the town. Wiri trotted back up towards Mat, while Hobson went to Donna.

‘We're giving him twenty minutes to get back to the settlement and stand down the troops. Then we will be allowed peaceful entrance to the town.'

‘While Venn and Grieve head for their ship,' Damien cursed.

Mat glanced over at Donna Kyle, who was tossing her head skyward in fury at the news. Hobson was saying something placating, and then walking towards them. ‘We must get back to our boat, Wiremu,' he called. ‘We need my frigate. Freeman was under orders to re-provision. We can pursue them at sea!'

Wiri nodded agreement. ‘You're right, Captain. We can't do any more here.'

‘What about Lena?' Mat reminded him.

Wiri pulled a worried face, then looked at Hobson. ‘Captain, Mat and Damien need to enter Kororareka. There is someone there they must find. Heke will give them an escort.'

Hobson considered, then nodded. ‘We will pick you lads up from the docks in
Rattlesnake
's longboats and take you out to the ship.' He glanced up at the setting sun, looked worried. ‘We'll be about an hour. Do not be late.'

Mat and Damien needed no further encouragement. They snatched up their weapons and headed for town.

 

The reek of gun smoke hung in the trees as the boys made their way towards the town again, shadowed by Nga Puhi suspicious of the ceasefire. There were constabulary at the
edge of town, but the bishop was there, standing over the scene like a judge in court.

‘May we approach? We're seeking a friend,' Mat called.

The bishop said something to one of the men, who called back, ‘Come ahead, but keep your weapons sheathed and hands in view!'

Mat looked at Damien, who glanced at Hotu, who was still following him. ‘Peace,' he said to the warrior, who shrugged back. The other Nga Puhi stopped in cover, but Hotu accompanied the boys as they walked into the guns of the soldiers.

No-one fired as they crossed the open ground. Mat maintained a stasis-shield, as best as he could recall how it went, but he had no certainty that it would work. He held his taiaha lightly in his left hand.

‘Phew. I didn't know I could hold my breath that long,' Damien whispered.

‘We're not there yet. They might still lynch us.' Mat eyed the constabulary and their primed muskets warily. He raised his voice. ‘Our friend was a young woman. She headed for the sea. Did anyone see her?'

Stony silence greeted his question. Then one of the soldiers, a grizzled-looking Scot, spoke up. ‘Bully Hayes's boys were firing at someone in the bay. I saw the water go red, I did.'

Oh no.

Mat nodded his thanks, and began to increase his pace. He was dreading one of these men taking exception to his presence, and starting something, but it seemed that the fighting had been primarily between Venn's men and the Nga
Puhi. The townsfolk eyed them with hostility, but restrained themselves from doing anything more than that.

The Scot fell in alongside him. ‘'Twas doon by the end of the docks. I'll show ye.'

Mat let the man guide him, out along a rickety-looking but solid wooden pier jutting out like a finger into the cove. There were townsmen and sailors all along the dock, peering at them. He saw Jeremiah Sload among them, sucking on his whisky bottle.

Mat went to the end of the pier, as the sun painted the western skies crimson. The water went as dark as blood. All activity on the water had ceased, except for Hayes's barque, already five or six hundred yards away, sails filling. ‘That's Cap'n Hayes's boat, lad,' the Scot said. ‘The folks yer after will be aboard.' He looked apologetic. ‘We dinnae know they be among us.'

Yeah right.

They had maybe five minutes more of usable light before they'd need lanterns. Mat clutched at Lena's tear pendant, felt it pulsing faintly, tugging at him as it had in the bishop's residence. He let the sensation carry him, let instinct lift his right arm, and unfurl his hand.

He peered along his arm, and saw something floating in the water.

Lena!

Mat dived into the water, which was deep around the dock, and thrashed towards the shape, some twenty yards offshore. It looked like a rock, mottled and pitted, with clinging weeds … or a bloodstained beast face-down in the water.

‘Lena!' He reached her in a few seconds, frantic with fear.
She was floating, her long hair a tangle of seaweed, her skin as dark as barnacle-encrusted rock. ‘Lena!'

The water was thick with blood.

Mat grabbed her shoulders and twisted, tried to lift her face above the surface. She was limp and unresisting, a dead weight …

… and then she wasn't. With a sudden flexing of muscle, she slithered from his grasp and roared, spitting blood in his face. He had a glimpse of huge opal eyes and teeth like barbs, and then she tore free of him and was gone below.

He gulped down oxygen, shaking with fright. A rope splashed into the waves beside him, and Damien hollered, ‘Mat! Was that her?'

He grabbed the rope, and it pulled taut, dragging him back towards the pier. ‘She's hurt,' he shouted back. ‘I lost her! She's alive, though. Maybe being in the water helps. I think—'

His words were choked off as a head broke the surface a couple of yards away. Blonde hair, a pale face with eyes gleaming dully in the last of the sunlight.

‘Mat,' whispered Lena. ‘You came back for me.'