Well of Sorrows (16 page)

“So now the Families will go to war,” Tom said.

Arten glanced toward him. “Now they will Feud. But unlike past conflicts, this will be a holy war as well. The Doms of each Family will be driven by their respective Patrises. And from what I witnessed during the sessions of the Court I attended before I left for Trent, the Hands of Diermani are split on their opinions of how to handle the Rose. Everyone wants its power, Dom and Patris alike; and everyone wants control of the land surrounding it, the desert that is in the center of Andover, the center of nearly all of the Families’ lands. The desert that has remain unclaimed and uncontested for hundreds of years.

“This Feud, if it begins, will last for decades. Blood will be shed. Families will fall. All in the name of Holy Diermani.”

Tom turned back to his survey of the cliffs, silent for a long moment. “You could have remained in Portstown. You would have been safe from the Feud there.”

Arten shook his head, smiled bitterly. “The New World won’t be safe from the Feud. The war will affect everyone, everywhere. It already has. You’ve experienced it, with Sartori’s prejudice against your family and those in Lean-to.”

“Is that why you volunteered to join the wagon train?”

Arten didn’t answer at first. One hand rested on the pommel of the sword strapped around his waist, the other on his hip as he stared out at the Bluff, eyes squeezed tight against the glare of the sun off of the stone. “I didn’t like the way Sartori handled the refugees from Andover or the prisoners. And after the hanging—” He looked Tom directly in the eye. “I didn’t want to be part of that, of what it could become. Neither did any of the other guardsmen who came with me.”

“And what about Walter?”

Arten glanced toward the Proprietor’s son, to where he rode with a few of the guardsmen and Jackson Seytor. “I’m surprised. Not that Sartori would send him on this expedition; Walter was always an embarrassment, always getting into trouble, creating scenes. This was the perfect opportunity for him to rid himself of his bastard son.”

Tom thought he heard a touch of derision in the commander’s voice, but he couldn’t be certain. “Then what are you surprised by?”

“Walter. By how he’s handled it. I expected him to sulk, as he has, but I assumed he’d return to his old ways after that. To bullying everyone around him, as he did in Portstown, as he did to your son.”

Tom considered for a moment. “He doesn’t have his usual audience anymore. Brunt, Gregor, and Rick.”

Arten grunted, shook his head. “Nor his father. Putting him in nominal charge of this expedition may have been the best thing his father ever did for him, even if that wasn’t his father’s intent.”

“‘Nominal’ charge?”

Arten smiled. “I think you’ll find the Armory will follow Walter’s orders only so long as those orders make sense and are to the benefit of everyone involved. I’ll give him a chance to be a Proprietor, to be something other than his father, but if he falters—”

Before Tom could find a suitable response, Arten tensed, his hand tightening on the pommel of his sword, his smile vanishing. “Something’s wrong,” he said.

Tom heard one of the horses below scream. The sound was muted, coming from a distance. As he spun, orienting on the sound, he saw one of the horses hitched to a wagon rear, feet kicking the air, its teammate doing the same, both thundering back down to the ground before lurching forward, still harnessed to the wagon. The wagon shuddered as it was yanked forward, the man in front yelling, pulling on the reins hard. Those walking around the wagon scattered, a few harsh cries and screams piercing the relative quiet.

And then the wagon foundered. Its front end jumped into the air, as if it had hit a ridge of stone hidden beneath the grass. The frenzied horse stumbled, feet collapsing beneath it, and with a wrench the entire wagon began to tilt.

It slammed into earth, dirt and grass plowing upward from the impact, the second horse dragged to the side and over by the hitch, feet kicking the air. A hideous shriek cut across the plains—a horse in pain—and then the wagon ground to a halt. The driver was thrown clear, his body like a rag doll, limbs loose and wild.

Tom stood stunned, the second horse still kicking the air, now on its side, the wagon shuddering with its movements. The entire event had happened in the space of a few heartbeats, yet it had seemed so slow at this distance, so quiet, all of the sounds dulled.

But as he watched, he thought he saw the air around the wagon shimmering, a vague distortion, there and then gone. He blinked and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm, but it didn’t reappear.

He and Arten shared a grim look, then began jogging toward the wagon.

Below, the wagons behind the one that had foundered turned toward it; those in front halted. The people who had scattered when the horses first reared now rushed to the animals, toward where the hide covering of the wagon had been torn from its supports. Chests and trunks and bundled goods lay scattered in a rough arc around the back of the wagon, but the men who arrived at the wagon first went to see to the horses. They were worth more than all the wagon’s contents combined.

Someone broke from the group as it gathered and raced toward Tom and Arten.

“I believe that’s your son,” Arten said.

Colin met them halfway to the wagons, gasping as he ground to a halt.

“What is it? What’s happened?” Tom spat.

“One of the wagons . . . The horses went wild . . . The wagon . . .”

“I can see that,” Tom snapped. “What spooked them?”

Colin shook his head, catching his breath. “I don’t know. But Paul’s hurt.”

Tom thought about the rag doll figure he’d seen fly from the front of the wagon as it rolled and felt ropes tighten around his chest. He pushed away from Colin, heard Arten’s feet pounding the ground behind him, but his eyes were on the wagon. Men had climbed into the traces, were calming the horse that lay on its side, still kicking, nostrils flared, head thrashing, as they tried to cut it out of the tangled reins and harness. Its teammate lay beneath it, not moving.

The women had gathered on the grass to one side of the wagon.

“Let me through,” Tom shouted as he pushed the thought of the loss of the horse from his mind and slowed. The women parted, and Tom saw Ana and the priest, Domonic, kneeling at Paul’s head, another woman standing to one side, Paul’s arm cradled in both hands. Paul’s rounded face was ashen, his lips almost blue, his eyes water y and wide, breath coming in short, harsh gasps.

Before Tom could speak, Ana said, “Ready?” Paul swallowed and nodded.

And then the woman kneeling on Paul’s opposite side pulled the smith’s strangely angled arm out straight and
wrenched
.

There was a sickening sound from Paul’s shoulder, like gristle being chewed, followed by a tortuous click that sent shudders into Tom’s gut.

Paul roared, his body arching up from the grass as Ana, Domonic, and two other women tried to hold him down. The woman who’d pulled his shoulder back into its socket was thrust backward, stumbled and fell with an undignified oomph.

Paul’s roar died down into barely controlled panting. Tears and sweat streaked his face, and he appeared even paler than he had when Tom arrived. His arm lay curled against his chest, held there gingerly.

“Careful,” Ana said as the other woman picked herself up and brushed stalks of grass from her dress.

“It’s fine,” Paul murmured in a weak voice, repeating it over and over. “It’s fine, it’s fine. I’m fine.”

“Is he going to be all right?” Tom asked. “Ah, it bloody fucking
hurts
!”

Ana glanced up, her expression black with anger and disgust. “He’s fine.”

Tom turned toward the wagon, cast one last look at Paul as Domonic gently helped him to sit upright and Ana held out a skin of water, then stepped over the smith’s legs.

“Sam! What happened?”

Sam spun. “We’re not sure, but we’ve lost one of the horses. Korbin’s checking out the wagon now.” One of the men cried out in triumph as a tie snapped beneath his knife. The entire wagon lurched as the surviving horse rolled away from the traces that had held it on its side, stumbling to its feet. Men surrounded it, hands raised to calm it down, its eyes white. It snorted, danced back and forth, trying to escape its wranglers, but Tom could see it calming even as he watched.

Sam must have seen it as well; he turned his back to the wagon. “How’s Paul?”

“He’ll be fine.” The tension in Sam’s shoulders relaxed. “Where’s Korbin?”

“On the other side of the wagon, looking at the undercarriage.” Tom rounded the wagon, careful to steer away from the spooked horse. He found Korbin leaning over one of the wagon’s wheels. Korbin was a full hand shorter than Tom, thin, and younger by nearly ten years. A wheelwright, he’d come to New Andover on the same ship as Tom with his new and newly pregnant wife, Lyda.

Tom took in the splintered wood of the wheel, the cracked spokes, and grimaced. “What’s the damage, Korbin?”

The young man glanced toward Tom, pushed his glasses farther up onto his nose, then sighed as he stood up straight. “Wheel’s broken, but that’s easy to fix. I made certain replacements were packed. The real problem is going to be sorting out the traces and the damage to the axle and tongue.”

“How long to fix it, do you think?” Korbin shrugged. “A few hours at least.”

The sound of thundering hooves approached, and Tom turned to see Walter, Jackson, and the escort of guardsmen pulling up near the overturned wagon, clods of dirt and grass thrown up by the horses’ feet. Walter’s horse pranced as he maneuvered it closer to the group crowded around the wagon’s base.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Something spooked the horses,” Tom said. “They bolted and overturned the wagon.”

“It was the air that spooked them.”

Both Walter and Tom shifted their attention to Paul as he rounded the back of the wagon, Ana and Arten at his side. Ana had put his arm in a sling made from someone’s apron to keep it immobile, but Paul still winced as he walked. Some color had returned to his face, but he appeared haggard, his clothes stained with mud and grass from the fall.

“What do you mean it was the air that spooked them?” Walter asked, the words twisted with derision.

Paul frowned at his tone. “It was the air. Just before the horses reared up and bolted, I felt the air get heavy, as if someone had laid a blanket across my shoulders. It became harder to breathe, and the hairs on my arms prickled.” A few of those around the wagon nodded in agreement. “I was about to whistle for a halt.”

Walter snorted. But many of the men and women who had been near the wagon before the horses bolted were mumbling to themselves.

Tom thought about the distortion he’d seen from the ridge. He caught Arten looking at him and wondered if the commander had seen it. Cutter had said something about the air as well. He almost mentioned it, but after a glance at the uneasiness in everyone around the wagon, he decided to keep quiet, at least for now. He wouldn’t be able to later. Rumors would spread, and someone would remember Cutter’s story; they hadn’t tried to keep anything the squatter had said quiet.

“Repair the wagon as best you can,” Walter finally snapped. “We’ll rest here.” He scanned those gathered, then tugged the reins of his horse, the animal dancing to the side before heading back toward the front of the wagon train, the rest of Walter’s escort following behind.

“What should we do about the dead horse?” one of the men asked.

Tom grimaced. Korbin had already gone back to work on the wagon.

“Butcher it. We may need the meat.”

Colin found Karen sitting on a small stool, milking the goats. He shuddered.

“What was that for?” Karen asked. “Am I that hideous? I know the sun’s been harsh, but . . .”

Colin smiled. “No. It was for the goats. I don’t like them, their bristly hair, their skeletal faces . . . but most especially their awful, yellow, hourglass eyes. They aren’t natural.” He shuddered again.

Karen laughed, still milking as she glanced at the goat in question. It ripped some of the grass free beneath its feet where it was tied to the back of the wagon and chewed contentedly, ears flicking away flies. “They are rather ugly, aren’t they?” she finally said, then shrugged. “But they’re easier to bring along than cows.”

As Colin settled down to the grass behind her, the goat turning to watch, bits sticking out of its mouth in all directions, she asked, “What’s going on with the wagon?”

“Korbin is almost finished. They’re trying to figure out how to rig it so a single horse can pull it. They thought about using some of the guardsmen’s horses, but they aren’t workhorses. They’re a few hands shorter, and they don’t think they’d have the endurance. So some of the supplies are being redistributed to other wagons to decrease the weight, and Korbin is altering the hitch and harness. We should be moving again shortly.”

“Good. I’m tired of waiting. We’ve been sitting here for three hours already.” She tilted her head, squeezing a last few drops of milk from the goat’s udder, then sat back, one arm reaching to massage the opposite shoulder. Shoving the goat aside, she picked up the half-full bucket and turned to where Colin stood, brushing grass from his breeches.