Wolves of the Calla (95 page)

“No,” Roland said. “Can’t. Get under cover.”

Eddie stood where he was a moment longer, hand on the butt of the big revolver, pale face working. Then, without a word, he turned from Roland and grasped Susannah’s arm. He knelt beside her, then slid into the hole. Now there was only Roland, the big revolver slung low on his left hip, looking across the road at the empty arroyo path.

Benny Slightman was a well-built lad, but he couldn’t move the chunk of rock holding the Tavery boy’s foot. Jake saw that on the first pull. His mind (his cold, cold mind) tried to judge the weight of the imprisoned boy against the weight of the imprisoning stone. He guessed the stone weighed more.

“Francine.”

She looked at him from eyes which were now wet and a little blinded by shock.

“You love him?” Jake asked.

“Aye, with all my heart!”

He
is
your heart,
Jake thought.
Good
. “Then help us. Pull him as hard as you can when I say. Never mind if he screams, pull him anyway.”

She nodded as if she understood. Jake hoped she did.

“If we can’t get him out this time, we’ll have to leave him.”

“I’ll
never
!” she shouted.

It was no time for argument. Jake joined Benny beside the flat white rock. Beyond its jagged edge, Frank’s bloody shin disappeared into a black hole. The boy was fully awake now, and gasping. His left eye rolled in terror. The right one was buried in a sheet of blood. A flap of scalp was hanging over his ear.

“We’re going to lift the rock and you’re going to pull him out,” Jake told Francine. “On three. You ready?”

When she nodded, her hair fell across her face in a curtain. She made no attempt to get it out
of the way, only seized her brother beneath the armpits.

“Francie, don’t hurt me,” he moaned.

“Shut up,” she said.

“One,” Jake said. “You pull this fucker, Benny, even if it pops your balls. You hear me?”

“Yer-bugger, just
count
.”

“Two.
Three
.”

They pulled, crying out at the strain. The rock moved. Francine yanked her brother backward with all her force, also crying out.

Frank Tavery’s scream as his foot came free was loudest of all.

Roland heard hoarse cries of effort, overtopped by a scream of pure agony. Something had happened over there, and Jake had done something about it. The question was, had it been enough to put right whatever had gone wrong?

Spray flew in the morning light as the Wolves plunged into the Whye and began galloping across on their gray horses. Roland could see them clearly now, coming in waves of five and six, spurring their mounts. He put the number at sixty. On the far side of the river, they’d disappear beneath the shoulder of a grass-covered bluff. Then they’d reappear, less than a mile away. They would disappear one last time, behind one final hill—all of them, if they stayed bunched up as they were now—and that would be the last chance for Jake to come, for all of them to get under cover.

He stared up the path, willing the children to appear—willing
Jake
to appear—but the path remained empty.

Wolves streaming up the west bank of the river now, their horses casting off showers of droplets which glittered in the morning sun like gold. Clods of earth and sprays of sand flew. Now the hoofbeats were an approaching thunder.

Jake took one shoulder, Benny the other. They carried Frank Tavery down the path that way, plunging ahead with reckless speed, hardly even looking down at the tumbles of rock. Francine ran just behind them.

They came around the final curve, and Jake felt a surge of gladness when he saw Roland in the ditch opposite, still Roland, standing watch with his good left hand on the butt of his gun and his hat tipped back from his brow.

“It’s my brother!” Francine was shouting at him. “He fell down! He got his foot caught in a hole!”

Roland suddenly dropped out of sight.

Francine looked around, not frightened, exactly, but uncomprehending. “What—?”

“Wait,” Jake said, because that was all he knew to say. He had no other ideas. If that was true of the gunslinger as well, they’d probably die here.

“My ankle . . . burning,” Frank Tavery gasped.

“Shut up,” Jake said.

Benny laughed. It was shock-laughter, but it was
also real laughter. Jake looked at him around the sobbing, bleeding Frank Tavery . . . and winked. Benny winked back. And, just like that, they were friends again.

As she lay in the darkness of the hide with Eddie on her left and the acrid smell of leaves in her nose, Susannah felt a sudden cramp seize her belly. She had just time to register it before an icepick of pain, blue and savage, plunged into the left side of her brain, seeming to numb that entire side of her face and neck. At the same instant the image of a great banquet hall filled her mind: steaming roasts, stuffed fish, smoking steaks, magnums of champagne, frigates filled with gravy, rivers of red wine. She heard a piano, and a singing voice. That voice was charged with an awful sadness. “Someone saved, someone saved, someone saved my li-iife tonight,” it sang.

No!
Susannah cried to the force that was trying to engulf her. And did that force have a name? Of course it did. Its name was Mother, its hand was the one that rocked the cradle, and the hand that rocks the cradle rules the w—

No! You have to let me finish this! Afterward, if you want to have it, I’ll help you! I’ll help you have it! But if you try to force this on me now, I’ll fight you tooth and nail! And if it comes to getting myself killed, and killing your precious chap along with me, I’ll do it! Do you hear me, you bitch?

For a moment there was nothing but the darkness, the press of Eddie’s leg, the numbness in the
left side of her face, the thunder of the oncoming horses, the acrid smell of the leaves, and the sound of the Sisters breathing, getting ready for their own battle. Then, each of her words articulated clearly from a place above and behind Susannah’s left eye, Mia for the first time spoke to her.

Fight your fight, woman. I’ll even help, if I can. And then keep your promise.

“Susannah?” Eddie murmured from beside her. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” she said. And she was. The icepick was gone. The voice was gone. So was the terrible numbness. But close by, Mia was waiting.

Roland lay on his belly in the ditch, now watching the Wolves with one eye of imagination and one of intuition instead of with those in his head. The Wolves were between the bluff and the hill, riding full-out with their cloaks streaming behind them. They’d all disappear behind the hill for perhaps seven seconds.
If,
that was, they stayed bunched together and the leaders didn’t start to pull ahead.
If
he had calculated their speed correctly.
If
he was right, he’d have five seconds when he could motion Jake and the others to come. Or seven.
If
he was right, they’d have those same five seconds to cross the road. If he was wrong (or if the others were slow), the Wolves would either see the man in the ditch, the children in the road, or all of them. The distances would likely be too great to use their weapons, but that wouldn’t much matter, because the carefully crafted ambush would be blown. The
smart thing would be to stay down, and leave the kids over there to their fate. Hell, four kids caught on the arroyo path would make the Wolves more sure than ever that the rest of them were stashed farther on, in one of the old mines.

Enough thinking,
Cort said in his head.
If you mean to move, maggot, this is your only chance.

Roland shot to his feet. Directly across from him, protected by the cluster of tumbled boulders which marked the East Road end of the arroyo path, stood Jake and Benny Slightman, with the Tavery boy supported between them. The kid was bloody both north and south; gods knew what had happened to him. His sister was looking over his shoulder. In that instant they looked not just like twins but Kaffin twins, joined at the body.

Roland jerked both hands extravagantly back over his head, as if clawing for a grip in the air:
To me, come! Come!
At the same time, he looked east. No sign of the Wolves; good. The hill
had
momentarily blocked them all.

Jake and Benny sprinted across the road, still dragging the boy between them. Frank Tavery’s shor’boots dug fresh grooves in the oggan. Roland could only hope the Wolves would attach no especial significance to the marks.

The girl came last, light as a sprite. “Down!” Roland snarled, grabbing her shoulder and throwing her flat. “Down, down,
down
!” He landed beside her and Jake landed on top of him. Roland could feel the boy’s madly beating heart between his shoulderblades, through both of their shirts, and had a moment to relish the sensation.

Now the hoofbeats were coming hard and
strong, swelling every second. Had they been seen by the lead riders? It was impossible to know, but they
would
know, and soon. In the meantime they could only go on as planned. It would be tight quarters in the hide with three extra people in there, and if the Wolves had seen Jake and the other three crossing the road, they would all no doubt be cooked where they lay without a single shot fired or plate thrown, but there was no time to worry about that now. They had a minute left at most, Roland estimated, maybe only forty seconds, and that last little bit of time was melting away beneath them.

“Get off me and under cover,” he said to Jake. “Right now.”

The weight disappeared. Jake slipped into the hide.

“You’re next, Frank Tavery,” Roland said. “And be quiet. Two minutes from now you can scream all you want, but for now, keep your mouth shut. That goes for all of you.”

“I’ll be quiet,” the boy said huskily. Benny and Frank’s sister nodded.

“We’re going to stand up at some point and start shooting,” Roland said. “You three—Frank, Francine, Benny—stay down. Stay flat.” He paused. “For your lives,
stay out of our way
.”

Roland lay in the leaf- and dirt-smelling dark, listening to the harsh breathing of the children on his left. This sound was soon overwhelmed by that of approaching hooves. The eye of imagination
and that of intuition opened once more, and wider than ever. In no more than thirty seconds—perhaps as few as fifteen—the red rage of battle would do away with all but the most primitive seeing, but for now he saw all, and all he saw was exactly as he wanted it to be. And why not? What good did visualizing plans gone astray ever do anyone?

He saw the twins of the Calla lying sprawled like corpses in the thickest, wettest part of the rice, with the muck oozing through their shirts and pants. He saw the adults beyond them, almost to the place where rice became riverbank. He saw Sarey Adams with her plates, and Ara of the Manni—Cantab’s wife—with a few of her own, for Ara also threw (although as one of the Manni-folk, she could never be at fellowship with the other women). He saw a couple of the men—Estrada, Anselm, Overholser—with their bahs hugged to their chests. Instead of a bah, Vaughn Eisenhart was hugging the rifle Roland had cleaned for him. In the road, approaching from the east, he saw rank upon rank of green-cloaked riders on gray horses. They were slowing now. The sun was finally up and gleaming on the metal of their masks. The joke of those masks, of course, was that there was more metal beneath them. Roland let the eye of his imagining rise, looking for other riders—a party coming into the undefended town from the south, for instance. He saw none. In his own mind, at least, the entire raiding party was here. And if they’d swallowed the line Roland and the Ka-Tet of the Ninety and Nine had paid out with such care, it
should
be here. He saw the bucka waggons lined up on the town side of the road
and had time to wish they’d freed the teams from the traces, but of course this way it looked better, more hurried. He saw the path leading into the arroyos, to the mines both abandoned and working, to the honeycomb of caves beyond them. He saw the leading Wolves rein up here, dragging the mouths of their mounts into snarls with their gauntleted hands. He saw through their eyes, saw pictures not made of warm human sight but cold, like those in the Magda-seens. Saw the child’s hat Francine Tavery had let drop. His mind had a nose as well as an eye, and it smelled the bland yet fecund aroma of children. It smelled something rich and fatty—the stuff the Wolves would take from the children they abducted. His mind had an ear as well as a nose, and it heard—faintly—the same sort of clicks and clunks that had emanated from Andy, the same low whining of relays, servomotors, hydraulic pumps, gods knew what other machinery. His mind’s eye saw the Wolves first inspecting the confusion of tracks on the road (he
hoped
it looked like a confusion to them), then looking up the arroyo path. Because imagining them looking the other way, getting ready to broil the ten of them in their hide like chickens in a roasting pan, would do him no good. No, they were looking up the arroyo path.
Must
be looking up the arroyo path. They were smelling children—perhaps their fear as well as the powerful stuff buried deep in their brains—and seeing the few tumbled bits of trash and treasure their prey had left behind. Standing there on their mechanical horses. Looking.

Go in,
Roland urged silently. He felt Jake stir a little
beside him, hearing his thought. His prayer, almost.
Go in. Go after them. Take what you will
.

There was a loud
clack!
sound from one of the Wolves. This was followed by a brief blurt of siren. The siren was followed by the nasty warbling whistle Jake had heard out at the Dogan. After that, the horses began to move again. First there was the soft thud of their hooves on the oggan, then on the far stonier ground of the arroyo path. There was nothing else; these horses didn’t whinny nervously, like those still harnessed to the buckas. For Roland, it was enough. They had taken the bait. He slipped his revolver out of its holster. Beside him, Jake shifted again and Roland knew he was doing the same thing.