Young Warriors (21 page)

The man took up the cook pot left by the side of the hearth and dipped it into the hot spring. Into the water went a careful sprinkle of the powder that had been contained in the packet—and Kelyn understood then that they'd be drugged. At least for the night . . . possibly for the days. But as the rope-wielding man tied up her ankles and wrists, binding them just freely enough that she might use the staff, she felt a surge of determination overcome her fear.

We'll escape.

We'll be the first.

The next morning, the aftermath of the bitter herb still gripped them even in the bracing chill of the morning air. It was all Kelyn could do to lift her muzzy head and keep an eye on their progress along the steep, rocky trail. She limped and lurched without having to play-act the injury to her leg, and her natural tendency to stumble reasserted itself at every inconvenient opportunity.

But she knew where they were going and so did the others; at every rare chance they caught one another's eyes, and Kelyn saw the knowledge there. And while the slavers spat vicious words at the first sign of the huge rockfall that had destroyed the entire slope stretching before them, neither she nor her pack mates found it a surprise. Kelyn caught everyone's gaze with her own, holding it long enough to give it significance, until within moments they all stood a little taller, waiting.

I have an idea.

She might be clumsy, she might regularly deal herself bruises and stumbles, she might never truly be her father's daughter, but Kelyn had no shortage of ideas.

The leader looked at the captives. He found them passive and unsurprised by the avalanche damage, and it enraged him. “You knew of this!”

They said nothing. They might have inched a little closer to one another.

The leader stalked up on them in two long strides and snatched Frykla, hauling her to the edge of the trail. “You knew of this!” he repeated. “You know of other ways out, too—and you'll show us!” He gave Frykla a little shake and she froze in terror, her eyes pleading. Pebbles dislodged by her scrambling feet rolled over the sharp drop and pinged their way down the slope for a very long time.

Fight him!
Kelyn thought at the younger girl.
Bite, kick,
scratch—anything!

Except she quickly realized the man had Frykla so close to the edge
—over
the edge—that along with threatening her, he was also the only thing keeping her alive. She hesitated, fuzzy-brained, and felt the others draw closer around her.

“You'll help or she dies,” the leader told Kelyn, sneering the words. “And then another of you, and another. You're of no use to us if we can't get back to the marketplace.”

One of the other men spoke up, a short phrase accompanied by an expression Kelyn hadn't seen before and didn't like. The leader laughed. “Grolph reminds me that we will, of course, use each of you most thoroughly before you go over the edge. We've been a long time away from home, and the only reason you haven't entertained us before now is that it would reduce your value. Doesn't matter if you're about to go over the edge, does it?”

Iden muttered something, horrified, and the group tightened into a little defensive knot—a hunt pack, expert partners in defense against animals and elements . . . and with no experience with this human enemy. Trussed and drugged and entrenched in the belief that each human life was precious and crucial to the survival of the whole—and still not used to thinking of any human life in terms of a threat.

“We'll help!” Gwawl blurted.

“Don't drop her!” Mungo added.

“Please!” Iden said, the most heartfelt of them all.

And Kelyn said, “I know another way.”

Kelyn took them back along the trail, then cut away from it to head upward. By then her leg ached heartily; she didn't have to feign her reliance on the staff. Her wrists and ankles chafed and bled under the rough ropes. Clarity returned to her thoughts—and to judge from the puzzled glances her pack mates gave her, to theirs as well. For they were starting to wonder—and worry—what she was up to. She made it a point to catch Iden's eye, to stumble forward long enough to mutter a reassurance in Mungo's ear. To give Gwawl an assertive nod, and to smile at Frykla—who still knew very well that she would be first to die should the slavers grow impatient. She was the youngest, and she'd already caught their eye.

Kelyn didn't blame the others for wondering, not even for worrying. For she led them right back up to the nightfox den—back to where, not a day earlier, they'd left offerings for the rock cat.

But we know about the o ferings, and about the cat.

The slavers had not the faintest idea.

“We
have
to go
up,
” Kelyn said in desperation as Frykla was being dangled over another edge. “It's the only way around! We have only to crest this peak and then we'll start back down again. But—”

“You
arguing
with me?” the leader said, incredulous expression evident even beneath his raggedy beard. Frykla froze in his hand, waiting to fall.

Kelyn shook her head most emphatically, her hands white-knuckled around the staff as she watched Frykla. “I was only going to tell you that this is the best camp we'll see before dark. It doesn't matter to
us,
we're used to sleeping on the edge of things. I just thought—”

The leader shut her up with a sharp gesture, but he also reeled Frykla in and shoved her off in the direction of the pack. Then he hooked his thumbs over his wide, stained leather belt and stared at them. Stared at Kelyn. Suspicious. “Aren't you just the cooperative one.”

Kelyn couldn't help the anger in her voice. “I don't want to be used unto death and tossed over a cliff. What would
you
do in my place?” And then she hoped he was dull enough— or overconfident enough—so that he didn't come up with the right answer:
Lead you into trouble and leave you there.

For she'd already done the first part. Just above this spot, they'd made their offering to the rock cat. There'd be one in the area now—not taking kindly to intruders, either. Rock cats, proficient hunters that they were, didn't need human prey. But they didn't tolerate human presence, either. Perhaps one human . . . perhaps two. Perhaps someone who was quiet and didn't intrude on the night.

Kelyn wouldn't leave things to chance. She pointed up the steep slope and said, “If you're any good at climbing, you can find choi buttons up there. A whole bush full of them. We've been letting them mature for harvest, but if you like such things—”

Gwawl shoved her. “Those are ours!”

“What's it matter now?” Kelyn said, glad to have one of the others finally, finally catching on and lending a hand— for the hallucinogenic seedpods were nothing the pack ever touched. Stupid, to rob your own wits in Ketura's mountains. “If the buttons make them happier, our lives will be easier.” She nudged Gwawl, nodding at the tight space beneath a granite overhang sparkling in the rays of the setting sun.

The rock cats attack from above.

Gwawl wasn't the only one catching on; Iden looked at the granite retreat with sudden understanding, and as the slavers carried on a loud discussion in their harsh native tongue, the pack moved close to the overhang. When the leader turned to them with a peremptory gesture, it was of no matter at all to sit just where they'd wanted to be. For the first time they were close enough to exchange words freely, but for the first time it was unnecessary. They knew the stakes. Ignoring the pain of her bloodied wrists, Kelyn subtly tested the ropes, checking to see if they'd loosened from the day's activity—they had—and if she could slip her hands free.

She couldn't.

But she still had slightly more freedom than the rest of them . . . and she could work at it. They all worked at it, watching as the slavers quickly set up camp and put the sleep-powder packet on the rock for later use. The men split up, and one took on the task of climbing the steep rock, a gleam in his eye. A man who knew and liked the effects of the choi button and was willing to make the climb even with dusk coming on.

Kelyn hoped he didn't make it back down alive . . . but if he did, then while the slavers crushed, burned, and inhaled the powerful choi, the pack would still have a chance to escape.

The leader started a fire, grumbling at Kelyn in the process. “It's getting cold up here. You shouldn't have brought us so high.”

“I'm sorry,” she said, as ingratiating as she could be without sounding false. Mungo rolled his eyes. “It's the only way I know.”

The sunlight traveled up the rock, leaving the little clearing in shadow. The other men brought more wood, gnarled dead pine that would burn hot and fast. The leader poured a small amount of precious water into a battered travel cup and added a pinch of the drug, heating the mixture over the fire until steam wafted into the air. Then he brought it to them, preoccupied with watching the rocky slope for signs of his companion. “Drink,” he commanded them. “One swallow each.” He took his eyes from the slope to glare at them. “Don't spit it out.”

He didn't have to add threats. Unspoken, they hung loudly enough in the air between captives and captor.

They each took a swallow, making terrible faces. Kelyn took her turn last and siphoned the concentrated, intensely bitter liquid under her tongue, scrunching her face in an uncontrollable reaction to the taste.

A trickle of small stones came from above. The slaver glanced overhead, and Kelyn soundlessly pushed the liquid out between her lips, letting it dribble silently down her chin. By the time the man looked down again, she'd scrubbed her chin against her shoulder, removing all traces of the drink. Behind her, the pack held its collective breath, facing the slaver's suspicious glare.

But if he saw anything amiss, he never had the chance to say so. The trickle of stones gave way to a thump and a thud, and the slaver jumped back just in time to avoid the falling body of his companion.

The limp, falling body.

The leader shouted in surprise and anger, dropping to his knees to roll the man over, shaking his shoulders.

Almost dusk now. Hunt time for the big cats. Kelyn glanced anxiously back at her pack mates, her eyes full of question. As one they shook their heads—all but Gwawl, who mimed wiping his chin. He, too, had spat out the drug.

And the others were already drooping, quickly taken by the warm liquid in their empty stomachs no matter how they struggled against it. Kelyn closed her eyes in resignation.
Only
two of us.
And with Gwawl tied more restrictively than she.

Clumsy Kelyn.

“He's dead!”

Kelyn turned back to the slaver's leader, unable to dredge up surprise. So she didn't try to fake it. She said nothing, just watched warily, knowing the leader might well take his ire out on her. Her hands tightened on her staff. When the moment hung in the air, she gathered her courage and her most practical manner and said, “Only three of you to split the profit, then.”

The leader glared, crouched over his friend's body and taking no apparent notice of the four deep, bloodless puncture wounds on the man's neck—the marks of a rock cat so irate it hadn't even bothered to play. This man's neck had been broken long before he hit the ground. Kelyn glanced back at her friends.

They'd seen the wounds. Of course they'd seen them, even through the drugs. Their tension filled the little overhang. But the slaver didn't pick up on that, either. Instead, he patted the dead man's sides, hunting for—and finding—the seedpods the man had gone to acquire. To Kelyn's surprise, he left the dead man where he lay and went to the fire. The other two men waited, wary and tight-lipped; the three of them huddled together to exchange terse words, glancing frequently at their prisoners. Then they seemed to come to some conclusion, for the leader settled beside the fire and, though the slavers had dried meat and a handful of dried tubers already set aside for a meal, the three turned their attention to the choi buttons.

Within moments they'd crushed the seedpods to a fine, precious dust that they cupped in their palms, applying glowing sticks pulled from the fire. Pungent smoke drifted briefly toward the overhang, but most of it ended up inside the slavers' lungs. After a few moments, they didn't seem to notice when their aim grew less precise and the odor of burned skin mingled with that of the choi. And a few moments after that, they stood, staggering against one another, raucous and jovial.

Gwawl muttered, “I'm not sure . . .”

He didn't have to finish his words. Kelyn, too, had hoped the potent choi of this altitude would hit the slavers hard, but they were apparently well accustomed to the effects of the herb. They didn't lose their sense of purpose as they headed for their prisoners, three swaggering slavers standing before a sorry group of drugged, huddled youngsters.

The leader announced, “Now that Grolph is dead, we've decided we can spare one of you.”

Spare one of us . . .?

Suddenly Kelyn understood.
Spare the profit,
leaving the slavers free to use and discard one unlucky youngster. She gave the others a panicked glance, seeing her friends drugged, seeing Gwawl still tightly tied, knowing herself to be no closer to freedom.

But she had her staff. The staff that supported her on the trail, that saved her from bruises when her pack mates picked up their own casually acquired quarterstaffs and set about causing trouble, that protected her from the attack of everything from unexpected rockfall to irate predator. And if her clumsy feet were tied, at least she wasn't drugged.

The leader reached for Frykla.

Clumsy Kelyn.

Their only chance.

Their
last
chance.

Kelyn cast her self-doubts aside and exploded upward in front of her friend, staff whirling deftly in spite of her tied hands—and when the men laughed, she planted one end of the staff in the ground and cast herself around it, slamming her feet into one barrel chest, knocking the man into his buddy. She landed in a crouch, lifting the weighted end of the staff to sweep it against the leader's shins. Down he went with a cry of surprise, turning the slavers into a tangle of stinking, choi-besotted men. The surprise only lasted a moment, but it was long enough for Gwawl to launch himself into the fray, loop his arms over one man's head to jam the tight ropes against his throat, and pull the man down on top of him.