A Call to Darkness - Michael Jan Friedman [57]
It was gruesome, awful, stomach-sickening. And yet, he couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from the sheer savagery of the spectacle.
Feeling a pressure on his arm, Picard sought its source. He found himself looking into Ralak’kai’s face-a study in urgency.
“Let’s go,” said the goldeneyed one. “While their attention is elsewhere.”
The human shook off the spell of the battle and allowed Ralak’kai to drag him away. “Yes,” he said, understanding that either side might be feeling antagonism for the drivers at this point. “By all means, let’s get out of here.”
They didn’t have the luxury of a great many options. The only route open to them was to retreat down the trail they had ascended. Nor were they thinking beyond that, of what to do next. For now, it would be enough to put distance between themselves and the fortress.
Unfortunately for them, one of the raiders had other ideas. As they cut a path between the wagons and the dizzying brink at the path’s edge, he placed himself squarely in their way.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he growled.
“Look,” cried Picard, pointing suddenly over the warrior’s shoulder.
Fate was merciful. The armored one followed his gesture without thinking. And as he did, Picard turned the incline of the trail to his advantage. With all the force he could muster, he plowed into the warrior, knocked him off his feet-and kept on going.
He could hear Ralak’kai a few paces behind him-and up ahead, the path was clear. It appeared that they might make it after all. Perhaps, if the other drivers followed their lead, they might all make it.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, Picard caught a flurry of motion on the side where the wagons were. Too late, he tried to avoid the dark thing that came whistling at his head.
There was a moment of great and terrible pain. And afterward, oblivion.
Chapter Twelve
IT WAS ON his way home from work, two days after the incident in the tavern, that Dan’nor saw his father again. One moment, he was walking alone; the next, Trien’nor was walking beside him.
“Come,” said the older man, looking straight ahead. “We’ll walk down to the wharf. You know where it is?”
“Yes.” Dan’nor watched his father’s face, more accessible now even in the flat, sunset light than it had been in the tavern’s back room. It had been a long time since he’d seen Trien’nor, but the man showed no signs of having aged. Pure First Caste blood had its advantages.
However, there was something different about him. Something that had been missing in the simple, unambitious factory clerk who had raised him-the man who’d spent so much time looking out the window with that sad little smile on his face.
He was almost… Military. Was that it? Yes. For the first time, Dan’nor could picture his father in a uniform-a young, proud First Caster with a shining future.
Was there a connection between this and Trien’nor’s skulking in the shadows? Dan’nor shivered when he remembered the faces around that room, and the way his father’s seemed to fit among them.
“You’ve changed,” he said, the words coming out of their own volition.
Trien’nor smiled a thin smile but didn’t respond otherwise. Their heels made a soft scraping sound on the pavement.
“What’s happened to you?” he asked. “What were you doing with those men?”
Again, no answer.
Dan’nor decided to try another tack. “How did you find me?”
Trien’nor shrugged. “You can probably answer that for yourself.” A pause. “I have ways of finding things out.”
It was almost more evasive than no answer at all.
As they got closer to the river, the breeze picked up. It swept Trien’nor’s hair back-the red hair of an aristocrat. Dan’nor had inherited the color of it but not its agelessness; his was just beginning to show threads of silver.
“So,” said the older man, at last turning to his son. “It seems you are no longer in the Military.” The words were gentle, unoffensive. However, his eyes-pale gold like those of his forebears-seemed to probe where the words could not.