Restless Soul - Alex Archer [42]
The sword was impossibly sharp, and not for the first time she wondered if someone had wielded it before Joan of Arc. Had Joan been able to call it as she did? Had it ever been tucked away in a closet in the heroine’s mind? Or had it always been with her? And could Joan see her this very moment and watch how the famous weapon was being used to slice through the Thai jungle?
“Stop it,” Annja whispered, forcing herself to focus on moving ever faster and looking for a hint that Luartaro and Zakkarat had passed this way. “Where are you, Lu? Where—”
At the edge of her vision she saw a slick patch of mud and tamped-down grass, evidence that her companions had caromed down it in their accidental mad dash. She’d almost missed it and gone too far north. But she picked her way back to the spot, careful not to step in the gush of muddy water that ran like a stream in a furrow it had created. Following the slick, she spotted broken branches and smashed ferns—more evidence of their passage. The gunmen, if they happened this way, would spot the signs, too.
Annja considered slowing her pace and trying to cover up the evidence, but quickly rejected the notion and instead cautiously increased her speed and tried again to listen for Luartaro. Once more she heard shouting, but it was from above and in a foreign tongue.
“Hurry,” she told herself. “Hurry. Hurry. Hurry.”
She continued to hack with her sword when she came to a tight weave of plants and a twist of branches that threatened to block her way.
“Annja!”
She recognized Luartaro’s voice.
“Annja! You’re all right!” His voice rose in excitement and she cringed, practically running down the slope and releasing the sword when she pitched forward, slipping in the mud. She rolled several yards before crashing into a trunk and getting the wind knocked out of her. She scrambled to her feet, wincing at her sore ribs and glancing furiously around for the backpack that had came loose.
Luartaro grabbed her from behind and held her close, pressing his face into her neck. “Annja, I was afraid they’d shot you. I was—”
“Shhh!” she admonished him as she spun around in his embrace. She tipped her face up and meant to tell him more about the gunmen, but he kissed her hard and held her even tighter. After a moment, she extricated herself.
“There are several men left,” she said, keeping her voice low. “And—”
“Left? What did you—”
Annja patted the gun she’d stuck in her waistband. “One of the men fell, Lu.” Not a complete lie. “I got his gun, fired and—”
“Killed him? You really are amazing, Annja,” Luartaro gushed.
“I had to do something. It was a lucky shot, was all.” That was a lie. The lies were coming easier for her, and she hated that.
“I’m so glad you’re all right.”
Despite his embrace, there was something in his eyes and tone that bothered her, something he wasn’t saying but was obviously thinking about.
Was it the gun?
Did it bother him that she’d used one of the men’s guns and taken a life?
She’d press him later, now she tugged him into the thicker growth where it would be more difficult to be spotted.
“Where’s Zakkarat, Lu?”
Now he tugged her. “At the bottom,” he said. “He’s hurt a little, twisted his ankle pretty bad when we went for a mud ride. I told him to just sit tight while I went looking for you, and—” Luartaro fell silent and cocked his head. “Do you—”
“Hear them?” Annja’s voice was so soft Luartaro had to strain to hear her. “Yes, they’re coming down, looking for us. I can’t tell how many.” She spotted the pack she’d dropped and pulled away from him to retrieve it. The canvas was slick with mud, but she was, too. She slung it over her shoulders, her ribs protesting the motion, and she rejoined him. She wanted to check on the skull bowl, but decided that would wait; its condition was immaterial given the greater concern of the gunmen.
“Too many men,” he whispered. “However many there are of those men, there are too many.” He moved slower than she would have liked, but he was being careful to pick his way across roots that looked like thick black