Diplomats and Fugitives (The Emperor's Edge Book 9) (11 page)

The creature howled and lifted its arm, trying to fling Basilard aside. He nearly lost his grip. He did lose all sense of up and down and where the vehicle was. And he had no idea how many other creatures surrounded them. They had to finish this grimbal and escape back into the cab—and hope the lorry could find its way out of the mud.

Though the creature’s arm continued to flail, Basilard clawed his way up to its shoulder. He thrust his dagger at its throat with all of his strength. It wasn’t a killing blow, but the grimbal squealed and dropped Ashara.

Even with the roar of the animals and the stomping of feet, Basilard heard her land in the mud. He wanted to cry out for her to run, to leap into the cab, but he couldn’t. All he could do was stab the neck again, hoping to buy time if he couldn’t kill it. It wheeled back, flailing at him. Fortunately, with Basilard clamped around one of its arms, it had trouble finding the right angle to claw him. If he hadn’t seen more grimbals moving about at the edge of his tear-filled vision, he might have tried to finish it off. But the squealing of tires several meters away told him the vehicle had left him behind—or the grimbal had pulled him away from it. He stabbed it one final time, cutting into the flesh of its nose and hoping that snout was sensitive, then dropped to the ground.

He spun, intending to run after Ashara, but he found her waiting for him. Somehow, she had retained her bow, and she had it back in hand, an arrow nocked. She let it fly, nodded at Basilard, and they ran together for the lorry.

The vehicle had indeed found its way onto the highway again. It was waiting for them. At least, Basilard hoped that was the case and that it wasn’t too damaged to move. More of that greenish smoke filled the air, this time in front of the vehicle instead of around it, fortunately. Basilard’s throat and nostrils couldn’t take any more.

Ashara reached the door first, lunging inside at the same time as one of the big guns fired. A grimbal less than two feet from the front of the lorry flew backward, blood blossoming on its chest. Basilard leaped into the cab at the same time as the vehicle lurched forward. It struck the injured grimbal, knocking it to the side, even though a punishing shudder jolted the frame.

Basilard pulled the door shut behind him, only to find that it no longer latched all the way.

“It’s working,” Mahliki yelled from the other side. She was hanging out of that doorway again. This time, it was Maldynado who pulled her back inside. “The smoke slowed them down.”

“Go, Corporal,” Maldynado ordered. “That won’t keep them busy forever.”

“I
am
going,” Jomrik said.

The vehicle accelerated, but not as smoothly as it had before. Something was clanking, and the wheels no longer seemed aligned, for they listed to one side of the road. Jomrik had to put a lot of effort into pushing the lever to put them back in the middle. Sweat gleamed on his forehead.

“A little farther, girl,” he crooned, patting the control panel.

“A little?” Maldynado dashed tears from his eyes. Judging by the snot plastered on the front of his shirt, he had also inhaled some of those awful fumes. “Try about a hundred miles.”

“We’ll see,” Jomrik said grimly, his gaze fixed on the road, his shoulders tense.

Basilard grimaced. They might have delivered enough damage to keep three or four of those grimbals from giving chase, but if some shaman was directing the animals and could override their natural instincts, there were others that could follow.

“We’re outdistancing them,” Maldynado said, his head hanging out the window. “For now. Can we keep up this pace?”

An ominous clunk came from underneath the vehicle, followed by a scrape and a
tink, tink, tink
as something fell off and bounced away behind them.

“I don’t know.” Jomrik glared at Maldynado. He looked like he wanted to strangle him. “I knew my first sergeant was lying when he said, ‘Easy mission, Jom. Just take the Mangdorian ambassador home, then come back. You’ll get to miss those early morning company runs for a few days. You can relax.’ You know how I knew he was lying?”

Maldynado shook his head.

“The president was over there chatting with the captain in charge of the motor pool at the same time. Presidents don’t show up to discuss
easy
missions.”

“You sound bitter.” Maldynado noticed snot on his own shirt, prodded at it, and grimaced.

“Up until twenty minutes ago, my baby didn’t have a dent on her. I buffed her out every week, painted any scratches away, took real good care of her. I…” Jomrik’s words disappeared in a snarl, and he focused on the highway ahead.

Basilard could not imagine being so attached to a mechanical contraption, but he did understand that the repairs would be expensive and time-consuming, if the vehicle would even be capable of making it back to the capital. He regretted that his mission had resulted in so much damage. He hadn’t wanted to cause trouble for the president or anyone else.

“Are you all right, Ashara?” Mahliki asked, lifting a hand toward the woman.

Basilard turned, feeling guilty that he had been distracted and had not thought to check on her. His own back ached—even if he hadn’t been ravaged by claws, he had pulled a muscle, at the least—but she must have been injured more badly. Those claws had cut through her shirt, sinking into her flesh.

“Fine,” Ashara said.

She was leaning against the wall beside the door, her deep breaths pained, her shoulders drooping, her bow dangling from her hand.

“You’re bleeding.” Mahliki pointed at the floor, where fresh drops of blood spattered the textured metal.

Jomrik glared back at the spot but did not complain about his tarnished floor this time. With all the other damage, what did drops of blood matter?

“What’s your point?” Ashara asked, grasping her belly. Blood had seeped through her shirt in several spots.

Basilard stepped past the women, pulling his pack out from behind the coal bin, so he could find his first-aid kit.

“That you may not know what the word fine means,” Mahliki said. “Understandable if Turgonian isn’t your first language. I also have trouble with some of the subtleties. Especially when discussing war, battle, violence, fighting, sparring, and various other terms related to combat. Did you know Turgonians have over a hundred words to describe the way a sword can be used to injure or kill someone?”

Ashara hissed in pain—or maybe exasperation at the conversation. She opened the door, slipped out again, and slammed it shut behind her. Basilard stood, his first-aid kit in hand, too late to put it to use.

“Did I say something wrong?” Mahliki asked. “I was trying to be friendly.”

“Yeah, I don’t think you’re supposed to do that with Kendorians,” Maldynado said. “I’ll chat with her later. Show her my charm. See if I can melt her frosty demeanor. I’m good at melting women.”

“Did you know you have snot melted all over your shirt?”

“Yes. That’s your fault, I believe. But my charisma is so great that I can still win our frosty new friend over to our side. You’ll see. Just look at Yara. She hated me when we first met. And now we’re inseparable.”

“You’re separated right now.”

“Well, yes, but that’s your father’s fault. Ah, what was my point?”

“I was wondering that myself.”

Basilard poked his head out the door in time to see Ashara clamber around the back corner of the vehicle and pull herself into the cargo bed. She wasn’t moving as lithely as she had been earlier. He thought of following her, offering to bandage her wounds, but he didn’t want to irritate her further or make assumptions. Maybe she had her own first-aid kit and did not need help. Or maybe she had a way of healing herself. He recalled his suspicion that she might have training in the mental sciences. It was rare to find someone skilled with magic as well as combat. The Nurians had their “warrior mages,” but few people had the aptitude or time and discipline to master it all. Basilard was starting to suspect that their Kendorian traveling companion was far more than some random colleague Shukura had found wandering the city.

Another clank and tink sounded, another part falling off. Jomrik sighed dramatically. Basilard wondered if the lorry would make it out of the predators’ range and how they would fight the next battle if it didn’t.

Chapter 5

“Hold that there. No,
there
,” came Jomrik’s voice, drifting out from underneath the lorry. He cursed a few times, growled in frustration, then cursed again. “Do you know anything about vehicles at all?”

“Not a thing,” Maldynado said. He, too, lay beneath the lorry in the fading daylight, his legs sticking out. “I just said I’d hold your tools if you needed me to. I thought I was being quite generous. You wouldn’t find many warrior-caste men willing to hold greasy, grimy things. We use these hands to wave condescendingly at peasants, you know.”

Jomrik growled again.

“I thought you were disowned, Maldynado,” Mahliki said from the spot she had chosen around the campfire, spreading her tools and vials around her. She flipped on a lantern to make up for the darkening sky.

“Yes, but by working for your father, I’ve regained some of my former stature.”

“Ah. What is it you do for him, again?”

“At the moment, I’m holding greasy tools.”

Ashara snorted. She stood to the side of the lorry and the fire, her back against a tree trunk as she watched both ends of the valley where they were camped. The highway ran west to east in this area, and a trail headed off to the north, cutting through the hills. Basilard had mentioned that it would eventually lead into his country, if they followed it. Ashara wished they were already twenty miles up it instead of still being so close to the highway. Before, the wide road had seemed safe. She now saw it as an easy route for predators as it cut through the thick vegetation hugging the ground to either side of it.

She believed they had driven about twenty miles before smoke had started rising from the lorry’s engine and the corporal had declared it in need of repairs before it could travel on,
if
it could travel on. But it was hard to judge mileage while riding in the strange conveyance. Back home, people rode in wagons pulled by giant lizards, but that was not quite the same.

A twinge of pain came from Ashara’s abdomen each time she inhaled deeply, and she had to keep reminding herself not to. With the shadows deepening, hiding her from the others, she risked closing her eyes and drawing energy from the tree at her back and the earth beneath her feet to help her body with healing. She did not take so much that the plants around her would be stunted, but a little bit from the tree, from that bush to her side, and from the moss carpeting the ground at her feet. She wasn’t a true healer and could not help others in this manner, but she could accelerate her own recovery. Right after the battle, she had applied her salve to the cuts around her waist. That had done more than her meager talents ever would.

Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that the day had been inordinately taxing. She wondered if the Turgonians would make something more appealing than ration bars. A hearty meal sounded wonderful, even if it meant enduring questions from the others. A true spy would probably get close and try to glean information, but the idea made her stomach churn, especially after Basilard had helped her that day. She did not know if she could have escaped that grimbal on her own. He had risked his own life to pull her away. She couldn’t allow that to change anything, but she resolved to thank him whenever he showed up again.

After they had chosen this stopping point, which lay near another Mangdorian border yurt, this one also empty, Basilard had grabbed a rifle and jogged into the brush after signaling something to Maldynado. Since he had headed back in the direction they had come from, Ashara guessed he wanted to see if they were being followed. She wanted to know that too. The grimbals were troublesome enough, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that someone else was out here, someone even more dangerous.

Still connected to the tree and the forest around it, Ashara sensed someone approaching before she heard or saw anything. She stepped away from the trunk, nocking an arrowing and facing the brush behind her before she realized it was Basilard.

Three knocks came from the shadows. She lowered her bow. Even if she hadn’t sensed that it was Basilard, she would have assumed a grimbal would not warn her before approaching.

Basilard walked out of the gloom, his hands raised. Only when she nodded, signaling she saw him, did he lower them. It must be irritating to not be able to call out and warn a comrade of one’s approach.

Ashara noticed tufts of grass and leaves sticking out of his grip. In the darkness, she could not tell more than that. Curious, she followed him to the campfire where the crackling logs and Mahliki’s lamp provided more illumination. She was able to make out his hand signs, though it would take more time before she could understand them fully.

“What’s that?” Mahliki asked, pouring a couple of drops of a dark liquid into a vial. She must be making a few more alchemical concoctions for defense.

Once again, Ashara was tempted to ask her about her background. If she had access to the mental sciences, that might explain why she had been sent along, even though she was so young. Also, someone who made potions was naturally of interest to her.

Basilard laid a collection of what turned out to be leaves, herbs, and tubers on a flat rock. He picked up a heretofore-ignored skillet, set it in the coals, and pointed at what he had foraged.

“If that’s dinner, I hope it’s not all you’ve got,” Mahliki said. “I’ve seen Maldynado pick more food than that out of his teeth after a meal.”

“Herbs and spices,” Ashara said. “Thyme, delfenara, wild garlic, and white mountain potatoes, I believe.”

Basilard nodded to her, not noticeably surprised by her ability to identify the plants in the dim lighting. Ashara wondered what Shukura had told them about her. Surely not that she had been trained as a night stalker. Thanks to the connotations of assassin that it carried, the term was enough to bring fear to the souls of her own people. She doubted the Turgonians would think more fondly of the occupation, nor could she imagine Basilard approving of an assassin in their midst.