Prisoner of Fate (4 page)

T
he blood was congealing and for that she was grateful. Crouched in the spiky grey bush, she tried to control her breathing. She lowered the hem of her blouse, satisfied that the wound through the flesh in her side would heal. Then she touched the crease that a bullet had cut along her right cheek. The blood was already dry.

The Ranu were searching the hillside. The others were scattered across the hillside. Dafyd had pushed her ahead for a hundred or more paces through the trees and undergrowth before he veered away and left her to find her own hiding place.

They had deliberately separated. A simple, frantic tactic to make the Ranu hunting task more difficult, the odds were that at least one of them, maybe more, might escape.

Blood pumping through her veins—the fear of being hunted, of being hated and pursued—too much of her past life had already been consumed by this mad experience. She thought she had finally eluded it when she took Emma to Marella. She had no issue with the Ranu. Why would they want to kill her? Or Emma? It made no sense. But she also knew war rarely made sense, even when people thought they knew what was right and what was wrong and what was worth fighting
for. As a naive girl, she went to war to save her lover. Then she went to war to help Queen Sunset save her kingdom. She even stayed to fight for her firstborn son. All were long dead. And even when she sought peace in Summerbrook, another war had found her out and destroyed everything she loved—almost everything. Her children, Emma and Treasure, survived. She came to Andrak to find them, but only found one. Now she was caught up in another war. There was no sense to life.

A twig cracked. She tensed, ready to rise and run or fight, and peered through the spiky foliage, straining to hear more warning noises. As she stifled her breathing, her pulse quickened. She heard voices, foreign voices. The Ranu were close. Through a stand of trees twenty paces away, figures moved, men in white clothing, obscured by the vegetation.
Don’t come this way
, she silently begged. The voices receded and the figures faded. She sucked in her breath and let her muscles relax. Her hands were shaking. She was sweating. She flinched as the report of a peacemaker echoed across the hillside. Heart racing feverishly, she prepared to bolt before she realised that it came from a party higher up the hill to the north. Who had the Ranu seen? Did they catch one of the dragon egg crew? Who? She listened, but the sounds of the immediate world were leaves rustling in the gully breeze and her beating heart.

She ached from head to toe by the time evening shadows blanketed the hillside. Crouching, squatting, lying, she spent the entire day hidden in the dark green and spiky bushes, her lips dry, her wounds throbbing, her bladder threatening to burst. Only the momentary beauty of the last wash of golden sunset across the hillsides offered respite to her increasing discomfort. The dissolving light calling the circling bird flocks to roost, she emerged gingerly from her hiding place,
checked that she was unseen and gratefully squatted to piss. Relieved, she stretched her limbs and body, pausing to listen. The breeze had died to a whisper. The birds were silent.

She did not know for certain if the Ranu had flown away, but her inner logic argued that they would have given up after a day’s searching. Peacemakers were fired several times throughout the morning and midafternoon, most well away from where she hid, and she neither saw nor heard her dragon egg companions, so she assumed the hunt had moved on from where she was during the long day. Still, she was cautious. As a young girl, stalking animals in the bush above Summerbrook, she learned that patience was essential to catching her game. If the Ranu were true hunters they could be waiting patiently for her to make the fatal mistake of straying from her place of safety.

Her stomach ached from not eating since the previous evening and she needed water. The western foothills of the Great Dylan Ranges were unfamiliar territory, and although she travelled through a section every year on her pilgrimages to Lightsword, she wasn’t sure of the terrain or the likelihood of finding water easily. She estimated that she was at least four or five days’ walking distance from Marella, and Serpent River was at least a day or more away. Her best hope was in finding a farm or small village.

The trek through the foothills was more treacherous than she expected, with shale sliding beneath her shoes on the slopes and the undergrowth thick in the shallow valleys, and the air quickly turned cold when the breeze shifted south-west and picked up energy. The moon eventually rose, but it was a thin, sickly pale crescent that gave little light to help her. She kept watch for fires or lamps that might guide her to habitation, but by the time the cold and exhaustion
numbed her body she’d seen no signs of hope in the wilderness. Unable to push on, she searched for shelter and eventually settled in a nook beneath a tiny embankment, shivering until her circulation restored enough comfort for her to sleep, but it was a restless sleep, punctuated by strange dreams she couldn’t recall when she opened her eyes to a grey dawn. Hungry and thirsty, her side aching, she stamped her feet and slapped her arms to drive out the biting cold and stiffness before she stumbled east.

Five hundred paces on she discovered a ramshackle group of stone and thatch buildings in a wide, shallow valley that opened onto a rolling plain. At first glance, she sighed at the sight of a hamlet where she could get food and water and care for her wound, but she halted when she spotted that the thatched roofs were scorched and two buildings were gutted. Thin smoke twisted from a solitary chimney in the smallest cottage. She scanned the scene for evidence of Ranu soldiers, but there were no horses and she couldn’t see moored dragon eggs. A grey dog trotted towards her, tail wagging lazily in greeting, so she squatted to meet the animal and it thrust its muzzle into her hands. ‘What’s happened here?’ she whispered. ‘Where is everyone?’ The dog sniffed her fingers and palms until it decided she had no food on offer, at which point it turned and trotted back towards the cottage.

Assessing the safest approach, she crept warily towards the cottage, ready to run at any sign of danger. The grey dog turned to watch her, tail still wagging gently as if he considered her harmless, but his ears were erect in anticipation of her becoming dangerous. She reached the side of the cottage, crouching against the stone wall below a small window shutter to listen. A man murmured. Something scraped against wood. Then she gasped as her arm was nudged, nerves still
jangling when she realised that the dog had pressed his snout against her. She glared at the dog that was staring at her inquisitively before reaching forward to rub its left ear. The dog’s tongue lolled from its jaws and its tail wagged vigorously. Meg rose to the shutter and cautiously peered through a gap.

The shadowy interior revealed little except for the glow of a small hearth. The fire was obscured, possibly by furniture she reasoned, but a shadow took the shape of a man as it crossed the brief space in her view. She listened, concentrating on the footsteps, and heard a voice say, ‘Is it ready? This fire’s too risky.’ She recognised the Andrak language.

‘It’s done,’ a second voice announced. ‘Here’s your share.’

‘Thanks.’ The shadow moved across her field of vision again and melted into the darkness. ‘Shit, it’s hot!’ the voice protested

‘What did you expect?’ the second voice asked. ‘At least it’s cooked.’

The savoury aroma of roasted meat reached her nose, making her mouth water and her stomach roll uncomfortably, but then she heard a sharp bark and looked down to discover the grey dog gone. Panicking, she retreated towards a low stone well wall and hid, peeking around to spy on the cottage door. The grey dog was wagging its tail feverishly and barked again. The door opened and a hand tossed a bone onto the ground which the dog eagerly snapped up before it trotted towards an overturned wagon, dropped on its stomach and chewed on the morsel. The door closed.

The sight of the dog gnawing at the bone made Meg’s hunger intensify and she considered stealing the bone, until she dismissed the idea as nonsense. Her curiosity returned regarding the identity of the men in the cottage. If they weren’t Ranu they might welcome
her. They were probably hiding from the Ranu like she was.
They might be men I know
, she decided, wondering if Dafyd or Byron or Adwyn were the men seeking refuge inside the cottage. She assessed her meagre alternatives. Making safe contact seemed the best choice.

She looked for three stones to suit her plan, checking the cottage and the surrounding area as she collected each to ensure she remained unseen. She measured the distance and threw the first stone. It thudded against the wall by the front door. When no one emerged, she threw the second stone and it clunked on the stone wall before it dropped to the ground. Again, she waited. As she picked up the third stone, feeling its cool coarse texture in her palm, the door opened a fraction. She crouched, ready to run for the bushes. A dark-haired head appeared, along with the muzzle of a peacemaker. The man scanned the hamlet, edging forward until Meg could see the remnants of a dark-green uniform—an Andrak soldier. She stood. His gaze fixed on her and the peacemaker took aim. Caught, she froze long enough that if the soldier had squeezed the trigger she would have been shot.

‘Rees,’ Meg said, studying the second man in the tiny room who seemed determined to remain in the shadows, ‘Rees Feond.’

‘Where from?’ the man with the peacemaker asked.

Something in the manner of the second man’s stare made her wary. ‘Claarn,’ she calmly lied.

‘You’re a long way from home,’ said the first man. ‘Why here?’

Her knowledge of Western Andrak was limited to the places she lived and through which she had travelled. ‘I was in High Pass when the Ranu attacked. I ran the only way I knew.’

‘That’s still a long way to run.’

‘I’m lost,’ she said.

‘How do we know you’re not just another Ranu spy?’ the second man scowled.

She paused, concerned by his menacing voice, before she pulled up her blouse hem to reveal her weeping wound. ‘Would a spy carry a Ranu bullet?’ she asked.

‘You need that seen to,’ said the man with the peacemaker, lowering the weapon.

‘Means nothing,’ said the man in the shadows. ‘An Andrak bullet makes the same hole.’

‘I think we can trust her, Raoul,’ said the first man, turning to his partner. ‘Put some water on to boil.’

‘You don’t give me orders,’ Raoul answered sourly, but he moved to the fire in the small hearth and poured water into a pot.

‘I’m Nathan,’ the man with the peacemaker said, offering his hand in the Andrak fashion. ‘We’ve learned not to trust anyone,’ he added apologetically.

‘I thought you would at least trust an Andrak,’ Meg suggested.

Nathan pointed to a three-legged stool for her to sit. ‘Can’t trust anyone,’ he reiterated. ‘The Ranu are sneaky. They’re offering peace to everyone who pledges allegiance to their president, and rewards to anyone who turns in resisters. Lots do. That’s why they’re winning so easily. People are swapping sides to avoid being killed. We don’t know who is the enemy and who isn’t.’

Meg watched the soldier, Nathan, who was animated when he talked, as if speaking to strangers was a natural talent, and his brown eyes sparkled with energy. Beneath the dirty facade of his rough half-beard and unwashed face, he was mildly handsome and she imagined him as the kind who brought laughter to evenings around campfires. He shuffled closer to her
and leaned his peacemaker against the wall. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

‘I want a closer look at that wound,’ he replied, leaning towards her. ‘It’s infected.’

She shifted defensively as he reached for her blouse. ‘What do you know about wounds?’ she asked.

He sat back and smiled. ‘I’m a surgeon.’

‘You’re a soldier,’ she rebutted.

He nodded. ‘Yes. And armies have lots of soldiers who are also surgeons,’ he said. ‘I can use a peacemaker, but I’m better with needles and catgut. I’ve fixed more men than I’ve killed, Ranu included,’ he added and laughed at his own wry observation. ‘Is that water boiling?’ he asked over his shoulder.

‘Done,’ Raoul answered.

‘Bring it here with a rag and my hessian bag,’ Nathan instructed. ‘I need some more light too.’

‘I’m not your bloody slave!’ Raoul retorted, but he shuffled around the small space, collecting the items, as Nathan reached again for Meg’s blouse.

‘I apologise if I hurt you when I poke around here,’ he said, lifting the material to study the wound. ‘Not enough light,’ he complained and let the blouse slide down while he waited for Raoul to bring a small lantern. When the boiling water and lantern arrived, Nathan slipped a rag into the water and held it by the end. He lifted it, steaming, from the water and waited until he could wash his hands before he re-immersed it. He shifted the lantern onto a stool beside Meg and again he carefully lifted her blouse to study the wound. ‘Straight through,’ he muttered. ‘Lucky.’ He touched her skin and she flinched. ‘Painful?’ he asked.

‘A little,’ she replied.

‘It’s a flesh wound,’ he told her, letting the blouse fall, ‘ but it’s started to pus up so I’m going to clean it, bleed it a little, and then put some healing
ointment on it just to make sure you don’t get lockjaw. All right?’

She nodded. Fifteen years before, with the amber embedded, she would have healed automatically from a simple wound. She’d been reminded of mortality many times in the intervening years when she had to care for cuts and abrasions to Emma and to herself without magic, but the frantic flight, the battle, Neal’s death, her wounds, the crash and the mad escape and long hours of hiding, the hunger and fear, all brought back memories of what she had been when she was the Conduit. Had she made the right choice to forsake the amber? By choosing the safer path, had she unwittingly taken the more dangerous way?

‘This will be hot,’ Nathan warned as he lifted the rag gingerly out of the pot. She knew how hot it would be. She had used the same techniques whenever she dealt with healing others, especially when the Western Shess refugees were fleeing the Kerwyn onslaught. She flinched as the rag scalded her skin and gritted her teeth to stave off the pain.