“There go our plans to follow the river.”
Tom, eyes shaded to stare across the land through the glare of the late afternoon sun, grimaced, but he didn’t respond to Sam’s remark. He couldn’t. He didn’t know what to say. A hollow had opened up in his chest, an emptiness edged with weariness and a hint of despair. But he couldn’t let any of those in the wagon train see it. Not at this point. This was the first setback they’d run across so far. He was certain there would be more. And it wasn’t as if they hadn’t been forewarned.
They’d reached the top of a ridge of land that curved away to the north and south, like a ripple in the earth, as if the Bluff itself were a stone that had been dropped onto the surface of the plains, creating a wave. Tom stood on the ridge with Ana and Sam in stunned awe. Beyond it, the cliff face of the Bluff sliced through the plains, a wall of jagged white and gray rock, striations in the soil clear, juxtaposed against the gold of the grass, the lighter green patches where copses of trees interrupted the plains, and the deep blue of the sky above. Tom had assumed the river would have cut a path through the rock, a chasm or channel. But he could see, even from this distance, that the river fell from the heights in a huge waterfall.
He shared a look with Ana, saw the wonder in her eyes. “I’ve never seen anything like this in Andover.”
“Nothing this large, certainly,” she said, breathless.
The wagons had drawn up alongside each other, everyone gawking at the immensity of the stone escarpment. Tom saw Colin and Karen standing not far away, hands clasped at their side. Even Walter and Jackson stood mute, the Proprietor’s son’s scowl wiped clean off his face.
Without a word, the wagons headed down the slope, people shaking themselves out of their awe slowly.
They reached the edge of the waterfall two hours later, the Bluff deceptively far away. The roar of that cascading water throbbed around them, mist thrown up in a spume that speckled Tom’s skin with tiny droplets even from this distance. It fell into an immense rounded basin, the water in the pool beneath deep, a pristine, almost ethereal blue at the edges, a torrent of white froth and mist near the center where the Falls landed. Those from the wagon train were spread out around the lip of the basin, parents holding their children back from the steep edge, others with their hands lifted toward the sky, letting the spume fall over them. Tom couldn’t see any way down to the water’s surface from the edge of the basin, short of jumping. A jagged cut in the basin wall allowed the water to escape and run west, forming the river to Portstown, but above…
Tom shifted his hand, squinting against the harshness of the light reflecting from the white-gray cliff face. “It’s not coming from the top of the Bluff,” he said.
“What do you mean?” Sam said.
Tom motioned toward the cliff towering above them, over a thousand hands high, if not more. “The river. It’s not flowing over the top of the Bluff, like every other waterfall I’ve ever seen. There’s a hole in the side of the cliff, a tunnel. It’s coming from the tunnel’s mouth, about two hundred hands down from the top.”
Sam raised his own hand to shade his eyes, then swore softly under his breath. “Look at how it’s carved a smooth path through the rock, almost perfectly rounded, even at the top.” He shook his head, turned to Tom. “So even if we do decide to go to the upper plains, there may not be a river to follow. It may be underground.”
Tom let his hand drop, felt the hollowness in his chest expand, but forced it back. He searched those gathered here and near the wagons behind for Arten.
And Walter.
He found them a short distance away. They stood at the edge of the basin as well, Walter staring at the blue waters below. Jackson, the Company assistant, sat in the grass to one side, a wide, flat satchel spread out on the ground before him, weights holding the exposed papers down. Tom had seen him with the satchel open during every break, diligently writing notes, but he hadn’t asked what he was doing. Walter and his escort hadn’t really interacted with the rest of the wagon train much at all, and after what Walter had done to Colin, after the riot those from Lean-to had caused on the docks and the hangings that followed, Tom had taken that as a blessing from Diermani.
But that would have to change. If they were going to start a town together, they needed to at least speak to each other. No matter how distasteful Tom might find it.
Sam followed him as he made his way to the small group. Arten saw him approach. “It appears that Cutter was right,” he said. “We’ll have to make a choice, either north or south.”
“There’s a third option,” Tom said. “We could simply set up Haven here.”
“No,” Walter said flatly.
Both Tom and Arten shifted, the Armory guardsman frowning.
“Why not?” Sam asked, defensively. “We’d have water, and the land to either side certainly seems arable. We could set up near where the water spills out of the basin. We’d be protected from the worst of the wind from the plains by the Bluff, sheltered from the storms, and we’d have plenty of stone to quarry for the buildings from the cliffs.”
Arten nodded as Sam spoke, eyes fixed on the surrounding land. “He’s right.”
Walter shot him a resentful glare. “No. It won’t work. It’s not far enough away.”
“What do you mean?” Tom asked.
“The new town-”
“Haven,” Sam interrupted, voice tight.
Walter’s eyes narrowed, but he continued, “ Haven needs to be far enough from Portstown that the Carrente Family can lay claim to the largest amount of land possible. We’re not even two weeks away from Portstown by wagon, which means we’re at most a week away on horseback, five days at a hard ride or with a second horse. That’s not far enough.”
Tom pressed his lips together, surprised. He’d thought Walter had said no simply to spite them, to take out some of the resentment he felt at being forced to come.
Arten caught his eye, one eyebrow raised. “He’s got a point. Sartori and Daverren didn’t send us out here simply to settle.”
Tom squinted as he considered Arten, then Walter. “Then what do you suggest?”
Walter didn’t answer, brow creasing as he hesitated. He’d clearly expected more of an argument. The hesitation made him seem his age-fifteen. “From what you claim that squatter said, the Bluff gets higher to the south. We should probably head north then. If we can cut farther inland, that would be best for the Carrente Family’s claim-and the Company-but if not, perhaps we can get a significant portion of land between Portstown and its northern sister port of Rendell.”
Tom considered, watching Walter, seeing the arrogant youthfulness in his face, the anger that simmered just beneath the surface, the resentment. But he saw something else as well, an eagerness, hidden beneath all of the darker emotions. For the first time, he wondered what it had been like in Portstown for Walter, to be Sartori’s second son-a bastard son-with so much of Sartori’s attention on Sedric, on the town itself.
Tom nodded. “I agree. Shall we rest here for a while longer, before we head north along the Bluff?”
Walter frowned, suspicion darkening his expression. Tom wondered how often Sartori had asked his son for an opinion, thought the answer might have been never.
Walter finally said, “Very well. Jackson needs to finish filling in his maps anyway.”
Tom ignored the touch of arrogance that colored Walter’s voice and glanced toward Jackson, bent over his sheaf of papers. “I’ll spread the word,” he said, then motioned for Sam to follow him as he left.
“Walter’s not as stupid as he looks,” Sam said, as soon as they were out of the Proprietor’s son’s hearing.
Tom shook his head. “No, he isn’t. I don’t think his father listened to him at all. I don’t think he paid any attention to him.”
“Perhaps he won’t be that bad as Proprietor of Haven.”
“Don’t forget, he was the one who got Colin arrested, who got him placed in the locks,” Tom said sharply. “He’s the one who sent my son home bruised and beaten more times than I can count. And everyone in this wagon train knows that. They won’t forget.”
“You’re the one who asked him what he thought, what he wanted to do.”
Tom glanced back toward Walter. “I know. He’s an arrogant bastard, but there’s some potential there.”
“Just be careful mentioning that potential around Colin,” Sam said, with a significant look.
Tom frowned. “Tell everyone to stock up on water here. We’re heading north.”
“It’s not as high as it was at the Falls,” a voice said gruffly.
Tom turned from his scrutiny of the Bluff to see Arten coming up from behind. The commander came on foot, his horse given over to one of the other guardsmen. And he’d abandoned the formal armor he’d worn as the wagon train headed out. His shirt and breeches were still cut better and made with finer cloth than anything those from Lean-to had, but it was better suited to the heat and the rough conditions of travel.
He’d also let his beard grow. Trimmed and perfect, it made his face sharper, more angular. And darker. Tom suddenly realized that Arten hadn’t originated from Trent. His features were more southern, from the Hadrian region or the Archipelago.
Tom nodded in greeting as Arten drew up beside him, wiping the sweat from his face with one large hand. “Is Walter calling a break?”
Arten shook his head. “No, we’re still moving. But I saw you up here, alone for once. I thought I’d join you.”
Tom smiled wryly. “If Sam isn’t following me around, then it’s my wife, or Colin. Or someone else from Lean-to with a problem they need resolved.”
“One of the pitfalls of leadership,” Arten said. “It’s why I’ve remained in the Armory. The Family assumed it was a fleeting passion of mine, that I’d grow tired of it and return to them and the Court.”
Tom’s eyes widened in surprise. “You’re a member of the Court?”
Arten smiled. “I could be. I was. But I never developed a taste for it. They sent me to the Armory, hoping I’d come to my senses. When I didn’t return to the Family as expected, they had the Armory send me to Trent. When that didn’t bring me scurrying back, they sent me to Portstown. They figured I’d break under the sheer depravity of it all. Much to their horror, I enjoyed it.” He caught Tom’s gaze. “There’s no pretense here. Or there wasn’t, under Sartori’s father’s hand. Sartori himself…” He shook his head regretfully.
“You could have returned to Andover once Sartori took over.” Arten didn’t respond at first; he stared out over the plains at the wagons trundling along through the grass. He was silent long enough that Tom began to worry that he’d offended the Armory captain in some way. But then: “I haven’t returned to Andover for a different reason.”
“The Feud?”
Arten turned toward him, his eyes hard and guarded. “Do you know what the Feud is about?”
“The Rose.”
Arten grunted. “And do you know what the Rose is?”
When Tom shook his head, he continued, looking back toward the plains again as he spoke. “A little over twenty years ago, a trade caravan owned by the Taranto Family traveling south through the Borangi Desert stumbled across some ruins once buried in the sands, exposed by the sandstorms that plague the desert. Inside one of the buildings, they found the Rose.” He paused, but continued a moment later. “No one knew what it was, but those in the caravan, and those of the Taranto Family who came afterward to see it, knew that it contained power. More power than anything any of the Hands of Diermani wield. Godlike power, although exactly what that power was they didn’t know. But the Family members returned to Taranto lands, told the Doms, who kept the discovery hidden for nearly twelve years.
“But nothing in the Court remains secret for long. Our networks of spies are too effective. The fact that they kept it secret for twelve years is staggering and attests to the potential of the Rose itself. They knew that if the other Families found out about it before they could secure their hold on it, the Families would go to war. And they nearly succeeded. However, the existence of the Rose was exposed before they attained that grip. And not only are the Families enraged that the Tarantos kept it hidden, tried to seize it for themselves, but the Hands of Diermani are as well. After all, godlike power should remain within the control of the priests and the guidance of the church. Or so the Patrises believe.”
“So now the Families will go to war,” Tom said.
Arten glanced toward him. “Now they will Feud. But unlike past conflicts, this will be a holy war as well. The Doms of each Family will be driven by their respective Patrises. And from what I witnessed during the sessions of the Court I attended before I left for Trent, the Hands of Diermani are split on their opinions of how to handle the Rose. Everyone wants its power, Dom and Patris alike; and everyone wants control of the land surrounding it, the desert that is in the center of Andover, the center of nearly all of the Families’ lands. The desert that has remain unclaimed and uncontested for hundreds of years.
“This Feud, if it begins, will last for decades. Blood will be shed. Families will fall. All in the name of Holy Diermani.”
Tom turned back to his survey of the cliffs, silent for a long moment. “You could have remained in Portstown. You would have been safe from the Feud there.”
Arten shook his head, smiled bitterly. “The New World won’t be safe from the Feud. The war will affect everyone, everywhere. It already has. You’ve experienced it, with Sartori’s prejudice against your family and those in Lean-to.”
“Is that why you volunteered to join the wagon train?”
Arten didn’t answer at first. One hand rested on the pommel of the sword strapped around his waist, the other on his hip as he stared out at the Bluff, eyes squeezed tight against the glare of the sun off of the stone. “I didn’t like the way Sartori handled the refugees from Andover or the prisoners. And after the hanging-” He looked Tom directly in the eye. “I didn’t want to be part of that, of what it could become. Neither did any of the other guardsmen who came with me.”
“And what about Walter?”
Arten glanced toward the Proprietor’s son, to where he rode with a few of the guardsmen and Jackson Seytor. “I’m surprised. Not that Sartori would send him on this expedition; Walter was always an embarrassment, always getting into trouble, creating scenes. This was the perfect opportunity for him to rid himself of his bastard son.”
Tom thought he heard a touch of derision in the commander’s voice, but he couldn’t be certain. “Then what are you surprised by?”
“Walter. By how he’s handled it. I expected him to sulk, as he has, but I assumed he’d return to his old ways after that. To bullying everyone around him, as he did in Portstown, as he did to your son.”
Tom considered for a moment. “He doesn’t have his usual audience anymore. Brunt, Gregor, and Rick.”
Arten grunted, shook his head. “Nor his father. Putting him in nominal charge of this expedition may have been the best thing his father ever did for him, even if that wasn’t his father’s intent.”
“‘Nominal’ charge?”
Arten smiled. “I think you’ll find the Armory will follow Walter’s orders only so long as those orders make sense and are to the benefit of everyone involved. I’ll give him a chance to be a Proprietor, to be something other than his father, but if he falters-”
Before Tom could find a suitable response, Arten tensed, his hand tightening on the pommel of his sword, his smile vanishing. “Something’s wrong,” he said.
Tom heard one of the horses below scream. The sound was muted, coming from a distance. As he spun, orienting on the sound, he saw one of the horses hitched to a wagon rear, feet kicking the air, its teammate doing the same, both thundering back down to the ground before lurching forward, still harnessed to the wagon. The wagon shuddered as it was yanked forward, the man in front yelling, pulling on the reins hard. Those walking around the wagon scattered, a few harsh cries and screams piercing the relative quiet.
And then the wagon foundered. Its front end jumped into the air, as if it had hit a ridge of stone hidden beneath the grass. The frenzied horse stumbled, feet collapsing beneath it, and with a wrench the entire wagon began to tilt.
It slammed into earth, dirt and grass plowing upward from the impact, the second horse dragged to the side and over by the hitch, feet kicking the air. A hideous shriek cut across the plains-a horse in pain-and then the wagon ground to a halt. The driver was thrown clear, his body like a rag doll, limbs loose and wild.
Tom stood stunned, the second horse still kicking the air, now on its side, the wagon shuddering with its movements. The entire event had happened in the space of a few heartbeats, yet it had seemed so slow at this distance, so quiet, all of the sounds dulled.
But as he watched, he thought he saw the air around the wagon shimmering, a vague distortion, there and then gone. He blinked and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm, but it didn’t reappear.
He and Arten shared a grim look, then began jogging toward the wagon.
Below, the wagons behind the one that had foundered turned toward it; those in front halted. The people who had scattered when the horses first reared now rushed to the animals, toward where the hide covering of the wagon had been torn from its supports. Chests and trunks and bundled goods lay scattered in a rough arc around the back of the wagon, but the men who arrived at the wagon first went to see to the horses. They were worth more than all the wagon’s contents combined.
Someone broke from the group as it gathered and raced toward Tom and Arten.
“I believe that’s your son,” Arten said.
Colin met them halfway to the wagons, gasping as he ground to a halt.
“What is it? What’s happened?” Tom spat.
“One of the wagons… The horses went wild… The wagon.. .”
“I can see that,” Tom snapped. “What spooked them?”
Colin shook his head, catching his breath. “I don’t know. But Paul’s hurt.”
Tom thought about the rag doll figure he’d seen fly from the front of the wagon as it rolled and felt ropes tighten around his chest. He pushed away from Colin, heard Arten’s feet pounding the ground behind him, but his eyes were on the wagon. Men had climbed into the traces, were calming the horse that lay on its side, still kicking, nostrils flared, head thrashing, as they tried to cut it out of the tangled reins and harness. Its teammate lay beneath it, not moving.
The women had gathered on the grass to one side of the wagon.
“Let me through,” Tom shouted as he pushed the thought of the loss of the horse from his mind and slowed. The women parted, and Tom saw Ana and the priest, Domonic, kneeling at Paul’s head, another woman standing to one side, Paul’s arm cradled in both hands. Paul’s rounded face was ashen, his lips almost blue, his eyes watery and wide, breath coming in short, harsh gasps.
Before Tom could speak, Ana said, “Ready?”
Paul swallowed and nodded.
And then the woman kneeling on Paul’s opposite side pulled the smith’s strangely angled arm out straight and wrenched.
There was a sickening sound from Paul’s shoulder, like gristle being chewed, followed by a tortuous click that sent shudders into Tom’s gut.
Paul roared, his body arching up from the grass as Ana, Domonic, and two other women tried to hold him down. The woman who’d pulled his shoulder back into its socket was thrust backward, stumbled and fell with an undignified oomph.
Paul’s roar died down into barely controlled panting. Tears and sweat streaked his face, and he appeared even paler than he had when Tom arrived. His arm lay curled against his chest, held there gingerly.
“Careful,” Ana said as the other woman picked herself up and brushed stalks of grass from her dress.
“It’s fine,” Paul murmured in a weak voice, repeating it over and over. “It’s fine, it’s fine. I’m fine.”
“Is he going to be all right?” Tom asked.
“Ah, it bloody fucking hurts!”
Ana glanced up, her expression black with anger and disgust. “He’s fine.”
Tom turned toward the wagon, cast one last look at Paul as Domonic gently helped him to sit upright and Ana held out a skin of water, then stepped over the smith’s legs.
“Sam! What happened?”
Sam spun. “We’re not sure, but we’ve lost one of the horses. Korbin’s checking out the wagon now.” One of the men cried out in triumph as a tie snapped beneath his knife. The entire wagon lurched as the surviving horse rolled away from the traces that had held it on its side, stumbling to its feet. Men surrounded it, hands raised to calm it down, its eyes white. It snorted, danced back and forth, trying to escape its wranglers, but Tom could see it calming even as he watched.
Sam must have seen it as well; he turned his back to the wagon. “How’s Paul?”
“He’ll be fine.” The tension in Sam’s shoulders relaxed. “Where’s Korbin?”
“On the other side of the wagon, looking at the undercarriage.”
Tom rounded the wagon, careful to steer away from the spooked horse. He found Korbin leaning over one of the wagon’s wheels. Korbin was a full hand shorter than Tom, thin, and younger by nearly ten years. A wheelwright, he’d come to New Andover on the same ship as Tom with his new and newly pregnant wife, Lyda.
Tom took in the splintered wood of the wheel, the cracked spokes, and grimaced. “What’s the damage, Korbin?”
The young man glanced toward Tom, pushed his glasses farther up onto his nose, then sighed as he stood up straight. “Wheel’s broken, but that’s easy to fix. I made certain replacements were packed. The real problem is going to be sorting out the traces and the damage to the axle and tongue.”
“How long to fix it, do you think?”
Korbin shrugged. “A few hours at least.”
The sound of thundering hooves approached, and Tom turned to see Walter, Jackson, and the escort of guardsmen pulling up near the overturned wagon, clods of dirt and grass thrown up by the horses’ feet. Walter’s horse pranced as he maneuvered it closer to the group crowded around the wagon’s base.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Something spooked the horses,” Tom said. “They bolted and overturned the wagon.”
“It was the air that spooked them.”
Both Walter and Tom shifted their attention to Paul as he rounded the back of the wagon, Ana and Arten at his side. Ana had put his arm in a sling made from someone’s apron to keep it immobile, but Paul still winced as he walked. Some color had returned to his face, but he appeared haggard, his clothes stained with mud and grass from the fall.
“What do you mean it was the air that spooked them?” Walter asked, the words twisted with derision.
Paul frowned at his tone. “It was the air. Just before the horses reared up and bolted, I felt the air get heavy, as if someone had laid a blanket across my shoulders. It became harder to breathe, and the hairs on my arms prickled.” A few of those around the wagon nodded in agreement. “I was about to whistle for a halt.”
Walter snorted. But many of the men and women who had been near the wagon before the horses bolted were mumbling to themselves.
Tom thought about the distortion he’d seen from the ridge. He caught Arten looking at him and wondered if the commander had seen it. Cutter had said something about the air as well. He almost mentioned it, but after a glance at the uneasiness in everyone around the wagon, he decided to keep quiet, at least for now. He wouldn’t be able to later. Rumors would spread, and someone would remember Cutter’s story; they hadn’t tried to keep anything the squatter had said quiet.
“Repair the wagon as best you can,” Walter finally snapped. “We’ll rest here.” He scanned those gathered, then tugged the reins of his horse, the animal dancing to the side before heading back toward the front of the wagon train, the rest of Walter’s escort following behind.
“What should we do about the dead horse?” one of the men asked.
Tom grimaced. Korbin had already gone back to work on the wagon.
“Butcher it. We may need the meat.”
Colin found Karen sitting on a small stool, milking the goats. He shuddered.
“What was that for?” Karen asked. “Am I that hideous? I know the sun’s been harsh, but…”
Colin smiled. “No. It was for the goats. I don’t like them, their bristly hair, their skeletal faces… but most especially their awful, yellow, hourglass eyes. They aren’t natural.” He shuddered again.
Karen laughed, still milking as she glanced at the goat in question. It ripped some of the grass free beneath its feet where it was tied to the back of the wagon and chewed contentedly, ears flicking away flies. “They are rather ugly, aren’t they?” she finally said, then shrugged. “But they’re easier to bring along than cows.”
As Colin settled down to the grass behind her, the goat turning to watch, bits sticking out of its mouth in all directions, she asked, “What’s going on with the wagon?”
“Korbin is almost finished. They’re trying to figure out how to rig it so a single horse can pull it. They thought about using some of the guardsmen’s horses, but they aren’t workhorses. They’re a few hands shorter, and they don’t think they’d have the endurance. So some of the supplies are being redistributed to other wagons to decrease the weight, and Korbin is altering the hitch and harness. We should be moving again shortly.”
“Good. I’m tired of waiting. We’ve been sitting here for three hours already.” She tilted her head, squeezing a last few drops of milk from the goat’s udder, then sat back, one arm reaching to massage the opposite shoulder. Shoving the goat aside, she picked up the half-full bucket and turned to where Colin stood, brushing grass from his breeches.
Before he knew what had happened, she’d backed him up against the wagon and kissed him. Her free hand fell against his chest, where the crescent moon pendant rested against his skin. He could hear children playing on the plains somewhere close by, tossing a stuffed leather ball about, their laughter ragged with the wind. A twinge of worry pulled in his chest that someone would see them, that they’d be caught, but here in the wagon train this was as private a moment as they were likely to get until nightfall, so he let the worry slip away.
When Karen finally backed off, he said, “You smell like goat.”
She slapped his upper arm, harder than he’d expected, but she couldn’t hide her grin.
Someone cleared his throat, and both he and Karen spun, guilt already burning up Colin’s neck. But when he saw Walter, he froze. The anger that he’d buried so deep during the night in the penance lock, that he’d buried again after his mother told him to stay away from the Proprietor’s son on the trek, flared up. He’d managed not to run into Walter for the entire journey so far, at least alone. His father had always been present, Colin in the background, so that they didn’t have to interact. But now the anger burned, suffused his skin with a tingling hatred, and it took everything he had to control it, to remain rigid and motionless, hands squeezed tight.
Karen took a small step forward, placing herself between the two, but to one side. Her eyes were narrowed, her face set. She didn’t seem embarrassed at all, merely angry. “What do you want, Walter?”
Walter’s gaze didn’t leave Colin’s face. Colin couldn’t read what he saw there, it was too controlled. Even his voice was bland.
“Korbin says the wagon is ready. We’re leaving.”
“Good.” When Walter didn’t move, she said tightly, “Was there something else?”
Walter’s eyes shifted toward Karen, glanced up and down, taking in her rumpled dress, her bare feet, the bucket of goat’s milk, then returned to her face. He almost smirked, but something he saw in Karen’s face stopped him. He frowned instead, the tension in his shoulders relaxing. “No. Nothing else.”
He began moving away. Colin watched him, jaw clenched, breathing through his nose. Before he rounded the end of the wagon, he shot Colin and Karen a thoughtful look… and then he was gone.
Karen turned toward Colin, sighed in exasperation when she saw his face, his clenched fists and tightened jaw. “Ignore him, Colin. He’s not worth it.”
“I didn’t like the way he looked at us when he left.”
“So what? It was just a look. Now come on, I want to ditch this milk before we get started.”
“What do you think, Arten? Can we make it?”
“Yes, we can,” Walter answered, voice heavy. He shifted with impatience.
Tom ignored the Proprietor’s son and turned to the commander of the Armory. To the east, the shortened cliffs of the Bluff-over a thousand hands high at the Falls, a mere seven hundred hands high here-were broken by a huge landslide. Tons of stone had slipped free and crashed down when the cliffs had given way at some point in the past, and now a scree of rock and dirt and brush formed a rough pathway from the rumpled valley below to the heights above, a mound of dirt that narrowed to a crack in the Bluff itself about a hundred hands down from the top before opening up again on the far side, forming a cusp to the heights.
Arten shook his head uncertainly. “It’s hard to say. It’s definitely the best option we’ve seen for reaching the upper plains since the Falls. The only option, truthfully.”
“What have the scouts reported about the Bluff farther north?”
“It continues, with minor rockfalls and a steady decrease in height, but they haven’t seen any evidence that the Bluff itself ends anytime soon.” He caught Tom’s gaze. “If we’re going to make it to the upper plains, this will have to be it.”
Tom sighed, scanned the rockfall again.
He didn’t like it. It was too steep, especially near the top, near the mouth of the slide, where the Bluff cupped it to either side, the collapse forming a fairly large indentation in the facade of the cliff. The wagons would never make it.
“If we go slow,” Korbin said from behind him, “and have the wagons switch back and forth across the length of the scree, I think we’ll be fine. But it will take most of the rest of today to scale it.”
Walter stepped forward, fists clenched. But he kept his voice calm, controlled. “We need to reach those heights. For the Family. For the Company. We need to lay claim to that land before anyone else.”
Tom bowed his head, closed his eyes, and swallowed the gritty taste of grass and dust in the back of his throat.
“You heard the Proprietor,” he said. “Secure everything loose inside the wagons, tie everything down. The slide is mostly rock. It’s going to be rough.”
Everyone who’d gathered to argue and listen in dispersed, a sense of excitement passing through them in a low murmur. They’d been following the Bluff for ten days, the scenery barely changing. There’d been no viable location to set up a settlement-no rivers, no lakes, only narrow streams and creeks, all meandering southward toward the river they’d left behind. They’d run out of the dry flatbread, and most of the smoked meats, and while small game was in abundance, Tom had grown tired of the taste of rabbit and fowl. They needed to find a major water source and some larger game soon, and the reports from the scouts searching northward weren’t promising.
“What do you think?” Arten asked, stepping up to Tom’s side.
Tom shook his head. “It’s a risk. I’d rather set up the town down here, but we don’t have the water resource we’d need, nor the wood. We’ve only seen copses, the trees too young to be used for anything useful. So if Korbin thinks we can make it to the top with the wagons
…”
Arten grunted. “Let’s see how stable the rockslide is first. We can always stop and continue north.”
“I’m not so certain of that.” Tom nodded toward where Walter and Jackson stood at the base of the slide itself, the first wagon already starting to crawl up the slope along its base, angled sharply to the north; it was too steep to head directly up the side. The wagon rocked as it was pulled over the rough stone. One of the guardsmen led the wagon, cutting through any tangled undergrowth in the way. “Walter’s intent on getting to the upper plains. He’s been searching for a way up since we left the Falls.”
“And he’s right.” When Tom raised his eyebrows in question, the commander added, “To the Court, the difference between having a settlement down here or up there is significant. The Bluff is a boundary, and the Carrente Family position will be stronger if Walter can establish a town, or even an outpost, on the far side.”
The wagon had reached the edge of the slide, and both men watched in silence as its driver and the group of men around it turned it so it could head back toward them, a little higher up the scree. Tom drew in a sharp breath when a few rocks gave way beneath one wheel, the stone clattering down the short distance to the grass, but the horses didn’t falter.
Once the leader was on its way, a ragged cheer erupted from the rest of the men and women still on the ground, and the second wagon started out.
“I’ll feel better about it once we’re all safely at the top of the Bluff,” Tom said, then searched for Ana. He found her at the third wagon, with Korbin and his wife, Lyda. He headed toward her, smiling as Ana reached out to touch Lyda’s growing stomach; Arten moved away, toward Walter and Jackson and the rest of the Armory.
“Has he started kicking yet?” Ana asked.
“Not yet,” Lyda said, her voice soft, her face radiant in the sun, a glow that Tom had seen in Ana’s face when she was pregnant with Colin, a vibrance that had shown through no matter how sweaty, grimy, or dirty Ana’s hair and face had been.
Lyda’s hair was lighter than Ana’s, her face rounder, skin smoother. But Tom thought the differences had more to do with the difference in their ages.
“Hmm,” Ana said wryly, then smiled. “It won’t be long now though.” It was the first smile he’d seen on her face that wasn’t tainted with anger or weariness or regret since they’d left Trent. A pure smile, touching her eyes, trembling in her hands.
When she drew away from Lyda, one hand going to her chest and the hidden pendant there, Tom took her other hand and kissed it.
She gave him a questioning look, but he shook his head. The wagon beside them gave a lurch and started forward, Korbin and Lyda moving to follow. “He’s a lucky man,” Tom said.
“I was worried about her when they told us they intended to come with the wagons,” Ana said. “I thought they’d head back to Andover, since they were expecting a child.”
“Why were you worried?”
They started after the wagon, walking hand in hand, watching where they stepped.
Ana glanced ahead, to make certain that Lyda and Korbin wouldn’t overhear. “She seemed a little… soft. Delicate. I wasn’t certain she’d be able to handle the walking or the work. But she’s handling it better than some of the others.”
Tom nodded. Ahead, the wagon had reached the first turn, Korbin overseeing the change in direction. The wheelwright shouted for help.
Tom squeezed Ana’s hand. “I’d better go be useful,” he said, then jogged forward. As he put his shoulder to the side of the wagon and shoved hard, he saw Ana rejoin Lyda, both cutting up ahead of the horses. And then sweat ran down into his eyes, and he focused his attention on getting the damn wagon to move.
Afternoon grew steadily into evening, and the wagons zigzagged their way up the slide, each pass getting shorter as the rockfall narrowed. The first wagon passed the neck of the slide an hour before sunset, struggling up the last section into the bowl that had sunk into the upper plains beyond, where the ground was flatter and less rugged. They reached the top of the Bluff moments later, whistles and cheers echoing down the scree from above. Tom paused to stare up at the men waving from the heights and smiled, relief coursing through him. All down the trail, people clapped and whistled in response, the excited conversation that had died down after the first hour of climbing returning with laughter and claps on the back. Dogs barked, tails wagging, and goats bleated.
“I told you it was possible,” Korbin said, and Tom turned, gave him a grin. Korbin smiled in return, pushed his glasses up onto his nose.
Behind him, Tom saw the ground beneath the back wheel of the wagon slip.
“Watch out!” he barked and surged forward, rock and dirt cascading away from the wheel in a small avalanche. The wagon began to tilt as he brushed past Korbin Then his shoulder slammed into the corner of the wagon, his feet sliding in the dirt. For a moment, he thought the ground beneath him would give way, that his weight would set the entire slope tumbling down to the plains below, but his boots found solid stone and held.
The weight of the wagon began digging into his shoulder. He gasped, sweat already sliding down into his eyes, down his back. He heard shouts as men began converging on the wagon from all sides. Korbin dodged in behind him, sending another cascade of dirt down the hill, loosening Tom’s footing briefly, and then the wheelwright added his strength to Tom’s.
“Henri!” Tom bellowed. “Get the damn wagon moving! We can’t hold it forever!”
He heard Henri curse the horses, heard the whip snap, the wagon shuddering, gouging deeper into his shoulder, but it didn’t move. Someone scrambled next to Korbin from the far side, near the front wheel, another avalanche of stone rattling down the slide. Tom blinked the sweat from his eyes, stared down the steep slope toward the wagons below, saw men surging up the fall toward them, stumbling on the rocks And with no warning at all, the stone beneath Tom’s feet gave way. He spat a curse as he kicked, feet digging into earth and stone, and then he was falling.
He heard Ana scream, “Tom!” her voice cracking with fear, and then his shoulder slammed into the rockfall, pain shooting up into his shoulder from his elbow as he spun and rolled, stone sliding with him. He didn’t cry out, didn’t have time. He ground to a halt a short way below and to the side of where Korbin and another man-young, no more than seventeen-were frantically trying to hold the wagon upright.
But the wagon began to tilt, to slide downward toward him as the ground for ten hands to either side suddenly gave way. The rear wheel crunched into the ground and splintered, the entire wagon shuddering as it struck. The weight inside the wagon shifted, slammed into the downhill side, cracking the side of the wagon, pushing it outward. Tom heard Henri roar, heard the horses shriek as the twisting wagon wrenched to the side and began to overturn.
The ground beneath Korbin and the younger man slid away, dragging them both downward, pulling them away from the wagon’s edge. Korbin hit hard, spun in the loose dirt, his glasses jarred from his face, sunlight glinting on the rounded glass, on the frames And then the full weight of the toppled wagon crushed his chest.
He never made a sound.
The younger man beside him screamed-an animalistic, terrifying scream that shuddered down into Tom’s bones. The wagon rolled, already beginning to break up, and slammed into the younger man’s legs. Supports snapped, wood cracking with sharp reports, and then the wagon rolled over Korbin and the other man completely, dragging Henri and the two shrieking horses with it. It tipped, ground into the slope, starting a huge avalanche of stone and debris, disintegrating as it rolled, horses kicking, a cloud of dust rising in its wake. Men and women scrambled to get out of its way farther downslope.
The wagon below it didn’t have a chance.
The disintegrating wagon crashed into it halfway down, tipping it over as if it were made of paper. The animal hide covering imploded as it skidded, wheels snapping beneath it, and then it and its team of horses joined the mass of tumbling wood, stone, supplies, and bodies on their way to the plains below.
Tom lay on his side against the stone of the rockfall, stunned, hand clutched to his arm where pain still shot from elbow to shoulder. He watched, gasping, as the dust rose, as the wagons reached the base of the slope and crashed into the grass. He listened to the clatter of stone as the slide settled, listened to the distant splintering of wood as the wagons struck and came to rest, but all of these sounds were muted, barely piercing the thunderous beating of his heart.
And then he heard more rocks clattering behind him, felt pebbles pelting his back. He jerked to the side, expecting to see the ground above him giving way again, but then Ana skidded to a halt beside him. “Tom! Tom, are you all right!”
Tom hissed and bit back a blistering curse as she touched his arm. “Don’t touch it,” he yelled, laying his head back against the stone. For a moment, his vision wavered, filmed over with a vibrant pulsing yellow. He grew lightheaded, but he gasped, closed his eyes, and fought it back.
“Thank Diermani,” Ana whispered, her hands covering his body, feeling for more wounds, searching for blood, although she kept clear of his arm. Her voice shook with relief, the terror he’d first heard there buried beneath. He heard her muttering a prayer, her movements frantic, and then she seemed to relax. “Nothing but the arm,” she said, and now he could hear the tears.
He opened his eyes, saw her bowed head, one hand raised to her face to shield it. She was shuddering, barely holding herself together.
People shouted, bounded down the slope to either side. He caught a glimpse of Lyda, her face blank, yet intent, and he suddenly lurched up into a sitting position.
“Lyda!” he shouted in warning. He could hear the sickening crunch as the wagon crushed Korbin’s chest, could see the smear of blood it had left behind And then Lyda screamed. A high, piercing scream that reverberated in Tom’s skull, that sank claws into his gut, that tightened his chest with juddering grief. She screamed until she ran out of breath, choking on it, then she sucked in air and screamed again, the sound thicker now with phlegm, harsher.
At his side, Ana jerked, her hand falling away from her face. Her reddened eyes searched the slope below, where Tom could see Sam trying to hold Lyda back from Korbin’s body. It had come to rest in the sliding debris nearly thirty hands downslope. His chest was unnaturally flat, caved in and bloody. His head angled downhill, face upturned to the sky. The priest, Domonic, was leaning down next to him, but he was obviously dead.
“Holy Diermani,” Ana said, voice raw. Her expression smoothed from terrified relief into a grim, hardened calm.
Without a word, she stood, folds of her dress held in one hand, and began picking her way down toward Lyda and the body. Tom watched her a moment, then struggled to his feet. Lyda broke free from Sam, her screams faltering, and stumbled to the ground beside Korbin’s head, stones shifting away at the movement. Her hands shook as she reached down, as she cupped his face, then traced his features, his forehead, his jaw, his mouth. Her entire body shuddered, back arched as she bent over him, her forehead dropping to meet his, arms cradling his head. No one near her made a move. Sam stood back. Domonic sat back on his heels, caught Tom’s gaze with his own and shook his head, his face stricken. No one moved except Ana. They stood, some heads bowed, others tilted toward the darkening sky, all of them silent.
When Ana finally reached Lyda’s side, her arms falling across the woman’s shoulders, Tom glanced to the ground.
There, not three paces away, Korbin’s glasses lay against a rock, sunset flaring in one shattered lens.