Paul Collins - Earthborn The

Gillian had tried to make conversation with the various jailors who had brought her food, but they'd maintained a stony silence as though they were somehow afraid of her. None of it made sense. She brought the bowl to her lips. She'd taken a quick sip before realizing that the guard was staring at her.

He grinned a toothless grin.

Gillian would have loved to have had the luxury of throwing the food at him, but she needed it too badly.

Unable to get a reaction from his captive, he pushed himself away from the cell, and Gillian listened as he stalked off into the darkness.

It wouldn't be long now before one of her visitors was Bruick.

She'd contemplated robbing him of any joy by committing suicide. But she quickly discarded that option. No matter how dire her predicament became, she wouldn't give up life until her body gave it up for her.

She held her breath and upended the bowl's contents into her mouth. It slipped down her throat like slime—a continuing length of connected fluid that passed along her throat like a gelatinous snake.

It made her gag a little, but she was determined to hold down the food. She dry-retched for a moment, but the food stayed down.

She paced the dungeon for the rest of the afternoon. Each step was a sharp reminder of her injuries, but she knew she couldn't just sit still and wait for something to happen. She never was one for idleness.

Gillian raised her head at a muffled sound. It was hard for her to tell the time, but it was late at night, the middle of the night, maybe, when she heard a scuffle along the corridor. It sounded like someone being dragged along the straw-strewn cobbles.

Gillian clenched the bars and peered into the dark. The door at the top of a short flight of stairs swung open and a body was shoved through. It rolled limply down the steps and sprawled in the muck at the base. She knew how that must have hurt. The guards had tossed her down the same stairs.

Two dark shapes detached themselves from the doorway and bustled down the stairs.

"Gillian!"

It was Patrick's voice. The other figure had to be Mira. Gillian stepped back from the bars. It had to be a trap.

"Gillian! Quickly, girl. Where you at?" Patrick whispered anxiously.

"She's in here!" Mira called to him. Her voice sounded strained and afraid.

"What's the matter with you, girl?" Patrick admonished. He held a ring of keys aloft and tried inserting the wrong key. "Which key?" he demanded.

"Come to finish off the job?" Gillian asked through her cracked lips.

Patrick gave her a quick, questioning look. "I've no time to explain meself to you, girl. We did best we could under the circumstances." He rattled the key ring. "What do you say? Which one?"

"It's the diamond-headed key," Gillian said. She managed to keep her tone neutral. No telling what to

expect from this pair.

The door swung on rusting hinges. It was Mira who came in and placed Gillian's arm over her shoulder and gently helped her to the door.

Patrick had already hefted the limp body of the guard and thrownhim on the bunk, draping the burlap bedcloth over him.

"Won't keep the jabbers guessing long," Patrick said when he reached them. "But time enough for us to make good our escape."

Gillian went rigid. "I'm not going from here until I've settled a score."

Mira's grip on Gillian tightened. Gillian didn't have the strength to resist.

"If it's Bruick's death you're after," Patrick said, "he's gone."

"You're lying."

"No," Mira interrupted. "He left this morning at first light. Took a party of ten. No telling what path they took once they got in them trees."

Gillian's temper erupted again. "All this for nothing," she croaked.

"Not if we get him out there," Patrick said.

The coldness of his voice chilled Gillian. "We'll never catch up to him if he left this morning," she said.

"And we'll nay catch him on his way back if we lark about in here," Mira reminded them.

"I can't move too fast," Gillian replied in a choked voice. Every word she uttered through her split lips was a fresh torment.

"They're animals is what they are," Patrick said with venom. "It's blacker than sin in here," he cursed.

"Hold that lantern so, Mira," he added. Satisfied, he moved them on up another flight of stairs that led out to a narrow winding corridor. Despite their efforts to move silently, their footfalls on stone rang like muffled shots.

Mira swung the softly glowing lantern toward Gillian and gave her a quick look. "Your mouth's a mess. And you've black coals for eyes. But they've nay treated you too badly."

Gillian smiled grimly. Sleep deprivation, malnutrition, and being incarcerated in a dank and dark dungeon seemed bad enough to her.

If Mira had been expecting a reply from Gillian, it wasn't forthcoming.

A gushing wind whistled through the rafters as rain fell on the shingled roof. It started as a light patter—like the feet of tiny birds scrabbling about—then the deluge came, a sudden roar that drowned out any attempt at conversation.

Patrick led them to a great oak door, unlatched the bolt, and pulled the door slightly ajar. Looking across the curtain of rain, they could see the portcullis. It was all that was separating them from freedom.

Patrick ushered Mira and Gillian forward. "Quickly now," he said needlessly.

Welkin stretched his elbow back as far as it would go. He knew there would be no second chances.

He released his fingers, and the bowstring vibrated as it snapped taut.

The arrow went true. Even as Welkin watched the man spin in a confused circle and fall, he was nocking the second arrow and pulling back the string.

He followed the line of the arrow and veered the bow to the left. The other sentry had taken one step forward, completely bewildered, then dived for cover.

Welkin released the arrow. It sang through the air as the clouds opened up. It was hard to see, but Welkin knew either the man had stumbled or his arrow had caused him to fall to one side.

Welkin gained the shelter of the Stockade wall as torrential rain hit. Bad timing on his part. There were two bodies, and he dragged the larger of them under cover of the awning and removed the man's cloak. The oilskin wasn't a good fit, but it would have to do—he needed protection from the rain.

Welkin peered around the corner to seek out more sentries, and he thought he could see shadowy forms flitting about in the poor light. Flattened against the wall, he wished all this was over. His teeth chattered, then his pulse quickened at a new sound.

First it sounded as though someone was in the guardhouse. The door squeaked shut, then someone cursed beneath his breath near the gate, rattling the heavy metal latch that resisted being opened without a

key.

"Guards," called an angry voice. "Open up the damn gate. Let us out, for God's sake. We've urgent news for Bruick and must overtake him tonight!"

Welkin glanced down at the two bodies. He withdrew his dagger. Hands clutching the guard's keys, he stepped up to the gate.

Elab watched his breath vaporize as he waited for his team to assemble on the path from the settlement. The last snow was melting into the ground, leaving only pockets of slush as evidence of its passing.

"So I'm late," Lars announced carelessly.

"Don't start," Zocky said.

Elab held up his hand. His team quieted. He surveyed each of them: Lars, Zocky, Devan, and Harry.

They seemed too few for such a formidable mission. Elab wondered for the briefest moment whether they knew what they were volunteering for. More important, did they know how few of them would return?

"It's all downhill from here," he quipped. "Let's move out."

Few saw them passing. The Committee had in fact let it be known that Blab's team would be leaving the day after next. The last thing they wanted was for Bruick to be able to lay an ambush for them in the foothills.