Meek

Chapter 50: Breaking Spirits

When Eli fell, Lara gave a shriek of distress. The hardpacked road punched him in the side and she pretended to sob, pleading for mercy. She made it sound raw and real, too. Apparently she'd learned some lessons about acting from Chivat Lo.

She carried on long enough to sell the performance, to make both of them seem weak and terrified--but not long enough that one of the bandits beat her mouth closed.

Smart.

Although, speaking of her mouth ... his spark caught her lips moving. Even after she'd quieted for ten minutes, ten minutes of him being smeared across the road like a tomato across a carpenter's rasp, her lips still trembled with emotion.

He didn't buy that, so he sent a spark to her when the rope eventually dragged him close enough.

"Forehead if you hear this," she was whispering, so softly that even with a spark almost touching her lips he barely heard. "Forehead if you hear this. Forehead if..."

He touched her forehead with a spark.

"You okay?" she asked.

He touched her right cheek for yes.

"You're not?"

Oops. He touched her left cheek for yes.

"You forgot which was which."

Left cheek.

"Blight, Eli! Keep a spark close, so we can coordin ..."

Except then the rider spurred his horse into a gallop, dragging Eli out of range.

A handful of minutes later, a rock caught his collarbone with a jagged burst of pain. Maybe a hairline fracture, because his healing numbness kicked in fairly strongly. And by the time his collarbone felt okay, he'd taken more rocks, to his head and hip and knee.

The world spun into a storm of pain and chaos. The rough earth scraped the skin from his face and shook his body like a rabbit in a wolfhound's jaws.

He dipped his attention into his core to spread the numbness faster or, or at least to ease his fear. Well, he didn't really know why he did that, except it felt natural. Like cradling an injured limb. His head was buffeted, his vision shattered like a broken pane of glass, but at least the sparks kept him steady ...

Miles of dirt and rock.

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Hooves struck him twice.

He lost half his exposed skin.

Patches grew back, but too slowly, and his mind retreated into a painful reverie. Maybe fire wasn't the reason he'd taken so long to heal after killing the marquis. Maybe he healed more slowly if he took damage over a longer period of time, and a larger portion of his body. So the quick stab of a spear healed fast, but charring every inch of his skin--and damaging his lungs--healed more slowly?

Maybe.

Or maybe his pain-addled mind was desperately trying to draw lines between unrelated events. Trying to make sense of senselessness. Trying to focus on anything but his current situation. Still, he was pretty sure that his body was struggling to heal the damage as the sun dropped below the horizon and the air cooled and the world darkened into a haze of scraping road and pounding hooves ...

He didn't lose consciousness, though. Which wasn't exactly a blessing. The sparks kept him aware of his surroundings even though he clamped his eyes against the grit, and his ears heard nothing but the grinding of his own head against the road.

Then his sparks showed him the bandit party arriving at an encampment. In a clearing outside a village with wooden walls. A palisade guarded the village. High and strong--defenses that looked better suited for a fortress than a village.

The bandits dismounted and left him lying in a bloody heap behind the horses.

The earless woman shoved Lara into a crowd of people that his sparks couldn't see clearly. He heard them, though: crying softly, comforting each other. Ordinary folk. Maybe eight or ten of them? Women and men. A few children, too. Not small children, but a couple of the voices sounded younger than Lara.

The bandit camp was less impressive than the village. Just a handful of tents with a couple of campfires. A dozen bandits played dice and drank and sharpened their blades on the side of the camp that faced the village. Others lounged around a fire where sheep heads were roasting on spit. Plus there were probably more lurking unseen inside the tents.

A man with a pointy beard that matched Bo's greeted his return by calling, "You're back sooner than I figured, brother."

"Caught them heading this way," Bo said.

"Just the girl?"

"And her man. Not sure he's still alive."

"Didn't like his face?"

"That's right, brother. So I smeared it across a few miles of Ehrat road."

They both laughed.

"Still, there's enough of him left to send over the wall."

The brother tugged at his beard. "You know they ain't going to open those gates."

"I know either they invite us in polite and proper, and maybe we'll let a few of them live or ..." Bo paused, then called to someone Eli's spark couldn't see: "Wind her up! If I'm going to say this, I'll say it loud."

There was grunt of acknowledgement, then a creaking sound.

A rhythmic squeak.

Eli rolled his neck. Feeling better already. His skin was regrowing, the goose-egg on his forehead was shrinking. His broken nose snapped back into place, bringing tears to his eyes.

He started moving his bound wrists toward his face--then stopped.

Because a group of bandits was striding toward where he lay in the dirt. He braced himself, but they walked past. Heading for a makeshift paddock with fresh horses. As he lay still, they saddled up and rode into the night ... and a horn sounded from the bandit camp.

Three sharp blasts.

Bo took a few steps toward the village and shouted, "Either you open those gates, and maybe we let a few of you live, or we keep sending you gifts. Pull!"

There was a twang and a shriek.

The prisoners wailed and a wooden beam swiveled ...

Eli took a sharp breath when he realized what the spark was showing him: a heavensdamned catapult across the bandit camp was lofting a body--woman--a living woman--over the palisade walls to crash inside the village.

"Shut them up!" the brother snarled, and Eli heard thuds before the prisoners's screams quieted into a muffled weeping.

The creaking started again.

The rhythmic squeak.

The bandits dragged another prisoner toward the catapult.

A bald man with a grooved face begged: "Not him. Me. Send me. Not my boy, please, please."

A fist slammed into flesh and the man fell silent and Bo yelled, "Soon we're gonna deliver special gifts. Our Mistress's pets. But don't worry, they won't be strangers. You'll recognize every one of 'em."

One of the prisoners started wailing again, and that time nobody stopped them.

"They'll fall dead in your streets, on your roofs," Bo continued. "They'll fall dead but they'll rise. You'll watch them learn to walk all over again. They'll hunt you and--pull!--they will rip the guts from your bellies and wear them like garlands and--"

The catapult swung again.

Another body, another scream.

Another distant thud, and the bald man's wracked sobs filled the darkness.

A spark strained higher, and showed Eli the weeping man more clearly. He saw the filthy, bruised prisoners praying. He saw Lara with her face in her hands, her shoulders trembling ... keeping the fly switch near her mouth.

"Look at all the lives you're costing," Bo yelled. "More innocents broken at your feet. You could end this now. Before we send them. Answer me!"

Silence from the village.

The high spark showed Eli the layout of the camp. The tents, the bandits. The flicker of campfires and the pockets of shadow.

"No? Well, then, let's send you something special before the pets arrive. Three at once." He turned to the men guarding the prisoners. "Load up the smallest three."

A scuffle sounded.

Through a spark, Eli watched the brigands drag three women--two skinny and young, one grizzled and old--toward the catapult. He watched them hog-tie the first one, then heft her into the catapult basket. She squirmed and struggled, her eyes blank with terror as a brigand stunned the older woman with a blow to the head.

"Maybe the Bloodwitch touched one of these," Bo called into the village. "Maybe she touched all three of them. Oh! Sounds like that lad we sent ain't dead yet."

A moment later, Eli realized what he meant: a keening sounded from inside the village. The noise of person overcome by agony. Reduced to an animal. Eli knew how that felt, and he tore at his bonds with his teeth. Strong enough to chew through hailnuts meant strong enough to chew through rope.

"Put him out of his suffering before this next batch lands," Bo yelled at the village gate. "Unless that ain't him suffering. Maybe that's the sound of him rising from the grave to do her bidding. Pull!"

"Wait, stop!" a man called from beyond the village wall. "Please, wait!"

"Hold," Bo said under his breath, then yelled: "If those gates stay closed, there's nothing to talk about."

"I--we need guarantees! That you won't slaughter us the minute we open the gates."

"I guarantee we will slaughter you if you don't, how does that sound? Oh! Is that Mayor Arcuro? Which makes this scrap of rawhide ..." As he walked past the catapult toward the wall, he backhanded the grizzled woman. "... your old Ma, ain't that right?"

"Just--just give us something," the villager Arcuro pled from inside the walls. "Some promise, some hope that you won't--"

"Why would I do that? You'll open the gate. Just as soon as you realize you're locked in there with one of my Mistress's creatures, you'll beg to open the gate."

"We broke bread with you, Bo. You don't need to do--"

"Breaking bread's nice, but breaking spirits fills more than my stomach." Bo raised his hand: "Pull!"

The man in the village yelled, "No!"

The catapult didn't engage.

"I said pull," Bo snarled, looking over his shoulder. "Now, Stumps."

The catapult remained still.

Another bandit trotted closer, then swore. "He--he's dead, Bo. Stumps is dead."

And laughter rolled from the shadows of the camp.