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nodded at Jason.
"Then give me a hand.
Now.
"
Now?
he thought.
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She nodded. "Definitely now."
But... he set his rifle down and approached Vikat from the rear.
Walter Slovotsky had once shown him the grip, and Valeran had vouched for its
usefulness; Jason snaked his left arm around the slaver's throat and locked
his right arm against the back of Vikat's neck, squeezing before Vikat could
utter a sound, only relaxing his grip well after he'd slid the other to the
ground, although Vikat went limp almost instantly.
Jason used a strand of rawhide to tie Vikat's thumbs tightly together behind
his back while Doria gagged him.
"He could choke on that," Jason whispered.
"So?" Doria looked at him from an impassive, flat face. "When Ahrmin leaves
his lodge, he's going to cross the doorway. Just hope that that's before
somebody notices that the boy here is missing."
"But " But what? But Vikat, like Hervian, had treated Jason well? Did that
matter? Didn't that have to matter?
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He looked down at the form of the man he had spent days on patrol with, eating
with, even laughing with. Vikat was sort of a friend; Jason couldn't just
slaughter him like a pig.
"You can object to killing slavers after you've been raped by one, little
boy," Doria said, her voice, although pitched low, sharp and clear. "No. After
a dozen have taken their turns on you."
He turned.
The guise of an overweight old woman was gone; Doria stood next to him in her
white robes. There was a majestic quality in her bearing as she drew herself
up straight; it was the carriage of someone who proudly endured pressure
beyond what she had thought she could.
"Doria "
"Come here." She knelt next to a pile of rags in the corner of the tent and
produced Jason's rifle, pistol, and the leather pouch containing his powder
horn and other shooting supplies. "Quickly now, load. You won't have a second
chance, and you're not going to be as accurate with a slaver rifle."
Across the cooking fire from the larder, Felius, the larger of Ahrmin's blocky
bodyguards, was standing in front of the large lodge, his rifle held in front
of him, shadows flickering across his face
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As he tipped a measured load down the rifle's barrel and then tamped it down,
Jason realized with a shock that it had been only a few minutes since the
alarm had sounded. Ahrmin was probably still gathering his wits, deciding what
kind of patrol to send out to bring in the hunters' catch.
Or, probably, deciding if it was a Karl Cullinane trap.
He might well have caught the hunters, Jason realized as he wrapped a ball in
a hastily cut spit patch, them rammed it home, reflexively replacing his
ramrod in its slot underneath the rifle. If he did, he might well force one to
give the success signal, and decoy some slavers into a trap before running and
striking again later.
Please, Father, let it be so.
If not, everything rested on Jason's shoulders. Those shoulders had already
proved far too weak.
Jason primed the pan, then snapped it shut and turned to load his pistols,
going by touch, his eyes on the compound beyond.
Ahrmin's other bodyguard emerged from the lodge, a horn held in his hands. He
blew a staccato question into the night, and was immediately answered by three
pure, clear notes.
The man raised his fist and shook it over his head as he shouted in triumph,
"We have him! We have him!"
Ahrmin emerged from his cabin and stepped into the firelight.
Before, Jason had been surprised at how innocuous Ahrmin had seemed: a
crippled little man, huddling in his slaver's robes.
Now, he seemed to gain bulk and strength as he drew himself up straight in the
firelight and turned to face the company.
Lit by the raging central campfire, his face was demonic; his single eye
seemed to burn with an inner fire.
"Brothers, friends, and companions," Ahrmin called out, his voice carrying
farther, more powerfully than it had any right to. "We have triumphed. That is
Chuzet's horn, and the note is too clear, too calm, the signal coming too
quickly for me to believe that he is acting under threat.
We will send out "
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"Now!" Doria hissed. "Shoot him now!"
Only one pistol was loaded; Jason cocked it and set it on the ground, then
took up his rifle, momentarily running his hand down the smooth stock. He put
his thumb on the brass hammer and pulled it back, cocking the piece.
Jason brought the rifle up and caught Ahrmin in his sights.
The crippled slaver seemed to wrap himself in power as Jason stood there, a
darkness creeping in from the edges of his vision as the world seemed narrowed
to just Ahrmin.
Half supported by his bodyguard, Ahrmin turned the remains of the right side
of his face toward
Jason.
"Now, Jason," Doria hissed.
All sound was gone. All sight, except for that face. It would have to be a
head shot. Jason would have to kill Ahrmin with a single shot, before anyone
could get healing draughts to him.
Ahrmin was dead. The warrant was signed and sealed. All Jason had to do was
pull back on the trigger.
But his index finger wouldn't move. It was the same thing that had happened in
the forests outside of Wehnest: Time lost its forward motion, and froze. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]