Horde (Razorland #3)(5)

“Which are you,” an unseen male called, “itinerant or tourist?”

I had no idea what either of those words meant. After glancing at Tegan, who shrugged—apparently she didn’t either—I answered, “We’re messengers, carrying word from Salvation.”

“Why didn’t they send Longshot?” the man asked.

I relaxed a fraction. If I wasn’t mistaken, his tone contained a certain fondness, born of camaraderie and nights spent swapping stories. “I’m sorry. Longshot died in the last battle.”

“I think you’d better come in.” Something clanged, and a moving shadow showed me the security measure that would’ve crushed us had we taken another step down the ramp. “It’s clear for you to cross. Hurry now.”

Not wanting to inconvenience our host, I ran, and the others followed me. Behind us, the heavy weight went back up in cadence with grunting men who hauled it into place. Six of them stepped into the light afterward, led by the man I knew instinctively had invited us into Soldier’s Pond. They all wore dusty green clothing, patched more than once, and they held themselves like warriors with shoulders back, spines straight, and their chins inviting trouble. All of them were pretty close to Edmund’s age with silver growing among the bristles on their jaws. They all wore weapons on their hips, similar to the rifle, only smaller, and long-handled knives on their thighs.

“You said you have word from Salvation and Longshot couldn’t carry it. There’s been trouble?”

“An incredible amount,” I said honestly. “I mean no disrespect … but are you the elder?” That was what they’d called the leader in Salvation, and what we called Whitewall down below.

“That’s an old word for it … and, no, as it happens, I’m not. I won’t make you tell the story twice. Davies, you’re head watchman while I’m gone. I’ll take our guests to see the colonel.”

One of the men nodded as our escort led us through the warren. This was old-world construction, patched and shored to retain functionality. We didn’t have the means to build like this anymore, however. The size and shape of the structures was uncannily similar, one house after another stamped out with complete precision.

“It’s eerie,” Fade said beside me.

“More like a child’s model than a real town,” I agreed softly.

“This way. I’m Morgan. If we have to wake the colonel, I can’t guarantee how well your news will be received.” His tone held an odd, amused note that I couldn’t interpret.

I didn’t expect it would be glad tidings, so that hardly mattered, but the leader’s reaction could determine whether we succeeded. Morgan led us to a large building with a long front porch; there were lights affixed all over the top of it, which made me think it was some kind of headquarters. Inside, it bore out that initial impression with tables and chairs littered with papers, some of which had yellowed with age, others appearing to be recently manufactured. I could tell the new sheets came from Salvation, as they carried its imprint in the form of a tree thrice encircled. So among other things, Soldier’s Pond relied on Salvation for stationery, which was a fancy word for paper, according to Momma Oaks.

Candles burned, the wax crackling down into saucers, and there were a few lamps unfamiliar to me. They gave off an unpleasant smell as they burned, the flame flickering inside the glass like a trapped firefly. There were chairs too, where a few tired, worried-looking men were sprawled. I wondered which one was the colonel—and what a colonel was. It must be a title, similar to Elder Bigwater, since he wasn’t actually the oldest man in Salvation, unlike down below. Maybe he played a role like the Wordkeeper’s, consulting on important matters. But none of my speculations proved to be right when the colonel turned around; I could tell this was the person we sought by the way Morgan approached, and I smiled, both pleased and chagrined.

I let Salvation change the way I see the world. This never occurred to me.

It should have. Both Copper and Silk had played powerful roles down below. This woman was younger than Momma Oaks, but not quite as young as Ruth, Rex’s wife. I didn’t know how old that made her, but compared with the men around her, she seemed young. She wore her dark hair up in a complicated twist, and her clothes were crisp, despite the late hour. Likewise, her eyes were dark, ringed in faint shadows that said she hadn’t slept much recently. Sharp features lent her an aspect of intelligence; we’d find out whether that was true once we spoke.

“Report, Morgan.” Her tone was brisk but not impolite. In my time in Salvation I’d come to note the difference. Yet her eyes held warmth that belied her words. “What’s the latest word in the territories?”

I figured she must mean all the lands described on Longshot’s maps. Somehow I resisted the temptation to see if that word appeared anywhere on his papers. Instead I fixed my attention politely on Morgan, who was saying, “They come from Salvation, bearing news. I thought it best to bring them to you at once, Colonel Park.”

“I imagine it’s nothing good, but speak,” the colonel said.

There was nothing for it but to lay out the problem. “Salvation is under siege … and Longshot died in the first onslaught. I’m sorry to carry such bad tidings if you were fond of him, as I was.” I pushed past the lump in my throat, the fresh awareness that I’d never again hear his rasp of a voice or see his eyes crinkle as he smiled. “The town’s surrounded and the Freaks—Muties, I mean—are armed with fire. We don’t have the manpower to fight. So Elder Bigwater sent us to request reinforcements, and you’re the nearest settlement.”