Bearers of the Black Staff

He sat upright, using his good arm to lever himself off the ground. He found his weapons still attached to him, all but the spray and that was lying not three feet away. The night and the rain formed a screen that turned everything around him hazy and indistinct, including the remains of the ATV, which were all over the place. But he could see the vehicle’s cabin off to one side, the doors gone and the windows smashed.

He rolled onto his knees, finding new sources of pain in his legs as he climbed gingerly to his feet. The terrain was much rougher than he remembered, which accounted for the damage he had sustained in the crash. But he couldn’t remember any explosion, any flash, nothing that would indicate the vehicle had been struck by a rocket or flash-bang. Besides, no one had those weapons other than himself. Spears and swords and even catapults wouldn’t do this kind of damage.

He blinked away the rain, wiped at his face, and took a deep breath. With slow, careful steps he made his way over to the cabin and peered inside. The girl was still strapped to the passenger’s seat, her eyes closed, head drooping. He couldn’t see any visible damage, but she appeared to be unconscious. He started to speak her name and then realized he couldn’t remember it.

“Girl,” he called to her instead. “Girl, are you all right?”

Her eyes opened. She nodded wordlessly.

“Unstrap yourself and climb out. You’re sure you’re not hurt?”

Without responding, she unbuckled the belt that held her in place and slipped down from the seat onto the ground. She brushed herself off, seemed to test her strength, and then looked at him and nodded. “I’m all right. What happened?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

He stooped down where he could study the undercarriage more closely, tracing the line of the break. Sharp, jagged edges ran all along the frame, as if someone had used a giant saw to sever the body and chassis. He found it again on the axles and gun mounts and even the door hinges.

As if something had cut the vehicle into pieces.

“Acid,” he whispered to himself, still not quite believing what his eyes were telling him. Where had the Trolls learned to make acid this strong? When had they discovered the technology?

But they were weapons makers, and they knew a great deal about chemical compounds and the forging of the materials created as a result. Either by experiment or by chance, they had found an acid that could eat right through the strongest metals. That they had used it on his crawler was a clear indication of how far out of favor he had fallen. It wouldn’t have mattered if he had come to help them or not; they had intended to be rid of him once and for all.

“Taureq Siq.” He was still whispering to himself, still not quite believing what had happened. It occurred to him that he should have given in to his impulses and killed the Maturen and his weasel son when he’d had the chance.

“We have to go,” he said to the girl. “They’ll be after us and we don’t have the advantage of speed or protection anymore. We’ll have to rely on being smarter.”

She looked at him and nodded. “We are smarter. But I’m still afraid.”

“You should be,” he said. “Fear will keep you focused on what’s needed. What’s your name again?”

“Prue.”

“Here’s the thing, Prue. We still have these.” He patted the butt ends of the spray and the flechette. “And these.” He touched the flash-bangs and the knives and all the rest. “They don’t have anything to counteract my weapons except numbers. We can still get away. Come on.”

They set out across the murky, sodden landscape, unable to see more than twenty feet in any direction, the rain and the night shrouding everything. He had thought the rain might let up eventually, but so far it was showing no signs of doing so. At least it would help wash away their trail and conceal their route of passage.

He had started out toward the mountains, intent on following the directions on the map that Sider Ament had drawn leading to the pass, but after only a few minutes he abruptly changed direction and turned south. The Drouj would be using Skaith Hounds to track them. Grosha would be in charge, no doubt, urging his murderous little pets on. The hounds would have difficulty finding their scent while the rains continued, but when they stopped it would be another matter. In the meantime, Grosha would expect him to make for the mountains and the valley within. After all, he had rescued the girl; the assumption would be that he had done so in the hope of returning her to her people, perhaps for a substantial reward. So Grosha would travel east, hoping to catch up to them or at least to pick up their trail along the way.

But he would be looking in the wrong place, and with any luck at all he wouldn’t figure that out before Inch and the girl were safely tucked away in Inch’s fortress lair. Once there, they could take time to rest up and heal and could return the girl home later.