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scorched bones in strewn clumps in the middle of smoking
holes that were once homes, twenty of them in the broken
carcass of what must have been the grange hall. No
blackened buckets, half-filled with sooty water, mute
testament to having tried and failed to stop the blaze no
survivors.
None of them had been shot. No telltale hack-marks had
been evident on the bones of the remains. They hadn't been
killed and piled to burn they'd sat there in the middle of the
dozen or so small conflagrations and waited to be roasted like
compliant slabs of meat.
Dallin could imagine it all too well: a malevolent spell, the
herding of people who walked inside manufactured torpor and
did as commanded with no protest or struggle; a match here,
a smoking piece of tinder there...
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Aisling Book One: Guardian
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He wondered which of those men had done the deed. The
one he'd shot had been the one to set the spell at the inn,
Dallin was more sure of that now than he'd been when he'd
initially presented the theory to Locke. But if all of them could
do something like that... That would be... more than
worrisome. If he was up against hundreds of men who could
do that, and with no compunction...
No, that didn't fit. If the rest of them could do that, there
wouldn't be much need for those suicide capsules, would
there?
Still, even without that sort of power, they'd turned out to
be dangerous enough. For pity's sake, at least half of those
who'd died in Kenley had been children. What kind of men
were they?
Cald Wil was terrified of them, perhaps even more so
than he was of the Guild. Certainly more than he was of
Dallin. Terrified enough to put a rusty knife to his own throat,
with every intention of plunging it home.
Dallin's eyes narrowed as he stared down into the dead
streambed, not seeing the parched cracks of cemented silt,
not seeing the brilliant colors of dying leaves. Seeing instead
the fear, the knife, the eyes that tried to bore into him and
couldn't. Feeling the sympathy that had rocked through him,
and the uncomfortable but very present desire to help.
"All right," Dallin muttered to the ground. "You've told me
why you fear the Guild... I think it's past time I heard about
the Brethren."
Whatever the Brethren are, they can't be allowed to get
their hands on him, any more than the Dominion. If they can
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Aisling Book One: Guardian
by Carole Cummings
do something like Kenley without that power, I don't even
want to think about what they could do with it.
Anyway, there was also the fact that, regardless of any
other truths or lies or powers real or imagined or complete
lack-thereof these were not good men, and Dallin was not in
the habit of giving bad men what they wanted. Call it his
contrary nature.
Funny. It appeared he'd already made his decision. He
wondered if he'd done it just now, or all the way back in that
cell. Or perhaps, he reflected morosely, he'd made it back at
the inn, watching a beaten man refuse to be beaten.
Fucking sentiment. It really would be the end of him one
day.
* * * *
It was dark by the time he came back, the streets of the
quiet village dim-lit with the sputtering glow of the too
occasional gas lamp, and even more deserted than the small
villages on the outskirts of Putnam at night. His boots
crunched lightly over the hardpack of the road, the sporadic
rattle of a pot or a low, female laugh and the splash of water
coming from the back door of the hostel the only sounds to
disturb the cold tranquility.
The glow of lamplight spilt from the Sheriff's Office, cutting
little slices of warm radiance into the night, spilling across the
porch and into the road through the barred windows. Locke
must be back and wondering where he'd gone likely also
wondering why he'd hared off without leaving word and had
left his 'prisoner' sitting in his cell, alone and in the dark.
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Aisling Book One: Guardian
by Carole Cummings
A scraggy little man came humping from the shadows as
Dallin approached, the butt of his rifle tucked into the elbow
of his right arm, barrel propped across his chest and
buttressed to the stump of his left. Dallin's hand instinctively
went to the holster at his right thigh, but he didn't bother
flicking loose the tether; instead, he nodded to the man.
"If there's a password, Sheriff Locke hasn't given it to me
yet," he said easily, deliberately adding a small friendly smile.
"Though, I've a badge, if you need to see it."
The man puffed a small, liquid snort, horked a mass of
snot through his nose then his throat, and spat it into the dirt.
"I seen ye last night," the man told him, wiping spit from the
scruff of beard on his chin with the back of his hand, his own
manner that of a man who belonged right where he was and
was more than happy to welcome one of his own kind. "I
didn't stop ye farther out, 'cause I figured it was you. Hard to
mistake your shape in the dark."
Dallin kept his smile, shrugged agreement. He extended
his hand. "Dallin Brayden."
The man took it, awkwardly shifting the rifle. "Ogden
Newell," he offered.
"A pleasure, Mister Newell. And I appreciate that you
would use your no doubt valuable time to keep watch like
this. You'll understand when I say I hope it will all be for
naught."
"You and me both," Newell agreed. He leaned in, face
pensive. "You really from Putnam?" he wanted to know.
"I am." Dallin tilted his head. "Been there?"
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Aisling Book One: Guardian
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"Nah," Newell said, snuffled another load of gunk into his
throat, leaned to the side and spat again. "Never really been
anywhere but here and Kenley, 'cept when I was in the
army." He lifted the stump of his arm a bit. "And then you
don't get to see much, 'cept things you don't really want to
see."
Dallin nodded agreement, not really wanting to get into
veterans' laments, but unable yet to make himself go inside.
"What unit?" he asked.
"Oswin's," Newell answered. "First Lieutenant, Third
Infantry. The Shaw Campaign."
"The northern Border?" Dallin lifted his eyebrows. "Some
rough clashes on that one."
Newell's eyes narrowed. "You were there?"
"Cavalry," Dallin answered. "Captain. Fifth Regiment."
"Ah, one o' them horse toffs, then." There was a good-
natured challenging smirk that went along with the comment,
so Dallin didn't bristle, just shrugged and smiled. "Bet ye still
got your warhorse, en't ye?" Newell prodded.
That made Dallin snort. "I have, actually. Smug and spoilt,
and not good for much anymore but the occasional stud and
looking down his full-bred nose at all the other nags, but..."
He waved his hand. "He's a veteran, too, and has the scars to
prove it."
They were silent for a few moments, companionable,
merely watching the night, before Newell twitched so hard
that Dallin's hand went without thought to his sidearm.
"Brayden." Newell squinted a narrow look at Dallin through
the darkness. "Well, I'll be damned. You're the one..." He
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stared so hard, Dallin nearly wanted to swat him. "What's it
mean?"
Dallin knew exactly what the man was referring to; that
didn't mean he had to like it. Or cooperate. "What does what
mean?" he asked coolly.
Newell actually snorted. "Mhathair Diabhal as if you didn't
know."
He'd mangled the pronunciation, but even so, the old
epithet gave Dallin the same twist it had always done. His jaw
tightened. "Mother's Devil," he replied shortly. "And that's the
last I want to hear it, if you don't mind."
Newell smiled a little then nodded somberly. To Dallin's
relief, he dropped it and didn't dip down into war stories.
Instead, he turned his gaze back into the darkness, gave it a
practiced scrutiny. "Shame, what happened there in Kenley,
damn shame." He shook his shaggy head, grimaced. "Lousy
bastards." He spat again, still eyeing the darkness with wary
thoughtfulness. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]