“There you are,” rumbled a deep voice behind her. Thick arms wrapped around her middle and yanked her off her feet.
§
“I don’t care about your sharding ethics, Marlies,” Giant John said. “Now’s not the time for principles. Tharuks will find your blood—especially if you haven’t taken freshweed since yesterday. Take some now, get that stuff on your wound, and let’s get out of here. Hurry.”
Sitting on a pile of hay in the stables where Giant John had carried her, Marlies chewed on freshweed and dribbled piaua onto her wound, bracing herself against the burn. She didn’t have time to stitch it shut—so it would leave an ugly scar. Marlies pressed the edges of the gash together, watching the skin knit over before her eyes. It’d been so long since she’d used piaua on herself, she’d forgotten the deep aching burn and tugging sensation as the muscles wove together again.
Giant John, looking every bit as formidable as he had years ago, scuffed dirt over her blood, and shoveled manure over it for good measure. It was good that her old friend was Kisha’s driver. Giant John was good at keeping secrets—they’d worked together for years—and he knew how to evade tharuks.
Marlies wiped the dried blood off her leg and tucked the rag under a dry horse pat. “Now, what?” She chewed some more freshweed, to help mask her scent.
“It’s good to see you again, too.” Giant John grinned, then gestured at a wagon piled high with vegetables and ale. He flipped the side of the wagon down, revealing a hidden compartment under the floor. “Let’s make some deliveries.”
Marlies clambered in and he shoved her rucksack in after her. She was wedged on her side with her pack in front of her, but at least she could reach her supplies if she needed them. She checked her dagger was still in its sheath and laid her sword next to her rucksack. This was going to be a cramped and uncomfortable journey, but it was better than facing mind-benders and trackers.
“There’s a trapdoor, bolted from the inside, in case you need to escape. If I drum my fingers, freeze. If I cough, we’re in dire trouble. When I ask you a question, tap once on the wagon floor to answer yes, and do nothing for no. Got it?”
Marlies tapped once.
Giant John laughed. “Where are you headed?”
“Death Valley.”
His eyebrows shot up. “You don’t do things by halves, do you? Let’s get out of here.” He flipped the side of the wagon up. Bolts slid into place and Marlies was sealed in the dark. Giant John thumped into place above her. “Hear this?” Giant John asked, drumming his fingers on the wagon seat, then coughing.
Marlies tapped once and heard his dry chuckle and the snap of the reins. The wagon creaked across the yard, then the metal-bound wheels clattered along the cobbles in the alley. Each cobble jarred Marlies’ body, and she was tossed from side to side. Giant John would be taking the winding back alleys. It felt like rushing through a chasm of whitewater rapids, clinging to driftwood. Good thing she’d used piaua—with an injured leg, this trip would be as bad as Death Valley itself.
§
Giant John left the cobbled streets of Last Stop and took a barely-used lane through outlying fields. The wagon rumbled along the dusty road, the horses’ hooves clopping in time to a ditty running through his head. He casually scanned the surrounding pastures. No tharuks in sight—yet. So far, he’d gotten Marlies out of Last Stop without tharuks on her trail.
Soon, he’d meet up with the main road through the Flatlands. On horseback, he could’ve gone across country, but then, he’d hardly be smuggling Marlies across half the realm if he was on horseback, would he? Years ago, before she’d disappeared, he’d helped her on many of her clandestine trips, but that was before he’d had a family. Kisha had surprised him last night, asking for his help transporting Marlies and promising to send word to his wife. He hadn’t risked his safety for years. His wife and littling needed him. He flicked the reins. Now, his routine trip into Last Stop had turned into an adventure—hopefully, one they’d both survive, although with Marlies heading into Death Valley, he wasn’t so sure.
§
The compartment was hot and stuffy and Marlies’ mouth was coated in dust. An odd rhythm sounded above her—oh shards, Giant John was drumming his fingers. She froze. The familiar stench of rot wafted through cracks in the wagon bed.
“Halt!” a guttural voice growled.
How could they halt when they’d already stopped? Typical tharuk, stating the obvious.
“Where are you going? What’s in that wagon?”
“I’m delivering produce. Would you like some fine cabbage?”
“Got any meat?” another tharuk called.
“You heard. Any meat?” the first snarled.
The only meat was her, trapped in this shrotty cage. Marlies could practically hear the beast drooling.
“No, sir, but what about my finest ale?” Giant John asked.
Thunking sounded above her, then a barrel lid cracking open, followed by eager slurping and the scent of beer.
Stuck in a box, like the perfect prisoner, there was nothing Marlies could do. She was helpless while tharuks could be invading her home, attacking her daughter or torturing Zaarusha’s son.
Giant John thudded back onto the wagon. So, this was how Giant John had planned to get her across the Flatlands—bribery.
§
A tharuk tracker, dribble sliding off its broken tusk, was standing apart from the troop, its black eyes piercing Giant John. His head spun. Repressing a shiver of revulsion at being mind-bent, Giant John imagined the beer—remembering its
