"How long will we have to wait?"
"I don't know." He sat down with his back against a tree, his legs drawn up, his arms resting on his bent knees. He had never been so tired. The wound in his arm throbbed monotonously. "As long as it takes, I guess."
After a moment, Ashlynne sat down across from him. Silence stretched between them. It made her uncomfortable. "Do you have a name?"
"You mean besides Number Four?"
She flinched at the bitterness in his voice. How degrading it must be, she thought, to be called by a number instead of your name. What if she had been imprisoned? What if no one called her Ashlynne anymore? Using a number instead of a name was so cold, so impersonal, almost as if that person was no longer human. For the first time, it occurred to her that stripping a man of his name was like stripping him of his identity, his dignity. Why hadn't she realized that before?
"I'd like to know it," she said.
"It's Falkon."
Falkon. She repeated it in her mind. It was a strong name, one that suited him perfectly.
"And yours is Ashlynne." His voice, deep and rich, caressed her name like a prayer.
"Yes."
"I'm sorry about your parents."
"Thank you."
Silence dropped between them again.
Ashlynne stared into the distance, fighting the urge to cry. Everything she had ever loved was gone. Her parents, her home, her best friend, her pretty little chestnut mare, the security she had taken for granted all her life. They were all gone, wiped out in a blast of laser fire, and she was alone and afraid, more afraid than she had ever been in her life.
She slid a surreptitious glance at Falkon. Dark bristles shadowed his jaw. She saw him touch his arm and wince. What if the wound became infected? Even though she didn't trust him, even though she was afraid of him, she didn't want him to die, didn't want to be out here alone, at the mercy of the jungle and its inhabitants.
"Why were you sent to the mines?"
He turned to look at her. His blue-gray eyes seemed to be weighing her, judging the reason for her interest. "I went to Riga Twelve to fight the Romarians."
"Why would you do that? It wasn't your fight."
"Wasn't it? I had friends on Riga Twelve."
She heard his emphasis on the word had and knew his friends were dead.
"Riga Twelve isn't the first planet they've conquered," he said bitterly, "nor will it be the last."
"The Romarians are trying to bring peace to the galaxy."
"Who told you that?"
"I heard my father talking about it."
"The Romarians are determined to conquer the galaxy, to force everyone to believe as they do, or be destroyed," he declared, his voice bitter.
"And what of Daccar?" Ashlynne exclaimed. "There is no more warlike people in the galaxy."
"That's true," Falkon allowed, with a small measure of pride. His people were the bravest and fiercest fighters in the galaxy. "But we've never tried to force our beliefs on other worlds. We may fight among ourselves, but we don't take our wars to other planets."
"You were a mercenary," she said scathingly. "If the price was right, you'd probably fight your own people, too."
Anger blazed in his eyes. "You don't know a damn thing about me," he said, his voice brittle. And then the anger faded from his eyes, replaced by a deep inconsolable sadness.
He blew out a deep breath. "I've no doubt the Romarians are the ones behind the Hodorian attack on the mines. Romariz will come in now and clean up the mess, and then they'll claim Tierde, and the mine, for their own." And when that was done, they would be in control of the last free black baneite crystal mine in the galaxy.
"But we're at peace with Romariz," she said. "And Hodore, too."
"Not anymore."
"But my father signed a treaty."
"Did he? Hell of a lot of good it did him." But even as he spoke the words, he knew none of it made sense. Romariz was already getting its share of crystals from the mine; Hodore, too. The girl was right. There was no reason, no logic, behind the attack.
She looked up at him, her eyes like bruises in her pale face. Then her gaze slid away from his, and he wished he had kept his mouth shut. He hadn't meant to hurt her, or to remind her of what she had lost.
"I'm going to check the trap," he said quietly, and, rising to his feet, he left her there.
Ashlynne licked the grease from her fingers, then wiped her hands on the hem of her skirt. Falkon's snare had caught a fat black rabbit. No matter what else he might be, he knew his way around in the woods, knew how to survive. He had managed to light a fire, spit the beast, and roast it to perfection. Even Meggie, the cook, couldn't have done it better.
Thinking of Meggie brought thoughts of home to mind again. She wondered if her parents had suffered before they died.
"Ashlynne."
She looked up at him.
"Go ahead and cry."
Not wanting him to think her weak, she started to tell him she didn't need to cry, that she was fine. But she wasn't fine. Her heart was heavy, her throat thick, and suddenly tears were running down her cheeks and she was sobbing, crying as she hadn't cried since she was a child.
Falkon watched her a moment and then, unable to help himself, he drew her into his arms. He knew how she felt, knew the guilt of surviving, the pain of losing those one loved. She burrowed against him, seeking his warmth, needing the comfort and reassurance of a human touch.
He tried not to think of how small she was, how right she felt in his arms. It was only because he hadn't had a woman in a very long time that made holding her feel so good. He tried not to notice how soft her hair felt against his cheek, or how warm her breasts felt pressed against his chest. He tried not to notice the way she fit into his arms, as if she had been made especially for him.
He swore under his breath, wondering at the foolish notions creeping into his thoughts. She was no different from any other woman, no softer, no sweeter, no more desirable… ah, but she felt so very good nestled in his arms.
Shoulders shaking, she wept until she had no tears left. And still he held her, until her breathing returned to normal and she sat quiet in his embrace, her face still buried in the hollow of his shoulder.
"Feel better now?" he asked kindly.
Feeling embarrassed, Ashlynne nodded. "Thank you." She drew back, wiping her eyes with the hem of her skirt.
"We should be moving on."
She nodded again, not trusting herself to speak.
She watched as he smothered the fire and buried the rabbit's bones.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Yes."
With a curt nod, he took her hand and pulled her to her feet, then turned and started walking eastward, cursing himself for his weakness. He never should have taken her in his arms. She was the enemy. He cursed softly. He had been so caught up in comforting her, so busy thinking about how good it felt to hold her in his arms, he had missed the perfect chance to lift the controller from her pocket.
"Falkon?" She spoke his name aloud for the first time, liking the sound of it.
"What?"
"Where are we going?"
"Enjine Base Nine."
"The star base? Why?"
"Why not?"
Ashlynne considered that for a moment. "You're going to try to steal a cruiser or something stupid like that, aren't you?"
"Right the first time." He didn't know if the base had been attacked, didn't know which army might be in control, but it didn't matter. One way or another, he was getting the hell out of there.
"You'll never get away with it."
She was probably right. The base would be heavily guarded. After the recent attack, security would be tighter than usual. But it was his only chance. "I've got to try."
"What about… what about me?"
"I'll leave you there. You can get a transport to wherever you want to go."
"Oh." With a shock, she realized she didn't want to be parted from Falkon. S
he felt safe with him in a way she had never felt with anyone else. And that was strange, she thought, because she didn't trust him at all.
Chapter Twelve
Ashlynne sighed. It seemed as though they had been walking forever. Her feet hurt. She was hungry again. Tired from a restless night spent on the hard ground. Every passing shadow, every sound, had brought her to full wakefulness.
She stared at Falkon's back. In spite of his protests, she had activated the shackles the night before. She knew he hated her for it, but she was afraid to trust him, afraid if she left his feet free, he would run off in the night and leave her behind. She knew she was slowing him down, knew he considered her a burden. She didn't mean to be. It wasn't her fault she wasn't used to tramping through the jungle. She couldn't help it if she was afraid of spiders and snakes, if she didn't know how to skin a rabbit, or cook the meat over a fire. Never, in her wildest dreams, had she imagined she would need to know such things.
Today, it wasn't fear for herself that worried her. It was fear for Falkon. The wound in his arm was festering. It was swollen and red, oozing with thick yellow-green pus. He had told her not to worry, he was fine, but he wasn't walking as rapidly today, and she noticed that they rested more often. He needed help, and soon.
She fought down a rising sense of panic. If he died, so would she. She had no way of defending herself in this horrid place. She was dependent on him for food and shelter and protection.
They came to a small water hole and he dropped to his stomach, drinking greedily. She knelt beside him, alarmed by the heat she could feel radiating from his body. Lifting a tentative hand, she placed it on his arm. He flinched away from her touch, but even that brief contact was enough to tell her he was burning with fever.
Slowly, he turned to face her. "Guess you'll soon be rid of me," he said.
"No!"
"I can't go any farther." He rested his forehead on the ground. The damp earth felt cool against his heated flesh. "Keep going east. Sooner or later, you'll reach the space port."
"You can't give up."
He closed his eyes. "Sorry, princess. I wish…"
"Falkon?" She shook his uninjured shoulder. "Falkon! Wake up." She shook him again. "Don't do this to me! You can't die. I need you." She shook him again. "Please wake up!"
But it was no use. She sat back on her heels, staring at him. Numb with fear, she glanced around the jungle. It would be dark soon. The animals that slept through the heat of the day would be rousing, coming to the pool to drink. She had to find a place to hide. And to think she had once wanted to be independent, rebellious, even! Hah! She would be content to be ordered about for the rest of her life if she could just go back home and find everything as it had been before.
She rose on shaky legs, glancing frantically around, trying to decide what to do. She had never had to make any decisions before, at least none more serious than what dress to wear or how to spend her day. East. Falkon had told her to go east.
Squaring her shoulders, she took a few steps, then looked backward. She couldn't just leave him lying there, prey to wild beasts. The least she could do was drag him away from the water.
That, she soon found, was far easier said than done. Try as she might, she couldn't budge him. Tears of frustration rose in her eyes. She couldn't leave him, but she was afraid to stay near the pool. Night was falling rapidly. Already, she could hear stirrings in the underbrush.
And then she heard voices. Male voices speaking a language she didn't understand. She glanced around, poised for flight, but before she could locate a hiding place, they were there. Six dark-skinned men clad in rough skins, their hair adorned with bits of fur and feathers and bone. She had heard of them, the wild men of the jungle, men who refused to surrender the old ways, men who still hunted with spears and clubs. Men who were rumored to be cannibals.
She stared at them and then, overcome by fear and fatigue, she slid to the ground, praying that she would be dead before they ate her.
Falkon woke to a raging thirst and the sound of drums. For a time, he lay still, eyes closed, trying to determine where he was.
He heard footsteps, muffled conversation, the crackle of flames.
Hands gripped his shoulders, holding him down. He gasped as agony splintered through his wounded arm, opened his eyes to find himself surrounded by a half-dozen painted faces. He'd heard stories of them in the mine, the cannibals of Tierde.
Damn, were they carving him up alive? He glanced at his arm, swore again as one of the men made a slit in his flesh. A trickle of dark red blood and greenish-yellow pus spurted from the cut. He groaned as pressure was applied to his arm, forcing more pus from the wound.
When only bright red blood ran from the cut, the witch doctor held Falkon's arm over a wooden cup until it was almost full, and then he slapped a hot poultice over the wound. The pain was excruciating. With a groan, Falkon pitched headlong into oblivion.
When he woke again, it was night. He glanced around, but could see nothing in the dark hut. He licked dry lips, threw off the rough blanket that covered him. He was hot, so hot. He tossed restlessly, plagued by a relentless thirst. He couldn't feel any pain in his arm and he wondered, morbidly, if they had cut it off. He had a vague memory of a painted face hovering over him, filling a wooden cup with his blood. The thought of someone drinking from that cup made him sick to his stomach. He took a deep breath, then reached across his body, relieved to find his arm still there.
Water. He had to have a drink.
He groaned as he rolled to his side, then to his hands and knees. The movement made him dizzy.
"Falkon?"
Choking back his nausea, he lifted his head and looked toward the sound of the voice. "Ashlynne?"
"Help me."
He blinked into the darkness. "What's wrong?"
"They tied me up."
He grunted softly; then, gathering what little strength he possessed, he crawled slowly toward her, only to go sprawling facedown across her lap when he bumped into her thigh.
"Are you all right?" she whispered.
"Oh, yeah, fine." He lay there a moment, his head pillowed in her lap. Sleep, he thought, it would be so nice to close his eyes and go to sleep with his head in her lap.
"I'm scared."
"Yeah, me too." He struggled to sit up, then reached behind her and fumbled with the rope binding her wrists. It seemed to take forever, but finally he managed to loosen the knots.
"Hurry, we've got to get out of here." She shook off the rope and began to massage her wrists, wincing as the blood began to circulate again. "They're cannibals, aren't they?"
"Yeah."
She shuddered. She had been hoping she was wrong. "They're going to eat us, aren't they?"
He didn't care what they did, so long as they gave him something cold to drink first.
"We've got to get out of here," she said urgently.
"Yeah." It was an effort to think. All he wanted to do was close his eyes and sleep.
"Wake up! Falkon, wake up!" She shook his arm. "Come on, we've got to go."
"You go." He was tired and thirsty and hungry and right then, he didn't care if he lived or died.
"Falkon! Damn you, wake up."
In spite of everything, he felt himself smiling at her use of profanity.
"Falkon." Her voice, close to his ear. "If you don't wake up, I'm going to use the controller."
That got his attention. "What do you want from me?" he asked.
"I want you to get me out of here. Now." She cocked her head to one side. "I don't hear anything. Maybe they're all asleep." She stood up, tugging on his arm. "Let's go. Hurry."
He rose on legs that felt like warm rubber and staggered toward the door of the hut, wondering at her bravado. Not too long ago, she had been afraid of a harmless spider, now she was ready to fight off a tribe of bloodthirsty cannibals.
He opened the hide flap that covered the doorway and peered outside. All was quiet. Dark. Low clouds covered the m
oon and blotted out the stars. A few raindrops splattered his face, promising a downpour before the night was out. The cool air revived him a little, clearing the cobwebs from his mind. She was right. They had to get out of there.
"Stay close," he whispered, and slipped outside.
It was to their advantage that the hut they had been in was located a short distance away from the others. Keeping to the shadows, he ghosted around the corner of the shack. The jungle rose up in front of him, dark, silent.
He glanced over his shoulder to make sure the girl was behind him, then slipped into the underbrush.