Max refused to look east or heed any pain as he stumbled along. Petra flung open the door, and soon mother and daughter were exhorting them, pleading for Max to run faster. Spots appeared before his eyes, teasing lights that danced in his peripheral vision. Was he dying? He’d lost so much blood; his entire body felt like ice. Just a little farther … just a little faster.
Staggering toward the cabin door, Max practically tackled the Kosas, knocking the entire group down to the floor. He was losing consciousness, clutching the pinlegs to his chest. David’s face was anxious but calm as he took Petra’s hand and she took Katarina’s. Max could no longer hear; he stared at the ceiling while the others huddled close. The cabin was shaking violently, but he felt strangely peaceful. When the windows blew in, he closed his eyes and waited for the stinging shards to fall.
~ 11 ~
Reckonings
Tap, tap, tap … tap, tap, tap. The sounds formed a soft, rhythmic melody that cut through the fog in Max’s mind. There were other sounds, too: the squeak of a chair, the crystalline notes of metal striking glass, but always the soft tap, tap, tap returned. Max imagined they were tiny miners, sounding out spaces with their little hammers and digging deep into the earth.
Wherever he was, it was light. And warm. His whole body was swaddled in warmth, in a smooth coverlet that tickled against his chin. He stirred. A bandage crinkled and there was a low throb of pain throughout his side. Max groaned. To his right, another squeak of a chair followed by a soft swish of fabric. Max felt a welcome coolness upon his forehead, the tender dabbing of a damp cloth tinged with a sweet-smelling herb. Moments later, the melody returned.
Tap, tap, tap … tap, tap, tap …
It was the aroma of coffee that finally woke him. It wafted over, strangely out of place amid the smells of linens and soap and herbs. Opening his eyes a crack, Max glimpsed the blurry form of David Menlo sitting in a bedside chair and sipping from a mug. Slowly, the image came into focus. David was studying the top paper from a pile upon his lap. His brow was furrowed and he rocked slightly as was his tendency when deep in thought. Max made to speak, but his throat was too dry and he merely grunted.
Glancing up, David urged Max to lie still.
“Rest easy,” he said gently. “Your injuries were severe. But they’re healing now. The moomenhovens are taking good care of you.”
Raising his head, Max saw that he was in Rowan’s main healing ward. One of the moomenhovens was sitting in a rocking chair by a table laden with roots and herbs, glass jars, and ceramic bowls. The plump, rosy-cheeked woman was patiently grinding ingredients for medicines, swishing her cow’s tail in time with the soft tapping of the pestle in the mortar.
“The others—” croaked Max.
“The others are fine,” David assured him. “The Kosas have settled into an apartment in the township, and Toby’s crowing about his heroics at the roulette tables. Of course, Madam Petra’s already demanding better accommodations, but everyone’s safe and on the mend. As for me, my wounds are healing nicely. Some scars and I’ll be using a cane for a few weeks, but I’ve had much worse.”
“I owe you my life,” Max muttered hoarsely.
David instantly dismissed such sentimentality. “And I owe you mine many times over. If you hadn’t pushed yourself beyond the brink, we’d all be in Yuga’s belly. It was a near thing and we scraped by thanks to you, so let’s not speak of debts and honor. I think you and I are well past keeping score.”
Max smiled weakly and gazed up at the ceiling where sunlight was streaming through gauzy white curtains. “How long have I been here?” he asked.
“Six days,” David replied. “At first, the healers despaired of saving you, but I assured them that you’re just about unbreakable.”
Max glanced down at his sling and the many bandages covering his person. “Could have fooled me.”
“On the contrary,” retorted David. “Do you have any idea how much damage you withstood? The clones’ weapons were coated with Workshop poisons. Very nasty stuff. What we finally leeched from your system was enough to kill hundreds of men, Max. You suffered thirteen wounds, a broken shoulder, a fractured skull, a lacerated kidney, and I’ll still wager that you recover within the week. Unbreakable, indeed.”
Memories seeped in of the battle in the courtyard, the panic of being hunted and trapped.
“The Atropos have your compass,” Max rasped. “The one Cooper used to find me in Prusias’s dungeons.”
David’s smile faded. “I suspected as much. They were on our heels too quickly for it to be mere coincidence. With any luck, Yuga has consumed it and them. But it was very careless of me to permit that compass to fall into enemy hands. I should have had Cooper destroy it once it served its purpose.”
“Did Miss Boon and Grendel find him?” asked Max, trying to sit up.
Looking down, David took another sip and set his coffee on the nightstand. “They did,” he replied cautiously. “The Cheshirewulf tracked him to an Atropos hideout north along the coast. There was a battle … some casualties. Fortunately, Miss Boon’s unharmed and they managed to rescue Ben Polk. But the Atropos still have Cooper. Miss Boon’s been taking it very hard.”
“But he’s still alive, then,” said Max, relieved.
“Yes,” said David. “But …”
Max grew wary. Ignoring his throbbing shoulder, he propped his back against the headboard. David’s uncharacteristic loss for words was strangely unnerving. The sorcerer abandoned several explanations before settling on something simple and direct.
“Things started well,” he began. “Apparently, we surprised them and Grendel had cornered the leader when Miss Boon and the others rushed in. We were winning and winning handily until the Atropos set Cooper loose.”
“I don’t understand,” said Max, puzzled. “Cooper fought for them?”
“Yes,” said David quietly. “He’d been confined in some chamber. When they let him out, the tide turned. Xiùmĕi is dead. Matheus is badly wounded. He’s over there—behind that curtain near Ben Polk. Fortunately, Agent Polk is coming around. We’re hoping he can give us more information about the Atropos and what they’ve done to Cooper, but it doesn’t look good. Miss Boon’s devastated—says Cooper’s not really human anymore. Every outpost and sentry has been informed. We won’t let him get close to you.”
Max said nothing for some time. Cooper killed Xiùmĕi? She had been the oldest member of the Red Branch, a wizened woman who had survived countless battles and world wars only to fall at the hands of her own captain. Max would miss her toothless grin and irreverent humor. Sorrow aside, there were practical matters to consider: The Red Branch was growing thin. Only seven of the twelve were now in commission and war was coming. Poor Miss Boon. He grieved for his old Mystics teacher. Hazel Boon was not the sort who loved quickly or easily, but she had loved William Cooper.
Sitting up, Max gazed about the infirmary at the many beds and patients. Some he recognized, Agents wounded on other missions. Others were hidden behind curtains. Max watched a moomenhoven pull a curtain aside and glimpsed a man whose skin had been burned away. He was suspended by a system of silken nets and pulleys, blinking stoically while the healer applied some salve.