The Wild Dead (The Bannerless Saga 2)

He might not be wrong there, though she tried her best. People might not feel good about her efforts, but at least they’d know the truth.

“Tell me!” he demanded again.

“No. I’m not going to open the door to another murder.” Carefully, slowly, she let her hand creep near her belt pouch, hoping he wouldn’t notice.

He shouted and charged, per

fectly willing to enact a new murder, it seemed.

She ducked out of the way again; he was ready for her this time, but his own rowdy movements made pivoting after her difficult. Once again she was able to get up behind him, grab the sleeve of his shirt, and yank, pulling him off balance. He stumbled, his knees hitting the forest floor. But he didn’t drop the club, and instead swung at her from the ground, aiming for her knees. Enid scuttled backward.

This gave her enough time to draw one of the tranquilizer patches from the pouch and tuck it into her hand.

To give Hawk credit, he didn’t repeat his mistakes. He didn’t charge her again. Now he kept his distance, lunging in to swing with the club, then holding back, then trying again. He wouldn’t let her get behind him this time, which narrowed her options.

She was going to have to tackle him head on.

Meeting his gaze, Enid stepped back, just a little. Inviting him closer. And closer. Making herself look like an easy target.

At last, he took the bait and jumped toward her, swinging hard.

She intended to step out of the way, to grab his arm and use his momentum to haul him to the ground. She made it as far as stepping out of the way, but she underestimated his ferocity, and he got in a blow. She blocked, arm raised to protect her face, and Hawk’s club came down on her shoulder. Wood against bone sent a shock down her arm, across her back. The limb went numb. She didn’t think about it, couldn’t, because Hawk stepped back and lowered the club. Expecting her to fall. Waiting for her to curl up, helpless and injured.

She didn’t.

Bending low, she leapt forward, tackled his legs. He had no choice but to fall, and this time he dropped the club, then scrabbled after it in the dirt. She pinned him with her knees, reached forward as far as she could, and slapped the patch onto his neck. Pressed hard, holding it there. The drug would work faster when applied to the neck than if she’d put it on his arm.

Screaming, he thrashed, shoved at her; Enid jumped away and waited.

Hawk sat up, reached for the club. Enid had a brief panic, thinking the patch had failed, that it was from an old batch or that she had applied it wrong. But though he reached for the club, he wasn’t able to get a hold of it. For a moment he wobbled. Looked back at her, his head tilted in confusion.

Then he collapsed.

She rushed to kneel by his side, to speak urgently before he fell entirely unconscious, “Don’t follow me, don’t come back to the Estuary, nothing good will come of it. I’ll see justice done for Ella, I promise. I promise.”

And then he was asleep, breathing steadily.

Enid sat back and sighed. Rubbed her shoulder, which hurt, a throbbing all the way to the bone. She finally could check the extent of the injury. That whole half of her body ached, but she could rotate the joint and move her arm, wiggle every finger. Nothing was broken. The bruise was going to be beautiful, she guessed. She really ought to get some ice on it, but there was no ice for fifty miles.

Hawk had a coil of rope on him, hanging off his belt. She used this to tie his wrists together, loosely. He’d be able to work his way out of it easily enough, once he came to. But it would slow him down, and maybe make him think twice about coming after her. Still, she’d be looking over her shoulder the whole rest of the walk back to the Estuary. She’d have to warn the settlement too. She hated making Erik right about that, at least. That the folk in the hills might be a danger.

Down to her bones, she wanted to lie here and sleep for a week. This had all been so exhausting.

But she had a lot of miles to go before she was done.

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Keeping track of time, of landmarks, the ruins of this old road, Enid recognized the clearing with the slabs of broken concrete where she’d convinced her captors to take off the hood. Beyond this point, she was walking blind. She knew the general direction she should go—downhill, and south. But she didn’t know the way.

She didn’t pause to worry about it. She didn’t have time. Kept going in what she hoped was the right direction. Listening for the sound of the creek that would flow into the river that became the Estuary.

Enid thought she made better time coming down from the hills than she had going up, blindfolded and arguing with her captors. It had taken half a day to get to the camp. But she thought she could be back at the Estuary by midafternoon. Assuming she was going the right way.

At noon, with the sun high overhead, the trees were all wrong, the hill was too rocky, and she was a long way from the river, she sensed. She thought she was generally headed in the right direction, that she was a little off. Trying to encourage optimism to overcome the sinking feeling in her gut, she decided not to backtrack and try again—that would just send her in circles. She needed to go south . . . and keep going.

Finally, hours later, trees gave way to open country, out of the woods and down the hill. But there was no sign of settlement, of people.

She came out of the woods far north and west of the Estuary. She’d been traveling at the wrong angle, and this had carried her up the coast. Past a vast field of mud and wetlands, the edge of the ocean shone. It would take an hour of slogging through muck to get to the waves.