Return to Deltora

The caravan swayed. The bells on the reins jingled. But Steven was not singing. Inside, in the dimness, Lief and Jasmine sat with Barda lying between them, trying to protect their injured friend from the worst of the jolts.

They had spent a miserable hour by the hut fire before Steven came looking for them. Lief shivered, remembering what had happened when Steven saw the skeletons and read the note.

Steven’s face had darkened. His face had begun to heave. Suddenly he had screwed his eyes shut and pressed his lips together. “No! No!” Lief heard him mutter as he turned away, beating the stone wall with his fists. And Lief knew he was struggling with Nevets, trying to keep his savage brother in check.

After a few moments, the battle was won. Steven turned back to them, his face weary, but calm. “What cannot be changed, must be endured,” he said grimly. “Our duty now is to the living.”

He bent over Barda. “Ah — this is my fault,” he murmured. “I thought you knew of gripper fields.”

“Will Barda live?” Lief’s throat was tight as he asked the question.

Steven gnawed at his lip, hesitating. “At Withick Mire he will be warm and comfortable,” he said finally.

He bent and lifted Barda as easily as if the big man were a child. Then he strode from the hut without a backward glance. Lief and Jasmine trailed after him, both very aware that he had not answered the question.

They walked in silence through the trees to where the stepping stones began, then picked their way back across the gripper field. Ahead, the caravan stood alone, the horse waiting beside it. The trees that had blocked the road had been cast aside. The cooking fires, the stores, and the rubbish had been swept away as though blown by a great wind.

Of the Guards there was no sign except for a few scraps of bloodstained grey fabric scattered here and there. With a chill Lief realized that Nevets had chosen the easiest way to dispose of the remains of his victims. The grippers closest to the road had been well fed.

Hours later, they began to notice a vile smell. The stench of rot and decay seeped into the caravan till the still, dusty air was thick with it. Jasmine wrinkled her nose in disgust. “What is it?” she whispered.

Lief shrugged, then steadied himself as the caravan rocked violently as though it was travelling over rough ground.

He looked down at Barda. The rough bandages that bound Barda’s legs and arms were soaked with blood. He had taken a little water, and when they smeared Queen Bee honey on his mouth, he licked it from his lips. But he had not opened his eyes or spoken.

The honey is all that is keeping him alive, Lief thought. But for how long? How long? Oh, let us reach Withick Mire soon!

So that Barda could be cared for properly. So that his wounds could be washed and freshly bandaged. So that — Lief forced himself to think of it — so that if Barda had to die, he could die peacefully, comfortably, on a warm couch, instead of in this cold, shaking, stinking caravan.

At that very moment, to his surprise, the caravan came to a stop. The back doors were flung open, and Lief and Jasmine scrambled out.

The rain had stopped. The sun was setting, flooding the sky with dull orange light that lit a strange and horrible scene. The caravan was in the middle of a giant garbage dump. Giant, stinking mounds of rags, bones, broken furniture, and household goods, twisted metal and rotting food scraps rose on all sides. Among the mounds, ragged, miserable people bent and shuffled, searching the refuse.

Lief spun around angrily to Steven. “Why have you brought us here?” he demanded. “We must get Barda to Withick Mire!”

Without a word Steven pointed at a sign that stood just beside where the caravan had stopped.

Before Lief could say anything, one of the ragged scavengers came shambling towards them, leaning heavily on a stick. A black patch covered one of his eyes and he had tied a scarf around his mouth and nose, no doubt to protect him from the stench of the mounds. He bent forward, leering at the newcomers with his one good eye.

“What do you seek here, may I ask?” he rasped, his voice just a croak. “Here, amid the leavings of Del?”

Lief and Jasmine hesitated, not knowing what to say.

The scavenger cackled. “Perhaps you seek shelter?” he asked. “Then come with me. All are welcome in Withick Mire.”

He hobbled off, threading his way through the mounds with the ease of long practice. Not knowing what else to do, the companions followed, Lief and Jasmine on foot, Steven leading the horse carefully through the maze.

As they walked, they passed many pathetic hovels made of pieces of wood, tin, and cloth. People crouched outside these hovels, sorting through the pickings of the day, or starting cooking fires. Some grinned up at the strangers. Others did not bother to raise their heads.

At the back of one of the larger mounds, a more substantial shelter had been built. The scavenger beckoned, and Lief and Jasmine, with a backward glance at Steven, followed him inside.

And there a surprise awaited them. Beneath the thin layer of tin and board was a sturdy building. It was far larger than it had appeared from the outside, because all but its entry was buried deep under the mound. It was not only large, but clean and well organized, with many stretchers arranged neatly around the walls, each topped with folded blankets, and with possessions stacked below.

The scavenger turned to them, straightened, and threw off both the eye patch and the scarf.

“Doom!” Jasmine exclaimed in amazement.

“Did you not know me?” asked Doom, his lips tweaking into a smile. “That is excellent! You did not expect the Resistance stronghold to be in a garbage dump, no doubt. But what better place to hide? No one comes here willingly — not even Grey Guards. And who cares for or about poor scavengers? Some of the people you saw on your way here are true scavengers — sad souls from Del whose livelihoods have been taken from them. Others — many others — are our people. Glock, Fardeep, and even Zeean are out there somewhere, with all the rest. Dain is away fetching water.”

Leif nodded slowly, taking it in. So nothing is as it seems, even here, he thought.

“Doom,” Jasmine said urgently. “Barda is injured. He needs care. And …” She glanced at Lief. “There is other news. Very bad.”

Lief fumbled in his pocket and drew out Endon’s crumpled note.

Doom’s dark eyes grew even darker as though, somehow, he knew what was coming. But he did not take the note. Instead, he turned swiftly to face the door once more.

“Time enough for that when Barda has been seen to,” he said roughly. “Bring him in. We will do what we can for him.”

Later, Lief and Jasmine sat by Barda’s bed. Their own wounds had been washed and bandaged, and the big man lay peacefully at last. The bleeding had stopped, and for this they had to thank a strange ally — Glock.

“You won’t heal this with bandages,” Glock had mumbled, grabbing Lief’s wrist and inspecting it. “Grippers inject something that keeps the blood flowing.”

He went over to his own stretcher, rummaged beneath it, then came back holding a grubby jar filled with grey paste. “Smear this on the bites,” he ordered.

“What is it?” asked Jasmine, smelling the paste suspiciously.

“How would I know?” snarled Glock. “Those who made it are long dead. But my tribe always used it in the old days — for half-wits and infants who blundered into gripper fields.”

Jasmine bit back her angry response and turned to Barda.

“Do not waste it on him,” Glock growled. “He is finished.”

Jasmine did not bother to reply. Already she was smearing the paste on Barda’s cleaned wounds. Glock spat in disgust, and lumbered away. Now he was nowhere to be seen.

Lief looked up wearily. Zeean, Fardeep, and Doom were standing together not far away, with Steven beside them. Their heads were bent. Their faces were grave. They were reading Endon’s note.

“So,” Lief heard Doom say heavily. “That is the end of that.”

They looked up, saw Lief and Jasmine watching, and moved to join them. Doom handed the note back to Lief.

“The Dread Gnome and the Ralad will arrive to find they have made their journey for nothing,” he said.

Lief nodded. “All our journeys have been for nothing,” he replied through stiff lips.

Zeean’s face was shadowed with grief. “It is very hard,” she murmured. “I had — such hopes.”

“It is well for our hopes to be dashed, if they were false.” The old bitterness had returned to Doom’s voice. “Soon we will all return to our places. And every step we go, we will tell what we know, so no other fools will be tempted to risk their lives in a useless cause.”

There was a sound beside Lief. He looked down, and his heart thudded. Barda had stirred. His eyes were open.

“What is — the matter?” Barda asked weakly.

Jasmine stroked his forehead. “Nothing is the matter,” she said soothingly. “Rest, now.”

But Barda moved his head impatiently and his eyes fastened on the note in Lief’s hand. “What is that? Show it to me!” he demanded.

Lief knew Barda too well to think he could refuse. Reluctantly, he held out the note so that Barda could see it, explaining how it had been found.

Barda blinked at the terrible words. Then, to Lief’s amazement, he smiled. “And — is this what is troubling you?” he asked.

Lief and Jasmine exchanged alarmed glances. Barda’s mind was wandering. Jasmine bent over the bed once more. “Sleep,” she whispered. “You need rest, Barda. You are very weak.”

“Weak I may be,” Barda said softly. “But not so weak that I do not know a falsehood when I see it.”