The two men approached the scene cautiously. When they reached the dead creatures, Madison looked down at them, then away. He felt sick at the reek rising from their corpses.
“Just three of them,” Jackson said.
He searched the park with a careful gaze as he replaced his spent shells.
“What in God’s name are they?”
As Collins came up, Madison glanced at the window. Still nothing there. Just the grey inside and the edges of the screen. . . .
“Set up those lights,” he said.
He took the camera from Collins and set it up on its tripod, focusing it on the window. In the distance he could hear sirens. He wondered how the window had come to be open in the first place. When the cold glare of the spotlights threw the regenerating screen into bold relief, he let the videotape roll.
“This place is going to be crawling with locals in another minute,” Jackson remarked. “If we’re still playing this one low-key, we’d better get our asses in gear.”
“We don’t have to pussyfoot around anymore,” Madison said. “Not even with Williams.”
He nodded to the corpses of the three dead creatures. The one that had tried to get in the window was still smoking.
“We’ve got these things now,” he said. “I’d just like to see Williams say that this never happened. We’re going to wait right here for the local police and cooperate with them as fully as possible. He won’t be able to stop it now.”
Lights were coming on throughout the neighborhood. An Ottawa Police cruiser pulled up on Bank Street, its cherry lights flashing. The wail of other sirens approached.
“Still doesn’t tell us what happened to Tucker and the rest of them,” Collins remarked.
“But it’s more than we had a few hours ago,” Madison replied. He put away his gun, motioning for Jackson to do the same. “We don’t want anyone with itchy fingers to get the wrong idea about us.”
A second car pulled up behind the first cruiser. Spotlights stabbed the night, weaving back and forth across the park until their lights picked out the three men. While one of the policemen remained by the cars, the others started across the park, weapons in their hands. As they drew near, Madison called out:
“I’m reaching for identification.”
The first officer nodded and Madison gingerly withdrew his billfold, flipped it open and let his badge glint in the light of the spotlights. Visibly relaxing, the policeman put away his sidearm and approached, wrinkling his nose at the smell that came from the bodies of the creatures.
“What the hell’s going on?”
“I’m Superintendent Madison and these two men are—”
Before he had a chance to finish, an explosion rocked the air. The men turned to see a great piece of the second story’s walls blow outward to rain flaming debris on the park.
“Ho-lee shit!” the first patrolman muttered.
“Well, we’ve got ourselves a way in,” Jackson said and headed for the hole, sidestepping the debris.
“Careful!” Madison called as he followed.
Shinnying up a support, Jackson made it to the porch’s roof. He reached for a handhold higher up, cursed and drew back his hand.
“Jackson?”
“I’m okay. Just a little shock.”
He drew a pair of gloves from the sidepocket of his windbreaker and reached up again. He had the feeling, just for a moment, of being crowded. As though he wasn’t alone on this perch. He shook off the feeling. Prepared for the sting of the shock this time, he heaved himself up. Now the feeling was stronger. He stood in the opening and stared into an empty greyness. He thought he felt something brush by him and he stepped aside. There was nothing there. He could still smell the reek of the dead creatures. It was stronger somehow.
The greyness in front of him wavered. He caught a brief glimpse of a devastated room, furniture and goods thrown about as though by a whirlwind, then it was gone. Taking a step in, the grey wavered once more. A sensation like static electricity ran through him. He had a sudden feeling of vertigo, as though the building had shifted under him. He turned to go back, saw not the park with the house lights beyond it, but dark fields and forests. Then he was in the midst of a swarm of howling creatures.
“Jackson? Jackson!”
Madison turned to the policeman beside him, but before he could speak, something was flung from the gap torn in the House’s wall. He followed its descent and knew, without having to look, what it was. Jackson’s body, what was left of it, hit the ground with a dull slapping sound. Madison’s stomach lurched.
“Oh, Christ!” he mumbled, leaning against the porch for support. He looked at the patrolman standing beside him. The man’s face was as white as his own. Get a grip on yourself, Madison thought. He swallowed drily. “We . . . uh, we’ve got to cordon this place off,” he said.
The patrolman started to nod, then stepped quickly to the side of the House where he lost the contents of his stomach. More patrol cars were pulling onto Patterson and Clemow. Their flashing lights crisscrossed, adding to the hellish quality of the moment. Burning debris threw smoke into the air. The place reeked with the stench of the monsters. Along the park railing that bordered Bank Street, civilians were gathering.
Someone had to take control, Madison thought. He hurried to where the others were still staring open-mouthed at the dead creatures and began to bark orders. The men, out of their depth in a situation this bizarre, were quick to follow them.
Walters sat in his den staring at the confusion on his television screen.
“Although the actual cause of the explosion has not yet been . . .” the commentator was saying when Walters shut off the sound with his remote control and continued to regard the picture in silence.
He had to give them this. They were fast. Like vultures. The entire area had been cordoned off. The place was swarming with reporters, television crews, RCMP, local police and spectators. He had seen the pictures of the dead creatures that had been broadcast thus far and tried to understand exactly what it was that had taken place at Tamson House.
Was still taking place, he amended. According to the TV commentator, the police had not yet entered the building. Earlier attempts had left two officers dead, a third seriously wounded. They were now waiting for reinforcements. The next assault would be on the gap high in the building’s south wall, where an RCMP officer had been thrown out earlier in the evening, torn to ribbons.
He wondered what it was that they expected to find. One thing he knew—they were going about this all wrong. If he had been in charge, he would have had the tightest possible security clamped down on it from the first moment. By the time he had found out, however, it had been too late for him to do anything. He toyed with the idea of calling Williams, then shook his head. The man was beginning to feel the pressure. Perhaps dismantling the PRB had been too hasty a decision—especially with what was transpiring tonight.
Frowning, Walters brought the sound back up.
It was too late to reconsider. What was necessary now was to salvage what he could from the present. Because no matter who he had to step on, he was going to come out ahead. What was on the TV screen at the moment proved beyond the shadow of a doubt that the parameters of science would have to be stretched to encompass an entire new field of knowledge.
Walters expected to be at the forefront of that pioneering. And he expected to keep it for himself if it was at all possible.
Jean-Paul Gagnon was at a friend’s house in Alta Vista when the first news bulletin interrupted the regular programming. He stared aghast at the screen. That was Tamson House. When the camera panned across the three dead monsters, he shuddered, remembering his conversations with Inspector Tucker. Making his apologies, he left as soon as he could, pointing his VW down Bank Street, to the Glebe and Tamson House.
After what he’d just seen on the television, he couldn’t discount any of what the Inspector had told him. And if the Inspector was only partially correct, it still
meant that Kieran was in a great deal of trouble. Because somehow Jean-Paul knew that he would find Kieran there. The Inspector had been certain that Jamie Tams and his strange House were central to the problems that had been plaguing him.
Jean-Paul wasn’t sure what he hoped to accomplish by going to the House now. Was it to lend moral support to the Inspector or Kieran? To make up for not trusting Kieran enough to tell him about the investigation as he should have in the first place? Seigneur! He only hoped that he wouldn’t arrive just to identify a corpse.
Chapter Seven
“There is still time to stop this madness,” Ha’kan’ta said.
Kieran shook his head. He looked across the circle of hard-packed dirt to where Tep’fyl’in stood. The quin’on’a War Chief wore nothing but a loincloth. His greased skin shone in the firelight. His eyes were bright and eager; his body relaxed. Ready. Thrust into the dirt beside him was a six-foot spear, point upward, a handful of white feathers tied where the leather bound the sharp flint head to the shaft.
A similar spear pointed out of the earth beside Kieran. He too wore only a loincloth. His skin was greased and his hair tied back in a short braid. He didn’t think he cut nearly the impressive figure that the quin’on’a warrior did.
“I’ll let him knock me around a bit,” Kieran said, “give him the first blood—and that’ll be that.”
Ha’kan’ta turned to him, caught the nervous self-deprecation in her lover’s features. “Lord lifting Jesus!” Kieran murmured. “You know I’ll do my best.”
“He will try to kill you,” Ha’kan’ta replied.
Kieran knew that. He looked at the circle of watching quin’on’a and didn’t see much sympathy in their faces. But here and there amongst the slender, horned beings, he saw other men and women standing—physically hornless, stockier in build, taller.
“Who are those others?” he asked.
“They are rathe’wen’a,” Ha’kan’ta said. “They came in answer to my summoning.”
“There’s not too many of them,” Kieran said. He counted perhaps a dozen—fourteen at tops.
“We have never been a large clan. And many of my people have not come. Some are too far to answer. Some want no part of the quin’on’a—in friendship or enmity. Some . . .” She shrugged. “Some are elsewise occupied. But these will be enough.”
“What are you planning? Don’t go starting something. . . .”
“We will not interfere, Kieran. But we will see that this combat goes no further than first blood.”
Kieran shook his head. “Nom de tout! Having them here is just asking for trouble, Kanta. He’ll play it straight. He has to.”
“I believe that Red-Spear has moved beyond honor.”
“Sins’amin, then. She’ll keep an eye on him.”
“The quin’on’a Beardaughter has her own trials in store, I fear. But they are not my concern. My only concern is keeping you alive, beloved.”
Kieran looked away, and caught Tep’fyl’in’s gaze. A flicker of amusement ran across the War Chief’s features. They will not stop me, his eyes seemed to say, indicating Ha’kan’ta’s people. Only you can stop me and you have not the strength. Nor the skill. Nor the courage.
“Kieran . . .” Ha’kan’ta began.
But then the moon lifted above the trees and the trial was to begin.
“I love you,” Kieran said softly.
The intensity of feeling that came with those words surprised him, but gave him the strength he needed. Ha’kan’ta stepped forward, brushed her lips against his.
“Good hunting, my warrior,” she whispered, then stepped back. Kieran nodded. Grasping the haft of his spear, he pulled it from the dirt and strode forward. Father Raven, he thought, lend me skill. If his totem heard him, it made no reply.
Pukwudji crept from the woods and moved to a position from which he could see both the circle of dirt and Ha’kan’ta. He was here because, whatever thoughts Sara had had when she’d left the rathe’wen’a and Kieran, they were still her friends. She might not know it, but he could see it, as plain as the slap of a beaver’s tail on the still waters of Pinta’wa.
They were in danger. Kieran’s was easy to see. It lay in the strength of Red-Spear’s arm, in the bright edge of flint at the end of the War Chief’s spear. For Ha’kan’ta it was a more subtle thing. She and her people might stop Tep’fyl’in for a moment, but honor or no honor, the quin’on’a would not allow their interference. Kieran would have to face his trial on his own. Pukwudji meant to stay by Ha’kan’ta’s side and keep her from doing more harm than good.
It was up to the Forest Lords to see that justice was done. It was up to the quin’on’a elders to uphold their honor.
As he neared Ha’kan’ta’s side, he saw an old rathe’wen’a approach her from the other side. Pukwidji knew that one: Ur’wen’ta. Bear-of-Magic. The old man, looking past Ha’kan’ta, saw and recognized Pukwudji.
“Do you bring ill or good with you, Trickster?” he asked softly.
“I am a mirror,” Pukwudji replied. “Is that not a saying of your people?”
Ur’wen’ta nodded thoughtfully. “It is indeed. But still I wonder.”
Shrugging, Pukwudji turned to watch as Sins’amin stepped out to speak.
Kieran heard little of the Beardaughter’s speech. He caught a phrase or two—such as “trial by combat . . . honor will be upheld . . . first blood. . . .” He concentrated instead on what was to come. He drew up the stillness inside him, let the silent drumming of his taw narrow the focus of his attention until all that concerned him was the beardless warrior who stood opposite him. He weighed his spear. The heavier spearhead end made the weapon feel unbalanced. What little experience he had was only with plain staves.
There was a huge concentration of power in the circle of dirt. The quin’on’a and Ha’kan’ta’s people focused their own magics on what was to come, setting the air crackling with their attention.
“The Forest Lords watch,” Sins’amin was saying in conclusion. “Conduct yourself with fitting honor.”
She stepped back and the two men were alone in the circle.
Kieran balanced lightly on the balls of his feet, the spear held like a staff in a two-handed grip before him. For long moments they faced each other, still as the granite stones that dotted the slopes behind them. Then suddenly Tep’fyl’in was in motion, his spear a blur. Kieran barely brought his own weapon up in time to block the blow. The crack as wood struck wood was loud in the silence, and the vibration of the spear’s shaft made his hands sting. Blow followed blow in a rapid flurry, and Kieran backed away under the onslaught, conscious only of the two ends of the War Chief’s spear that darted for him with all the speed of a snake’s strike. Sweat ran into his eyes, mingled with the grease on his back and chest, as he drove his body to meet the challenge. But block each strike though he did, he knew he was already slowing.
Tep’fyl’in withdrew, stood poised, a look of quiet amusement in his eyes. It was then that Kieran realized that the War Chief had yet to exert himself. This first series of quicksilver moves had only been the quin’on’a’s method of drawing out his opponent’s skill. And now that he knew—
“Hai!” Tep’fyl’in cried.
The head of his spear flashed towards Kieran’s eyes. Kieran whipped up his own weapon to block it, saw too late the reverse end of the other man’s spear lashing for his legs. He took a hard blow on his calf that knocked him from his feet. As Tep’fyl’in’s spearhead darted for his face, he rolled frantically out of the way in the dirt. Again the sudden reverse. This blow took him as he was rising, high in the chest, and sent him tumbling back onto the dirt.
Once more Tep’fyl’in withdrew, allowing Kieran to get to his feet. His leg and side ached, the leg already stiffening under him. He knew he had to move on the offensive before he took a worse hit.
He came in at a low crouch, feinted high, then low, managed to slip the head of his spear in above Tep’fyl’in’
s block, but the quin’on’a was already out of the way before the blow could strike home. Kieran spun, following the momentum of his attack, caught a glancing blow across his upper arm, but his own strike came whirring down, landing with a satisfying crack against Red-Spear’s hip. The hit caught the quin’on’a by surprise and Kieran followed up his momentary advantage, but Tep’fyl’in recovered before another blow landed.
His spear struck with a crack against Kieran’s left hand, then his right. As Kieran’s weapon fell from numbed fingers, Tep’fyl’in brought the blunt end of his spear up and in. Kieran took the blow in the stomach, buckled over. Moving in, the quin’on’a caught Kieran with a glancing blow to the side of his head.
The skin broke under that blow and Sins’amin rose to call an end to this mockery of a trial. The young warrior had acquitted himself well against Tep’fyl’in, for all that Red-Spear had been merely toying with him, holding back until that final exchange of blows. Ha’kan’ta gasped as Kieran pitched forward senseless into the dirt, blood smearing his brow. But relief leaped across her worry. At least it was ended. At least he lived.
“The combat is ended,” Sins’amin said. “You have won, Red-Spear. Let the youth be.”
“He is mine!” Tep’fyl’in cried. “His life is mine to take away or give.”
“The combat was to first blood.”
Tep’fyl’in shook his head. “Again you are wrong, old mother. The combat ends with this!”
Tep’fyl’in whirled his spear in his right hand so that the flint head pointed directly at his motionless adversary. The haft of the weapon slapped against the waiting palm of his left hand. Two-handedly, he poised the spear above his foe, ready to drive the point home.
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