A strange movement on the water caught Keech’s eye—a large green bubble had gurgled up to the river’s surface a few yards in front of the ferry. However, the bulbous contour was not a water bubble at all but a grotesque, fish-like head the color of a moldy lime.
A sharp, serrated fin sprouted up from the creature’s crown. A moment later, a dozen of the spiked greenish heads popped up.
Quinn backed away from the rail. “Looks like a bunch of walleye fish!”
“Those ain’t fish,” Duck murmured. “They look like people.”
Unsheathing his blade, Cutter said, “We need to help Nat turn around. Quick.”
The spiked heads started swimming straight for the Liberator.
Whatever nasty ingredient Big Ben had scattered across the river, the stuff was germinating into humanoid figures, complete with slimy green arms and backs and wart-covered torsos. A dozen emerged ahead of the boat, bobbing like corks in the brown water. Fangs like ice picks chattered in the brown wash, raising a terrible clatter that reminded Keech of a thousand wagon wheels rattling on a pebble road. The frenzy of oily bodies churned the river. Their eel-like mouths gibbered above the surface as they paddled the currents.
“They’re getting closer!” Cutter hollered.
As if to prove the boy’s point, the amulet shard in Keech’s hand sparked cold. “Duck, fetch your shard!”
The girl had already pulled out her fragment and was coiling its leather cord around her hand.
Standing next to her, Quinn reached into his own coat and drew out one of the oily whistle bombs he carried. “Let’s see if this can slow them down.” He lifted the bomb and squeezed it, but the orb crumbled in his hand like an ebony egg. The shell cracked into pieces, and a creamy paste seeped between his fingers. The kid shook his hand, dropping the goo into the river.
“Guess that one was rotten,” Cutter said. “Looks like we’re gonna be facing these things mano a mano.”
The Liberator rocked to a stop as the creatures crowded the hull, causing Keech to tumble to one knee. Slimy tentacles gripped at the raft, and the creatures started crawling under the rails and onto the deck. Their chattering, fang-lined mouths were as wide as supper plates, and peeking from their foreheads were three walnut-shaped eyes, blacker than beads of oil.
Keech raced toward the clambering pack, his amulet shard raised, and slammed the flat surface of the metal against one creature’s shoulder. The silver’s magic sparked. The creature shuddered, then its chattering head exploded like a burst grape. A putrid stench of rotten fish filled the air, and the abomination’s body vanished in a cloud of dull fish scales.
Keech bellowed, “Duck, the shards work!”
He wasted no time glancing back to see if the girl had heard. Instead, he swung his charm to the left and right, invigorated, and with each touch of the shard, he destroyed another unnatural thing crawling toward him on the deck.
Pivoting, Keech caught a glimpse of Nat booting a creature off the rail and back into the water. Quinn had picked up a wooden pole and was swinging it into the head of a slimy monster attempting to climb Sally’s driving stall. A few feet over, Duck leaned over the starboard railing, and with a bold sweep of her amulet shard, she rendered one of the atrocities back into gray powder.
“Blackwood, help!”
Keech spun toward the voice. Cutter was working to hold back a fish creature. The boy had driven his blade into the thing’s soft body, but the writhing fiend continued to lurch. “Stupid cuchillo, work for once!” Cutter cried at the knife.
Suddenly, the boat pitched sideways, throwing Keech off balance. To his horror, the amulet shard skittered out of his grip. He glanced around wildly to mark where it landed.
“These critters are trying to capsize us!” Duck yelled.
Scurrying on his hands and knees, Keech reached for the shard. As he moved, a slimy green deformity rose out of the river and lunged for him, its fishbone nails swiping at his boots. He yanked his legs away to avoid the attack, then caught a sudden flicker of brown fur beside him. There was a loud bray, then one of Felix’s back hooves kicked out and crunched against the monster’s head. The fish thing flew back into the Kansas, squealing in surprise.
“Good boy!” Keech said—but he felt his blood freeze when momentum from Felix’s attack sent the pony toward the raft’s edge. Felix’s thick body flopped and twisted, but the port edge of the Liberator pitched down too suddenly, sending Felix and Keech in a wild slide toward the river.
“Felix!” Keech screamed, but before he could find a hold, he skated boots first over the edge into the freezing wash. Felix toppled in beside him, an almost human-like cry issuing from the horse’s throat.
Churning water entombed Keech. A muffled shriek escaped his mouth, a cry that turned into frantic bubbles around his face. He pinwheeled his arms, an attempt to roll his body horizontal in the water and look for Felix, but his boots felt like millstones and he began to sink.
A repulsive green face with three black eyes swam directly toward him. Hundreds of needle-sharp teeth chomped inches from his nose.
Keech seized the monster’s neck, hoping to strangle the disgusting life out of it. The flesh under his fingers felt spongy, like touching frog eggs on a lily pad. The creature seized Keech’s wrists with its tentacled grip and dragged him down. As he sank, he caught a glimpse of Felix a few feet away, and another river-choked scream rumbled out of him.
More than a dozen of the green horrors were swarming the pony.
Keech kicked desperately at the creature clutching him, hoping to escape and save poor Felix from a terrible death, but he couldn’t break free of the tentacles. A bleak thought entered his mind as the monster pulled him deeper: This is it, Sam. Felix and I will be joining you now. And for one second, all he wanted was to quit everything and see his orphan brother again. The inviting thought warmed the icy river and enveloped him like one of Granny Nell’s homespun quilts.
Then the creature holding his wrists evaporated into mist.
Keech blinked in surprise, but there was no time to ponder what had just happened. His lungs blazed for air. He spun in the abyss, hoping to find a way to the surface, and saw Quinn Revels swimming next to him.
The kid grabbed his shoulder and hauled him toward the Liberator. As they drifted upward, the edges of Keech’s vision began to dim. He felt seconds away from drowning. The churning water obscured his vision, but he could see movement all around, a dark swirling mass of death, as more of Big Ben’s creatures approached.
A strong hand gripped his coat and tugged him out of the river. Keech found himself spread-eagled on the deck of the ferry, staring up at the clouded Kansas sky. Nat knelt beside him, his face hectic with fear and exhaustion.
“Breathe, Keech, breathe.” The rancher’s large hands pushed against his chest, and Keech managed to suck in fresh air.
“Felix!” he shouted when his throat could form words. “Someone has to save him!”
Nat muttered, “It’s too late, Keech. He’s gone.” He glanced back down at the river. “Hang on.” Dipping his arms back into the water, Nat grabbed Quinn’s hand and hauled the kid out of the water. As soon as Quinn’s body smacked against the icy floor, he arched up onto all fours and grabbed his own lungfuls of air. “Much obliged,” the boy said, his teeth chattering.
“Thank me later. The fight ain’t over.” Without a glance back, Nat was on his feet and dashing across the ferry to where Duck and Cutter were battling a fresh wave of monstrosities.
Keech felt desperate. “I’m going back in. I have to try to save Felix!”
“No! It’s too dangerous.” Quinn started crawling across the floorboards. “Scoot back a few feet.”
“How come?”
“My other whistle bomb. I squeezed it back in the river.”
Keech’s breath barely had time to freeze before a mammoth tremor shook the ferry, and a geyser of water erupted from the Kansas. Brown water mixed with slimy green chunks rained down across
the raft, coating the young riders in a foul spray.
“What in blazes!” shouted Duck nearby.
Keech felt his heart clench as the boat tottered beneath his feet, then rocked back to rest. All he could think about was poor Felix, trapped under the water.
“That bomb worked like a charm,” Quinn said, shaking slime off his arms. He held up Pa’s amulet shard with a quivering hand. “Here. You dropped this.”
Keech took the silver charm in a daze. He shook his head to focus, his mind refusing to accept that he had just lost Felix, when he noticed that Quinn’s eyes had suddenly veered off to look over his shoulder.
“Heaven have mercy!” Quinn exclaimed.
Keech wheeled around to look. Even after witnessing the risen dead, Devil crows, a bloodthirsty Shifter, and now an army of slimy abominations, what he now saw stole his breath.
A large black steed galloped across the surface of the Kansas River and toward the Liberator. The horse paid no mind to the fact that it sprinted on top of deep water; its broad hooves clopped down on the wash without so much as a splash or a sinking shoe.
Atop this water-walking horse sat a man, a heavyset fellow bundled in wool garments, draped and wrapped in brown deerskins. He raised his gloveless palms high, as though offering surrender, but the gesture had an altogether different meaning.
A great rushing noise filled Keech’s ears, like a heavy wind invading the rafters of a barn, and suddenly a massive spray of river water exploded into the air a few yards away from the Liberator, as if yet another whistle bomb had detonated. Screaming winds kicked up all around, and Keech squinted as the spray twisted into a swirling funnel that danced on the river.
As the black steed galloped closer to the Liberator, the rider flicked his fingers in the direction of the monstrosities. The rumbling tornado obeyed his command. It thundered over the surface of the Kansas, lapping up river water as it moved, and fell upon the slimy horde.
The violent gale ripped around the stunned young riders but did nothing to them, barely even ruffling Keech’s collar.
The impossible cyclone scooped up the devils and lifted them off the sides of the boat and into its raging swirl, shredding them to pieces. Their howling pandemonium turned deafening.
The twister moved away from the raft and carried what was left of the creatures down the river. Only a solitary monster remained, trying to board the boat, its tentacle-fingers grasping for Duck’s boot. The girl reached down with her amulet shard and slapped the monster’s head. The thing crumbled into dry scales.
Keech hugged himself for warmth as the cyclone spun down the Kansas, the clamor of wind easing back, the funnel gradually losing its force. The gang huddled near one another on the ravaged deck of the Liberator. Keech’s drenched clothes numbed his entire body, but worse, he felt numb inside. His breath hitched as if a thick stone had lodged in his throat.
Aside from a few cuts and bruises, the young riders appeared undamaged. They were looking at the black horse riding across the Kansas. The large steed shook its midnight-colored mane and wet snowflakes sprinkled the air. The horseman’s thick frame stood out against the winter-white backdrop like a dark sculpture.
Quinn said, “Ranger Doyle. I’m sure glad to see you.”
“Hello, Quinn.” The man’s gruff voice carried the hint of a smile.
“These are my new friends.”
The stranger gazed at each of them. He wore no sidearm on his hip, and there appeared to be no weapons on his range saddle.
“My name is Edgar Doyle, and we should make haste,” he said. “Linger out here and you’re all likely to die.”
PART 2
WISDOM
INTERLUDE
BIG BEN AND THE PRISONER
A light snow drifted down around Big Ben Loving as he pushed his mare through a thinning woodland of ice and mud.
Back to the north where the Kansas River cut its east-west line, he could hear the bedlam on the water, the faintest din of shouting. From the sound of things, the Marsh Bane he’d scattered at the riverbank was accomplishing the Reverend’s orders to finish the children. He smiled.
High above the leafless canopy, a small number of the Master’s harbingers circled below the whirling clouds. The crows had warned Big Ben to ride without delay. Danger was approaching from the north, an enemy of great power on his trail, and Big Ben’s connection to the Prime was too weak to protect him at the moment. He needed to rest and stretch his aching back. But he wondered how much rest the Reverend Rose would afford him. Because he was a Harvester of the most powerful chaos magics on Earth, Big Ben had vast energy at his fingertips and, therefore, the Reverend would not tolerate talk of discomfort and malaise.
The Reverend’s missions of late were growing difficult for Big Ben. Periodic rations of the Prime restored pieces of his vitality, but every new assignment, every pursuit, cumbered his aging body like anchors on his bones. Terrible twinges had set up in his fingers and back, turning even mundane tasks into feats of pain and frustration. The folks in these parts believed that if you put a teaspoonful of salt in your boot, the creaks in your bones would soften. But that business was nonsense. Only the Prime restored vigor, but each time the Reverend gifted him with more power, Big Ben felt his mind harden and grow callous.
There was always a dark trade involved with dark magic.
Big Ben slowed his horse when he spotted a stand of bluish boulders, a stone jumble that marred the gentle rise of the landscape. A curious scent rode on the wind there, a mix of copper and pain. The smell of blood.
Disquieted by the odor, Big Ben’s mount grunted nervously.
As he walked the mare around the boulders, the snowy forest on the other side revealed a slender beast bristling with a coat of spear-sharp spines. Its breath rattled from its snout in a dense mist. The animal hunkered on two clawed feet over a large boy lying on his back in the snow. When it saw Big Ben, the creature dropped to all fours and bowed its head in deference.
Big Ben drew rein and met the fierce gaze of his pet, a member of the ancient Shifter pack known as the Chamelia. Stories had it they were the first creatures to slip through the Dead Rift in the First Age of Man. Unfettered from the Underworld itself, they had scattered over the countrysides, mingling their forms with the animals of the desert and forest.
“The boy looks sick.”
A vicious bark escaped the Shifter, a noise of both fear and intimidation.
Big Ben lifted his palm, revealing the Reverend’s charred symbol, a warning that he would use the brand to make the creature suffer. “I’ll abide no back talk from you.”
The Chamelia loped off a short distance to lurk in a stand of brush. The barbs along its back fluttered and sank inward, its flesh turning into murky scales. Big Ben chortled at the change; he knew the creature too well. When it felt threatened or surprised, the Chamelia tended to shift serpentine, a more cold-blooded demeanor, to cover its mammalian shame and despair.
His back burning with discomfort, Big Ben dismounted and stomped through the mantle of snow till he stood over the boy’s body. Shadow painted the kid in a bluish pallor, making him look like a corpse.
The tips of the boy’s fingers were black with frostbite. Ice caked the lad’s clothing. Not only had the Chamelia dragged him through snow, it had also crossed the Kansas River with the boy in tow. It was impossible the youth still lived.
Yet he continued to breathe.
Big Ben then noticed a pool of crimson beneath the kid’s body. “You scratched him, didn’t you?” He lifted the boy’s leg with a boot to get a better look. A dark ragged bloodstain across the lad’s hip made the answer obvious enough. “You foolish thing. The Reverend said unspoiled. I should take your head.”
Big Ben took a second to study the boy’s fingers and realized he wasn’t looking at frostbite after all. “Look at what you did! You infected him.” He put a finger to the kid’s top lip and pushed upward, exposing a gum line full of protruding ridges.
�
�I suppose it don’t matter. We can still set the trap even if he is infected.” He would have to slow the change. Doing so wouldn’t help the ache of Big Ben’s own exhausted body, but there was no choice. If he still wanted to deliver a normal boy to Wisdom, he would have to expend the energy.
Big Ben jogged back to his horse, retrieved one of the pigskin conjure pouches stowed inside his saddlebag, and dug his fingers into a white powder. The pungent scent of rotten cabbage mixed with floral hints of jasmine crinkled his nose.
Under his breath, Big Ben began a steady chant, words from the Black Verse that were meant to focus his mind, expand his inner senses, and activate the powers of the white medicine. He allowed the itch in the back of his throat to grow.
The primordial energy that Big Ben knew only as the Prime stirred within him. Sprouting from a pea-size glow in the center of his head, the power sent electricity down his aching spine and wrapped around his veins, till the energy infested his entire being.
Only after each of his muscles purred with the Prime did Big Ben cease the chant of the Black Verse. He opened his eyes and clapped his hands together. When he drew his palms apart, the grains had altered their form. Strands of glowing white threads stretched between his fingers, like a spiderweb woven from lightning.
Big Ben lowered his hands to the infected boy.
The webbing dripped light onto the lad’s chest and face. As the substance touched the kid, it gathered into pools, a pattern of glowing puddles that spread across his cheeks, his neck, his forehead.
Once the last of the white webbing had dripped free, Big Ben clapped again, and the noise activated the material. The white pools moved, a living liquid that skittered across the boy’s skin toward his eyes and mouth, diving into the openings, disappearing under the flesh.
Big Ben rose to his feet. The energy would hold the boy on the verge, a lock impeding his physical change. For now, at least.
The Fang of Bonfire Crossing Page 8
