The Gypsy Morph

by Terry Brooks

  Kirisin was there briefly, ashen-faced and edgy amid all the activity, asking finally what they were going to do about Simralin. She had no answer for him. She told him to join the Ghosts and cross to the other side. He was carrying the fate of a nation in the Elfstone tucked in his shirt, and he had to remember that. His sister would tell him the same thing, if she were there. He left with tears in his eyes, unable to look at her.

  Helen Rice reappeared. “How are we going to defend when they get here?” she asked.

  Angel shook her head. “Send the explosives people down to the dam when they’ve finished with the perimeter. Wire it to explode. Tell them to do the best they can. We’ll slow the attack down, hold the once-men for as long as we can.” She gripped the other woman’s arm. “The truth is, Helen, we’re running out of choices.”

  “I know that. I’ve known it for some time.” Helen gave her a brave smile. “But we’re not giving up, Angel. No matter what.”

  “No, amiga, we’re not giving up.”

  Helen folded her arms and hugged herself. “I’m so afraid.”

  Todos tenemos el derecho de sentir miedo, Angel thought. We all have a right to be afraid. She gave the other woman a hug. “Let’s keep working.”

  She returned to positioning the armed vehicles and defenders among the haulers and wagons. Some of the latter she ordered overturned to provide better cover. She had the wheels removed from the rest, hoping to prevent the enemy from being able to pull them aside. She was not entirely sure of what else she should do. They relied on her, all of them, Helen included. But she was not the skilled and experienced warrior that Logan Tom was.

  She thought momentarily of Johnny, the first time she had done so in days. If he were there, he would know what to do. He would sense instinctively what was needed and see to it that it was done. But her own sense of things paled by comparison and left her feeling inadequate.

  The crossing over of the children to the far side of the gorge was almost finished when dust clouds appeared on the horizon and the lead elements of the demon army came into view. Once-men, wild and unkempt, ragged figures numbering first in the hundreds and then in the thousands, crowded forward. They came running across the flats—running! Their makeshift weapons were raised over their heads, and their voices were shrill and frenzied. They made no effort at an organized attack. They simply threw themselves into the fray like animals, their bloodlust driving them.

  Thousands of feeders bounded through their midst, gimlet-eyed and hungry for what was about to happen.

  “Keep coming,” Angel whispered to herself, ignoring the feeders, concentrating on the once-men, her teeth clenched, the black staff gripped tightly. But there are so many! Too many for us to stop!

  The front ranks reached the perimeter of the defensive lines, and the hidden explosives detonated, shredding hundreds of once-men. Screams mingled with clouds of smoke, and body parts flew everywhere. But the assault continued, fresh waves of attackers replacing those that had been decimated. A second set of charges went off, and again the attackers vanished in smoke and screams. This time the assault slowed, and the once-men, fragmented and scattered, struggled to mass anew.

  Angel glanced over her shoulder at the dam. The last of the children were crossing, and now the adults who had helped them were beginning to file over as well.

  “Fall back!” she shouted to the closest of the defenders, and then started down the line, drawing the attention of the rest. “Get back! Get across the dam!”

  They began to withdraw in ones and twos, a too-slow response to her order. Frustrated, she stepped out into the open as the now fully regrouped once-men threw themselves at the defensive lines, and she sent the Word’s fire exploding out of her black staff into the attackers. The front ranks collapsed, but more kept coming. Skrails were diving at her from out of the sky, tearing at her with their claws, trying to distract or disable her. She ignored them, sweeping the fire across the flats and into the enemy hordes that filled them.

  But there were too many to hold, even for her, and she screamed at the last of the defenders to run for the dam. Some did not make it. Some were caught from behind and dragged down. She tried to cover the retreat, but the once-men were coming at her from all sides, the feeders on their heels, invisible shadows. A pair of defenders wheeled back and cleared out those closest to her with their Parkhan Sprays, bravely standing their ground even as they were overrun. She raced for the dam, engulfed by the screams of those who sought to reach her, fighting through smoke and ash from the explosives and fires.

  She had just reached the gorge embankment and was scrambling for the relative safety of the far side when a makeshift arrow drove deep into her shoulder and spun her about. She righted herself and kept going, but another caught her in the leg. Then a third buried itself deep in her side, and she felt a wave of shock and nausea wash through her. Her strength failing, she scrambled forward, bleeding heavily now, and then she was on the embankment crest, the dam wall just below her, and she saw someone standing not a dozen feet away, fully exposed as he faced the rush of the oncoming hordes . . .

  Hawk!

  She could hardly believe what she was seeing. The boy somehow had managed to stay behind instead of crossing over as he should have, and now he was just standing there, alone and unprotected.

  Then suddenly the boy knelt and placed both palms against the earth, and she realized this was exactly where she had seen him kneeling earlier, when she had come up from examining the dam with Kirisin. His head was bent as before, and his eyes were closed. He might have been alone in the world for all the difference the ranks of attackers coming at him made. Steel-tipped arrows and spears and automatic weapons fire flew all around him, but he never moved.

  Angel, crouching not twenty feet from him, wheeled back and sprayed the closest of the attackers with the black staff’s deadly fire. It wasn’t enough. The rush barely slowed. The feeders had outpaced the once-men and were almost on top of Angel and Hawk. They were both going to die. Why hadn’t the boy run, as he was supposed to? Why hadn’t he saved himself, when so much depended on it?

  As if in answer, a massive tremor shook the earth, followed by a series of shudders that rippled outward from the embankment into the plains beyond, throwing the once-men to their knees. The attack stalled as bodies tumbled everywhere. The feeders broke off their rush to reach her, suddenly confused. The tremors continued, rough-edged and powerful, generated from somewhere deep underground.

  But it wasn’t an earthquake that was causing them, Angel realized. It was Hawk.

  A sharp cracking sound rose above the rumble of the tremors and the screams and cries of the attackers, and a spiderweb of jagged fissures split the barren ground, spreading out from where Hawk knelt and running on for as far as the eye could see, across the flats and under the feet of the once-men. The cracking sound deepened, and the splits widened into huge gaps, and then into dark, bottomless chasms. Everywhere, frantic attackers tumbled from view and were swallowed. They tried to run, but the cracks, angling this way and that, growing in number, chased them down as if they were food to be eaten. By the handfuls, by the dozens, and finally by the hundreds, the once-men dropped away into the chasms.

  The feeders threw themselves after them, caught hold of them as they fell, and tumbled from view.

  In moments the flats were swept clean of all but a handful of the thousands that had composed the demon army, and those few cowered in small clusters here and there, swaying and moaning like ragged trees left standing in the wake of a terrible storm. Then the earth began to rumble anew, and the myriad chasms closed like great mouths, the cracks sealed over, and a deep silence settled over everything, a shroud thrown over the bodies of the dead.

  THIRTY-TWO

  S TANDING APART FROM THE OTHER DEMONS, Findo Gask considered his options in the wake of the destruction of his army. He had watched it all happen from high ground far enough removed from the carnage that he had never been in danger. Until now, o
f course, when his subordinates began to look at him as something less than infallible. A demon that could lose an entire army of once-men to a mere boy was not as all-powerful as they might have thought. A demon that could sacrifice that many followers without accomplishing anything, no matter the reason, was demonstrably less able than what they had believed.

  Which meant, of course, that they were already considering which of them should replace him.

  He glanced at them accusingly, and some, but not all, looked away. It enraged him that they should be so bold. Fools, he thought. Not a one of them could do what he had done. Not a one could command his power. They were children in the presence of a master, and he needed none of them.

  Still, he would have to watch them closely.

  He turned back to the plains, empty now save for clusters of survivors who cowered together like frightened sheep. The loss of his army mattered little to him. It was but a single arm of a much larger force, and replacing once-men had never been a problem. Whatever his needs, there would always be fresh bodies—at least until no more were needed and he could dispose of them all. He would simply send for another supply. The caravan might have escaped him for the moment, but it was a temporary escape at best.

  What mattered just now was the boy, the gypsy morph, wielding all that magic.

  The fact that he was still alive was proof positive that the Klee had failed. Findo Gask had suspected as much for days, knowing that the Klee must have found the boy by now and yet had not returned. That the Klee had failed was inconceivable. Delloreen, yes. But not the Klee. That anything or anyone was strong enough to destroy it—for it must be dead—was an impossibility he could not fathom. Only he had power enough to destroy a demon as powerful as the Klee. He could not imagine how any of these humans—even a Knight of the Word—could have managed such a feat. A shape-shifter, a trickster, a creature of great cunning and strength, it had proven itself invincible time after time.

  But now it was gone. There was no doubting that.

  And here was that boy, the gypsy morph, still alive.

  The boy lay sprawled on the ground, unmoving. How badly was he hurt? Not all that badly, Findo Gask judged. He had barely been touched in the assault. No, he was merely exhausted from the exercise of his magic. Which was hardly a surprise, given the power it must have required to open up the earth like that. The demon watched as the female Knight of the Word, lying nearby, began hauling herself to her feet, using her staff to provide leverage. But exhaustion had overtaken her, as well, and she fell back again. Then, as if consumed with desperation, she began to crawl.

  Findo Gask had seen enough. He needed to put an end to this business once and for all. The gypsy morph had to be destroyed, and this was the perfect chance to do so. Weakened, depleted of magic, it would provide little resistance. Not only would he kill the morph, but he would kill the Knight, as well. It was not a task he would delegate; others would welcome the chance to take credit for such an accomplishment, but he would not allow them to do so. He would handle this himself because it would serve as an object lesson to his treacherous subordinates and enhance his somewhat diminished stature as leader.

  Then he could reassemble his army and continue to hunt down those still alive in the ragtag band of misfits the morph had been leading, humans and Elves and others.

  He signaled to the pair of skrails hunkered down nearby, beckoning them to him. They came at once, seized him by his shoulders, and lifted off. In seconds they were airborne, flying toward the boy and the Knight of the Word. He glanced across the gorge to where the members of the caravan were gathered on the embankment edge, watching his approach. Some were already yelling in warning. None, he noticed, had made any effort to try to come back. He would give them no chance to rethink that decision. He would make quick work of their precious leaders, of this boy and his protector. He was already relishing what it would feel like when the morph died beneath the crushing weight of his magic. They believed this boy so powerful, but they had no concept of what real power entailed. They had no idea what he could do.

  The Knight of the Word was turned about now, facing him as he flew closer, somehow back on her feet, leaning heavily on her black staff. She would die hard, this one. She had found a way to elude him for years, fighting for the compounds in Southern California, salvaging scores of children from the ruins, keeping them from the camps and his experiments. He assumed she had found a way to put an end to Delloreen, no easy task. No, she would not die easily. But she would be dead, all the same.

  ANGEL PEREZ watched the old man’s descent through a film of pain and weariness. She was no match for him like this, but there was little choice. Behind her, Hawk lay unconscious on the ground, unable to defend himself. She was all he had, and she had sworn to protect him. Even if she knew that she would fail, she had to try.

  She had mustered strength enough to get back to her feet when she saw the skrails flying the old man toward her. She had known at once who he was and why he was coming. His army destroyed, he must salvage something from his defeat. Killing her would be a start. Destroying the gypsy morph would put an end to everything. He might not know why this was so, but he must sense the truth of it. He would not be hunting the morph otherwise, would not have expended demons like the female creature that had tracked her or the monstrous thing that had come for Hawk.

  She felt a great despair fill her at the prospect of failure. Dying was a given in the lives of the Knights of the Word. She had always known that. Johnny had died for a similar cause, trying to save others, trying to make a difference in a savage world. She understood and accepted this, just as she believed he had. But failure of the sort that would befall the human race with the loss of the gypsy morph was unthinkable.

  “I must find a way,” she whispered to herself.

  The skrails lowered the old man to the ground, leaving him perhaps thirty feet from where she waited, and then backed away, knowing better than to become involved in this, sensing perhaps that he did not want or need their help. He would face her alone. He was intent on making this personal.

  He stood where he was for a moment. Even in the sunlight that filtered down through the lingering haze, he was a wispy figure that had the look of something born out of smoke and ash. His body was hunched slightly, perhaps with age, perhaps with the weight of something less measurable, but equally debilitating. His face was seamed and worn, but even at this distance she could see the bright and compelling light of his strange eyes.

  A distraction from across the river drew his attention. A handful of youngsters, including several of the Ghosts and Kirisin, were charging back toward the dam, finally come to their senses, determined now to try to help. The old man watched them for a moment, and there was a mix of curiosity and contempt mirrored on his face. Then he glanced at her for just a moment, turned back almost casually, lifted one arm, and pointed. Fire exploded from his fingertips and tracked across the top of the dam wall. Flames rose dozens of feet into the air, burning from end to end, finding fuel where they was seemingly none to be found.

  The flames blocked any passage across, and those trying to reach Hawk and herself fell back. The rescue attempt collapsed.

  The old man turned back to her and started to walk forward. “Let me have the boy, and you may go!” he told her.

  He made a slight motion as if to go around her, and she moved immediately to block his way. “I don’t think so, diablo. Back away.”

  He slowed to a halt. “You don’t seriously think you can stop me from taking him, do you?” he asked her.

  “I don’t know what I can do,” she said. She was aware suddenly of fresh pain radiating through her, the consequence of even those few simple steps. She looked down at the ends of the darts protruding from her body like spikes. “Why don’t you find out?”

  “I’m going to kill you, you know. I could do it even if you were fresh and uninjured. I could do it even if you had help.” He gave her a searching look. “I’m not like those ot
hers you dispatched. Do you understand that? Do you know who I am?”

  She nodded. “You are the one.”

  She said it without rancor, but it conveyed a good deal more than its tone revealed. She summoned the magic and watched the runes glow dimly beneath her fingers. Too little, she thought. I haven’t magic enough left to do this. I won’t be able to stop him.

  “I am the one,” he agreed. He continued to study her, as if seeing something he hadn’t recognized before. “Why not consider the advantages of what accepting that means.”

  “Join with you, you mean?”

  He shrugged. “Why not? If you live, you would have much to contribute. Others have done so; you would not be the first.”

  She had blood soaking through her clothing, and her face was streaked with sweat and dirt. She was aware of how vulnerable she looked to him. Had there been any reason at all to do so, she would have given the matter thought. But there was no reason, of course.

  “I would sooner rut with wild dogs,” she answered.

  He laughed softly. “No need for that. No need for anything more from you. I asked out of false hope that reason would transcend pride. I should have known. It never does with your kind.”

  “Better pride transcending reason than contempt for the sanctity of life transcending a sense of right and wrong.”

  She was fighting for time now, for a chance to gain a small advantage, for anything that would work in her favor. She would keep him talking for as long as she could.

  He came forward a few more steps and stopped again. “You are all alike, you Knights of the Word. Passionate in your beliefs, dedicated to your causes, blind to everything but your righteous commitment to a faith in something that has doomed you from the beginning. Humans can’t sustain what is needed for such faith, woman, even if you can. Humans lack the iron necessary to see it through. They are so fallible and so easily subverted. You’ve seen it for yourself, time and again. We are where we are, you and I, standing on this empty plain, because of that.”