The Complete Adversary Cycle: The Keep, the Tomb, the Touch, Reborn, Reprisal, Nightworld (Adversary Cycle/Repairman Jack)
Page 233
They’re afraid again.
“Afraid!” she cried. “Maybe that’s it.” Suddenly she knew what had to be done—or thought she knew. “Bill, Sylvia, everybody—downstairs. Now!”
She didn’t wait to explain and she didn’t wait for the elevator. Filled with a growing excitement and a desperate urgency, she galloped down the dizzying flights to the ground floor, dashed through the lobby, and out into the crowd on the twilit sidewalk.
Bill was right behind her, then Ba, carrying Jeffy and guiding Sylvia through the restless, panicky people. Carol led them to the edge of the fading light, right to the shadow border facing the park, then grabbed Bill’s hand in her right and took a stranger’s—a frightened-looking black woman’s—in her left.
“I won’t be afraid anymore!” Carol shouted at the huge outer darkness that tried to stare her down. She squeezed the woman’s hand. “Say it,” she told her. “I won’t be afraid anymore! Grab somebody’s hand and say it as loud as you can.” She turned to Bill. “Shout it, Bill. Mean it. Take a hand and get them to say it!”
Bill stared at her. “What’s this—?”
“Just do it. Please! There’s not much time.”
Bill shrugged and grabbed someone’s hand and began repeating the phrase. She noticed that the black woman to her left had taken a young man’s hand and was repeating the phrase to him. Carol turned and saw a very grim Sylvia standing behind her, arms folded across her chest.
“Come on, Sylvia!”
She shook her head. “This is nuts. It’s—it’s hippie bullshit. Like those peaceniks back in the sixties trying to levitate the Pentagon. You can’t chant Rasalom away.”
“I know that. But maybe we can put a kink in his plans. His whole thrust has been to isolate us from each other, to use fear to break us up into separate, frightened little islands. But look what’s happened here. One little ray of light and we’ve suddenly got a crowded little island. What if we refuse to play his game anymore? What if we refuse to run screaming in fear back to our hidey-holes? What if we stand here as a group and defy him? There’s a defect up there, a hole in Rasalom’s night. Maybe we can keep it open. Maybe we can even widen it. What have we got to lose that’s not already lost?”
“Not one damn thing!” a nearby bedraggled, middle-aged woman said. She pulled Sylvia’s arm away from her chest and grabbed her hand. “I won’t be afraid anymore!”
“Okay, okay,” Sylvia said through tightly clenched teeth as she clutched Jeffy’s arm in one hand and the woman’s in the other. “Do your worst—I won’t be afraid anymore!”
Carol felt her throat tighten at the defiance in her voice.
The chant was becoming more organized, picking up a rhythm as it spread through the crowd, growing in volume as more and more voices chimed in …
And then the light around them brightened. The increase was barely noticeable, but it was noticed. A cheer rose from the crowd and suddenly everyone was a believer. The chant doubled, tripled in volume.
Carol laughed as tears sprang into her eyes. She heard Sylvia’s voice behind her.
“It’s working! It’s working!”
Everyone in the crowd was involved now, shouting at the tops of their lungs. And the light continued to brighten. Carol had no doubt now that the glow was growing stronger. Even the light in the channel that had trailed Glaeken into the park was growing brighter.
But more than that, the cone of light was growing wider, inching across the pavement toward the park, pumping pulses of brightness along the luminous channel that led to the Sheep Meadow hole.
And more people were coming, running to the light, swelling the crowd, swelling the sound of defiance.
Something was happening.
Rasalom had been uncharacteristically silent. And his huge new form did not lie quiet in its amniotic sac. The membrane rippled now and again, like a chill running over fevered skin, and occasionally it bulged in places as Rasalom shifted within.
Glaeken closed his eyes and tried to sense what was going on. He stood perfectly still, listening, feeling.
Warmth.
Light … light growing above. Not visible here, but he sensed it. Light and warmth, seeping into the earth above the cavern. And behind …
He turned and looked down the passageway. Where he’d left perfect darkness, he now saw the faintest glow. An illusion? Or the harbinger of a tiny dawn?
Glaeken turned back to his ancient enemy.
“What’s happening upstairs, Rasalom? Tell me!”
But now it was Rasalom’s turn to be silent.
Sylvia watched the scene from a second-floor window. The noise, the press of people had begun to frighten Jeffy so she’d brought him inside.
The cone of light had returned to noontime brightness and was widening steadily now, creeping uptown and down along the street, invading the park. The crowd, too, was swelling steadily, the light and the noise attracting thousands more. The Manhattan mix was there, red, yellow, Central African ebony to Norwegian white and every shade between.
The chant Carol had started still reverberated loud and clear, but here and there in the crowd Sylvia noticed pockets of people singing and dancing. A couple of MP3 ghetto blasters had appeared and different kinds of music, from hip-hop to salsa, were each attracting their own fans. A couple of guys were leading a big group in singing “Happy Together.” She guessed that was just as effective. You didn’t have to proclaim your lack of fear when you were singing and dancing. And from directly below her window, uncertain harmonies drifted up as a ragtag group tried to find a comfortable key for “The Closer You Are.”
Sylvia thought of Alan then and how he’d loved doo-wop and suddenly she was crying.
Oh, Alan. My God, how I miss you. You belong here, not me. You loved people so much more than I. I should be dead and you should be here.
Alan … after he’d pulled out of the coma from the Dat-tay-vao, she’d come to think of him as indestructible. An indisputable assumption: Alan would be around forever. She’d never considered the possibility of life without him. And now he was gone—no body, no grave, no trace, just gone—and she hadn’t even had a chance to say good-bye.
She hugged Jeffy closer. It was all so damn unfair.
For a brief while she had blamed Glaeken, but knew now that he, too, was paying a terrible price. She’d seen it in his eyes as he’d picked up the hilt and told her to get Jeffy clear—the anger, the frustration, the vulnerability, the weary resignation. All in a single glance. The weight of the terrible responsibility he was shouldering once more had struck her like a blow. She’d instantly regretted all the angry things she’d said to him.
And now maybe he was gone too.
She watched the arc of light edging through the park—well into the Sheep Meadow now, almost to the rim of the hole. Did that mean they were winning, or was this just a false hope?
Sylvia closed her eyes and hugged Jeffy tighter.
If you’re still alive down there, Glaeken, please know that you’re in our thoughts. If there’s anything you can do, do it. Get him, Glaeken. Don’t let him get away with what he’s done to us. GET HIM!
Yes, light was seeping down the tunnel. Glaeken was sure of it now. Growing steadily. And Rasalom … Rasalom was thrashing about in his amniotic sac.
What was happening up on the surface? The weapon was here, useless, encased in hardened fluid from the sack. What in the name of anything could exert such a disturbing effect on Rasalom?
Suddenly a thunderous rumble from the tunnel behind him. The support shuddered beneath Glaeken’s feet. He twisted and saw the growing glow disappear as the roof of the tunnel collapsed, choking the passage with rubble. As the tunnel mouth belched a cloud of dust, Rasalom’s voice returned.
“Once again you’ve chosen a vexing group of friends, Glaeken.”
A warm glow of pride lit within him, along with a glimmer of—did he dare?—hope.
“They’re a tough bunch. What have they done?”
“What?”
“They’ve enlarged the pinhole in the night-cover made by your puny little weapon.”
Glaeken steadied himself, choked down the shout of triumph that surged against his vocal cords. He maintained a calm exterior.
“How?”
“How is irrelevant. Their success is irrelevant. The entire world is in darkness. A single cone of sunlight, no matter how bright, is laughably insignificant.”
Glaeken sensed the weight of all that Rasalom had left unsaid.
“Sunlight, Rasalom? Since when have you been afraid of sunlight?”
“I fear nothing, Glaeken. I am master of this sphere. It fears me.”
“It’s not sunlight, is it, Rasalom. It’s another kind of light. Light from your enemy. And it comes at a time and place that’s more than ‘inconvenient.’ It’s shining directly above your little nest, and it has arrived at a time when you’re vulnerable, before your new form has matured.”
“Nonsense, Glaeken. Pure wishful thinking on your part. When my gestation is through, and that is only a matter of hours now, I shall personally plug that hole in my perfect night. Then you will see how ‘vulnerable’ I am.”
Glaeken noticed a growing warmth at his back. He twisted again toward the rubble-strewn tunnel. Something happening there.
And then he saw it. A gleaming pinpoint, a tiny bead no larger than a grain of sand, glowing near the top of the debris, growing bigger, growing brighter. The light seemed to be worming its way through the rubble, as if it had a mind of its own. But how was that possible?
“Don’t allow yourself to hope, Glaeken. It cannot harm me.”
Yet Glaeken did allow himself to hope, could not help but hope when he saw the bead brighten suddenly and shoot out toward the pit in a narrow beam of brilliance, like a needle-thin blue-white laser streaming toward Rasalom. But it came up short against the support under Glaeken’s feet, spraying and splashing like water against a stone wall.
The beam persisted, though. Like a living thing with a will of its own, it split, one half sliding upward, the other down around the support. The light crept to the top just inches ahead of Glaeken’s trapped feet. As soon as it crested the support it raced downward to rejoin its other half. They fused and once again shot out toward Rasalom’s amniotic sac.
But the beam did not strike the sac. Instead it flashed toward the weapon, igniting the exposed butt of the hilt. The pommel blazed with blinding fire, and dimly, through the encrustations, Glaeken could see bolts of light flashing along the length of the blade.
Rasalom howled in Glaeken’s mind as he writhed and thrashed within his sac. Glaeken had a feeling that this time was no act.
The weapon began to vibrate, the encrustations cracked and fell away like old skin, and suddenly the hilt was free, blazing with white light.
Another beam of radiance broke through the rubble and flashed across the cavern. It too found the weapon and added its power to it.
But how … how could the light pass through the rubble?
And then he heard a stone tumble off the debris pile. Something—someone—was disturbing the rubble, clearing a passage along its top.
Glaeken knew of only one person with the indomitable will necessary to reach this spot.
As Rasalom’s howl rose to a shriek, Glaeken felt the tendrils wrapped around his legs begin to soften, their hold weaken. He bent and tore at them, straining to pull free. No time to lose. Rasalom’s thrashings were shaking the weapon within the wound it had made. The beam of light stayed with it, moving whenever it did, but if the weapon slipped loose it would fall into the pit. And then Rasalom’s victory would be assured.
With a final surge, Glaeken yanked his legs free and leapt to the central disk where the four arched supports fused. He dropped to his belly, hung precariously over the edge, and reached for the weapon.
Cold-fire eternity beckoned below.
He fought a surge of vertigo and stretched his right arm to its limits, violently thrusting it down to force the ligaments to give him the tiny extra increment of length he needed to reach the jittering hilt. His fingertips brushed the pommel twice, and then with a final, agonizing thrust, he hooked two fingers around it. At his touch the weapon seemed to move on its own, slamming the grip of the hilt against his palm. Power surged up his arm and throughout his body and once more the weapon was his.
As he was the weapon’s.
He stood and looked about. The original beams of light and new ones from the rubble stayed with the blade, fueling it, following wherever he moved it. He couldn’t reach Rasalom or his sac, so he decided to try the next best thing.
Reversing his grip, he lifted the weapon high and drove the point down into the center of the nearest of the supporting arches. A blinding flash lit the cavern as the blade cut deep into the flinty substance. The material of the support began to bubble and smoke as the blade melted its way through it like a hot knife cutting frozen butter. Foul, greasy smoke, reeking of seared flesh, engulfed him. More flashes followed as Glaeken worked the blade back and forth, widening the gash as he deepened it, strobing the cavern with bursts of light and stretching weird shadows against its walls.
Rasalom howled.
“No, Glaeken! I command you to stop! Stop now or you’ll pay dearly. And so will your friends!”
Without pausing an instant in his labors, Glaeken glanced down at the huge eye pressed furiously against the membrane.
“You’ve already promised that, Rasalom. What have I got to lose?”
“I won’t kill you, Glaeken! I’ll let you live on, just barely. I’ll make you witness, see, feel everything that happens in my new world.”
Glaeken said nothing. He had almost cut through the first arch. With a final thrust, the blade angled through the underside and came free.
The central portion suddenly sagged a half a foot under him. Glaeken hurried to his left, toward the next support.
“Glaeken, NO! That island I promised you—you and the woman and your friends—”
Glaeken shut his mind to Rasalom’s rantings and drove the blade into the second arch. More flashes and oily smoke. He worked the blade ferociously, gasping with the stench and the exertion, and eventually it worked its way through.
The center sagged again, its free edge lurching downward almost two feet this time. The supports he had cut wept dark fluid from their truncated ends as they remained suspended above the void like severed arms reaching for something they would never again possess.
Supported now by only two arches, the center tilted at an angle. Glaeken’s feet slipped on the smooth surface as he hurried toward the nearer of the remaining arches.
And again he drove the blade deep into the substance. But as he worked it through, he felt an impact on his right leg. Searing pain flashed up to his hip. He caught a blur of movement and rolled away.
A huge hand had reared up from the underside of the center, but it resembled a hand in only the vaguest sense—black as the night above, with three fingers as thick around as Glaeken’s waist, each terminating in a sharp yellow talon. Crimson fluid stained one of those—his blood.
Rasalom—in his new form. Glaeken could not see the rest of him, most of which was no doubt still in the sac below. Had his new form finally matured, or was he breaking free before the process was completed in order to stop Glaeken?
It made another swipe, blindly, in his direction. Glaeken ducked under the talons. The sudden move sent a fresh surge of agony through his wounded leg. As it came for him again, he slashed with the weapon and felt the blade dig deep into the inky flesh.
Light exploded around him, a flash of brilliance that dwarfed all those before it. In his mind he heard Rasalom cry out in shock and pain. When his vision cleared he saw the taloned hand waving above him, one of its thick fingers swinging madly back and forth as it dangled from a smoking s
tump by a few remaining intact tendons.
Glaeken straightened and limped to the other support. He had been able to cut only partway through the third and was unlikely to get a chance to finish the job within Rasalom’s reach. He’d attack the fourth—but not near the center.
His move must have surprised Rasalom because Glaeken was halfway along the arch before the voice sounded in his brain.
“Don’t run off, Glaeken. We’ve only begun to play.”
Glaeken didn’t look back. He continued his torturous trek toward the far end of the arch. Within a dozen feet of its origin he stopped and turned.
Rasalom’s amniotic sac still hung from its lopsided platform like a gargantuan punching bag, but now a sinewed arm with a wounded hand protruded from the rent made by the weapon. It raked the air above it with its two remaining talons. And the eye … that malevolent eye still pressed against the membrane, glaring at him.
“I’m not running far.”
With another burst of light and bloom of oily smoke, he drove the weapon deep into the arch beneath him and began to work it back and forth. The support was thicker here near its base, but he could afford the extra time it would take because he was out of Rasalom’s reach.
“Glaeken,” Rasalom said to his mind, “you’ll never learn. You are forcing me to…”
Ahead, over the center of the pit, another arm clawed free of the membrane, then ripped a talon down the surface of the sac, opening it like a zipper. Tons of ebony fluid poured from the rent, spilling into the bottomless glow of the depths below. The rent parted, widened, and then …
Something emerged from the membrane.
Glaeken knew who it was, but could not be certain what it was. It had arms, that he knew. And a huge eye at its upper end. But in the dim glow leaking up from the pit below he could be sure of little else as it crawled from the sac and hoisted itself onto the sagging central platform. Legs … now he could see legs, four bristling, segmented stalks like a tarantula’s, but the rest was encased in an oozing gelatinous mass that dripped off the platform in amorphous globs and tumbled into infinity. A larger shape lurked within the mass, something with a head and a torso, but Glaeken could make out no details. And now a pair of thick, sucker-studded tentacles wriggled free of the gelatin below the arms to twist and coil in the air.