by Terry Brooks
He wove his way through knots of people sprawled on blankets and seated in lawn chairs, through darting children and ambling teens. The viewing area was packed. Some looked at him with recognition, and a few spoke. Some he stopped to talk with took time to offer condolences on his loss, but most simply answered his questions about Mel and let him go his way. His eyes flicked left and right as he proceeded, searching the darkness. He could no longer see the riverbank clearly, and the trees had faded into a black wall. The fireworks would begin any moment.
Finally, he found Mel and Carol seated together on a blanket at the very edge of the crowd with a handful of family and friends. Mel’s sister was among them, but not her son. Old Bob said hello to everyone, then drew Mel aside where they could talk privately.
“Did Derry come to the fireworks with you?” he asked quietly, trying to keep his voice calm, to keep his fear hidden.
“Sure, you just missed him,” his friend answered. “Been here with us all evening. Something wrong?”
“No, no, I just wanted to talk with him a moment. Where is he?”
“He took some drinks down to the guys shooting off the fireworks. Guess he knows one of them.” Mel glanced over his shoulder. “I told him I didn’t know if they’d let him go down there, but he seemed to think they would.”
Old Bob nodded patiently. “He took them some drinks?”
“Yeah, beer and pop, like that. He had this cooler he brought with him. Hey, what’s this about, Robert?”
Old Bob felt the calm drain away in a sudden rush, and the fears that had been teasing and whispering at him from the shadows suddenly emerged like predators. “Nothing,” he said. He looked toward the river and the movement of flashlights. “He’s still down there?”
“Yeah, he just left.” Mel cocked his head and his eyes blinked rapidly. “What’s the matter?”
Old Bob shook his head and began to move away. “I’ll tell you when I get back.”
He moved more quickly now, following the line that cordoned off the staging area as it looped down toward the river’s edge. He passed several of the Jaycees responsible for patrolling it, younger men he did not know well or at all, and he asked each of them in turn if he had seen Derry Howe. The third man he passed told him Derry had just gone inside the line, that he had been permitted inside only after identifying a member of the staging crew who he claimed was a friend. Old Bob nodded, told him that this was a violation of the agreement the Jaycees had signed with the park district in order to be allowed to sponsor this event, but that he would forget about reporting it if he could go down there right now and bring Derry back before anything happened. He gave the impression without saying so that he was with the park service, and the younger man was intimidated sufficiently by his words and the look on his face to stand aside and let him pass.
Seconds later, Old Bob was inside the line and working his way down the slope toward the moving flashlights of the men preparing to set off the fireworks. He had to hurry now. The fireworks were scheduled to begin at ten o’clock sharp, and it was almost nine-fifty. He turned off his own flashlight, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. As he neared, he could make out the figures of the staging crew moving through the firing platforms to make their last-minute preparations.
He saw Derry Howe then, his tall, lank figure unmistakable, even in the darkness, standing with one of the crew, talking. As Old Bob swerved toward them, the crewman started to move away. Old Bob waited a few heartbeats, then flicked on the flashlight.
“Derry!” he called out boldly. Derry Howe turned into the light, squinting. Old Bob slowed. “Been looking all over for you.”
Derry’s eyes flicked right and left. He was holding a small cooler in his left hand. His grin was weak and forced. “What are you doing down here, Robert? You’re not supposed to be here.”
“Neither are you.” Old Bob gave him an indulgent smile. He was less than fifteen feet away now and closing. “You done here? Give everyone a drink yet? Got one left for me?”
Derry held up his hand quickly. “Stop right there. Right there, Bob Freemark.”
Old Bob stopped, and gave him a calm, steady look. “What’s in the cooler, Derry?”
Derry Howe’s face flushed and tightened with sudden anger. “Get out of here!” he spat angrily. “Get away from me!”
Old Bob shook his head. “I can’t do that. Not unless you come with me.”
Derry took a quick step back from him. “I’m not going anywhere with you! Get the hell out of my face!”
“What are you doing down here, Derry?” Old Bob pressed, starting forward again.
He could see the desperation in the younger man’s eyes as they fixed on him. He looked trapped, frustrated. Suddenly, he laughed. “You want to know what I’m doing?” He was backing off as he spoke, edging down the line of platforms and scaffolding, away from the flashlight’s steady beam. Abruptly he stopped. “All right, I’ll show you.”
He turned away a moment, his movements concealed by the darkness. When he turned back again, he was holding a gun.
The buzzing inside Derry’s head had become a dull roar, a Niagara Falls of pounding white noise. He leveled the gun at Robert Freemark and his finger tightened on the trigger.
“Turn off the flashlight, old man.”
Old Bob glanced to his left where the staging crew was gathered around the framework that supported the flag display. But they were too far away to see what was happening. No help was coming from there. Old Bob looked back at Derry and the flashlight went dark.
Derry nodded. “First smart thing you’ve done yet.” He licked at his dry lips. “Walk toward me. Stop, that’s far enough. You want to know what I’m up to? Fine, I’ll tell you. Tell you everything. You know why? No, don’t say anything, damn you, just listen! I’ll tell you because you got a right to know. See, I knew you were coming. I knew it. Even though I told you to stay away, I knew you’d be here. Big mistake, old man.”
“Derry, listen—” Old Bob began.
“Shut up!” Derry’s face contorted with rage. “I told you not to say anything, and I damn well mean it! You listen to me! While you and those other old farts have been sitting around waiting for a miracle to end this damn strike, I’ve found a way to make the miracle happen!”
He edged back toward a grouping of rocket launchers, the cooler dangling from his hand, his eyes on Old Bob, ten feet away. He held the gun level on the old man, making sure it didn’t waver, not wanting Old Bob to do something stupid, force him to fire the gun now, before he was ready, ruin everything. Oh, sure, he was going to shoot Mr. Robert Freemark, no question about that. But not quite yet. Not until he was somewhere no one could hear or see. He glanced over to where the staging crew shone their flashlights on the flag display, making sure they were still busy with their work. He grinned. Everything was working out just right.
He knelt in the shadows and set the cooler behind him, close to the launching platform. “Don’t you move,” he told Old Bob softly. “Just stand there. You ain’t carrying a gun, are you?”
Old Bob shook his head. His big hands hung limply at his sides, and his body slumped. “Don’t do this, Derry. There are women and children up there. They could be hurt.”
“Ain’t nobody going to be hurt, old man. What do you think I am, stupid?”
He kept the gun leveled as he lifted the cooler onto the platform and shoved it back into the shadows between the fireworks cases where it couldn’t be seen if you weren’t looking. Well, okay, maybe a few people would end up getting hurt, hit by debris or something. After all, that was part of the plan, wasn’t it? Someone gets hurt, MidCon looks even worse. Derry gave a mental shrug. Point is, the strike will be over and in the long run everyone’ll be happy.
He reached behind the cooler to where he had placed the timer switch and activated it. He had five minutes. He stood up, feeling good. “See, easy as pie. Now you turn around and walk down along the riverbank, Robert Freemark, nice and slow. I’ll
be right behind …”
Then everything flared white hot about him, and it felt as if a giant fist had slammed into his back.
The force of the bomb’s blast blew Derry Howe forward into Old Bob and carried both of them fifteen feet through the air before it dumped them in a tangled heap. Old Bob lay crumpled in the grass, one arm twisted awkwardly, Derry sprawled half on top of him. His ears rang and his head throbbed, and after a minute he felt the pain begin. I’m dying, he thought. Fireworks were exploding all around him, rockets going off in their launcher tubes or spinning wildly off into the darkness or streaming fire into the trees and sky and out over the river. The launching platform was in flames, and the frameworks for the flag display and others hung in ragged, half-burned tatters. The spectators were running and screaming in all directions, blankets scattered, lawn chairs dumped, coolers abandoned. Deep booms and ear-piercing whistles marked the detonation of explosive after explosive from within the white-hot inferno below. Old Bob felt blood on his chest and face and could not tell if it was his or Derry’s. He could feel blood leaking inside his mouth and down his throat. When he tried to free himself from Derry, he found he could not move.
He closed his eyes against his pain and weariness.
Well, that’s it, that’s all she wrote.
He had just enough time left to wonder about Nest, and then everything went black.
CHAPTER 31
The creature that emerged from the shattered remnants of the old oak was so loathsome that it defied comparison with anything John Ross had ever seen. It slouched out of the smoke and ruin, materializing as the pulsating green light fragmented, a nightmare come to life. It walked upright on two legs, but it was hunched over and crook-backed, as if its huge shoulders would not permit it to straighten. Tufts of coarse, black hair dotted its scaly surface, and it had a snake’s hooded yellow eyes and wicked tongue. Toes and fingers split in tripods from its feet and hands, ending in claws that seemed better suited to a great cat. Its face was long and narrow and featureless except for the slits that served as its eyes and mouth, and its head was a smooth, sinuous extension of its corded neck. It was big, fully ten feet in height, even stooped as it was, and its mass suggested that it weighed well over five hundred pounds. It swung around guardedly as it stepped forward into the clearing, casting its flat, empty gaze left and right, looking over the unfamiliar world into which it had emerged.
After centuries of being locked away, the maentwrog was free once more.
John Ross stared at the monster. It looked too huge to have been contained by the old tree, and he wondered how it could ever have been imprisoned. Not that it mattered now. All that mattered now was whether he was going to do anything about the fact that it was loose. His purpose in coming to Hopewell had nothing to do with the maentwrog. The maentwrog was an unneeded and dangerous distraction. He knew what he should do, what he had been sent to do. He should let the monster go its way, let it do what it would, let someone else deal with it. But there was no one else, of course. There was only him. By the time sufficient force was brought to bear, the maentwrog would have killed half the people of the town. It was a berserker, a killing machine that lacked any other purpose in life. It did not kill out of hunger or in self-defense, but out of primal need. It was not his responsibility, but he knew he could not let it pass.
And that was what the demon was counting on—the reason he had set the maentwrog free. John Ross was being given a choice, and the fact that he was human and not a forest creature made the outcome of his choosing a foregone conclusion.
He turned to Nest Freemark, who stood transfixed behind him, her eyes wide and staring, her curly hair wild and damp against her heated face. “Move back from me,” he told her softly.
“John, no, it’s too big,” she whispered, her eyes filled with fear and terror.
“Move back, Nest.”
She did so reluctantly, slowly withdrawing toward the wall of the trees. The clearing was lit by the remnants of the oak, a scattering of shards which were still infused with the green light and clung to the limbs and tall grasses. Overhead, the sky was dark and choked with clouds, the moon and stars hidden. In the distance, he heard the slow rumble of thunder. A sad, wistful resignation filled him. There was no way out of this. In his hands, the black walnut staff pulsed with light.
Ignoring the demon, who backed to the tree line, bland features lit with expectation, Ross stepped forward. He kept his eyes on the maentwrog, who was watching him now, seeing him for the first time, realizing that a confrontation was at hand. The creature dropped down on all fours, muscles bunching, tongue flicking out experimentally. Its mouth parted to reveal multiple rows of sharpened teeth, and it gave a deep, slow hiss of warning.
Ross summoned the magic from his staff, and it flowed over him like liquid light, encasing him in its armor, giving him protection for the battle ahead. The maentwrog cringed in revulsion as Ross slowly transformed, becoming less himself, less the human he had been, turning bright and hard within the magic’s armor. His features melted, smoothing out within the light, and when he advanced in a slow, almost sensual glide, his limp had disappeared completely.
Within the shadows of the clearing, time seemed to slow and sound to cease.
Then the maentwrog threw itself at its adversary in a stunningly swift attack, claws ripping. But the Knight of the Word sidestepped with ease, and the gleaming black staff hammered into the monster as it hurtled past. Fire flared like molten steel, and the creature howled, a high-pitched, ragged snarl, its neck arching, its body writhing. It spun about as it was struck, one arm whipping at the Knight, who was not quite quick enough to avoid it. The blow sent him sprawling backward across the clearing, and he felt the impact even through the shield of his magic.
He scrambled to his feet as the creature launched itself at him a second time. Again he avoided the attack, using the staff to block the deadly claws. The staff’s magic flared and burned, stripping off ragged lengths of reptilian skin, and the maentwrog spun away.
The Knight of the Word righted himself and moved to the center of the clearing, close to the remains of the maentwrog’s shattered prison. From the corner of his eye, he saw Nest crouched down at the fringe of the trees, ready to bolt. But she would not run. She would not leave Pick. Or him, he believed. Whatever happened, she would stand her ground. She might be only a young girl, but she had the heart and soul of a warrior. He knew that much about her. He wished anew that he had been able to tell her more, to give her something else with which to defend herself. But it was a pointless exercise; whether he lived or died, he had done everything for her that he could.
He edged left toward the demon. There was his real enemy. If the maentwrog gave him even a moment’s respite, he could … But no, it was too late for that, too late for anything but letting events unfold as they would. He felt a great despair at his limitations, at the narrowness of the charge he had been given, at the hard truths that belonged to him alone.
The maentwrog crept toward him once more, body lowered to the earth, eyes bright and gleaming. It would not stop until one of them was dead. The Knight understood the nature of his adversary, and he knew there would be no quarter. The beast had killed stronger creatures in its time, and it was not afraid. Fueled by savagery and rage, it knew only one way.
It attacked, feinting several times in an effort to distract the Knight, then launched itself across the clearing, an unstoppable juggernaut of muscle, claws, and teeth. The Knight of the Word stood his ground and delivered a powerful blow, lashing out with such force that the magic’s fire engulfed the maentwrog. But the monster’s rush carried it past his defenses and right into him. The Knight was slammed against the earth, the armored light that protected him crushed downward like plastic. He rolled aside as the maentwrog thrashed within the cloak of fire, trying to reach him but tearing only the earth. He struck it repeatedly, slamming his staff against the massive body, fire bursting from its polished length. The maentwrog scr
eamed and struggled to pin him to the ground, twisting and arching in fury. Twice the Knight was felled, the breath knocked from his lungs, pain filling his body, his strength momentarily leaving him. Both times he rallied, refusing to back away. He could no longer see either the demon or Nest. He could barely make out where he was, the clearing filled with smoke and soot, the shards of light from the devastated tree obscured. He moved in a world of sound and sudden movement, of responses born of instinct and swift reaction, where an instant’s hesitation would mean his death.
He broke from the maentwrog momentarily, sliding away through the murky gloom like a ghost, knowing he must wait for an opening. His strength was beginning to fail, and his magic was tiring. If he did not bring this battle to a swift conclusion, he would lose it. He was so battered already that he could no longer move without pain, his legs cramped, his arms leaden and weak. He had not been much of a fighter in the time before he had become a Knight of the Word, and so fighting did not come instinctively to him. He had learned what little he knew from his dreams of the future and his confrontations in the present, and he was a novice compared with the thing he battled. His magic had made the difference so far, but his magic was not without limits and it was tailored to a different end.
Then the maentwrog swiped at him from out of the smoke and dust, knocking him from his feet. In an instant, the creature was on top of him, bearing down with its forelegs, pinning him fast. Its jaws snapped at his head, scraping against the magic’s armored light, ripping at the fabric. The Knight drove his feet into the monster’s chest, fire exploding at the contact, but could not break free.
In that instant, Nest Freemark rushed out of the smoke and darkness, screaming in fury, no longer able simply to stand by and watch. Wielding a six-foot piece of deadwood, she swung it at the maentwrog in an effort to distract it, desperate to do something to help. The Knight cried out at her to go back, but she ignored him. Surprised, the maentwrog swiped at her with one massive foreleg, and sent her cartwheeling back into the night.
