by Mark Anthony
He didn't know if the reports of disappearances among the homeless had any truth to them. At the shelter the other day, he had overheard a group of men talking in whispers about others who had vanished, but the stories were second- and third-hand. Whether the rumors were true or not, one thing Travis did know was that he wasn't safe in Denver. Nobody was.
Every day the newspaper headlines blared word of the latest shootings, wars, and biological scares. People were constantly afraid—afraid of anything and anyone that was at all strange or unfamiliar. When people were afraid, they were all too willing to give up their freedom in exchange for the illusion of feeling safe. Just as the people of Denver had done by inking that contract with Duratek. They believed they were safe from the monsters now, but they were wrong. They had locked the monster in the room with them.
Travis's gaze focused back on the television. The news was over, and now the image on the screen was that of a man in a white suit. His black hair swept up from his forehead, shellacked into a glistening wave. The volume was too low to hear what he was saying, but he prowled back and forth on the stage, gesticulating with stiff energy. A choir of bland-faced young men and women was arranged behind him, though they weren't singing.
The scene cut to a shot of a rapt audience. Mouths hung open, and tears streamed down faces. The camera panned across the seated crowd, and Travis saw glass and sculpted metal soaring to a ceiling so dizzying it made him think of the Dome of the Etherion in Tarras.
So it was the Steel Cathedral, only seen from the inside. Travis hadn't realized just how big it really was. There must have been two thousand people in that audience. The scene cut back to the man onstage, pulling in so tight that Travis could see the way his pancake makeup cracked as he spoke. The man seemed at once excited, angry, and exultant. A computer-generated title appeared at the bottom of the screen:
Sage Carson, Pastor of the Steel Cathedral
In a way, the pastor reminded Travis of Brother Cy. Both were tall, edging toward lanky, and both obviously knew how to hold an audience in thrall. However, Sage Carson's white attire was modern and well tailored, unlike Brother Cy's dusty black coffin suit. And while Brother Cy's angry preaching had always been softened by sorrow, even without being able to hear him, Travis could tell this Sage Carson exuded only do-as-I-say-or-be-damned righteousness. By the looks on their faces, the audience was eating it up. But then, deep down, most people liked being told what to do. It was so much easier than thinking.
“So are you going to buy another round or not?” The bartender's growling voice startled Travis.
“No, sorry,” he muttered.
His glass was empty. He must have finished the last sip without thinking. He stood and shoved his hands in his coat pockets. A stray peanut fell out, and the bartender glared at him. Travis hurried toward the door.
“Don't come back, you hear?” the bartender called out after him.
Travis headed out into the frigid night. The door of the bar shut behind him: one more way that was barred to him.
But the way's not barred, Travis. You could go back to Eldh. All you have to do is use the Stones. They have the power to take you there. Jack said they do.
For a moment he let the image of Calavere's great hall fill him. He imagined Grace smiling, drawing him close to the fire, handing him a cup of spiced wine.
Then a different vision rose up within him, blotting out the image of friends and fire like a black cloud: the sun went dark, the ground shook and cracked apart, the walls of Calavere came tumbling down, and darkness swallowed the world.
No, he wouldn't let that happen. Maybe he couldn't get to Duratek, but he would keep Mohg from getting the Great Stones. He gripped the iron box in his pocket and headed into the frosty night.
Ten minutes later, he stood at the top of an embankment. Below, the half-frozen waters of the Platte River oozed among small islands of sand and gravel. There was no place in downtown where it was safe to start a fire; lighting one was guaranteed to bring the police—along with fingerprint scanners networked to Duratek databases. However, there were a pair of cement-and-steel viaducts here. If he started a fire underneath one of the viaducts, no one would be able to see it from above.
He climbed over a cement barrier and half walked, half slid down the weed-covered embankment. As he reached the bottom, the sounds of the city receded, and the sluggish murmur of water rose on the air. Gravel and ice crunched under his sneakers as he walked toward one of the viaducts. The space under the bridge was veiled by a curtain of shadow even his preternaturally sensitive eyes could not penetrate.
That was good; if there wasn't already a fire beneath the viaduct, it meant no one else had already staked out the place. Hands clamped under his armpits, he trudged across weeds and gravel, then passed into the darkness beneath the viaduct.
The darkness moved. Before Travis could react, an arm coiled around his throat, and a hand clamped over his mouth, muffling his cry of surprise as well as any runes he might have spoken. He reached up, to try to pull away the hands of his unseen attacker, then froze as something glinted in front of his face.
It was a knife, gleaming in a stray beam of moonlight.
“You don't belong here,” hissed a man's voice, and the arm tightened around his neck as the knife moved closer.
18.
They must have been waiting for him to step into the shadows. They would have been able to see him walking toward them in the cast-off cityglow, while he had not seen them in the blackness of the viaduct. However, now that he was in the darkness, his eyes—made anew and keener than before in the fires of Krondisar—were starting to adjust. He could just make out the silhouette of the man who held the knife. Travis jerked hard, half-breaking the grip of the other who held him.
“Keep him still!”
“I'm trying,” came a voice from behind. “He's stronger than he looks.”
Despite the powerful arms that gripped him, Travis might have broken free, except his shoes hit a patch of gravel, skittering out from beneath him. He started to fall, but strong hands hauled him back to his feet. A crunching sound filled Travis's skull as all of the vertebrae in his neck popped.
“Didn't you hear me, you big moron? I said hold him still!”
“You're not going to kill him, are you?”
“Why not? He isn't a cop or anything. He's one of us. I've seen the news—the police could care less what happens to people like us. What's one more disappearance to them?”
“What will we do with the body?”
“I say we cut it up. There are plenty of stray dogs down here by the river. They should take care of the pieces.”
Travis's heart lurched as he felt the touch of metal against his cheek. Frantic, he twisted his head, and for a second one of the hands flailed, trying to clamp back down on his mouth.
A second was all Travis needed. “Dur!” he said through clenched teeth. There was a cry of pain as the knife went flying away into the dark, followed by a plop as it landed in the icy waters of the Platte.
“What the hell . . . ?” The shadow in front of him shook a hand as if it had been stung.
Travis felt the arms holding him go slack. This was his chance. He drove backward with his elbows and was rewarded with an exhalation of pain and surprise. A forward lunge broke him free, but his legs were shakier than he thought. He stumbled and fell to his knees.
“Sar!” he gasped, pressing both of his hands against the ground.
The rune was weak, like the rune of iron. The Stones were sealed in the iron box; their power could not help him. However, the magic was enough to lift a dozen pebbles from the ground and send them whizzing through the air. Soft thuds sounded as rocks pelted skin, and yelps of pain rang out.
Travis gained his feet. His eyes had finally adjusted, and he could see the two men. The one who had held the knife spun in circles, yowling; he was a small, pudgy man with rounded shoulders. The other, the one who had grabbed Travis from behind, was tall and sc
arecrow thin, his long arms waving like the blades of a windmill as he tried to bat away the flying stones. Travis knew he should run, but he found himself laughing instead.
“Stop it!” The shorter man shouted, his voice high-pitched and rasping. “Stop throwing stones!”
“I have,” Travis said. The magic had faded away, leaving only an itch in his right hand.
“Oh.” The small man stopped spinning.
“How did you do that?” the other man said, his long arms falling back at his sides. His voice had a halting yet musical cadence to it. “You weren't throwing the stones. You said something, and they started flying.”
Travis took a step back. He should get out of here; these men were killers. “Why did you pull a knife on me?”
The little one spat a wad of phlegm. “Get a clue, dipstick. We were playing with you, that's all—giving you a little scare for invading our place, and maybe making you think you were going to be the next guy to disappear.”
“I told you it was a bad idea,” the tall man said.
“Well it's not my fault this jerk doesn't have a sense of humor.” The little one glared at Travis. “You didn't have to go all psycho on us.”
Travis shoved his right hand into his pocket. “Sorry. I didn't mean to . . .” There was no use trying to explain. “Sorry.” He turned around and started across the gravel.
“Wait!” Heavy boots sounded on gravel behind him. “Wait a minute. You don't have to go.”
Travis hesitated, then turned back. The tall man gazed at him with placid brown eyes. His long black hair was streaked with gray. “It's cold tonight, but the viaduct blocks most of the wind. You should stay here with us.”
The other man danced a jig of anger on the gravel. “Holy crap, what did you go and do that for, Marty?”
“Maybe he can start a fire,” the tall one, Marty, called back. He smiled at Travis. “We haven't had any luck. The wood is so cold it won't catch.”
“What makes you think I can do it?”
“You look like a man who can start fires,” Marty said, then turned and started back toward the viaduct.
Travis stood still, not sure what to make of those words.
You should leave. You can't trust anybody—you can't know who's working for Duratek.
Even as he thought this, a chill wind whistled over the river, slicing through his thrift-store parka. He drew in a breath, then ducked his head and trudged back toward the dimness of the viaduct.
There was a niche in the cement retaining wall beneath the bridge where the men had set up their makeshift camp. However, it was anything but warm; their breath formed frozen ghosts on the air. Marty introduced himself, along with his associate. The short man's name was Jay, and his sparse black beard framed what seemed to be a permanent scowl. Travis gave them his first name and shook Marty's big hand, but Jay turned his back when Travis tried to repeat the gesture.
“Never mind him,” Marty said. “He has a thing about certain kinds of people.”
Travis pulled his hand back. “What kinds of people do you mean?”
“The living kind.” Marty squatted down beside a pile of unburned sticks. “So, you can get it going, can't you?”
Travis gazed down at the wood. “I suppose I can.”
Despite the darkness and his turned back, it was impossible to hide what he was doing. He held a hand toward the sticks and whispered the rune of fire. A tendril of smoke curled up from the wood, but that was it. His rune magic was pathetically weak here on Earth, and while it would have been far stronger if he opened the iron box, he didn't dare. He might end up setting them all on fire. Instead, he spoke the rune with greater force.
“Krond!” Flames leaped up, bright and consuming.
Marty grinned, the sharp planes of his face illuminated by golden light.
“How did you do that?” Jay stood above Travis. “You didn't even use a match. Marty's right—all you've got to do is say some mumbo jumbo and stuff happens. What was that word you said? Tell it to me so I can start a fire.”
Travis stared into the flames. “It's not that simple.”
“You mean you just don't want to tell me,” Jay said, his scowl deepening. “You want to keep the secret for yourself, don't you, you greedy bastard?”
“Believe me, if I could give it to you, I would.”
Those words seemed to startle Jay. He opened his mouth, closed it again, then sat next to the fire.
Marty laughed. “You really must be able to do magic, Travis. I've never seen anyone put Jay at a loss for words.”
The little man glared at Marty. “And I've never heard you be such a big blabbermouth before, so maybe it is voodoo.” He turned his hot gaze on Travis. “You're pretty good with the fire stuff. Got any words that'll magic up some food?”
Travis shook his head.
“Well, then what good are you?” Jay's tone was disgusted, but a trace of a smile showed inside his beard as he held his stubby hands toward the fire and rubbed them together.
“My uncle told a story,” Marty said, “of a man he knew who could use sticks to find lost jewelry, and I knew a pretty woman who could see the future in a deck of cards. But I've never heard of making a fire with a word.”
“I didn't make the fire,” Travis said. “Fire is just a transformation. When something burns, all it's doing is moving from one state to another. The heat and light were locked inside the wood all along. All I did was release them.”
Jay let out a snort. “Good grief, that sounds like the kind of crap old Sparky is always dumping on anyone stupid enough to listen to him. Still the professor, even though the college gave him the boot years ago. It's all something is nothing, and nothing is everything, and the universe was once the size of a walnut, only now it's flying apart. It makes my brain hurt.” He pulled off his stocking cap and rubbed his bald head.
Travis felt a tightness in his chest. “Who is this Sparky person?”
“A smart man,” Marty said before Jay could say anything. “He's usually in Civic Center Park in the morning. Although if it snows tonight, he might not be there. His chair gets stuck in the drifts. We can take you to him in the morning, if you'd like.”
“What do you mean we?” Jay snapped. “I'm not going near that freak. He makes me feel . . . weird.”
“Why is that?” Travis said.
Jay shook his head. “Lots of reasons. All the junk he says. Like the universe is so freaking big, and we're just stupid little specks. But mostly it's his eyes. It's like he's seen things nobody else has. Things maybe no one shouldn't see.” Jay licked his lips. “Kind of like your eyes.”
Travis opened his mouth, but he had no reply.
“We should get some more wood for the fire,” Marty said, standing. “We don't want it to go out on a night like this.”
They returned to the viaduct with two pilfered loading pallets to break up for wood—Travis helped Jay with one, while Marty carried the other by himself—and spent a cold but bearable night huddled close to the fire. For a while they spoke in low voices, and Travis learned that Marty and Jay had both come to Denver that summer on a train from Topeka. The two men had met a couple of years ago in Ohio and had been traveling together ever since, slowly making their way west. Travis asked them how long they would keep traveling.
“Until we run out of country to cross,” Jay said, firelight shining in his eyes. “Then we'll spend our days on a California beach lying in the sand, eating oysters, and watching the ladies walk by. That's our plan, isn't it, Marty?”
Marty said nothing and used his big hands to break off more wood from one of the pallets. Finally, it grew too late and too cold for talking. At Jay's suggestion, each took a turn keeping watch while the others dozed.
“No creep is going to get us like those other guys who disappeared,” Jay said. “That's why Marty and I travel together. It's safer that way.” He thrust a finger at Travis. “It's a bad idea to try to go it alone in this world. If that's what you were thinking
, then you need to think again.”
“I'll take the first watch,” Travis said.
While the two men slept on ragged blankets by the fire, Travis pressed a hand to the cement viaduct and whispered Krond over and over, until waves of heat radiated from the retaining wall, pushing back the frigid air a few more inches.
After midnight he woke Marty, whose turn it was to keep watch, then he curled up next to the fire, wishing he hadn't sold his old mistcloak in Tarras over a century ago.
The world was filled with gray light when Travis opened his eyes.
“Well, well, it looks like the wizard is finally awake,” said a sardonic voice.
For a moment Travis was confused. Everything was the soft color of fog. Was he back in the Gray Tower of the Runespeakers? Master Larad was always mocking him and his power, his scarred face at once disgusted and amused. Except that couldn't be right. All-master Oragien had banished Larad from the Gray Tower for his treachery, and Travis hadn't seen the sharp-tongued runespeaker since.
The sound of thunder rumbled above. Travis sat up and rubbed his eyes, and the world smeared into focus. Marty was rolling up the blankets, and Jay poked at the ashes of the fire with a stick. Sunlight turned the icy-clogged water of the Platte a soft pink, and flakes of cement fell like snow as another truck hurtled over the viaduct above.
“I don't suppose you could get the fire started again, Mr. Wizard,” Jay said.
Travis shook his head. “The wood's all gone.” It was hard to speak; his jaw was stiff as a rusty hinge.
“What about what you did to the cement wall?” Marty said.
Travis winced. The tall man must not have been asleep after all when Travis worked that magic.
“What do you mean, what he did to the wall?” Jay said, glaring at Marty.
“He means this.” Travis pressed his hand against the retaining wall and muttered Krond several times, until a comforting warmth radiated from the hot cement.
Jay's eyes bulged from their sockets. “For the love of Pete, how did you do that?”
