by Terry Brooks
“I don’t have time for this,” he told the speaker. “Let me pass.”
The weapons stayed pointed at him, and he heard the click and snap of released safeties and cocked hammers. Stupid, he thought, thinking of both these men and himself.
His arm came up in a quick sweep, the magic already deflecting the bullets that were being fired at him, at the same time sending his attackers flying backward in sprawling heaps, the wind knocked out of them. He turned and ran through a crowd that scattered at his approach, abandoning any idea of trying to leave through the front gates, heading instead for the tunnels that had brought him in. A few others tried to stop him, but he brushed them aside easily, barely slowing, gaining the shelter of the stairwell and scrambling down.
In seconds he had reached the lower levels and was charging along the corridors that led to the tunnels. He could hear shouts and cries behind him, the sounds of a pursuit being mounted. He could hear the pounding of feet coming down the stairs after him. He didn’t slow. He wished he could have had a chance to look around the front gates, to see if there was any trace of Hawk and Tessa. But that wouldn’t be possible now. Besides, he knew in his heart that whatever had happened to them wasn’t the sort of occurrence that left clues. Magic like that—and he was convinced by now that it was magic—made a clean sweep of everything it touched.
He gained the entry to the underground tunnels and passed through, slowing now as a concession to the darkness, using the glow of the runes off the staff to guide him. The gloom was thick, but not complete, and his eyes adjusted quickly. He moved through the tunnels as swiftly as he could, but he had to take enough time to make certain he did not turn down the wrong branch. He became aware that no one was following him. Given up, he mused, to pursue more important matters. Like finding a way to stay alive.
At the end of the tunnel and the door leading out into the bus shelter, he stopped to listen, to reassure himself that no one lay in wait. Then he slipped outside, climbing the steps to where he could look around and see what was happening.
The open spaces surrounding the compound were filled with men pouring through the gates and moving down the streets toward the waterfront, all heavily armored and armed. A pair of ancient mobile Scorpion attack vehicles were chugging along behind them, their huge cannons pointing the way. He hadn’t seen one of those since his days with Michael, had thought them all extinct. They fired armor-piercing shells and starburst canister alike. They could sink any of the approaching boats with a single shot, but it would take an awful lot of single shots to make a difference.
Out on the open waters of the bay, the booming of the drums continued, a steady throbbing in the night.
He watched the activity for a moment, all of it heading away from him, and then slipped from the shelter and moved back across the rubble-strewn ground to where he had told Panther to wait for him. The black staff throbbed softly in his hand, and the heat of the magic still roiled within him. He felt hot and cold at the same time, a response to the mix of emotions warring within him. At least he hadn’t been forced to hurt anyone. He wished just once the people in the compounds would listen to his warnings about the demons and once-men. It wasn’t his problem, but he wished it anyway. It was hard enough tracking down and destroying the slave camps without knowing that those he set free could easily be replaced by the men and women and children of the compounds, fresh fodder for the Void’s extermination machine.
He hated even thinking about it. A world turned mad and its people turned victims. But maybe the boy Hawk, a gypsy morph born of wild magic, could make the difference.
He reached the edge of Pioneer Square, expecting to find Panther, but there was no sign of him. He called his name softly, knowing that the compound inhabitants probably couldn’t hear him if he screamed it, but cautious nevertheless. No answer. He looked around. Nothing moved.
He stood alone in the empty street, wondering what to do next.
TWO
S PARROW CROSSED THE ROOF of their building in a rush, intent on reaching the stairs and getting down to the street as quickly as she could manage it. The moment she realized what the lights on the water were, she realized as well the danger they were all in. It would take the invaders awhile to get ashore, but as soon as they did they would go hunting for strays like her. She had heard the stories from her mother and seen the results. The hunters of humans were mad things, beasts with claws and teeth and hair, predators. Street kids were a favorite prey. The other Ghosts had to be warned.
But just as she reached the stairwell and was preparing to start down, she heard footsteps coming up. They were heavy and rough, and no attempt was being made to hide their approach. She stopped where she was, listening. The footsteps did not belong to the Ghosts or even to the Knight of the Word. Or to anything human, she added quickly.
She backed away from the opening, both hands tightening around the slim metal length of her prod. Then she heard deep, guttural voices from the darkness below, voices harsh enough to override even the heavy tread, and she froze.
Croaks.
Her mind raced as she tried to think what to do. She did not want to have to fight her way past Croaks. They were slow and not particularly smart, but they were enormously strong. If they got their hands on her, she was finished. She stared into the black of the stairwell and took another few steps back. She did not know whether she should chance trying to get down to a lower level where there might be somewhere better to hide, or stay where she was. If she was lucky, they might lose interest and go away. If not, if they came all the way up, she was in trouble. She glanced around quickly. The roof was open and mostly flat save for a handful of small mechanical housings and the debris from their catchment system. There was almost nowhere to hide. She turned back to the stairs helplessly. There was no other way off the roof.
Or was there?
She raced to the side of the building that fronted the alleyway and looked down. A fire escape ladder was attached to the concrete by heavy bolts, a narrow metal ribbon almost invisible in the gloom. She stared at it a moment, then glanced out at the water where the lights from the invading boats were drawing closer. The drums continued to sound, beating out a steady rhythm, announcing what lay ahead to those in the threatened city. Already the gates of the compound had swung open and squads of defenders were making their way down to the docks. A battle would be fought there soon. When that happened, the Ghosts would be well advised to be far away.
She brushed at her thatch of straw-colored hair and took a deep breath. She hated heights, but anything was preferable to an encounter with Croaks. She looped the prod’s carry strap over her shoulder and across her back, stepped up onto the narrow, flat surface of the building cap, grasped the curved railing where it arched up from below, and started climbing down backward.
She wanted to close her eyes, but she settled for keeping her gaze fixed on the wall and her attention focused on finding secure footing upon each rung as she descended. Her efforts were made easier by the deepness of the night, which the narrow canyon of the alleyway made almost complete. Even the torchlight from the compound and the water didn’t penetrate here. She steadied herself by thinking of her warrior mother, of how she had orchestrated escapes of this sort so many times when Sparrow was little. Her mother had told her about some of them, and Sparrow had been present at a few near the end. She had marveled at her mother’s calmness in the face of such excruciating pressure. It had taught her something about the necessity of composure, of knowing that the worst danger you faced would often be your own uncertainty.
She kept that foremost in her thoughts as she made her way down the side of the building, a fly against the wall in the gloom, trying not to think about how it would feel to fall.
The descent went much more quickly than she had expected, and her feet touched the ground before she realized it was there. She stepped away from the ladder, unslung the prod, and looked around guardedly. She could not see or hear anything. The alley was em
pty. Moving quickly down its length, she gained the street and peered out into the night. She was at the side of the building now, the street running down from Pioneer Square to the waterfront. Everywhere, the shadows seemed to move in response to the fires and the drums.
A quick glance up at the roof revealed nothing.
She started up the street for the square, intent on going after the other Ghosts and warning them of the danger. She wasn’t sure what they could do about it until the Knight of the Word returned with Hawk, but at least they would be prepared for what she knew was coming. She swore in her best thirteen-year-old street language at the Croaks that had forced her to climb down that ladder, furious at the delay. What were Croaks doing in her building anyway? They knew the rules. They had never entered before, never even dared. They must have seen the Ghosts leaving, must have realized that they were abandoning the building. It was a desirable dwelling, easily defended and safe. They just decided to move in once it appeared that the Ghosts had moved out.
But they could have waited a day or two, couldn’t they?
She reached the head of the street where it intersected the square, moving cautiously, eyes sweeping the darkness, knowing that if there were Croaks inside the building there were probably Croaks outside, as well. But the square seemed deserted, and so she started to turn north up First in the direction the others had gone when she heard her name called.
“Sparrow! Wait up!”
She wheeled around at the sound of Panther’s voice, watching as he came up the empty street at a trot, dodging among the piles of debris, his prod cradled in the crook of his arm, his breathing audible even from where she stood. He must have run all the way from the compound. Something must have happened for him to come back like this. Something bad.
She started to ask what it was, and then saw the dark forms shambling along behind him, still a way back, but clearly in pursuit. More Croaks.
“Frickin’ Croaks!” he spit out angrily. “Chased me all the way from the edge of—”
She hissed at him in warning. “Keep it down, Panther Puss! There are more inside!”
Too late. Heavy bodies appeared from the doorway of their building, eyes turning their way. Ragged forms with gimlet eyes, fingernails long since grown to claws, and teeth sharpened like those of wild animals.
Sparrow shoved Panther in frustration. “Now you’ve done it, big mouth. Get moving!”
They hurried across the square, Croaks at both ends of the street and closing. The fires and the drums didn’t seem to have any effect on them. They had their own concerns to occupy their attention, and Sparrow knew that most of those concerns revolved around food.
“Where’s Hawk?” she asked as they ran toward the buildings across the way. “Why are you back here alone?”
“Don’t know about Hawk. Don’t know about that Knight of whatever, either. He left me at the edge of the square, told me to wait until he came back. He never came, but these Croaks did and I had to make a break for it. They’re all over. Did you see the fires on the water?”
She glanced over at his dark face. “I saw them from the roof. Boats filled with invaders. If they’re the ones I think, we’re in big trouble. Mama used to tell me about them. Once-men, she called them. They destroy everything, kill everyone except the ones they put in the slave camps. Worse than the militias. We have to warn the others and get out of here.”
“You won’t get no argument from me.” He slowed suddenly, grabbing her arm. “Uh-oh.”
A pair of Croaks had appeared out of the buildings in front of them, blocking their escape. “What is it with these things?” Panther snapped furiously. “We don’t see any for weeks, then all of a sudden they’re everywhere! Where’d they all come from?”
Sparrow took a quick look around at the ones following. Another few minutes and they would be right on top of them. “We have to get past these two,” she said. “You take the one on the left. Try not to do anything stupid.”
Without waiting for his response, she launched herself at the one on the right, her finger on the prod’s trigger and the staff’s electric charge at full strength. She jabbed the prod’s end into the Croak’s leg, and the Croak grunted and began to shake and jerk uncontrollably. Sparrow didn’t back away, keeping the prod jammed into its leg, knowing that if she gave ground it would be on her in a second. To her left, she caught a glimpse of Panther moving in close, his prod lancing into the other Croak’s throat with such force that it broke the heavy skin. The Croak gasped and tried to extract the killing tip, but Panther used his strength to force it backward and down to its knees.
In seconds both Croaks lay twitching on the concrete. Sparrow grabbed Panther’s arm and pulled him toward the building’s alleyway. “Stop staring at them! Run!”
Prods held at the ready, they disappeared into the dark corridor of the alley.
LOGAN TOM took a few minutes more to look around the rubble where he had told Panther to wait, and then gave up. He didn’t know what had happened to the boy, but he couldn’t take the time to find out. He had to get back to the other street kids and hope that Panther would find his own way. Maybe something had scared him. That didn’t seem like Panther, but you never knew. Whatever the case, he wasn’t here now.
Unless he was, but couldn’t answer.
Logan didn’t want to dwell on that possibility, but he couldn’t quite put it aside, either. He hated the thought that he might have somehow failed the boy, that he might have brought him along only to get him killed. He had lived for years with the guilt of never being able to do quite enough for the children in the slave camps. He didn’t need another name added to that list. Funny. He had known Panther for less than twenty-four hours, but it felt a lot longer. He liked the dark-humored, moody boy—liked his aggressiveness and readiness to take on anything. Maybe it was because he admired the toughness in street kids that he liked Panther so much.
Or maybe it was because he reminded him of himself.
He started back up the street into Pioneer Square, chased by the sounds of the drums on the bay and the marching of the compound defenders to the docks. He hated the thought of taking on this new responsibility, looking after the Ghosts, shepherding them to wherever it was he was supposed to go. Losing the gypsy morph was a major breach of his duty to protect it. Pretty hard to protect something that had been swallowed up by a ball of light and was now who-knew-where. But being left with the morph’s family…
He stopped himself, rethinking his choice of language.
Being left with Hawk’s family, with a pack of street kids to look after, was galling. It limited his freedom of movement. What was he supposed to do with these kids and the old man and that wolf dog while he was trying to figure out how to find Hawk?
He realized that until he had come face-to-face with the morph, he had never thought of it as a child. Even though it had started out as one in the time of John Ross and Nest Freemark, even though it had never been seen as anything else after those first few weeks, he had never thought of it that way. He hadn’t really given it any thought at all. When Two Bears had asked him to find the morph, he had seen it as an escape from what he had been doing for so many years: attacking the camps, killing the defenders, setting free the prisoners, and—he hesitated before finishing the thought—destroying the experiments that someday would become demons. The children. He had thought he would be leaving all that behind. He had thought himself free of it.
He had never imagined that he would find himself tied up with a bunch of street kids.
But as with so many things in his life, it appeared he had been wrong about this, too.
He moved ahead into the shadow of the buildings and the dark canyon of Pioneer Square and tried not to look back.
OWL HEARD THE DRUMMING first and looked back over her shoulder past River, who was manning the wheelchair, toward the dark stain of the bay waters. Hundreds of lights dotted their smooth surface for as far as the eye could see.
“Turn me ar
ound,” she ordered the dark-haired girl.
River wheeled her about obediently. The other Ghosts saw what was happening and stopped to look with her. Bear slowed the heavy cart that was filled with their possessions, and Candle, who was leading the way, walked back. Fixit and Chalk, carrying the Weatherman on his makeshift litter, set him down, stretching aching backs and rubbing weary arms.
“For an old man, he weighs an awful lot,” Chalk muttered.
Owl didn’t hear him, her attention focused on the lights. Torches, she decided. More than she could count. They would be burning from the decks of boats, which meant a huge fleet had come to the city. But not for anything good.
In her lap, Squirrel stirred and lifted his sleepy face from her shoulder. “Are we there, Mama?”
“Not yet,” she whispered.
He snuffled and rubbed his eyes. “What’s that noise?”
“Nothing to worry about.” She stroked his fine hair. “Go back to sleep.”
She was worried about him. He should have been better by now, the sickness defeated. But he couldn’t seem to shake it, and he was growing weaker despite the medications and care. He had only been able to walk three blocks from their home when they left for the freeway before tiring and climbing into her lap. She didn’t mind holding him; he didn’t weigh hardly anything.
She glanced down at his wan face. She wished Tessa were there to offer advice. Tessa knew more about medications and sicknesses than anyone.
Candle was standing at her shoulder, young face intense and worried. “We have to run away,” she said.
“It’s an attack,” Bear declared. His big frame blocked the heavy cart so that it could not roll. “Those are war drums. That many boats means an invading force, probably come up from the south.”
