by Terry Brooks
“You don’t need to know about that,” one of the men snapped at the girl, while the other gave Panther a shove for good measure. “Just keep moving. Hurry it up!”
“We’re missing it!” his companion muttered angrily. “The whole thing!”
They passed the building entrance, moved around to one side, and started toward a series of sheds clustered near the back. Panther had a knife tucked into his boot, but he couldn’t think how to reach it or even what to do with it if he did. He needed the Spray, but that was safely tucked away inside Cat’s cloak. Which their captors hadn’t even bothered to look under, he added bitterly. They were so scared of her disease, whatever they imagined it to be, that they had checked only him. Frickin’ stump heads, he thought.
They reached the sheds. “Okay, this is as far as you go,” one man said, moving toward the nearest door and loosening a chain looped through a metal hasp.
“Are you going to lock us in there?” Cat asked in horror.
“That’s right, Lizard face,” he said, giving her a knowing grin. “Shouldn’t bother you all that—”
She flung out her arm, and an Iron Star embedded itself in his chest. He went down in a heap. The second man stared in disbelief, then tried to bring up his weapon. But by then the second Star was already buried in his neck. He gasped once, clutched at his throat, and collapsed.
Neither Panther nor Cat said a word as they dragged the men into the nearest shed, closed the door, and locked them in by knotting the length of chain through the hasps.
Then the boy turned to her. “You knew we were gonna be captured by these stump heads, and you let it happen?”
“How else were we going to get this close?” She gave him a look. “What? You thought we could sneak in without being seen, maybe? Don’t you know anything? How have you managed to stay alive?”
“Stayed alive just fine before you showed up!” he snapped at her.
She reached under her cloak, fumbled with the ties that secured it, brought out the Parkhan Spray and handed it to him. “Here. Maybe you can manage to stay alive this time, too, if you pay attention to me.”
“Oh, so now you have a plan?”
She pulled up the hood of her cloak so that her face was concealed. “Sure. Go in, find him, and get him out. How’s that sound?”
He stared at her. “Sounds brain-dead.”
“It isn’t. We have the advantage of surprise.”
He stared at her some more, then sighed. “Don’t know why I should expect anything out of you. Okay, let’s do it.”
She led the way at a trot across the empty grounds.
LOGAN TOM was back on his feet, the Word’s magic summoned from his staff once more, its ragged defenses warding him as best they could. The feeders that had attempted to devour him had been thrust aside, driven back into the bleachers. Not that any of this meant he would be alive five minutes from now. Across from him, Krilka Koos was already celebrating, taunting him anew, stalking him as a predator stalks a wounded animal. Logan knew that he needed a plan, a way to catch the big man off guard, a way to negate his strength and power. He needed to call to mind all of the lessons that Michael had taught him about hand-to-hand combat. But wounded and in pain, fighting to keep himself from falling apart, he was finding it difficult to recall anything.
“Logan Tom! Are you still alive over there?” Krilka Koos laughed, feinted playfully, and stepped aside from an imaginary retaliation. “I don’t think you’ve got much left in you! Do you want this to be over with quickly? Or do you wish to keep dragging it out?”
Overconfident of his victory, he revealed something he hadn’t intended. Logan watched him feint and withdraw, feint and withdraw, and he saw a pattern to his movements. If he could take advantage of it, he might still have a chance.
Without giving anything away as to his state of mind or intentions, he started advancing on the other man. Koos could not be uncertain what he was doing; the advance did not seem to signal an attack. If anything, it must seem more a submission, an acceptance of his fate.
“Are you finished, then?” he shouted. It was what he was anticipating, what he believed Logan wanted. “Throw down your staff, and I promise to make it quick!”
Still playing with his captive, he started to feint and withdraw once again.
Only this time Logan was waiting. The moment Krilka Koos began his feint, Logan summoned the magic in a rush and sent it hurtling into the space into which the other’s now predictable withdrawal would take him. The big man stepped right into it. He tried to change directions at the last instant, aware of what was happening, but he was already moving and it was too late. The Word’s bright fire slammed into him, catching him full-on, knocking him completely off his feet and sprawling into the dirt.
Logan rushed him instantly, charging across the space that separated them, using his own magic not to attack, as the other would expect, but to shield himself. As he had anticipated, Koos struck out at him from where he lay, trying to stop him in midstride. But his defenses held, buoyed by the adrenaline pumping through him and by his determination. He heard the roar of the crowd all around him, the sound heartening this time because it betrayed their dismay at the unexpected turn of events.
Then he was on top of Koos, using his staff like a cudgel, hammering it downward on the other’s arms and body in sharp, rapid blows, striving to break past the other’s efforts to block him. He was successful enough that he heard Krilka Koos grunt with pain, still sprawled on his back, unable to get back to his feet. Logan would not let him up. Could not, if he wanted to live. He could feel the feeders all around him, climbing over them both, pressing down, sucking in the leavings of their dark struggle. He pressed his attack, doubling his efforts, Word fire spurting from both ends of his staff in response to his rage. Fire burst from the ends of Krilka Koos’s staff as well, but he could not bring it to bear.
Then, perhaps in desperation, the big man rolled into Logan, one arm reaching out to grapple with his legs, to try to bring him down. He dropped any semblance of an attack using his staff, tucking it against his body with his free arm, relying instead on his enormous strength. He ducked his head between his hunched shoulders, shielding it as best he could, and tore at the smaller man. Logan was already losing his balance, unable to kick free.
When he went down, Krilka Koos was on top of him at once, pounding into him with staff and fists. Blows exploded against Logan’s head, and for a moment he thought he would lose consciousness. He survived mostly on instinct and training, burying his head in the big man’s shoulder while his fingers found a set of vulnerable nerves in the other’s thick neck. Krilka Koos gasped and cried out, thrashing to break free. His attack on Logan stalled as they rolled across the dirt arena in a tangle of arms and legs, the cries of the men and women on the bleachers rising to a fresh crescendo. Koos was bigger and stronger, but Logan, lacking size and strength, knew more about self-defense. Keeping his fingers locked on his enemy’s neck, he lifted his head out of its protective hunch and head-butted the big man in the face, breaking his nose. Koos howled in dismay, and blood spurted all over both of them.
More important, half blind and in desperate pain, he released his grip on Logan.
Logan broke free at once, scrambling to his feet before Koos could stop him. Fire lanced down the entire length of his staff, a blinding blue-white brilliance that brought a collective gasp from those watching. With every ounce of muscle he could bring to bear, Logan slammed the fiery staff against the side of the other man’s head. The head snapped back, and Krilka Koos shuddered. Fighting his way past the clutch of feeders that had suddenly shifted their attention, Logan brought the length of his staff down hard on the other’s knuckles, first on one hand and then the other, breaking several fingers. Koos cried out once more, dropped his staff from his shattered hands, and curled into a ball.
Feeders swamped him in a frenzied rush, a black, snarling mass of shadows.
The roar of the men and women gathere
d died to a soft buzz of disbelief. Logan ignored them, standing over his enemy—the enemy he had not wanted in the first place but accepted as one now. Krilka Koos was still gasping, trying to speak words that pain and shock were blocking.
Logan bent close. “Kill me,” the other whispered, teeth gritted, fierce eyes fixed on him. He thrust aside the feeders threatening to engulf him, his dark face twisting in fear and disgust. “Do it quickly, before they eat me alive!”
Logan hesitated. It was what the other man would have done to him if their positions had been reversed. It was the smart thing to do. He glanced at the crowd, looked into their faces, and saw that they were expecting it. He felt suddenly sick to his stomach, the magic roiling through him in steady, violent waves. Kill him. It would be so easy.
Instead he straightened, reached down for the staff Krilka Koos had dropped, and tossed it aside. “You won’t be needing this again,” he replied, bending down so the other could hear him clearly. He kicked at the feeders, scattering them back toward the bleachers. “You won’t be pretending at being something you’re not after this.”
“I’ll hunt you down!” the other seethed. The dark, scarred visage twisted with fury. “I’ll find you and kill you, no matter where you go. I’ll kill all your children first. All of them! I’ll do it right in front of you!”
Logan bent close. “You’d better hope you never see me again.”
Krilka Koos grinned at him, a death’s-mask grimace, and then spit in his face. A moment later Logan felt something sharp pierce his calf, burning into him. He looked down just as the other man was withdrawing his hand, seeing the tiny dart sticking out of his leg.
Viper-prick.
Instantly the feeders were back, swarming this time over Logan.
He lost control then, slamming the hardened length of his staff against the other’s right knee, shattering it. Krilka Koos sobbed audibly. Logan hesitated a moment, and then he broke the left knee, as well.
“Find me if you can!” he spit. The feeders had become a dark mass at the edges of his vision. His head was buzzing with the magic and the world was all on fire around him, a bright red haze. “Hunt me if you want! But you’ll have to crawl to do it!”
Unaware of what had happened, the crowd was celebrating his victory, cheering and calling out his name. In their minds, he had already taken Krilka Koos’s place. He had become their new invincible. He stood without moving amid the cacophony, staring down at their old leader, the fire of his staff running up and down its length like a live thing. The feeders seemed to be everywhere. He felt light-headed and disoriented, and everything around him began to lose shape and form.
He turned toward the crowd. “Get out!” he screamed.
When they hesitated, waiting to see what he would do, he turned the staff on them, sending sheets of fire hurtling into the bleachers, setting everything that would burn aflame. Those who had hesitated a moment earlier went flying down off their seats, fleeing for the entry and the safety of the world outside the building. Logan chased them with his fire, half mad with rage and frustration.
His thoughts were dark and destructive. A kind of battle madness enveloped him, stealing away his reason entirely.
They’re animals! Nothing but animals!
His mind reeled and his body swayed. The poison was already working its way through his system. He retreated deep inside to protect himself, shutting and bolting doors, throwing locks and bringing down bars.
Animals!
Burn them all to ash!
PANTHER AND CATALYA, hiding beneath the section of the bleachers they had crawled under after wriggling through an opening in the sheet metal near the back of the building, had watched the last of the battle between Logan Tom and Krilka Koos through gaps in the legs of the audience. When the Knight of the Word turned the fire of his staff on the crowd, they threw themselves backward and lay flat against the flooring as the wooden parts of the bleachers caught fire and people began fighting to get clear. Heat and flames washed over them, and the building took on the red glare of a furnace. In moments it had emptied of almost everyone. Through the smoky haze, they could see Krilka Koos lying prostrate at the center of the arena and Logan Tom standing alone, leaning on his staff, swaying uncertainly.
Catalya jabbed Panther’s shoulder to get his attention, then scrambled to her feet. Together they worked their way out from under the bleachers, avoiding the flames and heat, hurrying to reach the Knight of the Word. No one tried to stop them. No one remained to try.
Panther glanced at the display of weapons mounted on the wall behind them as they passed it. Most were scorched or melted, flames licking off the wooden stocks and handle grips, the wall itself seared an uneven gray. Only the three rune-carved staffs seemed unaffected, their smooth lengths a dull, flat black that the flames had failed to damage.
They slipped from behind the bleachers and ran across the floor to the Knight of the Word. He didn’t seem to see them coming, was barely cognizant of their presence once they reached him, his gaze distant and empty as he fought to stay upright.
“Logan,” the girl called to him.
She got to him before Panther, and without hesitating reached down and pulled free the viper-prick. “Hold him up, Panther!” she ordered.
She tore away the pant leg and exposed the wound, an ugly purplish bruise already swollen to a knot. Panther, both arms wrapped about the Knight of the Word, shook his head. Viper-pricks were always fatal. There was no cure. But he didn’t say that, didn’t say anything. He just watched as Cat tied off the leg above the wound, and then fumbled in the pockets of her cloak for a small tube of ointment that she smeared on the knot, covering it over with a compress and binding it in place with tape.
“That will help draw the poison out,” she said by way of explanation. “Let’s get him out of here.”
Shouldering him from either side, the boy and the girl began to walk him across the arena toward the entry. Panther held the Parkhan Spray cradled in one arm, ready to use. But the few men and women who lingered outside fled quickly at their approach.
Behind them, they could hear Krilka Koos moaning and calling out Logan Tom’s name. Panther wanted to go back and cut out his tongue.
Once outside, they began the slow journey toward the freeway. The afternoon was waning, the light fading. East, the sky was already dark. Panther staggered under Logan Tom’s weight, trying to glance over his shoulder, worried that one of those militia stump heads would shoot them in the back.
“Weighs a ton,” he muttered, fighting to keep Logan upright.
Across from him, Cat nodded, her mottled face flushed.
“He might not make it, you know.” Panther glanced at her. “Most men wouldn’t.”
Her lips tightened. “He’s not like most men.”
Couldn’t argue with that. Panther tightened his grip about the Knight of the Word, his mind flooding with images of the battle they had just witnessed.
No, Logan Tom definitely wasn’t like most men.
TWENTY-NINE
L EAVING LARKIN QUILL to cross back over Redonnelin Deep to his home, there to await their signal that they required a return, Angel and her Elven companions set out once more for Syrring Rise. It was midmorning when they began their trek north, but the journey turned out to be anything but what Angel had expected.
“How far do we have to go?” she asked Simralin after enough time had passed that it had become a concern.
“Just a few more miles,” the Elven girl answered, glancing over her shoulder from her lead position, unable to conceal her grin.
Angel peered ahead. There were mountains, but they were some distance off and none of them was particularly distinctive. She guessed she just wasn’t seeing what she was supposed to see, that Syrring Rise was lost in the larger mass or in the dirty haze that hung like a pall over most of what lay ahead, a reminder of how bad the air had been polluted.
They trekked on without saying much, making what progress they cou
ld through country that was choked with wintry stands of weeds and scrub amid rocky flats and rises. Angel’s thoughts drifted to her old life and Johnny, and then to little Ailie, her doomed conscience. The tatterdemalion hadn’t had much chance to exercise that conscience, even though she had stated on their first meeting that this was her self-appointed goal. A creature who lived an average of thirty days, and she had offered herself as a voice of reason to a Knight of the Word—a Faerie creature trying to help a human. It seemed incongruous and somehow sad. She wished for what must have been the hundredth time that she could have found a way to save her tiny friend.
They were in the middle of wilderness by now, in country empty of buildings and roads and anything living. There wasn’t so much as a rodent poking its head from its burrow or a bird circling the sky. Heavy, dead trees clustered together in skeletal bundles, as if they had sought comfort from one another at the end. Grasses were spiky and gray with sickness and death. Dust lay thick on the ground everywhere, rising in small explosions from their footfalls. In the distance, the mountains loomed dark and bare, no closer now than they had been an hour ago.
“Exactly how far is it to Syrring Rise?” Angel asked impatiently.
Simralin stopped a moment, unslung her waterskin, and took a deep drink. “On foot, about two weeks. As the crow flies, about a hundred miles.” She nodded toward the mountain range. “On the other side of that.”
Angel stared. “Two weeks! We don’t have two weeks!”
Simralin nodded. “Don’t worry. We’ll be there before dark.” She shouldered the waterskin anew. “You’ll see, Angel. Trackers know how to get where they want to in ways that others don’t.”
An enigmatic comment that Angel felt inclined to challenge, but she decided not to. She glanced at Kirisin, who shrugged his lack of understanding but at the same time seemed confident that his sister could do what was needed. Angel wished she could have that kind of confidence in someone, but she didn’t even have it in herself.
