The Black Reckoning

by John Stephens

  “Richard…”

  “It’s like he said.” Her husband’s voice was filled with awe. “We’ve gone back in time. We’re in the Sahara. Back when the tribe were desert nomads. But I don’t think we’re really here. I think this might be a memory—”

  He cut himself off. A few feet away, a man was sitting with his eyes closed. He had white hair and a white beard and a face made up almost entirely of wrinkles. He was so quiet and still that he seemed a part of the landscape.

  “You think he can hear us?” Richard said.

  “No. It’s like we’re ghosts.” Clare knelt before him. “I wonder if he’s—”

  The old man’s eyes snapped open, and Clare fell backward in alarm.

  “Clare—”

  “I’m fine. But look—”

  The old man’s eyes were all pupil, but then, slowly, they changed, the pupils shrinking, the whites and irises appearing.

  Clare now turned to follow the old man’s gaze. A tall figure in a dark cloak and hood was approaching the tent. Clare and Richard both moved back and waited.

  The hooded figure entered and sat down before the old man.

  “You’ve come,” the old man said.

  It was only later that the couple would wonder how it was that although the two men had not been speaking English, or any language Richard and Clare recognized, they had understood every word.

  The hooded figure said, “You know why I am here?”

  “Yes. But you must say it.”

  “I wish to know about the Books. Who will find them? When will they be found?”

  “I must see your face.”

  The visitor pushed back his hood. He was a man in middle age with close-cropped dark hair and severe features. But Clare found herself staring at his eyes, which were the most startling emerald green she had ever seen.

  —

  With his twelve arrows, Gabriel managed to down eleven Imps and Screechers. His first arrow had been for the bald giant, but somehow—could his hearing be so sharp?—Rourke had dodged out of the way. Gabriel didn’t waste any more time on Rourke, but with a new arrow on his string every second, he drew and released, drew and released, while on the slope below, Rourke cursed and struck at the Imps and morum cadi and struggled to maintain order.

  After firing his last arrow, Gabriel didn’t wait to see what would happen next. The trail his attackers were on skirted the edge of the cliff till it reached the bridge and for nearly sixty yards was no more than two feet wide, with a plunge of a thousand feet on one side and a steep rocky slope on the other. Gabriel planted himself in the middle of the trail, drew his sword, and waited.

  A Screecher was the first to appear; Gabriel saw its yellow eyes glowing in the darkness, and the creature ripped forth one of its awful cries and charged. Gabriel had chosen a spot where the ground gave way, a fact he hid with his body. He stood utterly still, and when the morum cadi was a yard or so from him, he leapt backward, and the Screecher, rushing forward, lost its footing and, with a kick from Gabriel, tumbled off the cliff.

  His next attacker was hard on the heels of the first, the next right behind him, with yet another following. Gabriel fought with every ounce of skill and strength and cunning he had, blocking, striking, thrusting, kicking, punching, shoving, cutting down some of his attackers while doing his best to hurl others off the cliff, and all the while he was being pushed backward step by step. Several times, his enemies tried to rush him, but they got jammed up on the path, with one invariably grabbing at another and sending both into the void.

  By the time he’d reached the grass bridge, he’d cut their numbers by another thirteen. Then a crossbow bolt whizzed out of the darkness and buried itself in his left shoulder, the same shoulder that had been wounded by the Imp the night before. The impact jerked him back, and a moment later, pain exploded across his chest and neck. He yanked the bolt out and jammed it into the eye of an Imp that was rushing forward—then, seeing Rourke’s bald head round the edge of the path, and feeling the throb of the poison in his shoulder, he turned and ran.

  When he reached the far side of the bridge, he looked and saw only six—four Screechers and two Imps—rushing across. Rourke had held the others back.

  An Imp was nearly to him when Gabriel cut the bridge. The creatures tumbled into space, a few clinging to the bridge till it whiplashed down and struck the side of the mountain. He heard Rourke’s laughter from across the chasm.

  “Well played, lad! Though seems to me you’ve treed yourself! How are you expecting to shimmy down from there? Never you fret. We’ll be over soon enough!”

  But Gabriel had already turned away to begin planning the next stage of the fight.

  —

  “That cannot be.”

  The old seer opened his hands. “It is as it will be. Three children will come. They will find the Books. They are the Keepers.”

  “And then what?” the green-eyed man sneered. “Speak! What happens when they find the Books?”

  The old man closed his eyes again, shaking his head. “The path from there is not yet determined. If the Keepers bring the Books together and no more, then they and the Books will be destroyed.”

  “But there is another path,” the man said, leaning forward. “A way the Books will not be destroyed. The power cannot be lost! What is the other way?”

  After a moment, the old man nodded. “I see two paths. In one, the Keepers bring the Books together, and they and the Books are destroyed. In the other, the three become one.”

  “What do you mean? Three become one?”

  “Three Books into one Book. Three Keepers into one Keeper. If this happens, the Final Bonding will occur.”

  The green-eyed man was silent, his head bowed. Then he looked up and smiled. “Another Keeper. That is what you are saying. A Final Keeper for the Final Bonding. One who can control the power of the Books.” He reached into his cloak. “Thank you, old man.”

  Clare saw the knife and screamed, but only Richard heard her.

  —

  They used crossbow bolts, the ends of which were tied with light, strong ropes, and they fired them across the chasm so that the bolts buried themselves in the dirt and rock on the other side. Gabriel tried to leap out and cut the ropes, but Rourke was ready, and more bolts and arrows drove him back.

  At that point, there was nothing he could do but wait.

  Finally, when there were more than a dozen of the narrow ropes suspended across the chasm, one of the morum cadi took hold of the bundle of cables and scuttled across upside down. Once on Gabriel’s side, the creature secured the ropes around one of the posts that had held the bridge. At that point, only Rourke and five others, three Screechers and two Imps, remained, but Gabriel’s left arm was nearly useless, and he could feel the poison spreading through his body. He knew that if he didn’t treat the wound properly, and soon, the poison would find his heart.

  Gabriel got lucky when one of the Screechers simply fell off the improvised rope bridge. That left four. Rourke himself started across last of all, the posts on either side bowing under his weight. There was still one Imp on the ropes, but two Screechers and another Imp were already on his side, and Gabriel rushed down upon them, howling. The ground where they fought was rocky and sloped, and Gabriel cut down all three, but the last Imp, leaping off the ropes, slashed him viciously down his back before Gabriel kicked him in the chest and sent him over the cliff.

  Gabriel was gasping with pain and using his sword as a cane to steady himself.

  “Ah now, lad, I do hate to see you in this sad state.”

  Gabriel turned to see Rourke stepping over the smoking body of one of the Screechers as he pulled out his long twin knives.

  “But you must’ve always known it would come to this.”

  Gabriel looked at him for a long moment, then straightened, ignoring the pain in his shoulder and back, and said, “Are we going to talk or fight?”

  —

  “Clare—”

  She
had fallen to her knees beside the old prophet, who was bleeding out on the rugs.

  “That can’t be all!” she cried. “There has to be something else! Some way to save them!”

  Figures had come running when the seer had cried out, but the green-eyed man had already vanished. Three men had laid the old man down, and one was pressing a bundled scarf onto his wound. The old man grabbed at the man, and Richard heard the prophet ordering the man to take their people away, warning that the green-eyed sorcerer would return. They had to run, and keep running.

  Then the old seer reached out and grabbed a handful of sand, brought it to his lips and seemed to breathe into it, whispering. He held out his hand.

  “They will come. The parents of the Keepers. One day they will come. Give them this. Keep it safe.”

  He opened his hand, and Richard saw the milky white cube fall into the hand of the other man. The scene before him began to dim.

  “Clare—”

  But she was leaning toward the dying prophet, sobbing.

  “Tell me! Tell me how to save the children!”

  Then the old man said, his voice failing, “He did not let me speak the end….”

  “Tell us! We’re here! Tell us!”

  “After the Final Bonding…” The man’s voice dropped below a whisper, and Richard saw his wife place her ear next to the man’s lips, straining to catch the words, her tears falling unfelt upon the old man’s face. Then Clare wrenched back, shouting, “No!” and the world vanished before them.

  —

  “This is so disappointing.”

  They were battling along the edge of the cliff. Gabriel was fighting one-handed, and, whether out of sportsmanship or contempt, Rourke was doing the same. Gabriel had attacked with all his remaining strength, but it did no good. He remembered their fight in the fortress and, before that, in the volcano in Antarctica. Somehow, the giant Irishman was stronger and faster than ever, as he blocked or dodged every one of Gabriel’s blows with ease.

  Gabriel swung his sword in an arc, but Rourke ducked and punched him in his wounded shoulder with the butt of his knife, causing Gabriel to cry out.

  “Come now, lad. I scarcely touched you. Don’t be going soft on me.”

  Gabriel lunged again, and Rourke again slipped inside and this time thudded an elbow into Gabriel’s face. Gabriel went blind for a moment and stumbled backward over the rocks. He knew that the edge of the cliff was near, but he caught himself in time, even as he felt the emptiness only feet away.

  Rourke was walking slowly forward.

  “So where are the kiddies’ parents? I don’t imagine they’ll be too hard to flush out. There can’t be too many places to hide around here.”

  Gabriel attacked again, and this time, when Rourke slipped inside his intentionally clumsy attack, Gabriel was ready and ran his shoulder into the man’s stomach. Rourke let out a grunt and grabbed Gabriel by the hair and smashed his head against a boulder before tossing him away as one might a cat.

  “You know all this is pointless, yes? The children are doomed. It’s fate. Stronger than any of us.”

  Gabriel glanced toward the edge of the cliff. He needed to lure the man closer.

  Rourke feinted, feinted again, and then struck with his knife. Gabriel felt the tip slide across his chest and stomach. He staggered back, his hand going to his sliced-open stomach, as if to hold himself together.

  But he saw that he was, finally, at the lip of the cliff. He raised his sword feebly, but Rourke struck it away, and the sword went spinning out of his hand into the void. Rourke thrust again, and Gabriel twisted so that the blade only went through his side instead of killing him.

  He dropped to his knees. Rourke was above him.

  “Your whole life, lad, and it’s all been for naught. Just a grand waste.”

  Gabriel felt himself seized by the neck and lifted so that his feet came off the ground. He was staring into the black pits of Rourke’s eyes. Was he right? If Gabriel died now, if the children died, had it all been for nothing?

  “Time’s up, lad.” Rourke drew back his knife.

  “You are wrong,” Gabriel said, his voice choking under the man’s grip.

  “What’s that?” Rourke asked, pausing. “You say something?”

  Gabriel knew there was no way he could make the man understand, even though, in that moment, it was so clear to him that to love someone, and to live your life guided by that love, could never be a waste. Indeed, it was the only life there was.

  “Are you smiling? Have you gone daft on me, lad?”

  Gabriel repeated, “You are wrong.”

  Rourke snarled, and his knife drew back again. Then Gabriel thought of his sword, of Granny Peet’s gift, and it was not at the bottom of the cliff, but in his hand, warm and solid, and with one thrust he drove the blade through the giant man’s chest. It seemed to take Rourke a moment to understand what had happened. Then, almost carefully, he set Gabriel back down on the ground. The stunned expression never left his face, and Gabriel watched the man’s eyes as the light went out of them.

  “Well now…,” Rourke said.

  He pitched forward and lay still. With difficulty, Gabriel turned him over, then drew his sword from the man’s chest and used it to walk to the top of the hill. He passed out once on the way, but he got to the place where he’d hidden the rope, secured it again to the boulder, then threw the coil over the cliff so that the rope dangled over the mouth of the cave.

  He called down, “It is I.”

  A moment later, the silhouette of Richard’s head appeared in the darkness below.

  “Thank goodness.” The man’s voice sounded very small in the empty air. “We didn’t want to shout. We only just came to. What happened?”

  “Rourke found us.”

  “Rourke—”

  “He is dead. Did you learn the rest of the prophecy?”

  “Yes. I mean—I think so. Clare heard it. She…hasn’t been able to tell me yet.”

  And Gabriel heard the sound of sobs coming from deeper inside the cave.

  “Listen,” Richard said. “We’d better come up. Then we can talk about it.”

  Gabriel sat down at the edge of the cliff to wait. There were bandages and herbs in his pack, but he had no energy or strength to go and get them. He would wait for the couple. He found himself thinking about Emma. For fifteen years, he had traveled the world, and she had been with him every step of the way. Just as she was with him now. He saw the rope go taut, and he heard the scrape of the couple’s feet on rock as they began to ascend. Then he looked up at the stars and thought that his heart had never felt so full.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The Prison

  Emma tried to keep up, but, her legs being by far the shortest, she invariably fell behind; then there’d be a hard yank on the cord binding her wrists, curses, perhaps a kick, and she’d be dragged forward. She tried whispering to her fellow captives (three men and a woman) to find out where they were being taken, but they only stared at her with the blank expressions of the dead and said nothing.

  She told herself she just had to get free, get the book, find the portal back to the world of the living, and then it would all be okay. That was it; she could do it!

  But even if she did all that—which, she knew, was a pretty big if—the thought of touching the book, of letting all those voices back into her head, filled her with a terrible, throat-clenching panic.

  And the book had spoken to her. Release them, it had said. Release who? Did it mean the voices? She’d be happy to. But how? And release them where?

  She sucked on her lip, swollen where the man had hit her, and for the hundredth time she wished that Gabriel was there. She’d like to see what he’d do to that guy who’d hit her. He’d kill him—that’s what he’d do! Or kill him again, since technically, the guy was already dead. But if he and the fat one were dead—which they had to be, didn’t they, if they were down here?—how come they weren’t all zombied out like the other dead
people?

  The small train stopped once so the guards could fill their canteens in a stream, and Emma approached the fat one, the one who had the Reckoning jammed into the top of his pants.

  “Hey,” she said. “What’s your name?”

  Her thinking was that she would act nice, like she wasn’t angry at being made a prisoner, and somehow convince him to return the book. At least then she would have it when she escaped. But on being asked his name, the man simply stared at her, his expression empty, and Emma had the sudden realization that he no more knew his name than did anyone else in the world of the dead, that the two guards might talk and act like living people, but scratch the surface, and it was just that—an act.

  As she and the others were pulled onward, Emma’s mind continued to spin. If the guards were the same as the rest of the dead, then who or what was controlling them? Was it the Dire Magnus? Neither guard had mentioned him. They also hadn’t given any sign that they knew who Emma was. She told herself that as long as she could keep it that way, she had a chance.

  Time passed. They trudged on. Then at one point, Emma looked up and gasped.

  Their group had come over the ridge she’d seen when she’d climbed the cliff with the carriadin, and they were heading down to a wide plain that stretched away to more mountains or hills in the distance. There was not a tree or blade of grass in sight. A stinking gray-green river, thick with sludge, slithered across the plain. Trash littered the landscape. But what drew Emma’s attention, and what had caused her to gasp, was a vast shantytown directly ahead of them that was clustered around an enormous circular structure, from the center of which a tower of black smoke—the tower of smoke she had seen from the cliff—rose into the sky.

  Emma had no doubt that was their destination.

  Soon enough, Emma and the other prisoners were being pulled along the dark, mud-slick passages that twisted between the shacks. The shacks were made from sticks and dried mud, and Emma could see through gaps in the walls to the people moving about inside. As their captors dragged them deeper into the maze, the sky was blotted out by overhanging roofs, and Emma kept close to the back of the woman before her, certain that if she fell she would be dragged by her wrists through the filth. Several times Emma saw what she took to be scrawny gray cats, but when she looked closer, she saw they were rats, giant ones, with long, curving claws and needle-like fangs, and the creatures hissed and spat whenever a person came too near.