Brandon and Gerrick let them be as long as they didn't try to stop them or slow their ascent. Those that were foolish enough to stand in their way died quick sticky deaths, hardly slowing them as they ran. Gerrick placed more charges on the walls of the tower as they moved, activating the timers as he slapped them into place. There was a precise order to the placement of the charges and the timers reflected it.
Whether the door was permanently closed by the witch’s deaths made no difference to Gerrick. The explosives he used were professional grade, the same stuff used by the military and by industrial mining corporations. The tower was going to be just as shattered in the new world as in the old if the bombs performed as advertised. The Usurper would have to find another way to bring his armies across, giving them time to deal with the grohlm already infesting Matheson. It also gave Brandon a reprieve from the Curse.
Sha’ha’Zel would be trapped in the old world as well, at least for a time. Brandon didn’t kid himself, though. It would take more than closing a door to stop his demon stalker. If another way across worlds existed, he was sure the Curse would find it.
They were still inside the stairwell when the first charge went off, the concussive force shaking the floor and rattling the tower all around them. There was a deep thump inside of Brandon's chest, followed by the roar of flames racing up the stairs behind them. Grohlm screeched and tried to follow them out, fighting each other in their panic to escape the flames. The tower began to crack apart around them, long winding cracks appearing on the floor and in the walls, seeming to race them up the remaining stairs.
"HURRY!" Gerrick shouted, cutting in half a screaming grohlm that was too slow to move aside. He launched himself up the last flight of stairs, the flames licking at his heels. Brandon was just behind him, his hair and eyebrows curling against the heat, as the they exploded up out of the opening in the ground, flames and debris following them in a cloud. The fore of the blast sent them flying, crashing and rolling across the forest floor. The ground bucked under Brandon as the next charge in the sequence went off, then the next.
Grohlm scattered into the surrounding woods, leaving their dead behind as they scuttled off into the shadows. A 10 foot tall jet of flame shot up from the hole in the ground, searing the air and setting the treetops on fire, and the earth surrounding the hole collapsed in on itself as the shaking subsided. The rain was coming down hard, cold on his cheeks where the flames had warmed them. As the water ran down his face, Brandon felt a surge of strength and vitality flash through his body, washing away his fatigue.
Getting slowly to their feet, Gerrick and Brandon stood in the shadows, alone except for the sound of fleeing grohlm and the rumble of the earth settling. As the flames died down, the shadows grew and the forest became dark. The sky was black, thick with storm clouds, and the moon and stars were nowhere to be found. Gerrick looked at Brandon, his face invisible behind the blood spattered visor, and said. “Are you injured?” He was breathing hard. This was the first time that Brandon had ever seen his uncle winded. The older man stood in the rain, letting it wash down his face and over his body, sluicing away the blood and sweat. He snapped his wrist, clearing the blood from his sword, before sheathing it. He stared at Brandon and asked. “What’s wrong with your arm?”
Brandon didn’t answer right away. He had taken off his right forearm guard and was staring at the place where Rok had been tucked against his skin. Inside his head, he could still sense the comforting glow of Rok's presence, but the stone was gone. He hadn't dropped it. He would have felt it happen. In the center of his forearm, where the stone had touched his skin, was a pale green tattoo. It was a match to the carving that was on the top of the now missing stone. There were tiny green lines of runes branching out from the mark, wrapping around his arm like a tribal tattoo. Shaking his head, he said. "Nothing." He made a fist and met his uncle's steely gaze. "Can we go home now. I think we’re done here."
Gerrick ignored Brandon’s lie. Giving a tiny nod, he said. “Let’s go.”
Nashoba crouched in the shadows and watched the warrior and his he-cub leave the shattered gateway behind and enter the woods. The murder of grohlm that remained with him was restless, some of the more vocal of them growling and nipping low in their animal throats as they watched the two humans that had caused them so much grief this night.
Crouched next to the massive wolf, another grohlm, this one with the face of a toad, croaked a garbled question. Nashoba didn’t answer. Instead, he raised his curved sword and waved it over his head in a circle, signaling the nearby grohlm to fall in and prepare to move position. His enemy had proved persistent and adaptable, something the wolf hadn’t encountered in a long time. Even before traveling through the magic gate. Following the rest of the horde, Nashoba gave the buried tower one last look before vanishing into the darkness.
Chapter 21
Faux watched Moody work on the old man’s back, his eyes following the young doctor’s every move. Not because he didn’t trust that Moody was doing a good job. So far, he was actually quite impressed with the man. He watched because watching Moody work kept his thoughts off of the ones left behind. Those that they had lost. Not just Baker and the two deputies that had died this night, but those from the first hunt. The fallen officers. The missing children. All those that had fallen victim to those things in the woods. As long as he focused on the deft movements of the doctor’s hands as he stitched up the wound in Winston’s back, he didn’t have to think of the cost of what they’d done tonight. At the price they had paid.
Moody worked silently, without asking a lot of unnecessary questions, swabbing the old coon hunter’s leathery back clean after the wound was closed, before carefully bandaging it. There were 5 of them occupying the cluttered living room of Underhill’s little house. The interior was softly lit with lamps and the glow of a fire in his small rock fireplace. The master of the house stood by the fire, still dressed in the mud and blood spattered clothes he wore to the hunt. His lined and scarred face was grim as he said to Faux. “Did the other two deputies get home safely?”
Faux nodded, saying. “They were shaken up, but both men understood that they couldn’t talk about this with anybody. Even their wives.”
“They’ve been in Matheson long enough to know how things are done here.” Teague said. His voice was weary, exhausted to the point of collapse. He was sitting in a ratty recliner that sat at the end of the old sofa that Winston was stretched out on. His shirt was off and his torso was wound with bandages. His side and back were ugly with big purple and yellow bruises.
Moody glanced up at Teague’s words but he didn’t comment. He’d also been in Matheson long enough to know how things worked. And like the others present, he didn’t have to agree with it to know that sometimes it was better if people weren’t aware of what might be hiding in their closet. Or under their bed. He thought of his daughter and he just prayed she never had to find out what Matheson was really like.
Faux sighed and shook his head. “I just wish we knew if any of this was worthwhile. Did we accomplish anything tonight besides almost dying?” He felt like lashing out at someone, anyone, but there was nobody that wasn’t just as upset as he was. He looked at Underhill, but the older man just shook his head.
“I can’t say.” Underhill looked at Teague and said. “What about Baker? Does he have people we need to contact? A wife? Family?”
Teague shook his head, his eyes tight with regret. He sounded shattered as he said. “He might have some cousins on the west coast, but nobody close. His parents are dead. He has an ex wife somewhere that he never talks to. He always put the job front and center.”
Faux said nothing. He was the same way. The job always came first, even before his friends and family. He felt a chill, realizing that it could just as easily been him that they were talking about. It could’ve been Baker, standing there thinking these very same thoughts. Shaking himself out of his morbid reverie, he said. “What about the state lab? They’re def
initely going to notice when one of their top boys doesn’t show up for work next week. There’ll have to be some kind of investigation. Some sort of inquiry?”
“You still don’t understand.” Underhill explained in his gruff manner. He put a gnarled finger against his nose and screwed up his face. He looked like a teacher about to give a lecture, which was what he was, actually. He said. “There will be no official fuss made over Baker or any of the others. There will be a cover up, some story to tide over the masses, and life will go on. And if we try to make noise about it, we’ll be disappeared ourselves and there’ll be some other story told about us.” He looked at all the men there.
Nobody said anything for a long moment, until Winston spoke up from where he lay on the couch. “Well, no shit, Sherlock.” He sat up, shrugging his ruined shirt back onto his skinny shoulders. Looking at Faux and the others, he said. “If you ladies are done jawing, I’d like to get my ass home. I got a sixer in the fridge and a hot bath with my name on it and sitting around talking about what ifs and maybes isn’t getting them drank any sooner.”
The old man’s tone and general cantankerousness was enough to break up some of the tension in the room and Faux said. “Dr. Moody, if you don’t mind, could you drop Winston off on your way home?”
Before the Doctor could respond, Winston said. “Just drop me at the motel and I can drive myself home, doc. Don’t need you getting lost on the mountain tonight, not after this mess.”
Moody nodded his agreement and, in short order, the two men had said their goodbyes and left, leaving Faux, Teague, and Underhill alone in the little house. They were all quiet for a long time, just watching the fire burn, before Underhill spoke, breaking the silence. “I think we succeeded tonight.”
Teague said. “You don’t know that.” He gave the teacher a sympathetic look. “I want to think the same thing, but we have to go on with the assumption that things are going to get worse before they get better.”
“So what do we do?” Faux said. “We can’t just keep going out into those woods. Eventually, our luck will run out and none of us will come out again.”
Teague said. “I have a few ideas about that. But not until we’ve had a chance to rest and heal.”
“Tomorrow, then.” Underhill said. “Until then, I suggest we all get some sleep. And watch your backs. Those things will be looking for us. Let’s not make it easy for them.”
Highgarden felt like a foreign country to Brandon after the long night of fighting and traveling between worlds. The trees, the grass, even the very air felt strange to him. Too alive. The memory of the old world was too fresh in his mind, pervading his senses. He stood outside the house for a long time, taking deep breaths of the night air to try and clear his mind. Gerrick watched him for a moment, before saying. “Let’s go inside.”
Brandon didn’t say anything. Just followed the other man into the house and into the kitchen. Looking at the clock on the kitchen wall, he shook his head. Only a handful of hours had passed since they left the house. It had felt like an eternity. So much had happened. He faced an army of nightmarish creatures, traded blows with the bastard who had destroyed his entire family, and trapped Sha’ha’Zel in another world.
Sha’ha’Zel was in another world.
He let that thought start sinking in as he looked from the clock back to his uncle. The Curse was trapped in another world and Brandon was still breathing. His thoughts automatically turned to Claire and how it felt to kiss her. How she felt in his arms. His body flushed and he felt his cheeks going hot. As they reached the foot of the stairs, Gerrick stopped him and said. "We'll discuss what happened out there in the morning." He said. "For now, you need to get some rest. But, first, I want you to shower and then get to bed. Put as much distance between yourself and the things you saw tonight as you can."
Brandon nodded without replying. He wasn't going to argue, despite the fact that physically he felt like a million bucks. The rain had refreshed him and washed away his tiredness completely. He handed the rusty purloined blade to his uncle, then went upstairs. Once In his room, he closed and locked the bedroom door before getting undressed. The armor came off in sections, cracked and broken and dented in places. He piled it on the floor next to his closet door. Bits of dust and dirt flaked off onto the floor. Bits of the old world come into his own. He walked naked into the bathroom. In the shower, he stayed under the strong spray for a long time, waiting for the water to go from hot to warm to cold. Letting it wash away the feel and the smell of the Usurper's world. And it was the Usurper's now, not his grandfather's. Not any longer.
After the shower, he walked into the bedroom and stared at himself in the changing mirror that hung on the inside of his closet door. He felt like he should have looked different after all that happened. But his skin was unblemished. No scratches or scars. The only thing changed was his eyes.
He had thought they looked older earlier, but now they were positively ancient.
He lay down on top of his bedspread, sure that he wouldn’t be able to sleep with his mind working so furiously.
He went to sleep almost instantly.
In his dream, Brandon stood on the bank of a wide calm lake, bare chested and holding a rose in one hand, a sword in the other. The sky was iron gray and cloudless, stretching forever in every direction. He was alone. The water in front of him was covered by a low hanging mist, drifting along the surface like the gossamer strands of some ghostly spider web. He looked down at the sword and wasn't surprised to see that it was the Phoenix. The blade flickered along its length with its strange inner light, like a living thing. He held the sword low, letting it feed him power, and brought the flower up to his nose.
It smelled sweet.
"Sometimes you have to stop and smell the roses." Said a familiar voice behind him. Brandon turned and stared. Standing a few yards away, seeming to grow up out of the sandy rocky soil, was a giant. Standing over 10 feet tall and made up of the same rough material that he grew up out of, the figure reminded Brandon of the statues of the Greek gods from his world history books. The rough hewn face smiled and Rok’s voice said. "I always liked that particular saying."
Brandon shook his head, smiling at the god. He said. "I thought I lost you. I left the stone on the other side of the doorway."
"You didn't leave the stone anywhere, Bran." Rok said. He gestured at the sword in Brandon's hand. "You couldn't carry me and fight the way that you needed to. So I took a risk and I bonded with you."
"Bonded?"
"I'm now a part of you, Bran. Much in the same way that Nin'e'Veh is." Rok's face took on a contemplative look. He spread his massive arms and gestured at the world around them. Everything shimmered and distorted, before vanishing as the world changed. Now they were standing on the creek bed at Highgarden, near the place where Brandon and Rok first met. Rok watched the water, moving slowly underneath the bridge, and said. "I wont be able to speak directly to you anymore, not the way that I used to. But you can speak to me. I will hear."
"You mean pray, don't you?" Brandon said, smiling at the tone of the god's voice. He laughed at the amused glint in the god's glowing gaze.
Rok threw back his head and laughed, the sound a great bellowing roar. He clapped a huge hand on Brandon's shoulder and said. "From you, Bran. Any word at all, I'll consider a heartfelt prayer. But I’ll be listening whenever you have need, on my word."
Before Brandon could reply, another voice spoke up. This time it was a woman's. Nin'e'Veh's voice. "You are truly a child of the gods now, Brandon Merryweather." She said. He turned to find her standing in the water. She was beautiful, shimmering with an inner light that danced along her smooth mercurial skin and down the length of her perfect limbs.
Standing before his gods, Brandon felt the overwhelming weight of this responsibility settle onto his shoulders. Not just to the gods before him, but also to his father's name. And to his grandfather’s. He looked at Nina and Rok and said. "What happens now? With Sha'ha'Zel stuck in the
old world, does that mean I’m safe from him now? Can I actually begin to try and live a real life?"
Rok and Nina exchanged a glance, their inhuman faces unreadable. The goddess said, her voice soft and uncertain. "The power of the Curse is in you, Brandon. In your blood. As long as the Merryweather line continues, Sha'ha'Zel will endure."
"Is there any chance he will kill the Usurper to keep him from killing me?" Brandon regretted that he wouldn’t be able to kill Kardas himself, but he felt a perverse thrill at the irony of his families enemy dying at the hands of his own twisted creation.
"Sha'ha'Zel doesn't have that kind of power." Rok said, his voice rumbling from deep within his broad chest. "But he might be able to hurt the bastard. Weaken the Usurper's link to this world. Perhaps it will be enough to save you, Bran. Perhaps not."
Nina said. "You cannot allow yourself to be lulled by the hope of peace, Brandon. That was your father's doom."
"Peace is for the dead." Rok said, thumping his chest with a massive fist, knocking loose a cloud of dirt and rock that rained down onto Brandon's upraised face.
Brandon shook his head, tossing sand and rock out of his hair, and said to the pair of gods. "Then nothing's changed."
"You have changed." Nina said. Her voice was soft, sad. "You are protected by two gods now, instead of one. Your strength has increased incredibly, as well as your durability. You can withstand almost any physical attack now, as long as it isn't mystical in origin."
Fire And Steel (The Merryweather Chronicles Book 2) Page 21
