Reality Echo

by James Axler

  Epona didn’t want to know how far her bones could be stretched and her flesh melted until she considered death a pleasure rather than a punishment. As if Bres could read the fear in her features, he smiled.

  Had it not been Bres, the expression would have been warming. He was a beautiful creature, and such emotion on his face seized her heart with romantic headiness that she hadn’t experienced since she was a young girl. Her every instinct was to mate with this perfect, finely crafted example of masculinity and power.

  But there was the knowledge of Bres’s true nature.

  His outsides were immaculate, irresistible. His thoughts, his lusts, his deeds, however, which lurked beneath the skin, were a litany of horror and torment toward humanity across the millennia. Bres was pure, living evil, cast in solid gold and polished to the point of gleaming brightness.

  Bres granted power and sought only cruelty. His “children” lived to inflict pain. They didn’t hunt for food; they hunted for sport, for fun. There was no reason for them to track down prey and brutalize it. The Fomorians weren’t stupid and could craft spears or bows and arrows with which to take meat with human swiftness, but no. Epona had felt firsthand the horrors of what various animals had experienced. This wasn’t hunting; it was torture.

  She could hear the laughter coming from the mutants as they took their time ripping living flesh off their victims. Epona hadn’t been scanning for the activity; it was pure horror that shot like lightning to any mind that was attuned to the simple beasts of the mountains. Even when a deer was shot with one of the mountaineers’ .50-caliber rifles, the buck didn’t generate a feeling of horror. Quick death was something all animals expected.

  The Fomorians were monsters, all the way down to their rotten souls. They sought out Bres as much as he sought out them. The anger and hatred for the outside world stained their spirits, which was all Bres needed to see.

  It gave Epona a moment’s pause, but if Bres could read minds, he would have known instantly what she’d been up to. Shielding her thoughts was not a gift that Epona had been taught by her grandmother. No, if Bres had detected the duplicity of Epona’s plan to aid Kane in escaping the Fomorians and returning to Cerberus, he would have been twisting her body like taffy, subjecting her to unending pain and madness.

  Or did Bres intend to lure Kane in, using her as an unwitting pawn?

  Epona swallowed hard.

  “Something wrong, Epona?” Bres asked.

  “What if I can’t find Kane?” she inquired.

  “Then my hunters will. And I will peel all that is useful from his carcass,” Bres said. “I will drink his mind, and then I shall forge his flesh to my children, increasing their strength.”

  Epona frowned.

  “Yes, dear. I can imbibe the brains of my enemies, and when I do, I learn their every secret, things they weren’t even aware that they knew,” Bres stated. He caressed her cheek. His touch was like the heat of a campfire, warming, strengthening. “Just as I learned from other witches before you. Your gifts are not unique, my dear.”

  Epona bit her lower lip.

  “No, I didn’t know what you informed him of,” Bres continued. “But I knew you’d look for a way out of this prison. I would have. Remember, Epona, I’ve walked this Earth since humankind was young. I am the scion of gods, and the sire of monsters. History trembled at my passing, when I made myself known. You do not spend centuries among a people and not learn how to play them like a flute.”

  Epona felt her stomach twist in horrified regret. Bres rested his hand on her shoulder and the warmth passed through her body. Calmness filled her, not the body-wrenching agony she’d expected from him.

  “You’ve done well, child,” Bres said. “I shan’t be drinking your mind this night. But if I’m lucky, I’ll have a whole mountain full of brilliance and ability to work with.”

  “Oh, no,” Epona muttered breathlessly.

  Bres grinned. “And when my master sees what I have done to the enemies who have plagued him so viciously, I shall be given whatever I want.”

  “And what do you want?” Epona asked nervously. She tried to concentrate, but Bres’s grasp on her prevented her from focusing. His touch was interfering with the connection she had with the rest of the world through her gifts.

  “I want to be free of this life,” Bres said. His grin was empty, cold. “And if I do not get my wish, then I will make certain that you will join me in torment.”

  Epona fought back a sob.

  KANE CROUCHED in the bushes, knowing that he had to be careful. The cat had gone silent, no longer motivated by an outside source, which had Kane kicking himself. He’d trusted the water witch and her ancient secret powers, but the sudden lack of impressions threw his instincts into overdrive. His stealthy approach to the Fomorian camp had required too much attention on his part to make him aware that his line of communication to the Appalachian psychic had faded, so subtle was the connection they had developed. Now that he was in the midst of enemies who were easily strong enough to tear his body in two with their bare hands, the rustle of her mind against his was gone.

  So much for having a sliver of an advantage over the Fomorians, but Kane didn’t blame the witch woman. The Appalachian had been feeding him a string of impressions that had coupled with Kane’s own experiences, the hidden memories of his former lives that had been stirred to the surface thanks to jump dreams, the machinations of Fand and encounters with the Tuatha de Danaan. Bres was as familiar to Kane as Enlil and Sindri. Since the memories of ancient warriors were far removed from current conditions, Kane realized that Bres was more than just some freak.

  The being he faced was immortal, and immortal beings were dangerous because they brought experience to the table. Kane didn’t doubt that the godlike golden child of the Fomorians could plan and connive with the best in the world. Epona would have been manipulated by Bres with deft skill, and Kane himself would be facing a foe who had likely conquered a million enemies across his extremely long life.

  Long odds were stacked against Kane, and there wasn’t a firearm that was going to even them. The cat alongside Kane looked at him, as if sensing the tension in the human. He nodded to the animal, who bounded away, somehow combining grace and silence with full-out retreat.

  Alone again, Kane scanned the area for the presence of any Fomorians who might have been hanging back in order to guard the cache of arms that the big beast had dug up. Kane spotted the big thing, and unbidden, another memory surfaced—Balor of the Baleful Eye.

  Like the other two hunters he’d battled, this creature was a cyclops, but this one resembled more fully the more traditional illustration of the great Titans. The others had oversized orbs, but they had been off balance, placed either to one side or the other of the face. This creature’s solitary eye was smack in the middle of a heavy brow, perched right above a nose that looked as if it had been mashed flat, its nostrils then slashed and torn to tatters that fell over a twisted pair of lips. Balor was a nightmare, and was molded in the form of the great Fomorians who had dared to wage war on Lugh, the god of light who sought to free the land of the Fomorian hordes.

  Kane rubbed his throbbing forehead. This kind of memory dump had to have been facilitated by more than just the telepathic communication. He always attributed his points man instinct to an unusually centered spirit, allowing him to pay attention to subliminal cues, processed ordinarily by his subconscious mind. That level of awareness was something that had been developed, as well as instinctually felt. However, Kane had been exposed to multiple varieties of psychic phenomena over the years since he rejected the rule of the barons.

  Balam’s telepathic machinations had certainly opened Kane to sensations far beyond normal human understanding. This had left him more sensitive to information that he normally wouldn’t have known, although to a more logical explanation, Balor and Bres were central, vital figures in the world of Cuchulainn and the Celtic gods who had become known as the Tuatha de Danaan. His research in
to the life that Fand claimed he possessed had given him inroads to the lore that should have been alien.

  That still didn’t explain how he recognized Bres without a flicker of doubt.

  Kane maintained his position in the bushes, hiding from the workers who had gathered around Balor. The mutants hammered and clawed at the dirt, and Kane could see that some of the creatures possessed only one arm. These particular Fomorians had both eyes, and Kane wondered at the odd alteration of their bodies, no longer symmetrical in their mutated forms. Epona had informed the Cerberus explorers that they had been molded in this way by the hand of Bres himself, and for a moment Kane didn’t know the purpose behind it. The loss of a limb hadn’t seemed to impair the strength of the single-limbed Fomorians any more than the loss of an eye affected the perception and capability of their cyclopean counterparts. There was even one of the beasts with only one arm and one eye, and yet it maneuvered and dug with all the strength of the others.

  Rather than each of the beings having symmetry, Kane realized that they had sacrificed one arm or one eye to increase the potential of the other. With a limb at double the mass, and an eye with presumably proportional optic capability, the mutations had removed a weaker part of their body to enhance a stronger part. Kane thought about hand and eye dominance, and made the correlation of the changes Bres had made in these beings.

  Bres.

  Kane hadn’t seen the golden godling in a while, and he cursed his inattention. Bres knew that Epona had been assisting Kane, which meant that the search party would be a feint, something to make Kane commit himself to a penetration to seek out supplies and gear. Would Bres come after Kane on his own? The godling was seven feet tall and perfectly proportioned with muscles stretched across his frame in enviable sheets that simply added to the sheer impression of power for the being.

  A millennia-old creature would be consummately skilled in combat, allegedly, but fighting was a perishable skill. He and Grant sparred constantly, and kept their gun hands trained by shooting every week. A break in that regimen would mean that they each would lose a step. Bres, being immortal, was not guaranteed to have a perfect memory of all of his moves, and even then, he showed no sign of scar tissue, meaning that pain would not be a motivational factor. Bres would be the kind who got by on brute force and clumsy power, so combat finesse would not be a part of his repertoire, if after all this time Bres actually remained hands-on.

  Kane grimaced, and he focused on what he needed to do—get a weapon, and get clothing to protect him from the encroaching night cold. And to live long enough to do that and make it a worthwhile effort, he had to avoid whatever traps Bres had laid.

  Kane had armed himself with a sharp bit of rock, and he’d further chipped and honed its edge. Around the base of the primitive stone knife, he’d wrapped a length of his shredded underwear that he’d torn for bandages. It wasn’t the best of equipment, but at least it was more deterrence than a harsh word. Would it be enough of an advantage over a Fomorian’s superior size and strength? Kane didn’t have any delusions.

  Once there were no Fomorians in view of the crates, Kane skulked toward them. He had reached some of the sealed boxes and crouched beside them for cover, his eyes, his ears, his nose all tuned finely in search of opposition. No one seemed to be skulking behind him, and if they were, they produced less noise than a breeze.

  Kane took a moment to scan the crates, hoping for some form of survival clothing provided, but the Fomorians walked around half-naked, even Bres, so the man resigned himself to the fact that they didn’t require coats. What he did spot was a canvas tarpaulin, olive-green in color. It wouldn’t be the best of camouflage, but the tarp could be fashioned into something protective. He wrapped the tarp around him like a cloak, tying the corners around his neck and waist in order to take the whole of the rough cloth. Already, his back and shoulders welcomed the respite from the chill of sunset. A length of cord gathered up much of the material so he’d minimize snags in case he had to break and run through the woods.

  Clothed and provided with a modicum of shelter and concealment if necessary, Kane looked at the crates. From his time in the remnants of the Soviet Union, he recognized the unmistakable profile of the Avtomat Kalashnikov Model of 1947. No wonder the Fomorians had little trouble operating the rifles—the AK-47 was one of the most simple and soldier-proof firearms ever developed by twentieth-century man. Kane took one of the rifles, a model with a folding steel stock, and located another crate that had dozens of loaded magazines. He grabbed five and tucked them into a fold of his tarp cloak, the way he’d tied it off allowing it to perform as a backpack.

  Armed and clothed, he was almost ready to leave when he spotted an AK bayonet. The knife was a crude, almost indestructible little tool. It wasn’t the sharpest of combat knives, but it had plenty of utility items in its handle, and even its handguard could be utilized as a screwdriver or can opener. Kane grabbed the tool, tucking it beside his caveman stone knife. It couldn’t hurt to have a backup knife.

  Now it was time to leave, because Bres hadn’t wasted time ripping out water or food supplies.

  Kane debated finding Epona, but Bres wouldn’t harm her yet. She was still worthy bait, and no trap had been sprung for him so far. Retreat and reorganization were all that Kane could hope for now, and he knifed through the growing shadows, reaching the tree line without a cry of alarm.

  So far, so good, but there was no guarantee that Kane wasn’t still working according to an ancient demon’s plan. All he could hope for was to stay alive long enough to think of something, all the while keeping his eyes and ears peeled for skulking shadows filled with mutated monsters thirsting for his blood.

  KANE HAD TWELVE FEET of cord and a ten-foot-by-ten-foot square of tarpaulin in addition to the bayonet he’d stolen and the stone knife he had on hand. First Kane laid down on the extended canvas and measured himself against the fabric, arms extended. Using the sharper chipped and honed edge of the stone knife, he cut a square specifically to produce a simple parka. He cut a hole in the center for his head, and slipped the whole thing over himself, laying it across his shoulders with the points running down on his front and back centerlines. The other two corners hung over his arms, giving him plenty of warmth, as well as freedom of movement.

  Since he wasn’t going to be getting anywhere resembling shelter anytime soon, he cut three-foot lengths of cloth and tied them around his upper arms and wrists in order to provide him with sleeves. He took another three-foot strip and wound it around his chest, tucking it in as a secure wrap. Simple, crude clothing, but it kept him warm, and the tough canvas would protect him from scratches and bruises. Kane also fashioned a hood to contain the warmth that would escape through his head.

  “Fashioned,” Kane muttered. “This isn’t fashion. This is survival.”

  Sure, the shadow suits offered all manner of extras that could allow him to walk in Antarctic blizzards without discomfort, but with this, Kane felt dressed, not naked or clad as some kind of ersatz superhero. There was a reason why he pulled on cargo pants and jackets over the shadow suit when he could. Right now, Kane resembled some form of ragman, a vagabond from some medieval fairy tale, but he didn’t have to worry about self-conscious body issues while prancing around in body-hugging fabrics.

  Kane took a section of the remaining tarp and the cord and constructed a knapsack that he could put over his shoulder. He left it mostly empty except for samples of roots and acorns. The roots he’d bite into and suck out the moisture and minerals. The acorns were food. Not the most ideal of meals, but it was something. If Kane managed to snag some meat, he’d wrap it in some of the remaining canvas to keep a spare supply on hand. A second, smaller bag hung at waist level, dedicated solely to the spare ammunition for his confiscated rifle. The AK he slung under the parka so that a glint of metal in moon or starlight wouldn’t betray his position. He’d also created a canvas sash where he hung the ammunition bag and into which he tucked his two knives.

 
Kane even retrieved his bandage material, replacing it with a section of tarp around the handle of the length of sharpened stone.

  That was another benefit of the hood. It kept his head bandage safe from a direct assault by the elements.

  As he quickly assembled his canvas survival armor, he had found a length of branch with one end split. He took another strip and tightened it around the split end. If necessary, Kane would be able to make a spear with his stone knife stuck in the split end, but the bindings would prevent the broken end from splintering beforehand. As it was, the branch made a fine cane and cudgel, far more usable for navigating through the woods up and downslope than if he’d assembled it into a spear right away.

  “I dub thee cane of Kane,” he muttered softly. A smirk crossed his lips as he hefted the shank of wood.

  Not much, indeed, since he was relying on a three-hundred-year-old rifle design as his most modern piece of equipment, while everything but the bayonet was pure Stone Age. The thing that inspired the most confidence was a windfall length of wood.

  No, Kane wasn’t ready to surrender to the elements, nor to whatever trap Bres had in mind. He might have manipulated Epona into drawing him in, but Kane had struck and faded into the night so swiftly, the Fomorian hadn’t realized that he’d been there.

  There was movement in the distance, the heavy footfalls of the mutants as they searched for him. The hunters were good, spread out in a line to make the most of their numbers, but the man they sought was a veteran of hundreds of hunts, as both predator and prey.

  By the time they reached this clearing, Kane would be long gone, staying two steps ahead in this game of cat and mouse.

  Chapter 14

  Balor was a conglomeration of unusual parts. His massive, brutish body belied some form of primitive gigantic ape, something from the dawn of history best suited to punching out one-ton carnosaurs. His voice was that of a young boy, no older than ten, or a nasally pitched adult woman, soft, lilting at times and sharp and shrill at others. His mind was sharp, though. While it was trapped in a form that looked monstrous and unintelligent, Balor was hardly dim. He had been educated by Bres, whose millennia of experience led to nights of the beautiful godling reciting the best of thousands of years of literature to Balor. He had been with Bres for forty years, constantly learning new things with every passing day. Though his head was tiny in comparison to the rest of his awesome body, he was not a victim of microcephalopathy. Bres had just simply added layers upon layers of muscle and bone onto him, turning Balor into a titan.