But the wailing started again. Low and eerie, it rose from the fog-enshrouded place he approached. Now it seemed as though someone chanted amid the cries of misery. He could hear the rhythm of conversations, although no words were distinguishable. The babble of sound grew steadily louder. The cold pinched him until he shook from it. He ceased to have feeling in his fingers and toes. The steps were slick with ice. Snow drifted across them in places, and there were no tracks save his own.
Where am I going? he wondered, shivering and hugging himself tightly in an effort to preserve his hands from freezing. Where in God’s name am I?
“Die!” whispered voices that came from nowhere, faint and fragile on the cold whistle of the wind. “Die! Die!”
He saw one of the red, scaly demons crouching on a dead branch of a tree. Its yellow eyes gazed down at him without blinking. Noel tensed and passed beneath it warily, expecting to be attacked. Only its head moved as he went by, its gaze following him coldly. Ahead, he could see more demons in the dead trees, their wings folded and their yellow eyes intent, like vultures waiting for the moment when he would weaken.
His body grew sluggish and warm as numbness encompassed him. The inside of his nostrils was frozen. His jaw was so stiff he could not unclamp his mouth to even cry out. He was growing tired and sleepy, yet the steps went on and on.
He needed to rest. He needed to stop for a while. There was no point in descending to where it was only going to be colder.
He stumbled to a halt and nearly slipped on a slick patch. Grabbing at the balustrade, he dislodged snow that dusted across him like a cloud. Blinking and gasping for breath, Noel rallied for a moment. Winters in Chicago were colder than this, he told himself.
For a moment he couldn’t remember what Chicago was.
Then memory flooded back to him. He could suddenly hear the racket of a congested shuttle terminal where angry commuters thronged about the flight line data screens. Half the lines were always closed, either because of repairs or overload or insufficient funding. Lake Michigan had become a barrier that could not be crossed without immense difficulty and delays in getting to work. He could see his apartment, crowded with antique books and data tapes. A real Roman gladius hung above his bed on the wall. A Roman helmet, its cheek pieces tarnished by the centuries and its crest of crimson-dyed horsehair brittle and chewed-looking, stood on a special acrylic display stand. Slouchy old armchairs ranged around a real, working fireplace that was as illegal as hell but which he bribed his landlord monthly not to wall up. His big aquarium filled one corner of the living room, the brightly hued neons and flame tetras flashing in formation among chunks of marble from ancient temples. He stood on a windy street corner near Grant Park, a riot raging in the intersection, police shooting trank spray over the crowd, bricks flying through windows, women and children screaming. Next to him a young man smiled dreamily, tuned in to the fantasies playing on his headchip.
Noel drew in a sharp breath of frozen air and started coughing. He turned his head and tried to look back at the cliff towering above him. He wanted to see the top of the steps. But they ascended forever into white mist and he could no longer even see the landing where he had rested before. His eyes stung from the soft glare of white, barely able to distinguish snow from the fog. Droplets of the mist were freezing on him. When he tried to blink, the ice drops frozen to the tips of his eyelashes tangled and clicked together.
Tiny sounds…tiny impressions. He sighed and let himself sink down into a snowdrift. He had to rest. There was no point in walking farther. The steps did not end, would never end. He knew that.
At one time, long ago, he could remember what kind of place this was. He could remember how he came to be here and how he might be able to leave. But not now. Now he thought of nothing except the warm snow. It was soft and pretty. It surrounded him and made him feel safe. Noel’s eyes closed. He was so very tired. He did not want to go on.
Rustles of sound reached through his fatigue. Anticipatory rustles and clicks of sound…eager panting…a quick furious flapping of leathery wings…hissing.
Noel forced open his leaden eyes. The demons had gathered around him. They crouched on the balustrade in a row, perhaps a dozen of them. More came flying up from the mist below, ascending in spirals, to land and jostle. He could hear their claws scratching the stone. The heavy smell of sulfur stank on the dense air. Their yellow eyes watched him. He saw the excited flicker of their tongues. At the end of the row, one stood up and flapped its wings. Baring its fangs, it dived at him.
Noel jumped up and shouted loudly. The demon veered off with a startled cry. They all rose up in a flurry, shrieking and hissing.
“I’m not dead yet, damn you!” Noel yelled. “Get away from me!”
“Die!” they screamed, wheeling overhead. Their crimson bodies were as bright as freshly spilled blood. “Die! Come and die!”
Noel frowned, fighting off the lethargy that was drawing him down again. It was stupid to keep going down. He was killing himself, freezing to death. The fact that he felt so warm meant hypothermia. If he wanted to live, if he wanted to get out of here, he had to go up.
He turned around, and his heart sank at how far the staircase rose above him. He would never make it, he told himself. Besides, he didn’t want to go back through that field of death and horror. He couldn’t face that again. That was why he’d fled in this direction.
He looked over his shoulder where the steps went down and down into the gloomy mist. A light glowed like a beacon. It turned the snow golden, and made dancing sparkles of the fog. Noel squinted and thought he saw a figure down there, someone standing in the mist.
The figure was blurred by distance, obscured by the mist and blowing snow, but an unnameable dread filled Noel. He could not turn his gaze away, yet he was terrified of seeing anything more. Fear zigzagged through him like electricity, and he found himself shaking. He backed up a step, and the demons dived at him with angry hisses.
The figure in black lifted an arm and beckoned. Noel’s heart jumped against his ribs and hammered there. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, yet he had to run, had to get away, had to get out.
Forcing himself around, he stumbled up a step and then another. His feet slipped and skidded on the ice. Losing his footing, he fell flat and slid down several feet. When he finally stopped sliding, he lay still, winded and aching, afraid to glance down at the one who waited. Yet, unable to help himself, he did look back.
He was closer to the figure, close enough now to see it was garbed in a long black robe made not of cloth but instead of the void he had so recklessly entered. It stood at the mouth of a cave, where the light streamed out. But this was not the light of the sun, not the light of fire, not the light of warmth and heat. This light was yellow and cold, like the eyes of the demons. Noel needed no one to tell him that the individual he saw was the master of this terrible place. The figure’s head was cowled. No face could be seen. Noel swallowed, feeling sweat break out beneath his clothing. He was certain that if he ever saw this thing’s face, he would be lost forever. Noel knew he would brave the nightmare of the field of the dead again. He would take on the demons. He would walk through fire if necessary to evade the one who waited.
Breathing hard, he concentrated on the steps, on not sliding again. He clawed his way up, moving slowly but steadily. The need for haste drove him, but he held it under control, knowing he dared not slip. The demons flew over him, diving now and then, but not attacking as they had before. He didn’t know if they were cautious, remembering when he’d swung the sword at them or if they were under orders to hold back. He didn’t care as long as they left him alone.
Don’t slip, he told himself, struggling to keep his purchase on the slick ice. The steps seemed to be coated with it now, far more slippery than they’d been before. But since when did hell play fair? He forced himself to concentrate, clearing his mind of everything except one step at a time.
He was so tired, so very cold. His hands ha
d turned white and he couldn’t feel them at all. He feared he was going to die on these eternal steps that had no beginning or end. It was growing darker. The gloom seemed to shroud him. He caught himself closing his eyes, losing moments of consciousness despite his struggles.
A voice growled at him from below, “Come to my light. Come to my light and let it shine on thee. It will give thee strength. It will renew and restore thee. It will make thee as a new man.”
It was a hideous voice, a choked, ruined voice. It sounded as though it came from a crushed larynx, or a burned throat, or a throat once cut and now rough with scar tissue. Yet there was something strangely compelling about it, something compassionate, something caring.
Of all the things Noel had expected in this place of degradation and horror, love was the furthest of all. Astonishment filled him. He stopped his crawling progress and pressed his forehead against the sharp edge of the next step.
“No,” he whispered. He could fight anything but that.
“Come and I will take thee unto me,” said the terrible voice in that soft, compassionate murmur. “I will keep thee as my own.”
Noel felt the warm trickle of tears spill down his frozen cheeks. He almost gave way, then stiffened. “No!” he shouted, and dragged himself up another step and another.
He refused to look back. He refused to listen to anything else said to him. He had to get out of here. He was going to get out of here.
Then he heard a furious flapping of wings and the shrieks of madness above him. Noel lifted his head and looked up, just as the demons dived with their talons outstretched.
Chapter 11
The fires burned low in Messer Tibo’s laboratory. Some of the lamps had gone out, their oil supply exhausted. Fat candles had burned down to molten drifts of wax. Their flames guttered, drowning in the liquid fuel. In the private chamber where the crucibles of fake alchemy gold stood on display, Messer Tibo reclined in a chair of carved walnut. An emptied wine cup dangled slackly from his long white fingers. A mixture of displeasure and worry creased his face. His black eyes stared into the distance, flicking only now and then to the still figure that lay on the table.
Leon limped back and forth like a caged animal. He had been beaten for Noel’s disobedience, but while being made a whipping boy for his twin infuriated him, he barely paid any attention to his own hurts. Noel’s were coming at him in waves—brutal and nearly overpowering at times, vague nightmarish flickers at others. He struggled to hold off the images of death and blood that filled Noel’s mind. The guilt flowed in a torrent, flashed dry by sharp bursts of fear that made Leon’s chest ache. In other circumstances he would have cheered to see Noel tortured like this, but right now his mind was awash with worry and confusion. For the first time in his existence, he did not know what to do.
Messer Tibo’s spell over Noel had somehow backfired, and now Noel was dying. Leon’s gaze moved to the still, pale face of his twin. Noel’s eyes were shut and sunken. He scarcely seemed to breathe at all. Once Leon had taken his pulse, and it had been thready and far too rapid. Now and then Noel jerked and cried out. But he had made no sound or movement in the last hour. He could not be roused, and Messer Tibo had said it was best not to touch him. Leon gnawed worriedly on his lower lip and resumed his pacing. Messer Tibo was lying. He kept pretending to be in control. He wanted Leon to believe that he had reduced Noel to this pathetic heap on purpose. Tonight, however, Leon could read Tibo with clarity. He knew the astrologer was secretly worried, secretly aghast at what had happened.
Although the link between Noel and Leon had long ceased to be as strong as it once was, Leon could sense a steady ebb in Noel’s life force. But even more frightening was the slow, almost imperceptible decline he felt in himself.
Fear twisted anew in Leon’s stomach. He wanted to howl with it. He wanted to pound on Noel with his fists until Noel woke up. It was not fair that he should still be chained to his twin. They’d managed to separate once, but ever since Noel had reentered the time loop in search of him, the link had gradually been reestablishing itself.
On the table, Noel gasped and shuddered. Leon whirled around. His twin’s face was ashen and bathed in perspiration.
“You must do something!” Leon said.
Messer Tibo glanced up and gestured with indifference. “Nothing can be done. The fool refused to obey me. He has brought this on himself.”
“You can undo the spell,” Leon said fiercely, glaring at him. “You can if you only will.”
Messer Tibo said nothing. Rising to his feet, he put down his wine cup and yawned. “The hour grows late, and nothing has been accomplished this evening. I am going to bed.”
“No! You must help him.”
Messer Tibo frowned. “Must help him? Must, Leon? Is this the way a dog speaks to its master?”
Leon snapped his teeth over an unwise remark. Pressing his hands together, his heart burning at the need to grovel, he put all the humility he had into his voice. “Please, Messer Tibo, please. I know you’re angry at him, but Noel never wants to do as he’s told. You have to persuade him, make him want to do what you have in mind. Then he works really hard to accomplish it. That’s the best way to handle him.”
“Did I ask your advice in this matter?”
“No, messer, no. I—I just want to help.”
“You want to save your own sniveling hide,” said Messer Tibo with a sneer.
“I—”
“Silenzio!” Messer Tibo shouted. His black eyes flashed at Leon, who felt an unwelcome squeeze around his heart. He squeaked in pain, and Messer Tibo gestured violently at him. “You are a useless worm! Little familiar, are you fading because your master can no longer sustain you?”
“I am real!” Leon shouted back. “I can survive on my own. I don’t need him.”
His words rang in the silence. He stopped, aghast at himself.
Messer Tibo scowled at him, stone-faced and merciless. He pointed at Noel. “Then you bring him back. I am going to bed.”
Leon limped hurriedly after him. “Please,” he said, reaching for Messer Tibo’s robe but not quite daring to touch it. “I know this has gone too far. He will die soon. You opened the spell. You can help him come back from this awful place he’s gone to.”
“He battles what is in his own mind. I have no control there.”
“But you can help him break free. I know you’re angry because he won’t take you to the future. But he will. He’s just difficult. Isn’t what you want worth a challenge? Isn’t it worth trying again?”
Messer Tibo turned around with an awful expression. “Do not toy with me.”
“I’m not,” Leon said hastily. “Look, he messed up the poisoning attempt, and he reneged on his promise to you. But that’s no reason to kill him. Please bring him back.”
Messer Tibo hesitated, and his gaze shifted past Leon to where Noel lay in the candlelight. For an instant Leon hoped the astrologer would relent, but a flicker of consternation betrayed itself briefly in Tibo’s black eyes. Leon knew absolutely then that the man had no idea of what to do.
Messer Tibo shook his head. “It has gone too far. It cannot be undone.”
“Without Noel’s help, you’ll never travel to the future,” Leon lied desperately.
Messer Tibo stiffened. He shot Leon a penetrating look. Leon met it with all the strength remaining in his mind, struggling to preserve the lie intact.
And after a moment Messer Tibo released him without cracking Leon’s deception. Shaking back his wide sleeve, Messer Tibo touched the LOC fastened about his wrist. “LOC, awaken,” he said.
The LOC flashed to life immediately. “Working,” it said tonelessly.
“Conduct me to Chicago of the twenty-sixth century,” commanded Messer Tibo.
The LOC’s circuitry pulsed steadily, casting a pale green light onto Messer Tibo’s cadaverous face. “Instructions cannot be executed. Please restate instructions.”
“Ah…” Scowling, Messer Tibo lowered his a
rm and glared at Leon, who flinched from the rage in his eyes. Messer Tibo’s mind slammed against his, and Leon choked off a cry.
He held up his hands in silent supplication, trying to endure, fighting Messer Tibo’s attempt to crush him completely. Finally the astrologer stepped back, breathing hard from his mental exertions, and released Leon.
The absence of pressure was an overwhelming relief. Leon sucked in a breath, not quite daring to believe the attack was over. He opened his eyes and quailed before Messer Tibo, aware that his resistance had made the man angrier than ever.
“You fool! As long as you try to serve both your master and me, you will fail both of us miserably. I told you I must have your absolute obedience, Leon. I warned you at the start that I expected it.”
Leon’s quaking knees sagged. He knelt. “I do serve,” he said softly, fearfully. Another vision of crimson flashed through his mind like a razor, and he flinched. He tried to shut it out, but Noel’s despair flooded him. From the first Leon had longed to be able to read his brother’s mind. Now that he could, it was horrifying, all dreadful apparitions and nightmarish images.
He felt suddenly dizzy and ducked his head a moment to fight it off. His energy level had dropped again. He frowned, trying to remember what he had been about to say. Piecing the distracted bits of his mind back together, he realized that if Noel died he might perhaps survive but he would be the empty husk Messer Tibo considered him now. Without Noel’s essence and intelligence to support him, he would go back to being something mindless. He would become a thing, far less than a man, not even an animal.
“No!” Leon cried, not even realizing he spoke aloud. He had materialized in Restoration England from such a state. He could not go back to that. “Messer Tibo, please help him. We are dying!”
The astrologer kicked him away. “I cannot help him!” he shouted, raising his fists. “Will you force me to reveal my ignorance with your pleadings? Do you want me to admit that a man of the future has a stronger will than I have ever encountered? Must I say that he has confounded me, that he has pushed himself into a realm where I have neither the knowledge nor the control to retrieve him? Then I say it and damnation on you both! You are useless to me, and I will not help him. I will risk nothing of the dark arts at my disposal to bring him back to his senses. As for you, perhaps if I cut out your heart I can create another—”
Termination Page 17
