The Skaar Invasion

by Terry Brooks

  “How much farther?” Shea whispered.

  “A way yet. Just keep moving.”

  No problem there, Shea thought. He was walking practically on top of Rocan, his eyes shifting constantly to keep watch, his senses alert for signs of danger.

  When they reached a place between buildings where there seemed to be no one about, Rocan brought them to a halt, swung his backpack off his shoulders, and opened it.

  “Here,” he said, hauling out a small, bulky object that he unfolded carefully and locked in place with a series of sharp metal clicks before handing it to Shea. “Take it.”

  It was a mini-crossbow, much smaller than those of regulation size—almost a toy. Shea examined it. It was not much more than two feet across, with a looped ring on the business end for drawing back the bowstring, a slot for the bolts, and a notch for the trigger.

  Rocan then handed him a pair of ten-inch bolts. “Just in case,” he said. “You probably won’t have time to use more than one, so be sure you don’t miss. Load it now, and keep it close to your chest while we walk.”

  Shea did so, finding its workings supple and smooth. He drew back the string to the trigger, laid the bolt in the firing slot, and, with the point directed to one side, tucked the crossbow against his chest.

  “What about Seelah?” he asked hopefully, remembering how she had rescued them at the apartment.

  Rocan shook his head. “She’s no longer with us. We’re on our own.”

  Shea wanted to ask why she wasn’t there, but really he didn’t need to know. All that mattered was that if she wasn’t there, she couldn’t help them.

  Shea caught a glint of steel in the fading light as Rocan drew a pair of long knives from his backpack and tucked them beneath his cloak.

  Then they set out once more.

  Now any remaining light was almost entirely gone. The warehouses were reduced to vague hulks in the background, and the beggars prowling the streets had faded away. Now and again a shadowy movement revealed a lingering presence, but for the most part these faceless wraiths remained concealed by the dark. Rocan kept the boy to the middle of the roadways, avoiding the walls, doorways, and overflowing trash bins on either side, stepping carefully around the vague bundles they encountered lying in their path. Shea had a death grip on the mini-crossbow by now, realizing he was probably going to have to use it. How could he think anything else? Rocan wouldn’t have given it to him if he hadn’t believed there might be a need for it before they reached their destination.

  The wind had picked up, steady gusts ripping down the empty streets, further scattering the loose garbage that was already strewn about, whipping around corners and across roofs with howling shrieks that foretold the coming of a sizable storm. Shea glanced skyward. Heavy, dark clouds were rolling in, and a haze of rain was clearly visible above the lighted buildings of the city to the west. If they didn’t reach their destination soon and take shelter, they were going to end up soaked.

  “Is it much farther?” Shea asked once more—this time a little louder to be heard over the wind.

  Rocan started to answer and stopped abruptly, his eyes shifting to something ahead. Three ragged figures were approaching, spread out in a line, slouched down against the force of the wind, cloaks billowing out behind them, hoods drawn up. They held weapons in their hands—blades that glinted in momentary flashes as lightning streaked across the sky.

  Rocan slowed, apparently deciding that flight was not going to save them. “There will be more behind us,” he said quietly.

  Shea glanced over his shoulder. Indeed, two more were already coming up behind them to cut off any chance of escape. Caught between the men ahead and behind, and the buildings to the left and right, Shea and Rocan were penned in.

  We’ve escaped one trap only to fall into a second, Shea thought in despair. He wondered momentarily if the two were connected, and decided they weren’t. There wasn’t any sensible way they could be, given the participants. The Federation soldiers had their orders regarding Rocan; they believed him a seditionist. These men were thieves and cutthroats with no interest in anything but stealing credits and valuables.

  Shea took a deep breath. They were going to have to fight their way out of this, and they might have to kill someone in the process. He had never killed anyone before, and he wasn’t much interested in doing so now. But he also wasn’t much interested in dying.

  “The two behind are yours,” Rocan said under his breath, drawing to a halt and standing his ground. He had blades in hand, and his cloak lay on the ground, temporarily discarded. “Do the best you can. Try to hold them off. I’ll help if I’m able.”

  Shea wanted to say that he had never been in a situation like this and wasn’t sure he could do anything even to save himself. He had come to Arishaig to make his fortune, but it was beginning to look like he had really come here to die.

  Time slowed and then stopped. A deep silence broken only by the whistling of the wind settled in, enfolding the combatants.

  Then the five rushed the two, and there was no longer silence or time left. Shea brought up the crossbow and held it with both hands. The gloom was sufficiently deep that there was every chance neither of his attackers realized what he was holding. They were coming at him side by side, so he quickly stepped left to disrupt their formation. As he had hoped, the one closer increased speed and moved in front of the other, anxious to get there first.

  He was within six yards of Shea when the boy released the crossbow trigger. The iron-tipped bolt slammed into his attacker’s chest, throwing him backward into the man trailing, sending both sprawling. The boy was already reloading his weapon as they went down, the toe of one boot tucked in the holding strap to brace the crossbow as he drew back its drawstring. For a moment he thought he would not be able to do it; his hands were shaking and all the strength seemed to have gone out of him. But then the drawstring yielded to his efforts, rising to the fastening notch and hooking itself in place. Into the slot went the second bolt, and he dropped to one knee, sensing the second attacker back on his feet and closing fast. When he lifted his gaze and the bow, the man was right on top of him. Instantly, Shea released the trigger, not bothering to look, firing blindly because there wasn’t enough time for anything else.

  The man screamed, but the sound died into a terrible gurgle of blood and air. The man fell on him—a huge weight that knocked him backward. His knife dropped and skittered away. When Shea rolled away from him, just trying to get clear, he saw that the bolt had taken him through the throat. The man was lying with his hands clawing at the shaft, which had entered his neck and was sticking out the other side. His eyes were glazed and his movements feeble, and in seconds he was dead.

  Shea scrambled back to his knees in time to see Rocan standing over the bodies of two of his attackers while locked in combat with the third. This man was long and lean and wiry, and there was a frantic determination etched on his hard features. Blades glittered as the two grappled, each holding a weapon high in one hand while trying to keep his opponent at bay. There was barely any movement at all as they struggled, just a terrible straining of muscles and limbs and a series of grunts as each sought to break the other’s grip and drive his knife home.

  Shea hesitated only a moment; then he was rushing to Rocan’s aid. With no other weapon at hand and no bolts left, he jammed the empty crossbow into the attacker’s spine as hard as he could. The man did not go down, but the blow momentarily distracted him. It was enough. Rocan’s knife hand twisted free and the blade disappeared into the man’s chest.

  And that quickly, it was over. All five attackers lay dead in the empty street. Shea stood looking about, breathing hard as he stared at the bodies, scarcely able to believe what had just happened. He kept searching for something to help him make sense of it, but his efforts failed.

  Then Rocan gripped him by his shoulders and knelt before him. “
That was as brave an act as I have ever witnessed, Shea Ohmsford. I believed you would measure up, and you did—even to something as terrible as this. Deep breaths, lad. Take a moment to recover yourself. Look at me. In my eyes, now. Look deep.”

  The boy did so and found his companion studying him intently. “Tell me, now,” he whispered, “are you all right? Are you all of a piece?”

  Shea nodded. “I don’t want to have to do that again. Ever.”

  “Can’t promise that. No one can. But for tonight, I think we are done. Are you ready to go? Come, then, we haven’t much farther to travel.”

  Shea felt a surge of relief push aside the fear and horror that still clung to him like a second skin. He exhaled sharply, thinking he had already traveled just about as far as he cared to this night.

  * * *

  —

  They walked away swiftly from the bodies, anxious to get clear of the stench of death and the chance of any similar encounters. Shea could feel eyes watching them from the shadows as they moved farther along the roadway, but he couldn’t see or hear anything in the deep gloom. Then he realized he might be imagining the eyes, and that no one was really there—especially given the growing storm. After what had just happened, it was no wonder he was on edge.

  He could still see the faces of the men lying dead on the stones of the street, their eyes staring at nothing. He believed he would see those eyes for a long time before the memory began to fade.

  They went on for perhaps another half hour without incident. No one appeared to bar the way, and no one called out in challenge. In the shadows, scattered figures were now visible, prowling the refuse bins and doorways, looking for food and shelter. Rocan glanced their way but said nothing, locked within himself as he scanned the otherwise deserted streets. Shea let him be, busy wrestling with his own emotions.

  Finally, they arrived at a building that looked for all intents and purposes the same as every other building they had passed on their way—a blocky, darkened structure with vast roll-up doors on one wall and barred windows high up on another with a pair of heavy iron doors midway along, which the boy assumed were the main entry.

  Rocan proved him right when he led Shea over and released a series of locks embedded in the steel casing. The doors immediately swung open on a black void. Rocan stepped inside, and after a moment’s hesitation Shea followed. Behind them the doors closed with a soft clunk, and the locks fell into place. Shea fought down a moment of panic; then a smokeless lamp brightened their surroundings as Rocan lifted it to guide them farther in.

  “Stay close to me,” the man said, but Shea found the advice unnecessary.

  The ground floor of the building—or at least the considerable part of it that Rocan was leading him through—consisted of a maze of hallways and closed doors with no lights visible through the cracks. Gloom shrouded their path forward and back, and the air was filled with the smell of dust. Their footsteps echoed in the stillness—a steady tapping that measured their progress as they passed from one section of the building to another. Only once did they find a door ajar, and there appeared to be nothing within. It was impossible, from anything he was seeing, for Shea to identify the use to which this warehouse was being put.

  Rocan glanced back at him and saw the look on his face. “Don’t be fooled. All this is just to discourage the curious and the suspicious, should any manage to gain entrance. What matters lies ahead and higher up. Be patient. You’ll see.”

  Shea nodded, but he was not convinced. Increasingly, he was coming to consider his decision to leave Varfleet with Rocan as foolhardy. It would not take much at this point to send him back the way he had come.

  They reached a steel door in an alcove off to one side that the boy would have passed without notice, wrapped in shadows as it was. But Rocan steered him over, and through a series of rapid finger movements on the indented face of a blank keypad, he released the locks. The door opened onto a set of narrow stairs, leading up. Holding his smokeless lamp before him, Rocan ascended, with Shea at his heels. They climbed to the top of that set of stairs and then to the top of a second. The steps ended at yet another of the by-now-familiar steel doors, this one every bit as formidable-looking as the last two.

  Once more, Rocan manipulated the indentations of a blank keypad until the locks released and the door swung open. But this time, instead of using the lamplight to show them what lay ahead, he engaged a huge metal switch affixed to the wall beside the door, and bands of light blazed to life from every direction.

  The boy looked around in wonder. They were in a cavernous room—a chamber much larger than anything he had ever been in before. A quick perusal suggested it must occupy the entirety of the third floor, stretching far enough from end to end and side to side that the most distant points were indistinct and slightly hazy, despite the bright lights.

  “Solar-powered by light sheaths stretched across the roof of the building,” said Rocan. “Another new form of energy in this ever-expanding world of diapson-crystal-powered machines.”

  Crates and boxes of all sizes and shapes were grouped about the room. Settled in the spaces between were a series of machines the like of which the boy had never seen, their casings of smooth and polished metal, suggestive of powers that the boy could only guess at. Radian draws ran in thick tentacles across the floor from place to place, connecting to the machines and to the heavier cables tied against the walls that stretched upward through the ceiling and presumably to the light sheaths above.

  For the first time since he had met Rocan and Seelah, Shea Ohmsford was impressed.

  “All this,” Rocan said, his hand sweeping the room and taking in all the machines and stores, “is what the credits I win are used for. It’s taken three years of hard work while enduring hardships I could very easily have lived without. But I believed in Tindall’s dream, and now it’s come to pass.”

  He paused. “Because, finally, that’s done!”

  He pointed. At the center of the room, surrounded by all the rest of the equipment and supplies, was the strangest machine the boy had ever seen. It was a jumble of boxy compartments fused together, a maze of flexible cables and connectors running everywhere around and through it. Series of panels with dials and lights were embedded in the construct (although these were dark at present), and atop it all was a huge funnel formed of polished metal with its mouth facing toward the ceiling and its narrow end embedded in the largest of the compartments. Heavy supports braced the funnel to secure it in place, and the entire machine sat on a broad pallet of crossties and heavy wooden floorboards.

  Shea took a few steps forward, conscious of Rocan following. “What is that thing?” he asked finally.

  “The future,” Rocan answered in a voice that reflected both pride and awe. His face was wreathed in a smile so broad that the boy was instinctively suspicious.

  “The future,” he repeated softly. “My future. Your future. The future of everyone in the Four Lands and beyond.” He came closer and placed a hand on the boy’s narrow shoulder. “This,” he said, his voice dropping almost to a whisper, “is how we change everything.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  “Over there!” said the soldier, who had appeared with the news earlier that morning, after they had walked to the west perimeter of their camp.

  The small group of four walked over to the spot indicated, and Arraxin Dresch knelt. The body lay sprawled on ground still dark with blood. The Federation commander remained where he was for a few moments, then rose and nodded.

  The group walked on a short distance. “There,” the soldier said again.

  Dresch moved over to examine this spot, too. Another body.

  The morning was all bright sunshine and sweet forest scents. Birdsong rose from within the trees. In the distance, the steady rush of the Mermidon River was clearly audible. Everything was peaceful. Everything fresh and promising. Nothing to sugge
st the events of last night.

  “Here and here.” Two more bodies lay on bloodied patches of earth, two more victims cut down as they stood watch, unaware of what was happening. They had been taken from behind while they were looking forward, their staggered lines preventing those in the front rank from realizing the fates of those behind.

  They kept counting. Dresch grew sick to his stomach.

  “The last three are over here,” the soldier guiding him said finally. “The entire watch.”

  They walked to where the last of the bodies lay. Thirteen in all. Thirteen sentries dead. It shouldn’t have been possible. How could all of them have been killed without any warning being given to the larger camp? Dresch shook his head. An enemy should not have been able to get behind them without at least one sounding an alarm.

  He knelt by the last of the fallen and tried to envision the dead man’s final moments. He closed his eyes and imagined what it must have been like. It didn’t help in any tangible way, but it gave him a moment to empathize with these men who had been under his command. It fueled his rage, and anger was necessary where the deaths of any of his men were concerned. It wasn’t enough simply to record them and pass on to other matters. It required more. It demanded more.

  Admittedly, he didn’t know these men. The command was too large, and his time was spent in planning and strategizing and issuing orders, so he did not have the personal contact with the soldiers that his junior officers had. He regretted this. But regret was a part of life as a soldier. You accepted it and then you put it aside and forgot it.