Stoneskin's Revenge (40 page)

“The arrows!” Calvin yelled again. “Get the arrows! Get the—”

The song shifted abruptly, became the paralysis spell, still mingling with the other. This close it was overpowering, and Calvin could feel the earth heaving at his back, even as his tongue went limp and his muscles began to weaken.

He jerked and twisted desperately, and as he did a glob of spittle flew from his mouth and splattered against Spearfinger's bare arm. To his surprise a thin tendril of steam rose there. She grunted, as if she had been bitten by an insect, but for that instant her song faltered, and Calvin acted. He wrenched a hand free—the left, the one that was not holding off the deadly finger—and smashed it into Spearfinger's mouth. It hurt like hell, and blood erupted from his knuckles, but he managed to work his fingers inside, and actually seize her tongue. It was like grappling with a wet rattlesnake, but he held on desperately, feeling his strength return as the song turned to strangled gaspings.

“Don!” he shouted again. “Any
time,
man!”

But Spearfinger had recovered, and very calmly and defiantly bit down. He felt her teeth tearing into his fingers until they grated against bone, but she was not strong enough to bite through, and he held grimly on, meanwhile trying with all his might to fling her away and get to his feet again.

He almost succeeded, but she dragged him back down as he rose to a crouch; and they rolled over and over on the ground. And then she was once more on top of him, her whole filthy, sticky body pressing down against his. He still had his hand in her mouth, was still being bitten, but the movement had made him lose his grip on her arm. Only then did he realize that he had somehow dropped the scale.

He tried frantically to locate it, but could not, and an instant later, she had him pinned even more thoroughly than before. He saw her left arm, the deadly digit at its end, shoot sideways, then arc around to snake between them. A snarl of glee contorted the hideous features inches from his own. He felt the finger pause above his heart, expected to find it jabbing up under his rib cage to still his live—but it drew back instead, until it was poised directly below his ribs on his right-hand side.

And Calvin could not move, for it was as if all the weight of the world held him down.

And slowly, slowly, he felt a warm wash of pain as the finger pierced his skin, poked through the long smooth muscles of his side, and encountered what they sought. It did not hurt as much as he expected, but the strangeness of it—something wiggling around inside him—made him gag.

Spearfinger cackled—which freed his hand, though there was little he could do with it now except flail ineffectually against her back—and she bent close to whisper in his ear. “I am touching your
liver
now, Calvin Fargo McIntosh. It
feels
like a nice plump one. I hope you enjoy losing it as much as I will enjoy taking it from you!”

Calvin struggled in vain, and gagged again as the finger rubbed against something deep in his gut. Another gag—base reflex—and suddenly something brushed his lips. It was the ogress's ear! Lacking any other options, he bit down hard, felt cartilage part and his teeth meet, sawed them back and forth.

Utlunta howled, but did not release him, though now he could taste blood.

Something stirred in him at that: a fleeting flash of Power, almost exactly like he felt when he
changed!
And with it, unaccountably, came a realization. Spearfinger was a shapeshifter, was as full of Galunlati magic as the uktena was. He had lost the scale, but still tasted her Power now. And he had hunted her as well, which meant… One chance.

He closed his eyes, shut out the probing pain in his side, and prayed he was right—that her blood was as potent a talisman as the scale—and willed the
change.

It was the hardest one he had ever done, because he had to shut out all outward sensations—the agony in his side, the stench in his nostrils, the awful taste in his mouth—in order to succeed.

But apparently it was working, for strange memories began to mingle with his own, and he felt his body grow at once weaker and stronger than before, felt the probing in his side become more distant and then vanish altogether as Spearfinger found herself embracing a twin as invulnerable as she.

He shoved, she shoved back; but she was the shocked one now and he regained his feet. A glance over his shoulder showed Don finally with arrows, heading his way, though he hesitated every few yards and looked back, as if torn by indecision. He was evidently shouting at someone, too; but Calvin couldn't tell who, or hear what was said above Spearfinger's rasping breathing.

But then he had no more time for him, for the Spearfinger instincts were trying to take over. He let them—dared to let echoes of that other mind touch his own, for maybe, just maybe, if he was careful, he could find out what he wanted.

A deep breath, a withdrawal of self to a deeper level, and the Spearfinger thoughts filled his mind. He prowled among them, searching…? And then…pay dirt! Her heart was in her
other
hand—that he should have guessed. But lurking in hidden places behind were those things she most feared:

Fire…air…and water!

It was as simple as that, for fire could crack rock, or wind and water turn its own sandy children against it and wear it away.

But there was no fire here, and it would be as dangerous to him as to her.

Air, though…Spearfinger had seemed lighter during that brief moment when he had held her aloft. He tried that again, filtering his human knowledge of wrestling through sorceress muscles—and had no trouble wrenching his foe from her feet and flinging her over his shoulder. Her weight diminished immediately, and he could feel her stabbing at him with the finger, though it could not pierce his skin, now as hard as hers. It was still an irritant, however, but a shift of his grip to include her bony wrist put an end to that.

Now if only he could get her to water, perhaps he'd have a chance.

The nearest wasn't far, either: a tributary stream to Iodine Creek he'd spotted from the air. In fact, the narrow end of the meadow actually bordered it. He started that way at a slow trudge, for though Spearfinger was lighter than she had been, still she was a considerable weight for an old woman's body to support.

Or did he actually
need
her form now?

But then a disturbing thought struck him: Spearfinger had tasted his blood as surely as he had tasted hers. Why, then, couldn't she shift herself, become
him,
and begin the whole battle all over? And worse, since he had used the monster's blood instead of the scale to empower the
change,
how was he going to return to his rightful form without either biting her again (which would be pretty awkward) or finding the latter? And then a ghost of alien memory answered both questions: the ogress had to have eaten a person's liver to take his shape (she was evidently limited to duplicating humans); but
his
transformations were based on a slightly different system. More to the point, though, as long as her blood was in his body he no longer needed outside assistance to
change.

So maybe…

A pause, a blanking, an application of will, and he was himself once more. Stronger now, he strode onward, until barely fifty paces separated him from his goal.

“I'd stop right there,” a voice shouted suddenly, amplified through a megaphone and echoing across the meadow. “Stop right there, Mr. McIntosh, or we'll have to shoot!”

Calvin glanced toward the shout, and glimpsed three men—sheriff's deputies Adams and Moncrief, and Robert the policeman—slowly advancing toward him, the deputies with drawn .38s. The coroner was with them too, though a little behind, waving his arms at them as if to call them back. He was also holding his video camera, and Calvin realized he was the one he'd glimpsed lurking in the tall grass earlier—the one he'd stupidly mistaken for Brock. A further check showed him that Don was there as well, fully equipped with bow and arrow, but no longer advancing.

His heart sank. He was so close, so close, but he knew what the cops must be seeing: a naked guy lugging a struggling old woman toward a creek. But he had no choice.

“Stop, I say!”

Brock's voice interrupted from out of nowhere, cracking up and down the scale with urgency. “No, officers, you don't understand, you don't
understand
!”

“Get away, son!” That was Adams.

Calvin simply kept walking, determined to get as far as he could. Maybe if he was lucky, Don would get his act together and shoot Spearfinger in her vulnerable spot.

Maybe pigs would fly in from China.

“Stop!”

A shot rang out, coupled with a cry of dismay from Brock. But it had been a woman who had shouted, and Calvin turned just enough to see that Brock and Robyn had joined the fray. Brock was hollering at the men indignantly. But Robyn—bless the girl—she was holding them at bay with something that looked suspiciously like a pistol, without a doubt the inhabitant of the empty holster he'd spotted earlier. Evidently she'd just fired a warning shot, and
not
at Calvin. An explosion of conversation ensued, which Calvin couldn't hear above the rustle of his legs through the grass and the noise of Spearfinger's grunts and threats and thrashings. But the next thing he knew, Don had slipped away from the furiously taping coroner and had drawn a bead on the lawmen with the bow, even as Robyn eased around to impose herself between the deputies and Calvin.

How long
that
standoff would last, Calvin hadn't a clue. But he tried to move on a little faster.

The wind shifted somewhat, and he found he could hear more clearly: the sounds of scuffling, of shouts and orders and counter-orders.

“We've gotta get out there.”

“He'll hurt her if we try to take him, though!”

“Let me
go,
goddamn it!” (That was Brock).

And then, “Jesus, damn! The bastard bit me again!”

“Catch him!”

“Don't move a
muscle,
you asshole!”
That
was Robyn.

Calvin wished he could see what was happening. But Spearfinger was struggling even more violently than heretofore, and he had no choice but to continue his march toward the stream, with the hapless hag writhing, kicking, and kneeing him whenever she could. He still held the deadly hand, though, and she was powerless. And she was not singing, which he thought strange until he remembered something else from the brief time he had shared her mind: the earth would aid her only if she stood upon it—that was why she was so weak now.

More shouts, then; feet thumping on the ground, the swish of tall grass against clothing; and suddenly there was someone beside him. Calvin knew from the flash of blond hair who it was.

“Brock!” he gasped. The boy's hands reached out to brace him as Spearfinger's thrashings became so vigorous wild he almost fell.

“That's me, man!”

“Mind tellin' me what the
hell
is goin' on?”

Brock shifted his grip and began. “Well, when you flew off there wasn't anything I could do but follow, was there? And when I finally saw there was something I
could
do, I just did it. Them rocks 'bout got me, though,” he added. “But soon as I got loose I ran for Robyn 'cause I knew she had a gun. Figured I'd get it for you. Trouble was, the cops showed up right as we got back—'parently they'd heard your shots, or something.”

“And now they won't dare shoot for fear of hittin' you!”

“Robyn'd shoot
them
if they even tried!”

“There just the four of 'em?”

“Yeah,” Brock replied. “The stupid skinny one and the stupid fat one and the police-guy—he's on your side, I think. Oh, and that coroner-fellow—he'd have
helped,
'cept he twisted the shit out of his ankle just as he got here.”

“I'd surrender, if I was you!” Abner called ineffectually. “We'll get you sooner or later!”

“Later's all I need,” Calvin shouted back. “Sorry. guys, but I know what I'm doin'.”

“Don't be a
fool,
boy; put that woman down!” That had been Robert.

Calvin ignored them. The ground had grown mushy and was lowering toward a scrap of sand at the edge of the creek. Spearfinger was almost frantic with terror: shrieking and kicking furiously, but Brock had seized her feet and was dampening her more violent gyrations, though she rained threats on top of threats upon their heads.

And then sand squished up between Calvin's toes, and an instant later, he was wading into the water. It was neither wide nor deep—maybe ten feet across and barely past his waist at the center, where he halted.

“Get back” he told Brock—whereupon he heaved Spearfinger off his shoulder and plunged her into the stream. He lowered himself, then, grasping her firmly by the elbows while he braced her back across one knee and gradually secured his hold—rather like an old-fashioned baptizing, until Calvin began to force her head down.