The Dreaming Void (32 page)

He groaned again and felt the acid rising in his throat, gave up all attempts at control, and threw up spectacularly. As he did so, the fear hit, squeezing cold sweat from every pore. He was shaking as he wiped pitifully at the fluid dribbling from his lips, nearly weeping with misery. Hangovers he could take, even those from red wine, but this was more than just the payback for overindulgence. He had felt like this before: the forest, the bandit ambush.

His body was reacting to the alcohol and a couple of puffs on the pipe, but his mind was yelling at some deep instinctive level of the mortal danger closing in from the surrounding darkness. He forced himself to sit up. A thin pastel light from the night sky washed around the shutters, revealing his small room. Nothing was amiss apart from himself. He whimpered from the sheer intensity of fright pouring through him, expecting something terrible to envelop him at any second. The hangover made his head throb painfully. It was hard to concentrate, but he slowly managed to summon up some farsight and scan around himself.

The three apprentices were asleep in their dormitory. He forced the ability further, almost crying out from the pain sparking behind his eyes. Akeem, too, was asleep on his bed. Out in the courtyard, the young genistars dozed the night away, shuffling and shaking as was their style. A couple of cats trod delicately along the roofs as they tracked small rodents. By the gate, the ge-wolf in its traditional stone guard kennel lay curled up on its legs, big head swaying slowly as it obediently kept watch on the road outside.

Edeard groaned with the effort of searching so far and let his farsight wither to nothing. He was still shaking and cold. The front of his shirt was disgustingly sticky, and the smell was getting worse. Nausea threatened to return. He struggled out of the shirt and lurched over to the nightstand, where there was a glass of water, and took several large gulps. In the drawer at the bottom of the little stand was a pouch of dried jewn petals soaked in an oil that Fahin had prepared. He opened it, closed his eyes, and shoved one of the petals into his mouth. It tasted foul, but he took a final gulp from the glass, forcing it down.

In all his sixteen years he had never felt so wretched, and still the fear would not abate. Tears threatened to clog his eyes as he shivered again, hugging his chest.

What is wrong with me?

He wobbled over to the window and pushed the shutters open. Cool night air flowed in. Odin's Sea had fallen nearly below the horizon; that meant it was no more than a couple of hours past midnight. The low thatched roofs of the village were spread out around him, pale in the wan flickering light of the nebulae. Nothing moved, but for whatever reason the sight of such serenity made the fear even worse. For an instant he heard screams, saw flames. His stomach churned, and he bent over the windowsill.

Lady, why do you do this to me?

When he straightened up, he instinctively looked at the village gate with its twin watchtowers. There was no sign of the guards, but they were nearly half a mile away and it was night. Edeard gathered his breath and gripped the side of the windows in grim determination. His farsight surged out.
If they're all right, I'm going straight back to bed.

The towers were built from smooth-faced stone; recent decades had seen them strengthened inside with thick timber bracing. Even so, there were no holes in the walls, just some alarmingly long cracks zigzagging up and down. Their parapets were large enough to hold ten guards who could fire a number of heavy weapons down on anyone foolish enough to storm the gate. This night the eastern tower was empty. A solitary man stood on the western parapet underneath the alarm bell. He was facing inward, looking across the village. Three bodies lay on the flagstones at his feet.

Edeard lurched in shock and tried to refocus his farsight. It swept in and out before centering back on the parapet. The lone man's thoughts shone with a hue of satisfaction; Edeard felt a filthy mental smile.

“Greetings,” the man longtalked.

Edeard's throat contracted, snagging his breath. “Who are you?”

Mental laughter mocked him. “We know who you are. We know all about you, tough boy. We know what you did to our friends. Because of that you're mine tonight. And I promise you won't die quickly.”

Edeard yelped in horror and dived away from the window. Even so he could still feel the tenuous touch of the other's farsight upon him. He put as much strength as he had behind his longtalk and cried: “Akeem! Akeem, wake up. The bandits are here. They're in the village.”

His mental shout was like some kind of signal. The soft glow of minds materialized in the alleyways and lanes that wound through the cottages and guild compounds. Edeard screamed. They were everywhere!

So many! Every bandit in the wilderness must be here tonight.

“What in the Lady's name?” Akeem's fuzzy thoughts came questioning.

“Bandits,” Edeard called again with voice and mind. “Hundreds of them. They're already here.” He jabbed every ge-wolf in the compound with a mental goad, triggering their attack state. Loud, dangerous snarling rose from the courtyard.

Five bandits appeared in the street outside the guild, strong and confident, making no further attempt at cover. They did not have the muddy skin and wild hair of the ones in the forest; these bandits wore simple dark tunics and sturdy boots. There were no bows and arrows, either. Strangely, they wore two belts apiece, looped around their shoulders so that they crossed over the chest. Little metal boxes were clipped onto the leather, along with a variety of knives. Whispers spilled out of the ether as they longtalked. Then Edeard sensed the fastfoxes walking beside them; each had two of the tamed and trained beasts.

“Oh, sweet Lady, no,” he gasped. His mind registered Akeem longtalking the other elders, fast and precise thoughts raising the alarm.

It was too late. Flames appeared among Ashwell's rooftops. Torches thick with oil fire spun through the air, guided by telekinesis to land full square on thatch roofs. The fire spread quickly, encouraged by the dry months of a good summer. A dreadful orange glow began to cover the village.

The ge-wolves were racing across the guild courtyard. Edeard extended his third hand with furious intent and slammed the gates open for them. That was when he heard the noise for the first time: an awful thunderous roar as if a hundred pistols were all firing at once. White light flashed across his open window, and his mind felt the dirty glee of the bandits' thoughts coming from the street below. Ge-wolves fell in torment, their minds radiating terrible flares of pain as their flesh was shredded. Some of them managed to survive the strange weapons only to collide with fastfoxes. The metallic roaring abated as the animals fought, tearing at each other as they writhed and spun and jumped.

That was when Edeard heard a woman scream. There was too much turmoil, too much anguish storming across Ashwell, for his farsight to track her down, but he knew what the sound meant, what it would mean for every woman in the village caught alive—and every girl.

He sent a single piercing thought at the church. “Salrana!”

“Edeard,” her panicked longtalk barked back. “They're here; they're in the church.”

His mind found her instantly, farsight zooming in as if he were illuminating her with a powerful beam of light. She was cowering in her room in the Mother's house that formed the back of the church. Inside the dome itself, three bandits were advancing along the empty aisles, radiating triumph and contempt as their fastfoxes stalked beside them. Mother Lorellan was already out of bed and heading for the church to deal with the desecrators. For a devout woman, her mind shone with inordinately strong aggression.

The bandits and their fastfoxes would cut her to ribbons, Edeard knew. “Get out,” he told Salrana. “Move now. Out of the window and into the garden. Stay ahead of them; keep moving. Head for the market. It's cobbled; there's no fire there. I'll meet you at the corn measure station.”

“Oh, Edeard!”

“Do it. Do it now.”

He raced over to the window. It was not such a big jump to the street, and the carnage the fastfoxes were wreaking on the surviving ge-wolves was almost over. Whatever victors were left, he could take care of them. Flames were racing across the thatch of the terraced cottages opposite. Doors were flung open, and men charged out, shields firm around their bodies, knives held high. The bandits raised their weapons, and the noise began again. Edeard watched numbly as the squat guns spit a blue-purple flame. Somehow they were firing dozens of bullets, reloading impossibly fast. The villagers shook and flailed in agony as the bullets overwhelmed their shields.

“Bastards,” Edeard yelled, and jumped.

“No! Don't.” Akeem's longtalk was strong enough to make half the village pause. Even the guns were temporarily still.

Edeard landed, his bare heel shooting pain up his leg. He turned toward the nearest bandit, crouching as if he were about to go for a wrestling hold. Somehow he sensed Akeem and the bandit in the guardtower both holding their breath. The bandit in front of him lifted the dark gun, snarling with delight. Edeard reached out with his third hand, closing it around the gun. He was not sure if his shield could withstand so many bullets striking at him, but as with every gun, one first had to pull the trigger. The bandit's eyes widened in surprise as his own shielding was unable to ward off Edeard's power. Then the street was subject to an unnerved screech as the bandit's fingers were snapped in quick succession. Edeard rotated the gun in front of the bandit's numb gaze until the man was staring right into the muzzle, then pulled hard on the trigger. The discharge was awesome, even though it lasted barely a second before something snarled inside the gun's mechanism. It blew the bandit's head apart. Tatters of gore lashed down on the muddy street.

Three other bandits raised their guns. Edeard exerted himself, gripping their flesh tight with his third hand, preventing the slightest movement. “Get them,” he told the surviving villagers stumbling out of the blazing cottages.

“Oh, your death will be exquisite,” the bandit in the watchtower sent.

A gun roared behind Edeard. He turned, flinching, to see the fifth bandit falling on his own weapon, borne down by a swarm of ge-chimps that Akeem had instructed.

“I did say ‘don't,' ” Akeem's longtalk chided.

“Thank you,” Edeard replied. The villagers were dispatching the bandits with a ferocity that he found disturbing. Edeard let go of the bloody corpses. Then everyone was turning to him, awaiting guidance.

“Get into the guild compound,” he told them, aware of how it became an eerie echo of Melzar's instructions back in the forest. “Group together. That will give your shields real strength.”

“You, too, lad,” Akeem said as Edeard picked up one of the bandit's guns. It was a lot heavier than he was expecting. A sweep with his farsight revealed an internal mechanism that was inordinately complicated. He did not understand anything about it other than the trigger. There did not seem to be many bullets left in the metal box in front of the stock. “I have to help Salrana.”

“No. All's lost here. Get out. Live, Edeard, please. Just survive tonight. Don't let them win.”

Edeard started running up the street, wincing every time his bootless foot touched the ground. “They won't destroy this village.”

“They already have, lad. Take cover. Get out.”

He sent his farsight flowing out ahead, alert for any bandits, and saw a fastfox loping along an alley. When it emerged, Edeard was almost level with it; he pushed his third hand into the creature's skull and ripped its brain apart. It fell in the evil wavering light of burning thatch. The street was a gully of leaping flame, as bright as any dawn. Screams, shouts, and gunfire split the harsh, constant flame growl.

“You are good, aren't you?” the watchtower bandit taunted.

Edeard pushed his farsight into the tower, but the man was no longer there. A quick scan of the surrounding area revealed nothing except the broken main gates and dead village guards. “Where did he go?” Edeard asked fretfully. “Akeem, help. I can't sense half of them.” He actually heard a gun mechanism
snik
smoothly and hardened his shield. The blast of bullets came from a cottage he'd just passed. He was lucky, he decided afterward. Not all of the bullets hit him; the bandit's aim was off. That and his mind picked up a quiet longtalk: “No, not him.” Even so, the force of the shots that did hit was enough to send him sprawling backward, half-dazed. He instinctively lashed out with his third hand to the source of the shots. A bandit went staggering across the road, shaking his head. Edeard reached up to the furnace of thatch above and tugged hard. Dense waves of flame peeled off the disintegrating roof and splashed down over the bandit, driving him to his knees. His screams, thankfully, were muffled.

“Are you all right?” Akeem asked.

Edeard groaned as he rolled back to his feet, There were flames everywhere, their ferocity sending huge sparking balls of thatch high into the sky. Windows and doors were belching out twisting orange streamers. The heat was intense on his bare torso; he was sure he could feel his skin starting to crack and blister. “I'm here,” he replied. “But I can't sense them; I don't know where they are.” And he knew the watchtower bandit was coming, slipping stealthily through the swirling flames and sagging walls.

“Try this,” Akeem said. His longtalk voice became stretched as if rising to birdsong. It seemed to fill Edeard's skull. It was a knowledge gift: thoughts and sometimes memories that explained how to perform a specific mental task. Edeard had absorbed hundreds of basic explanations on the art of sculpting, but this was far more complex. As the song ended, he began to shape his farsight and third hand together into a symbiotic force that wove darkness through the air around him. It was like standing in the middle of a thick patch of fog.