The Gypsy Morph (28 page)

A
S THE KLEE LUMBERED TOWARD HIM
, Hawk’s childhood nightmares returned in a flood of dark images. Because he no longer knew how much of his childhood was real and how much the creation of the King of the Silver River, he could not be certain if his memories were real. But they felt real, which was enough to give them the substance of reality. Enough, too, to remind him of a truth he had always known, a truth so terrible and so inexorable that he had lived in dread of it his entire life.

If the dreams crossed over from sleeping into waking, his life was over.

He had only an instant to remember all this, come face-to-face with the something he had thought he had left behind—only a moment to come to terms with what it meant. He was backing away, trying to think of what to do, how to escape. The creature was almost on top of him, moving more quickly than should have been possible given its size.

Its massive arms reached for him.

Hawk reacted instinctively. He thrust his prod at it in a futile effort to slow its advance. He jammed the weapon into its spongy chest, amid hair, scales, and debris, and gave it a full charge. But the creature never even flinched. It simply snatched the prod from his hands and tossed it aside.

Hawk had nothing left with which to defend himself save one of the viper-pricks. He had no faith in a tiny needle, no matter how venomous. He knew instinctively that the creature’s mottled, debriscoated body would resist such a weapon, might even prevent it from penetrating.

He backed away some more. The creature was still coming, but its advance was unhurried. Its gimlet eyes were fixed on Hawk, studying him, and something reflected in those eyes revealed what it was thinking. That the boy was trapped. That he could not escape. That it could do whatever it wanted with him.

It was toying with him. It was enjoying this.

His nightmares had found him in the form of this monster, and the monster was taking its time.

Hawk backed up another step and bumped into something. He reached back without taking his eyes off the monster and touched the rough surface of a narrow tree trunk, its barked surface dry and peeling. A cluster of scrawny trees blocked his way. He backed into them, guiding himself between the tangled trunks using his hands, thinking that maybe he could hide if there were enough of them, eyes locked on the monster, telling himself,
I can’t let it touch me!

Then a strange thing happened. The monster suddenly stopped where it was, a puzzled look in its mean little eyes. Hawk froze, not daring to move. Even though it was staring right at him, it didn’t seem to be seeing him. It looked left and right, searching. Something was confusing it. It was almost as if Hawk had disappeared.

An instant later the Tyson Flechette boomed out, the muzzle flashes bright against the darkness—once, twice—the charges slamming into the monster with enough force to stagger it. Bear had climbed from the ravine and was coming to Hawk’s rescue, shouting and screaming all at once, making more noise than Hawk had ever heard him make in the entire time he had known him. Bear fired the flechette a third time, but an instant later the monster was gone, vanished back into the mist as if it had never existed.

Hawk stayed where he was, holding his breath. He could feel his hands shaking as he clutched the trunks of the slender trees.

“Hawk!” Bear called out to him. “Where are you?”

Sparrow had reappeared, as well, limping badly. Cheney was only steps behind, fur matted and dust-covered, his big head streaked with blood.

“Hawk!” Bear called again.

“Hawk, where are you?” Sparrow echoed.

Hawk was standing right in front of them, not twenty feet away. The mist was thick, but not so thick that he shouldn’t have been visible to his friends. Yet neither of them could see him. He was so astonished that for a moment he just stayed where he was and watched them cast about for him, searching the haze and the darkness.

He tried to wrap his mind around it.
They can’t see me!

Then Cheney pushed past them and came right up to him, shoving at his legs with his dark muzzle. Hawk took his hands away from the trees and reached down to ruffle the big dog’s head.

“There he is,” Bear said at once, as if Hawk had just reappeared.

“Hawk, are you all right?” Sparrow cried.

He stepped out from between the trees as they rushed up to him, their clothes filthy and torn, their faces scratched. Sparrow looked furious, Bear simply relieved. He hugged both of them in turn, still caught up in what had happened, unsure of which was the more astonishing—the appearance of the monster from his childhood dreams or his unexplained invisibility.

He looked around quickly, half fearing what he would find. “Let’s get moving,” he urged.

They began walking again, wrapped anew in the mist and the silence and their fears, what weapons they could salvage recovered, their nerves on edge. Even the dependable Cheney seemed edgy. But within only minutes they heard the rumble of tires and the slosh of standing water disturbed, and the Lightning S-150 hove into view like a big metal beetle. The other Ghosts had heard the sound of Bear’s flechette and had come to their rescue. Hawk exhaled sharply at the prospect of his family reunited, of everyone safe and together again. But at the same time, he thought anew of the monster that was still out there, waiting for another chance at them.

They piled into and on top of the Lightning, finding places where they could because no one was going to walk after what had just happened, and they drove on through the remainder of the night. They were out of the fog after less than an hour and within another two hours after that, out of the darkness, as well. By midday of the following day, they had found the camp with its children and caregivers and been welcomed back by Helen Rice and Angel Perez, who had arrived the day before, and were able to put the events of the previous night behind them.

All except Hawk, who could not stop thinking about the monster. He had looked into its eyes, and those eyes had told him everything. That their owner was heartless and implacable. That killing was its life’s purpose. That he was powerless against it.

That at some point soon it would come for him again.

NINETEEN

T
HE SKRAILS FLEW SOUTH
through the starlit night for several hours, winging their way along the eastern slopes of the Cintra Mountains with Kirisin Belloruus gripped firmly in their talons. Blood ran down his back from puncture wounds to his shoulders, and his body was racked with the pain. It did no good to try to struggle, because getting free of the skrails would mean falling to his death. It was bad enough that any sort of movement exacerbated his injuries, but the cold added measurably to his discomfort—enough so that his hands and feet quickly grew numb and there was nothing he could do about it. Stoically enduring, he hung limp and silent, listening to the steady beat of the great leathery wings and the occasional squawk from his captors that passed for communication.

At least he had managed to get rid of the Loden, he told himself. Whatever happened to him—and he had a pretty good idea what that would be—the Elfstone was safe.

It was a small victory given his present situation, but he took what comfort he could from it. Half a loaf was better than none at all. Even if the Loden had fallen to the ground undetected, if Praxia, running after him as he was carried away, had failed to glimpse it falling, it would still be safe from the demons. Someone would find it eventually. The Elves would be safe inside it until then, protected from whatever happened to the rest of their world and its inhabitants.

But his doubts persisted. He couldn’t help wondering if his reasoning was skewed. How could he know if the Loden would withstand the destruction that was coming? How could he know how long the Elves could survive inside the Loden before needing to be released? How could he know that the Elfstone would ever be found?

He closed his eyes. The many boiled down to one: How could he be sure of anything?

Exhaustion overcame discomfort and pain, and the steady beating of skrail wings and the rush of the wind lulled him to sleep. The events of the previous day—the flight from the Cintra and now the battle with his captors—had drained him of his strength. He dozed on and off as they flew, always jerking awake in what seemed only moments. But finally he drifted away in a long, sweeping glide, and time stopped altogether.

The jarring impact of a hard surface brought him awake again. It was still night. He lay on a barren patch of earth, freed of his captors, who winged about him in watchful sweeps, cautious against any attempt at escape. He made no effort to challenge them, his body numb clear through, his senses still sleep-fogged and confused. He lay where he was, waiting for something to make sense, drawing in his arms and legs, hugging himself against the intrusions of the waking world.

“Get up, boy!” a voice snarled, and a heavy boot kicked him in the ribs.

He did not move immediately, the numbness from the cold making him immune to the pain of the blow. He rolled from his back onto his side and then onto his elbows and knees, trying to think what to do.

An impatient growl followed the kick, and strong arms hoisted Kirisin to his feet and a pair of skrails held him upright while the speaker began to search him, staying behind him and out of sight, fingers rummaging through his pockets and under his clothing, missing nothing in their efforts to unmask what might be hidden. Finding nothing, the speaker struck him a sharp blow to the head and ordered the skrails to drop him. He collapsed a second time, barely managing to cushion his fall, the feeling just beginning to come back into his limbs.

“Bind him,” the speaker ordered, walking away.

Rolling onto his side, Kirisin caught just a glimpse of the other, a thin, gnarled figure, limbs and body all twisted, head hunched deep into shoulders so bony they were defined mostly by the blades that jutted against the fabric of an old tunic like ax heads.

Then the skrails were on him once more, bearing him to the ground, forcing his arms behind his back. He tried to create some slack in the cords that were wrapped about him, but the skrails just hissed and yanked his bonds tighter. They secured his ankles, as well, crossing them and wrapping them in another set of cords, leaving him thoroughly trussed. Their fingers were long and thin but very strong. Struggling was pointless.

When they were finished, they left him lying on the ground by himself in the dark, unable to do much more than wriggle, unable to stand or even to sit up. The minutes crawled past and no one came to check on him. He could sense the skrails watching him from the darkness. Maybe they were afraid of what he could do if they got too close. The idea came and went in the blink of an eye. If they had caught and bound him when he was still free, they weren’t likely to be afraid of him now. It was more reasonable to assume that their minder was keeping them away.

He lay quietly for a time, miserable and frightened. His wounds throbbed, but the bleeding had stopped. He tried to ignore the pain, but it was an insistent presence. He wished he could have a look at the punctures to see how bad they were. He wished he could have something to eat and drink. He wished he had dropped to the ground when Praxia shouted at him instead of trying to reach the AV. He wished he were smarter and stronger and quicker and a whole lot of other things that might have allowed him to escape.

In the end, he just wished he weren’t so alone—that Simralin would come for him.

His wishes surfaced like ghosts and fled into the night.

He dozed for a time, lying on his side in the dark, hearing the skrails moving about nearby with a soft skittering and muted squawks. He woke often from his uneasy rest, and each time the pain from his wounds and his bindings felt worse than the time before. He tried to think of a way to escape, but with his hands and feet so securely bound there was little hope.

He had just fallen asleep when talons grasped his shoulders roughly and pulled him to his feet. A pair of skrails stood one on either side, and a third knelt to release his ankles. They shoved him ahead, and he tried to walk, but they had to hold him up for a dozen paces before the feeling returned to his feet. He stumbled ahead after that with the skrails guiding him, their leathery wings flapping softly as they walked, their reptilian faces bent close to his own. He could smell the swamp on them, fetid and raw, and he could feel the coldness of their talons where they gripped him.

Ahead, a fire was visible through gaps in a cluster of skeletal trees that were silhouetted against its glow like the bones of the dead. Shadowy forms moved through the firelight, winged and hunched. More skrails. Kirisin wondered what was happening. His stomach knotted and his throat tightened.

The minder was waiting, all bent and bony, looking like a smaller version of the trees. At the boy’s appearance, he wheeled back from where he knelt before the fire, and then rose and walked over to greet him. Without a word, he struck Kirisin across the face with one callused hand, the blow sharp and hard and painful. Kirisin cried out and tried to pull away. The minder struck him again, harder.

“Now, then, boy,” he hissed, “where is the Elfstone?”

Kirisin shook his head, tears running down his face. “I don’t have it.”

The minder struck him again. “Tell me something I don’t know, you little fool! Where is it?”

Kirisin gritted his teeth in rage. “The Knight of the Word has it.”

The gnarled creature hissed at him like a snake and struck him again. “You lie! Where is it?”

Kirisin thrashed in the grip of the skrails and almost succeeded in tearing free. He spat at the minder. “I told you!”

He met the other’s gaze and held it, taking in the weathered face that was all collapsed hollows and jutting bones beneath wrinkled skin. The strange green eyes were lidded and bright, the nose flatted to little more than nostrils, and the mouth a sucking hole devoid of teeth. His stench was almost unbearable, but the boy refused to flinch from it.