torg 03- The Nightmare Dream (21 page)

"If only that were true, shapeshifter, but alas, I do need your help," the techno-demon shrugged. "Perhaps the Gaunt Man could provide me with answers, but he is ... indisposed."

"Indisposed?" Kurst asked curiously.

"Yes," Thratchen answered, "thanks to your friends. Mara is quite clever, you know."

"Still, what do you want from me," Kurst demanded, "and why do you think that I will help you?"

"You have no choice, dire wolf," Thratchen proclaimed as he produced a pendant from the folds of his tunic.

It was a twin to the one that Scy thak wore, the one that was safely tucked into Kurst's pack, back in the shelter of trees. When it caught the faint light of Takta Ker's sun, it magnified it a thousand fold, reflecting it into Kurst's eyes. The light caught him like a deer was caught by a hunter's light, and the name that Thratchen called him bounced within his head.

Dire wolf.

Thratchen stepped closer, holding the pendant so that it remained locked within Kurst's gaze. "You are a dire wolf, aren't you Kurst?" the techno-demon asked.

The shapeshifter felt himself slipping into an hypnotic trance, but he could do nothing to curb the slide. Instead, he heard his own voice answer the techno-demon. "Yes," he said, "I am a dire wolf."

"You are the last of the dire wolves!" Thratchen screamed. "And I want to know why the Gaunt Man saved you!"

"I... do ... not... know ..." Kurst answered slowly. But he did know. He did! He just couldn't remember.

"There are blocks in your memory," Thratchen explained, "placed there by the Gaunt Man. I can help you break through them."

The pendant spun before Kurst's eyes like a miniature sun, its light cutting through his soul. Thratchen spoke a word of power, showing his ability with Orrorshan sorcery. Then he spoke words that Kurst could understand.

"Who are you, Kurst?" Thratchen asked. "Who are you? Who are you?"

Kurst struggled. Not against Thratchen and his sorcery, but against his own mind. He wanted to know the answer to that question as much as Thratchen did. Didn't he?

"I ... do not know," Kurst said, forcing the words through his clenched teeth.

"Who are you, Kurst? Who are you? Who are you?"

"I... do not... remember!"

"Who are you, who are you, who are you, who are you?"

"I... do ... not... remember!"

" Whoareyouwhoareyouwhoareyouwhoareyou ..."

The question became a chant, bouncing within his mind like a ball trying to burst free. Kurst stared into the glowing pendant, but he did not see it. Instead he saw images from his past. He saw the Gaunt Man strip away his possibilities, felt his identity tear away like wings from a fly. The ball bounced against a wall. It blocked him from going further back into his mind. But Kurst was determined, and he helped the ball with his own strength of will, bouncing it harder and faster against the wall the Gaunt Man had erected.

"Whoareyouwhoareyouzvhoareyouivhoareyou ..."

With a force that sent jagged pain through his head, Kurst hurled the ball with all his might. For a moment, he thought the wall was going to hold. Then, with a resounding crash of memories, the wall shattered.

" Whoareyouwhoareyouwhoareyouivhoareyou ..."

"I am ... Daroga!" Kurst screamed in defiance to the years he spent as the Gaunt Man's slave, screaming the words as they welled up out of the depths of his mind. "I am the last of the dire wolves!"

Thratchen backed away at the power of Kurst's declaration. What had he unleashed, he wondered. Perhaps the Gaunt Man had sealed away this knowledge for good reason. Still, he had taken it this far. It was time to push all the way.

"Who is Daroga?" Thratchen asked. "Why is he the last of the dire wolves?"

Kurst's features twisted into a grimace of pain as the memories echoed up from the dark recesses in which they had been lodged. They were feelings, really, nothing more. He did not fully understand them, but they rocked him to his very core with the strength of their emotions.

"My ... people ..." Kurst cried, "... he killed my people!"

"Who did?" Thratchen urged, trying to understand what Kurst was telling him.

"The Gaunt Man," Kurst wailed. "He killed them all. The hunters ... the cubs ... even the old ones ... slaughtered by the millions."

"Why?"

"Because I would not submit to him!" The anguish in Kurst's voice moved the techno-demon, and he felt the pain as it reverberated from the werewolf. "My children on Orrorsh called to me for help, and I gave it. I would not bow down to the Gaunt Man! Never would I yield! And for that, he killed them all." Kurst's voice trailed off into sobs. It was like listening to a voice from the past — his voice, Kurst knew. The person he used to be.

"Who are you, Kurst?" Thratchen asked again.

"I am Daroga! I am the last of the dire wolves! I am High Lord of Kantovia!"

With that, Thratchen clasped his hand over the swirling pendant, cutting off its spell. Kurst fell to his knees, spent by the draining activity and battered by long-forgotten guilts and emotions.

"I am sorry you had to go through that, Daroga," Thratchen said quietly, "but I had to know your secrets."

Kurst turned to the techno-demon, a snarl upon his lupine features. "I am not Daroga, at least not anymore. That name is but a memory to me, as are the events I spoke of. They have no substance yet, no reality. I do not know what any of it means. And until I do know, I am simply Kurst."

Thratchen nodded. "At least now I know how you were able to inflict such wounds upon the Gaunt Man. Will you oppose me for his Darkness Device?"

Kurst looked at the techno-demon and laughed. "If I was once a High Lord, it is obvious that I am one no longer. I am a storm knight now, and the only reason we will come into opposition is if you intend to continue the Gaunt Man's plans."

"Then we have nothing to worry about, Kurst," Thratchen said amiably. "For whatever plans I have are beyond even the Gaunt Man's feeble desires."

That said, Thratchen disappeared back into the deep mists of Takta Ker.

71

Teth-Net, the Royal Marshall of the Nile Empire, walked purposefully through the corridors of the palace, carrying with him the latest progress reports on the border wars. As he approached an intersection that led off to two side passages, he heard whispered conversation. He paused to listen, but could make out only a few words. He had to get closer. Moving with quiet agility, he stepped over to the corner.

"The machine that Mobius is looking for is located in the Indian Ocean, just north of Christmas Island," a hushed voice said. It was a male voice, and one that Teth-Net did not recognize.

"You say he is seeking some mysterious title?" a second voice asked. It was also male. "What did you call it? The Torg?"

"Yes, that's right," the first voice responded.

"Good grief, Angus, this all sounds like something

out of the pulps!" the second voice declared.

"Keep your voice down, Guardian!" the man named Angus hissed. "You'll have a platoon of shock troopers on us if you keep shouting!"

"Who's shouting?" the man called Guardian asked indignantly. "I'm just trying to understand what this is all about."

"That's just the point," Angus said, "I don't know what it's about. I just know that Mobius'has to be stopped. He's preparing an airplane at this airfield outside Qina. You have to stop that plane from leaving."

"If you two have finished your discussion, we really must break this up," a third voice interrupted. It was a woman's voice, light and airy. And it was definitely familiar. Teth-Net carefully peeked around the corner.

There, standing in a shadowy alcove, were two men and a woman. The first man was dressed in ordinary palace slave garb, but his bearing suggested more than his uniform hinted at. The second man was dressed in a black coat and hat, a dark mask covered his eyes, and he carried a diamond-tipped cane. The last figure was that of the Royal Escort, Clemeta, and she was decked out in palace finery.

Teth-Net began to reach for his pistol when another thought occurred to him. He would let these conspirators go about their business. Mobius would want to deal with Clemeta and her slave anyway, and the Guardian could be used to lure other Mystery Men into an elaborate trap. He watched as they let the Guardian out through a secret door, running his plan over in his mind. They departed a moment later, running hand-in-hand down the corridor and out of sight.

72

Andrew Decker and Julie Boot sat side by side within the shelter of the clump of trees that Kurst had found. Julie prepared a lunch from the supplies they brought with them, while Decker simply sat quietly. Julie noticed that he was looking at Paragon's pack. They had found it along the path on their way toward the bridgehead, and Decker had insisted on bringing it along.

"A penny for your thoughts, congressman," she said, removing plastic wrap from one of the dinner trays.

He turned to her, offering a slight smile. "My thoughts aren't worth that much, Julie. I was just thinking about everything that has happened. I can't believe they want to blame me for Wells' death," he said. "And I can't believe that Eddie Paragon is dead."

"You liked the rock'n'roller, didn't you, Ace?" she asked, setting the dinner trays aside.

"Actually, at first I couldn't stand him," Decker laughed. "Do you know he didn't even like baseball?"

"Sacrilege," Julie agreed in mock indignation.

"But he did grow on me," Decker admitted. "He was a brave man. He shouldn't have died like that."

"Nobody should die like that, Ace," Julie said, moving closer to him. "But take it from Nurse Boot, whether they should or shouldn't, people die. Some of them go quietly, others go violently, but eventually everybody does die."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better, Julie? If it is, you should polish up on your bedside manner."

Julie was pressed close to him now, stroking his hair with her hand. "What do you know of my bedside manner, Ace? You were unconscious through most of my work with you."

Decker took her hand, stroking it gently. "I'm not

unconscious now," he said, his eyes locked on hers.

"You're not, are you," she said nervously. But it was a good nervous. It was the nervousness of first love.

"No," he said, taking her into his arms and kissing her with an urgency that scared him. He paused. "If you want me to stop ...?" he started to ask, but she silenced him with another kiss.

"Ace Decker," she said between kisses, "when I want you to stop, I'll let you know."

Decker murmured an agreement as he returned her kisses and they embraced. They fell upon the soft grass and made sweet, uncompromised love beneath the shade of the canopy of leaves.

73

Mara looked at the hand that now was attached to her left arm. She flexed it, watching as the fingers curled into a fist. The hand was metallic and clawed, like Thratchen's hand. It was a Sim hand, made to fit a Kadandran. She shuddered, but was also grateful that she was once again whole.

Toolpin stared at the hand, then shot her a troubled look. "I don't know about this, Mara," he said nervously. "It doesn't suit you at all. It's kind of ... evil looking."

"That's your imagination, Toolpin," she said, but his words echoed her own feelings. "At least with another hand I'll be able to finish.the modifications on the jaz pack."

Toolpin still looked unconvinced. "I hope you know what you're doing."

She waved him away. "Go bother someone else, Toolpin," Mara said. "I have work to do."

"Bother?" Toolpin said indignantly. "Someone else? Well, if I'm a bother to you I'll just go elsewhere. It's a big plane, you know. I don't need to be told twice. I can take a hint. I don't need a ton of bricks to fall..."

"Toolpin?" Mara asked sweetly.

"Yes, Mara?" Toolpin asked back.

"Go away, please."

"Of course. Maybe I'll go see what Father Bryce is doing up there in the cockpit."

"Good idea."

Toolpin left with a whistle on his lips, skipping happily toward the front of the plane. Mara smiled, then bent to continue working on the jaz pack. She lifted a tool in her new hand, ready to ad just one of the connecting pins, when the hand began to shake violently. She watched it quake, her eyes wide.