He listened for a moment. He could hear nothing.
He climbed to his feet carefully, making no noise at all. Praxia was standing right next to him, a long knife in each hand, crouched and ready.
“How long was I asleep?” he whispered.
She shook her head. “Not long. Get inside the transport.”
From somewhere off in the distance, back the way they had come, a series of high-pitched screeching sounds broke the silence. It reminded Kirisin of the cries of hunting birds, large and fierce predators, and it sent a chill up his spine.
“Go!” Praxia hissed at him, gesturing urgently with her long knife.
He had only moved a couple of steps when he was struck from behind, a hard blow to his head and shoulders that sent him sprawling. Fire lanced across his back where claws had raked through his clothing to tear into the skin, and he could feel the blood running freely from his wounds. As he struggled to his feet, he saw dark forms swooping down out of the night, a gathering of shadows that completely surrounded the Elves and the Knight of the Word. Sharp, piercing cries filled the night, mingling with shouts and cries of warning.
“Kirisin! Run!”
Praxia dodged and weaved as the night fliers came at her—one, two, three of them, claws ripping at her head. But she was small and quick, and they missed their target, catching only air. Her knives flicked out at them as they passed, and two shrieked in pain and anger, one rising only momentarily before falling back, wings beating uselessly. Kirisin saw it clearly as it landed, a human-shaped form with leathery wings and a reptilian spine and tail.
Human once, he thought, scrambling away. Reptile now. Changed into something monstrous.
A flock of them had fallen on the two Elven Hunters and both had gone down, buried in a mass of beating wings and ripping claws. The boy heard them scream as their lives were torn out, their efforts at defending themselves too little, too late. Others were coming at Ruslan and Que’rue, but both had backed themselves against the AV and were using short swords and long knives to keep their attackers at bay. Three of the skrails died right in front of the boy, cut to pieces. Others escaped with deep cuts and slashes. Blood flew everywhere from the injuries, some of it spattering his face.
Logan Tom had turned away from his work to summon the magic of his black staff, had called it up and sent it arcing across the night sky. It illuminated the darkness and revealed dozens of skrails. The Knight of the Word spun the magic out across the flats, into the darkness, and more of the skrails, revealed in its blue blaze, were caught up in its sweep and incinerated. Shifting his stance, Logan Tom raked the skies overhead, and another knot of attackers was beaten back.
“Get into the AV!” he shouted at the Elves.
Kirisin was already trying to do just that, but the path was blocked by skrails and Trackers locked in combat. The battle was raging back and forth in front of the Ventra’s doors, and the boy could not find a way past.
Then Praxia was next to him, grabbing his arm, hauling him ahead, into the teeth of the fighting. She cut their way through, shouting at Que’rue and Ruslan to let them past. In desperation, she threw herself into the battle ahead of him, and the three Trackers fought to clear a path through the knot of skrails. From farther out on the flats, Logan Tom was struggling to keep others that were still in the sky from joining those on the ground, his magic flaring into the darkness in sharp bursts. But the skrails were coming at him from everywhere, recklessly flying into the magic’s fire, almost as if eager to sacrifice themselves.
Kirisin hesitated, uncertain which way to go.
“Get down!” he heard Logan Tom yell at him.
He dropped to one knee, searching wildly. Dark bodies surged toward him, flew at him. He hunched his shoulders and tried to think which way to go.
“Kirisin!” Praxia screamed.
An instant later four sets of talons locked onto his shoulders. He had been seized by not one but two of the skrails, huge creatures with reptilian faces that were beaked and horn-encrusted. Their leathery wings beat madly as they hoisted him aloft, and although he twisted and thrashed in their grip he could not break free. The ground fell away beneath him, and his companions began to diminish in size.
He experienced an overwhelming terror as he realized what was happening. He screamed for help, but it was already too late. Even if he were freed from the skrails, the fall would kill him. His companions were not going to be able to save him. Already he could barely see them. Only Praxia was giving chase, shouting up at him futilely.
A cold certainty flooded through him. He knew where he was being taken and the fate that awaited him when he got there. Demons would be waiting for him, and he would be made to use the Loden exactly as Culph had intended.
In desperation he yanked the pouch that contained the Loden Elfstone from within his shirt, broke it free from its cord, and cast it away. He watched it fall to earth. At least they wouldn’t get that, he thought.
But would his companions find it? Had they seen him drop it? Would they even know to look for it?
Then he was too high to see anything more, and he quit looking.
FOURTEEN
A NGEL PEREZ sat in an old rocker on the cottage porch and stared out into the screen of trees that masked the sluggish flow of the Columbia River. It was midday, the heat penetrating even the thick canopy of the forest. Only the breezes off the river kept it cool, but today they were sporadic and slight. She was tired of the heat, the cottage, the inactivity, and the long days and longer nights. Mostly, though, she was tired of not knowing what was happening to those who had left her behind.
She exhaled wearily, thinking of it. Her recovery had been slow, if steady. She had been with Larkin Quill for more than a week now, sleeping most of the time at first, and then dozing frequently after that until she’d had enough of sleep and healing and the corner on her recovery had been turned. Her pain from her wounds had been harsh but bearable. Her magic had helped her to mend as an ordinary person could not have, restoring her health so quickly that even Larkin Quill, who had seen much of injuries and recoveries in his time, was surprised.
“You would be laid up for another month, were you a normal young lady,” he had declared that very morning. “I thought I knew something about healing, but you could teach me a few things.”
Well, she could if she understood how it worked, but she didn’t. She had always healed quickly since becoming a Knight of the Word, the process enhanced and quickened by her magic, by her being who and what she was. There was no mystery to it. It was necessary that she heal swiftly if she was to survive. It was required of those who were constantly in danger.
Or all Knights of the Word.
She wondered how badly you had to be damaged before even the magic couldn’t save you. She thought she had reached that point on the slopes of Syrring Rise, that the combination of blood loss and cold was enough to finish her. She had crawled through inky darkness and howling wind in search of a cavern entrance she could not see, and she was certain she was going to die. She had come close, she thought. She had come as close as she could without crossing over.
But here she was, still alive, her wounds healed, her strength mostly back. A miracle.
There was movement in the cottage, and Larkin Quill stepped onto the porch beside her, his milky gaze fixed and unresponsive, but his smile warm.
“You seem much better,” he said.
How he could tell she would never know. She was constantly amazed at how he was able to discern so much of what would normally require sight. He was better at it than she was, she believed. He had that gift or skill or whatever it was that enabled him to sort things out with his other senses. She had seen him do it over and over since she had arrived, in small but no less incredible ways.
“I am better,” she agreed. “Thanks to you.”
His lean, sharp features crinkled with the appearance of his self-deprecating smile. “I supplied the small kindnesses and little medicines, bu
t mostly you did this yourself. You and your magic, Mistress Knight of the Word.”
She shrugged. “Some of each played a part, I imagine. What matters is that I am better.”
“Indeed. Now we need to think about getting on with things. It’s been a week, and Sim and Kirisin aren’t back. I don’t know if that means anything, but we should assume the worst for purposes of your own situation. What do you want to do?”
Angel didn’t hesitate. “Go after them.”
“Go after them?” Larkin shook his head. “No, that’s a bad idea. You aren’t strong enough for that yet. Even if you think so, you aren’t. You’d have to go afoot. It’s a long way to another balloon, even if you could get there, and neither you nor I can fly it.” He smiled. “We have to be patient, Angel. We have to wait on them.”
“What if waiting on them is not what’s needed?”
He shrugged. “Give me your second choice. What else would you do with yourself while waiting?”
She thought a minute. “I would find Helen Rice and the children I left in her keeping when I came in search of the Elves. They are supposed to be somewhere on the Columbia . . . sorry, somewhere on Redonnelin Deep.”
“And so they are,” he said. His quirky smile was back. “They are a dozen miles upriver and have been for as long as three weeks. More than two thousand of them, by my count.” He didn’t explain how he had managed that; he just shrugged. “I can take you there, then come back and wait.”
“If I agree to that,” she said carefully, locking eyes with him as if he could see—and perhaps, in a way, he could—the intensity mirrored there, even in that blank gaze, “then you must promise you will bring Sim and Kirisin to me at the camp or come to get me if you discover they cannot reach us without help.”
He nodded. “Very well, I give you my word. You should be strong enough by then.” His brow furrowed. “Now, however, I have my doubts even about the short hike you propose. We might need to see how far you can walk before we set out. You haven’t tested yourself yet.” He gestured toward the river. “Want to give it a try?”
They set out along the riverbank, picking their way over fallen logs and roots, following the flow downstream with the sunlight arcing over their shoulders. Angel had taken short walks, but only close by the cabin and not too far out of sight. This day, it seemed, Larkin Quill intended to go a good deal farther. She took her time following him, noting how smoothly and easily he made his way through the tangle of vegetation, how effortless he made it seem. She carried water and drank from the skin often, measuring her pace, gauging her strength, careful with everything. She carried, as well, the black, rune-carved staff of her office, its smooth wood comforting, its presence reassuring. The day was hot, but the breezes that blew off the water kept them cool as they walked.
“I think you saved them,” he said suddenly at one point. “Simralin and her brother, up there on Syrring Rise. They didn’t say it, but that was the impression I got.”
“They saved me,” she said.
“A good partnership, then.” He kept walking steadily ahead and didn’t look back at her. “Between humans and Elves. A good sign of what might lie ahead, don’t you think?”
“I hope so. If there’s no cooperation, there’s no survival. We’ll all be destroyed by whatever’s coming.”
“Or by whatever comes after,” he added. “It never ends, really, does it? You overcome one obstacle, one evil, one enemy, and another steps into the unoccupied space. I think about that. We persevere, but it isn’t ever really over for us. Not even for those who don’t want any part of it. The Elves are a perfect example. They want no part of the human world, no part of its evils, of the demons and once-men and all the rest. They just want to be left alone, and so they isolate themselves and stick their heads in the ground so they won’t be seen.” He made a vague gesture. “You can see where it’s gotten them.”
“They seem to be doing something now,” she observed.
“That’s so,” he agreed. He glanced back. “Too little, too late, perhaps? Time will tell.”
They had gone about three miles when he stopped, looked around, and moved into the shadow of a small cluster of conifers that fringed the mudflats they had passed onto. He found what was left of the trunk of a fallen tree and sat down.
She moved over and sat beside him. “I’m winded.”
“You’ve done well. I didn’t think you would get this far without resting.” He reached over and patted her leg affectionately. “I think you’re ready to make the trip upriver to your friends. We’ll go in the morning.”
“I would like that, Larkin.” She gave him a genuinely warm smile, not caring that he couldn’t see it. “You’ve done a lot for me, mi amigo. You took risks for me when you didn’t have to. You’ve been a good friend.”
Larkin laughed. “Did I? What was I thinking?”
She laughed with him, and then she rose and stood looking off into the distance, across the river to the cliffs beyond. “I need to try something,” she said quietly. She glanced back at him. “I need to see if I can summon the magic.”
He looked puzzled. “Why wouldn’t you be able to?”
“I don’t know. I just know I have to be sure.” She hesitated. “I lost something back on the mountain. My life, almost, but something more, too. Something of myself. It’s hard to explain, but I won’t feel complete until I know I have the magic to command. I won’t feel whole.”
He brushed idly at his shock of wild black hair. “And how will you test it?”
“I only need to make certain I can summon it. It won’t take a moment.”
He didn’t say anything further, so she stepped away from him and faced off into the distance, holding the staff before her, both hands gripping its smooth surface, her fingers working slowly over the indentations of the runes. The staff was her life, the verification of who she was and what she did. She needed to know that her close brush with death hadn’t robbed her of its power, hadn’t leached it away. She knew she was probably being foolish, that such a thing couldn’t happen. But her confidence was diminished, and she needed to strengthen it anew.
She reached down inside herself and called the magic to her, joining with the staff, feeling it become a part of her.
The runes began to glow instantly, bright red beneath her fingers, and the magic flared from the staff in a soft, white glow that widened against the dappled shadows cast by the branches of the trees. She felt a surge of relief, vindication of her need. The magic was there and it was hers. She was still a Knight of the Word.
She let it fade quickly, exhaled sharply, and turned back to Larkin Quill.
“Are you reassured?” the Elf asked with a wry smile. “Doubts chased back into the dark corners, everything sunny and bright?”
“Everything sunny and bright,” she replied.
NOT FIVE MILES DISTANT, close by the waters of the Columbia, the Klee stiffened in recognition. It stood where it was for a long moment, as if become a stone carving, its huge, shaggy bulk blocking the way forward on the narrow trail it followed, bits of debris broken off by its cumbersome passage littering the ground behind it. A deep quiet settled in all around it, a widening arc of silence that reached well beyond what it could see with its weakened eyes, a caution that reflected both the nature and extent of the danger its presence posed.
When the moment ended, it turned slightly in the direction of the magic that had attracted its attention, magic generated by a creature that it sensed instinctively was not a demon. Its instincts told it that the magic was of a foreign nature, of a different form. The Klee was not overly bright, but it was deeply attuned to and capable of differentiating among forms of magic. It could not see well, but it could hear and taste and smell what other creatures would simply overlook. It tested the air now, and, even as far away as it was, it caught a whiff of what had distracted it from its search.
A whiff, it concluded, of what it might be searching for.
It shambled down t
o the riverbank and began plodding upstream toward the magic’s source. It advanced steadily for the better part of an hour, a bulky, almost featureless form passing through a mix of sunlight and shadows, a monster set loose. It was neither fast nor supple, but steady and dogged. Once it began a search, it would not quit. That was its value. The old man in the gray cloak and slouch hat relied on it to do what no other demon could—to track a scent from a scrap of cloth or a single footprint or even a momentary vision. A peculiar mix of bloodlust and hunger drove it, guided it, and infused it with purpose. The Klee was a special breed of demon, one that came along only now and then. Its makeup was unusual enough that a demon less astute than the old man might not recognize its talent. Repulsive and terrifying, a monster in both appearance and behavior, it did not invite close examination.
To make any use of it, you had to be able to embrace an unspeakable evil, and the old man had.
The Klee didn’t care what others thought of it. It only cared that its urges and needs were given an outlet. On this occasion, the old man had given it what it craved most—an uncomplicated directive to kill everything it encountered. The Klee did not understand the reasons for this or even care to discover them. It understood instinctively that the old man was worried, something that rarely happened, and required of the Klee that it do whatever was necessary to make that worry disappear. There would be no restraints, no limits, and no recriminations for what happened. It was the Klee’s favorite kind of work. The Klee was to kill the magic user and everything and everyone that stood in the way of its doing so.
Easy enough when you were the most dangerous creature alive. Easy enough when you knew you had never failed.
The Klee walked until it reached the spot where the magic had been expended. The taste and smell of it were still present, stronger here, pungent with power, a shadowy residue that hung on the air like smoke. The Klee stood where it was for a long time, drinking it in, as if it were a creature parched with thirst and the residue fresh, clean water. Its huge bulk shifted slightly as it tested the air over and over.