Freewalker

by Dennis Foon

  “Wait. Wait, please,” begs Dobbs. “It’s custom-fitted, very difficult to take on and off. He needs expert assistance, and there’s my tools...”

  While Dobbs rummages in his tool kit, making a great show of the special devices he uses to create the masks, a balding worker wearing thick glasses shuffles down the alley, pushing a small cart in front of him. The disheveled little man stops and gawps at the rising confrontation he’s blundered into.

  “Do it. Now!” the cleric orders Lumpy.

  Roan, dreading what’s about to happen, reaches under his cloak, hand curling around the grip of his hook-sword.

  Dobbs bumbles back, but the eager cleric puts both his hands on the gorilla head and pulls. Everything slows as Lumpy’s cratered face is revealed.

  “Mor-Ticks!” come the clerics’ drawn-out cries. They fall back and raise their stun sticks.

  Roan leaps in front of Lumpy, his sword raised. The clerics stiffen. Eyes rolling up, all three crumple to the ground.

  The rumpled little man ambles closer. He hovers over the clerics, all the while tapping at his thick glasses and clucking his tongue. “Pity about these stun sticks. Very unreliable. Always shorting out. And at such a high setting. There’s certain to be significant memory loss.”

  He wanders back to his cart and starts to push it again. He slides his glasses up his nose and squints at the players. “Are you coming or not?”

  THE SNARE

  THE EYES OF THE SCRUTINEERS SEE ALL AND THEIR JUDGMENTS ARE FINAL.

  —THE WAR CHRONICLES

  STOWE EATS HER BREAKFAST CHEERILY. The smile she has for Gwyneth is so bright the poor woman drops the tea service. Still, nothing could spoil Stowe’s mood today. Dirt! The Wall! She dresses in her most comfortable smock, and eagerly awaits her escort to the Travel Room. But to Stowe’s surprise, it is Willum who comes knocking at her door. One look from him sends Gwyneth scurrying away, and he is eye to eye with Stowe before she can even blink.

  “Our journey into the Field is to be monitored.”

  “Why?”

  “For your safety, of course,” he mumbles, barely concealing his sarcasm. “Darius is bringing Scrutineers.”

  The dreaded Scrutineers. The original nine Masters who stand next to Darius. Their power nearly matches his. They are ruthless and brutal, and their distrust of each other is what Darius uses to control them. Though one of them, Querin, masterminded Stowe’s deification, he and the others have always been suspicious of Darius’s intentions concerning her. They’ve survived by second-guessing the Seer’s every move and it is obvious they fear that Darius will use her against them. The question is, has Darius called in the Nine to interrogate the Eater he hopes Stowe will capture—or to observe and pass judgment on her?

  “Kordan and I are to aid you in the capture of an Eater. Darius believes that connecting our nervous systems will enhance the power of our ethereal forms, allowing Kordan and I to follow you into the Wall.”

  “Will it work?”

  “The Keeper’s knowledge in this matter far supersedes my own. Regardless, the journey will be perilous. The Eaters will be waiting. I only pray we are able to serve you as we must.”

  Without another word, Willum glides into the hallway. Following, she notices the stoop of his shoulders, the heaviness in his step. He fears for her safety, questions Darius’s plan, and has taken no small risk to inform her of these doubts. But there was something more. Their nervous systems are to be connected. Does that mean their minds will intermingle too? Will Kordan have access to her innermost secrets, her plans for revenge, the strange murmuring in her head? Is that the real purpose behind this merging, to expose her? No. She can’t allow it.

  Think. Scar tissue disrupts the flow of energy in the nervous system. You have a scar, an energy disruption, from the wound you sealed in the Dreamfield.

  Could she manipulate that disruption when she transforms? Use it to create a shield?

  If you are quick enough.

  “Stowe.” Willum’s quiet assertion startles Stowe out of her reverie. “We’re here.”

  Ignoring his questioning stare, she draws strength from her breath as she allows it to radiate outwards to the soles of her feet, the tips of her fingers, behind her eyes. And when she is ready, she signals Willum to open the door.

  The facility has three beds in it, and is filled with monitoring equipment. A handful of doctors are in attendance, led by the ubiquitous Dr. Arcanthas. Kordan’s already sitting on one of the beds, awaiting them.

  “You’re late, so we must begin at once.” Kordan snarls, not bothering to conceal his irritation. “On your last incursion, you penetrated the Wall alone and entered Eater territory, but you destroyed your captive. Today you go there again, but this time we go with you.”

  Ignoring the reprimand, Stowe replies, “What am I to do?”

  Kordan waves disdainfully at Willum, who bows in acknowledgment before turning to Stowe.

  “The resonance of the diamond can be used in many ways. You used it as armor, but it can also be formed into a net. It implements with the speed of thought.”

  “The Eaters will be on guard, so it should be no problem to draw one out,” snaps Kordan. “The net should succeed as a stopgap until we are able to aid you in subduing it.”

  Dr. Arcanthas, with great deference, shows Stowe the bed she’ll be using. She and her fellow travelers are barely seated before electrodes are strategically attached to points ranging from their heads to their toes.

  Darius chooses this moment to make his entrance. He fusses over the machinery like a doting parent. “Good, all the preparations have been executed precisely to my specifications.” His eyes, black and shiny as an insect’s, settle on Kordan.

  “As you well know, I have great hopes for this expedition.” He waits for Kordan to bow before moving on to address his greater audience. “Our medical staff shall be monitoring you constantly to ensure your connection is not broken. You are not to take any unnecessary risks.” Placing one finger under Stowe’s chin, he lifts it until her eyes meet his. “Make me proud, daughter.”

  Darius brings out his own precious bowl and, lifting the lid, presents the Dirt within to Willum and Kordan. They bow reverentially as each man permits himself a pinch. Stepping over to Stowe, Darius carefully scoops the violet powder with a golden spoon, but Stowe shakes her head. Lifting one tiny hand, she pinches as much Dirt as she dares between her thumb and index finger. Her other hand, as if holding hair back from her face, conceals the twitch in her cheek.

  “I shall do my very best,” she promises, avoiding Darius’s eyes. She rolls her tongue over the Dirt, coaxing each individual crystal from her damp fingers. It will be enough. It must.

  Darius leans in so close that his cheek brushes against hers. He whispers in her ear. “Be careful, my Stowe. I won’t rest easy until I see you again.” His voice extends a tendril that winds round the light spiraling up her spine. “Your Eater must be interrogated in the Dreamfield. The Scrutineers and I will be waiting.”

  Stowe fears she will not reach the glimmer, it seems so far away. But before her anxiety can take hold, an ethereal hum pulses through her. She moves faster than light along its thread and the tendril that binds her to Darius is soon snapped.

  Stowe is on her way.

  A BILLOWING CLOUD OF MOON JELLY FLOATS PAST VULTURE AND FALCON, AS OUR TERRA-COTTA STOWE PERCHES ON A BED OF BRILLIANT YELLOW CORAL. TAKING THE LEAD, KORDAN UNFOLDS HIS MASSIVE WINGS AND HEADS TO THE SURFACE.

  HEAD BOBBING ALONG THE WAVES, STOWE FEASTS HER EYES UPON THE SIGHT SHE’S CRAVED: THE UNDULATING CURTAIN OF THE WALL. SHE IMMEDIATELY BEGINS TRANSFORMING.

  “IT MIGHT BE PRUDENT TO CAMOUFLAGE YOURSELF.” WILLUM SOARS PAST HER AND DIPS ROUND KORDAN. “DON’T YOU AGREE, MASTER KORDAN?”

  “EXCELLENT IDEA, IF YOU CAN BE SWIFT ABOUT IT,” KORDAN CONCEDES GRUDGINGLY.

  THIS PROVIDES EXACTLY THE OPPORTUNITY STOWE NEEDS TO CREATE A SHIELD. CASTING HER EYES UPON THE WATER, SHE FOCUSES O
N ITS COLOR. THEN, WHILE KORDAN IMPATIENTLY WAITS, SHE TAKES ON AN IDENTICAL AQUAMARINE, BEGINNING WITH HER SPINE. AROUND THIS, SHE LAYERS THE SCAR TISSUE FROM HER WOUND LIKE AN INVISIBLE SCABBARD, THEN CONTINUES OUTWARD. SOON SHE’S IMPOSSIBLE TO DISTINGUISH FROM HER SURROUNDINGS.

  “READY?” SAYS KORDAN. “WE MUST MOVE QUICKLY.”

  DESPERATE TO DISTANCE HERSELF FROM THE VULTURE, STOWE SKIMS THE WAVES AND PROPELS HERSELF TOWARD A LOW POINT IN THE CURTAIN.

  MESMERIZED BY THE EXTRAORDINARY ARCHITECTURE OF THE WALL, SHE COULD ALMOST FORGET WHO SHE IS AND THE DANGER SHE FACES, ALMOST NOT WONDER WHY SHE RISKS SO MUCH FOR SO LITTLE OR WHAT WOULD HAPPEN TO HER IF SHE WERE CAPTURED BY THE EATERS—OR IF KORDAN SAW INTO HER MIND. HOW SHE WOULD LOVE TO FORGET IT ALL. AN INTENSE THRUMMING REMINDS HER THAT SHE’S ABOUT TO PIERCE THE BARRIER. WILL HER SHIELD DENY HER COMPANIONS ENTRY?

  If they are unable to follow, it will arouse Darius’s suspicions.

  SENSING THE FLOW OF THE ENERGY, SHE SHIFTS HER FACETS TO DEFLECT IT, CREATING A PATHWAY FOR KORDAN AND WILLUM. IN DOING SO, HER FORM IS REVEALED, RENDERING THE CAMOUFLAGE USELESS. BUT WHAT DOES SHE CARE? THE SHIMMERING HAZE INSIDE THE WALL IS EVEN MORE DAZZLING THAN SHE REMEMBERS IT. THIS IS THE POWER SHE’S WAITED FOR.

  “WHERE ARE YOU?” HISSES KORDAN. HE’S FLAILING, FLYING AIMLESSLY THIS WAY AND THAT, DAZED BY THE WALL’S INTERIOR.

  WILLUM, SEEMINGLY UNIMPEDED, FINDS HER. “SOMETHING IS BLOCKING OUR CONNECTION.”

  IGNORING HIM, STOWE CALLS OUT TO KORDAN. “RIGHT NEXT TO YOU!”

  “GUIDE ME!” HE ORDERS, CLUTCHING AT STOWE. “TAKE ME OUT OF HERE!” HE’S COMPLETELY BLIND. THE FEAR IN HIS VOICE IS PALPABLE. THIS IS NOT GOING ACCORDING TO PLAN.

  WITH A FLASH AND A SHATTERING CRACK, FIVE GLEAMING DISKS MATERIALIZE.

  “WHAT IS IT?” KORDAN SHRIEKS.

  “DON’T MOVE,” STOWE WARNS, AS EACH DISK SNAPS OPEN, REVEALING—“EATERS!”

  BEAR AND MOUNTAIN LION ARE NOW JOINED BY A WEASEL, A WOLVERINE, AND AN OLD WOMAN WITH THE LEGS AND TAIL OF A GOAT.

  “FIVE OF THEM.”

  THE GOAT-WOMAN MOVES FORWARD. “YOU DON’T BELONG IN THIS PLACE.”

  “I DON’T UNDERSTAND, OLD WOMAN. COME CLOSER AND EXPLAIN YOURSELF,” SAYS STOWE.

  BUT THE GOAT-WOMAN REMAINS STILL, EYES LATCHED ON STOWE.

  “I AM A FRIEND OF YOUR BROTHER’S. I AM ASKING THAT YOU WITHDRAW. FAILURE TO DO SO WILL BE TREATED AS AN ACT OF AGGRESSION.”

  “GET HER!” SCREAMS THE VULTURE. NEGOTIATIONS CLOSED, THE GOAT-WOMAN VANISHES AND THE OTHER FOUR EATERS ARE UPON THEM. THE LION SWIPES AT KORDAN’S BACK. OOZING BRACKISH FLUID, THE VULTURE FLAILS, PANICKED, ENDANGERING THEM ALL. STOWE, TRYING TO GET SOME DISTANCE FROM KORDAN’S LUNGING TALONS, KICKS AT THE BEAR. WILLUM LAUNCHES HIMSELF AT THE WOLVERINE’S JUGULAR, HIS CLAWS RIPPING OUT ITS THROAT. THEN HE LODGES HIMSELF FIRMLY ON THE LION’S HEAD AND TEARS AT ITS EYES WITH HIS BEAK.

  ATTACKING FROM BEHIND, THE WEASEL SINKS ITS TEETH IN STOWE’S ARM, CHEWING INTO HER, DIGGING. REMEMBERING WILLUM’S INSTRUCTION, STOWE UNLEASHES A WEB OF CRYSTAL, SECURING THE WEASEL’S HEAD TO HER ARM WHILE THE FRENZIED ANIMAL SCRATCHES AND SQUIRMS. AS SHE FRANTICALLY KICKS AWAY RELENTLESS ATTACKS BY THE BEAR, STOWE’S ATTEMPTS TO LAYER MORE CRYSTAL ON THE STRUGGLING WEASEL ARE CONSTANTLY THWARTED. BUT FINALLY SHE’S ABLE TO BRACE HER FEET AROUND THE BEAR’S NECK AND, TWISTING WITH ALL HER FORCE, IS REWARDED BY A CRISP SNAP OF BONE.

  BEFORE THE EATERS CAN REGROUP, STOWE GRABS KORDAN BY A WING, HOPING TO DRAG HIM AND HER CAPTIVE TO SAFETY. THE MOUNTAIN LION’S ANGUISHED SCREAMS LEAVE LITTLE DOUBT THAT WILLUM WILL SOON FOLLOW.

  THE INSTANT STOWE BURSTS OUT OF THE WALL AND BACK INTO THE MASTERS’ DOMAIN, KORDAN SHRUGS HER OFF. SPOTTING THE WEASEL THRASHING WILDLY ON STOWE’S ARM, HE HOOKS HIS TALONS DEEP INTO ITS FLESH AND RIPS IT OFF. “YOU’RE MINE, LANIA!”

  LURCHING ERRATICALLY TO FREE HERSELF FROM KORDAN, THE WEASEL FORCES THEM CLOSER AND CLOSER TO THE SPIRACAL. STOWE KNOWS THAT IF THEY ARE UNABLE TO SLOW DOWN THEY WILL SOON COME WITHIN ITS LETHAL RANGE. KORDAN WHIPS LANIA VIOLENTLY IN THE OPPOSITE DIRECTION, BUT THE WEASEL SNAPS AT HIM, BITING OFF A TALON. THE VULTURE SCREECHES IN PAIN AS HE BATS AT THE WEASEL WITH HIS WING. “DO SOMETHING!” HE CRIES.

  BUT STOWE’S APPROACH IS HAMPERED BY HER BULK. SHE CANNOT REACH PAST KORDAN’S POUNDING WINGS TO DISLODGE LANIA, AND AS THE WEASEL SINKS HER TEETH INTO YET ANOTHER TALON, THE VULTURE’S ABILITY TO MAINTAIN HIS HOLD IS GRIEVOUSLY IMPAIRED.

  JUST THEN, WILLUM EMERGES FROM THE WALL AND DIVES TOWARD THEM. IT SEEMS TO STOWE—OR IS SHE IMAGINING IT?—THAT WILLUM HAS LINKED WITH LANIA, ALMOST AS IF ISSUING A SILENT COMMAND. BUT BEFORE HE CAN REACH HER, SHE PLUMMETS, BURSTS INTO FLAME, AND IS SWALLOWED BY THE SPIRACAL’S HUNGRILY CHURNING MAW.

  AN OVERPOWERING GRIEF DETONATES INSIDE STOWE. BLIND WITH DESPAIR, SHE TUMBLES.

  WILLUM SOARS BESIDE HER. “ARE YOU HURT?”

  “I DON’T KNOW...” HER VOICE TRAILS OFF. IT’S TOO HARD TO TALK; HER THROAT’S CONSTRICTED IN ANGUISH. SHE’S AWARE OF WILLUM BENEATH HER, BUOYING HER UP AND AWAY, BUT NONE OF THAT MATTERS, AS SHE IS DROWNING IN A WELL OF SORROW.

  THE BEACH IS SMOOTH, THE ROCK CURVED IN FROZEN WAVES, THE CREST OF EACH A PERFECT PERCH FOR THE FLOCK OF NINE RAPTORS THAT AWAITS THEM. LED BY AN ENORMOUS RED EAGLE, THE SCRUTINEERS’ ANGRY SCREECHES GUARANTEE NO QUARTER WILL BE GIVEN. THE EAGLE’S EYES LOCK ON THE VULTURE AND, RAISING A TALON, HE RIPS THE SIDE OFF THE VULTURE’S FACE.

  KORDAN CRIES OUT.

  “STOWE, WILLUM, RETURN TO THE CITY,” DARIUS ORDERS.

  “MASTER...” WILLUM BEGINS.

  “NOW!” HE SNARLS, THEN RETURNS HIS ATTENTION TO KORDAN. “I HAVE BEEN BETRAYED,” HE WHISPERS.

  “KEEPER, I LIVE ONLY TO SERVE YOU!”

  “YOU HAVE FAILED.”

  Before Stowe opens her eyes, she hears their voices.

  “I don’t understand why the connection was broken.” Darius’s voice is unnervingly calm.

  “It was strong enough to get us into the Wall, Keeper.”

  “But not enough to sustain you.”

  “No.”

  “Something must have been blocking the flow. Or perhaps, as you said, it was too soon and she was not at peak strength. Although she did capture one, didn’t she? Tell me, Willum, what was it?”

  “A weasel.”

  Sadness. Overpowering grief and sadness. Why? She doesn’t understand these feelings.

  Darius gulps out a laugh. “Lania! I should have guessed! She would have done anything to avoid my grasp.”

  She chose death!

  The very thought sends a convulsion through Stowe.

  “There is a lovely symmetry to this death, Willum. Her husband was the lizard dispatched by Our Stowe, not so long ago. Ferrell and Lania were inseparable, together for decades. They alone rivaled my talent for construction. As you know, having experienced their Wall.”

  “Yes, Archbishop. An extraordinary accomplishment. It must be investigated further. Kordan and I were completely overwhelmed. But for Our Stowe, we both would surely have perished.”

  “Would that Kordan had, then I might have had my prize. Fool. But my disappointment is somewhat mitigated by the fact that I need suffer rivals no more. Ferrell. Dead. Lania. Dead. I wish I could have seen it.”

  A flood of rage fills Stowe’s head. So sudden, so intense, she cries out.

  “Stowe? Stowe!” Willum’s face is blurry. His eyes seem to be probing inside her brain. He scowls, staring so deep something shudders, something not herself. He looks up at Darius. “You were right, Eldest, she should not have gone. It was too soon.”

  “Yes,” whispers Darius. “Too soon. And yet, in so many ways, Willum, not soon enough.”

  THE GUNTHERS

  VOLUME IV, ARTICLE 7.8, SECTION 3, APPENDIX C, SPECIAL REQUIREMENTS: AMEND TO INCLUDE THE SPECIES GRYLLUS NIVEUS, COMMONLY KNOWN AS SNOW CRICKET.

  —GUNTHER LOG

  ROAN GASPS AND FALTERS.

  Lumpy’s immediately by his side. “What is it, what’s wrong?”

 
“Stowe. Something happened. She was excited, then afraid, then grief—this terrible grief—and now nothing. I feel nothing. I can’t feel her at all.”

  “Can you walk?”

  Roan nods. They have to move quickly to keep up with the bespectacled man. The streets he leads them down do not resemble the sleek and glossy boulevards they saw when first entering the City. Refuse, stray cats, and toppled garbage cans obstruct their passage. Here, the buildings are made of brick. Most have boarded-up windows and some even appear to predate the Consolidation. Shabbily dressed people haunt shattered doorways, staring at them with vacant eyes.

  Mejan slips her arm in Roan’s and shudders. “The other face of the City. Many of them come here when their villages are destroyed, hoping to peddle a kidney to survive. But they’re too old, the Masters don’t want used parts. That leaves them with nowhere to go, no skills to sell. By the time they realize the mistake they’ve made in coming here, it’s too late. When their hunger becomes unbearable, if they have children, they sell them, whole or in parts, whatever they think they can make peace with. They have no choice but to take the money. They wander these buildings like lost souls, living on whatever scraps they can find.”

  Against one derelict building, a woman is bent before a shrine that’s been constructed inside two stacked wooden boxes. It’s decorated with red ribbons, shiny paper, and burning candles. Roan looks closer to see what she’s praying to and turns in shame at the sight. A picture of Our Stowe.

  “She’s their god. They believe she’s going to save them from their misery one day. That’s the bill of goods they’ve been sold by the Master of Inculcation, Querin the Insidious, and the sorry sots fall for it.”

  “The City does nothing for them?”

  “They’re not killed as long as they don’t stray from this quarter. The City in its magnanimity has termed them ‘absent’ and tolerates their use of these buildings for shelter. Just one more example of the ‘interceding benevolence’ of Our Stowe.”