Freewalker

by Dennis Foon

  Nodding reassuringly to Stowe, Willum urgently takes Kamyar’s arm. “There’s something else.”

  “I know I’m not going to like this,” grumbles Kamyar as Willum pulls him back outside the tent.

  Stowe, knowing full well what the subject of their agitated whispers will be, takes the opportunity to change her clothes. She throws off the undercleric robes and replaces them with the tattered apprentice’s. When she looks up to inspect herself in a small battered mirror, she sees the fire-masked recorder player instead, almost near enough to touch, staring. He’s the one who blocked her outside—that’s why she didn’t sense him come in. As he reaches into his pocket, Stowe readies herself. It will have to be a scream, one strong enough to blow his head right off. She won’t try to fight someone who can sneak up on her like that.

  What has he got in his hand?

  A rag doll, wrapped in a faded purple shawl.

  Her doll. The doll that dropped in the snow. The bloody snow beside Roan’s hand. Roan’s hand. Stowe’s breath is coming in gasps, her heart thundering in her ears. She takes the doll.

  The player lifts the fire-mask from his face. “I missed you.” His voice, so tender, just as she remembers it. This is the brother she scoured the Farlands for, the one Darius lost. “Roan.”

  Roan, spellbound, looks at his sister. She’s grown so much. She looks exactly like their mother the last time he saw her. The same auburn hair, the same eyes wet with tears. Slowly, carefully, he reaches his hand out to her.

  She stares at his hand. It’s the same one she lost so long ago, the hand ripped from hers as he fell bleeding to the snow.

  Roan doesn’t speak, but keeps his palm open to her, reaching out with his mind, begging her: Take it, Stowe, take it.

  She wants so badly to have her family again, to be with her brother, for life to be simple, and happy, and good again, the way she remembers it. The life of a child.

  You are still a child, his eyes say to her as she smiles sadly. You’re barely ten.

  No. My childhood was lost when you left me in the clutches of the City, evaded all my attempts to find you, ignored my calls.

  Roan desperately shakes his head, taking a step toward her. With all his strength, he wills her to take his hand. Why won’t you take my hand?

  Clutching the doll to her side, Stowe moves a step back from her brother. She cannot take his hand. If she did, he would know that the Stowe he believes in is dead. And the Stowe she’s become needs to focus. There are five clerics and a doctor close by.

  “No!” Roan shouts before the pain detonates in his head.

  He gapes in horror as a pair of shadows topple, smearing the canvas red. With a slash of his hook-sword, the material splits, revealing two writhing clerics. Willum’s crouched over a man in an emerald greatcoat who’s convulsing, blood gushing from his ears. Roan rushes out to help several celebrants who are rocking on their knees, heads clutched in their hands, noses bleeding. A child shrieks and within seconds, there’s a chorus of screams as panic spreads. People run over each other in an attempt to get away, so that Roan can’t tell his sister’s victims from the riot’s. Seeking out his friends, he sees Kamyar charging over to where the pony’s frantically rearing despite Talia’s best efforts to calm it. Dobbs and Mejan are lifting children onto the stage out of harm’s way. Before Roan can locate the others, sirens wail and dozens of clerics, brandishing rods, pour into the park, stunning any in their way.

  A piercing howl of loneliness ghosts through Roan, and he bolts back to the tent, but Stowe is gone.

  Lumpy grabs his arm.

  “We have to get out of here. Now.”

  “Stowe...”

  The man who arrived with Stowe grasps Roan’s shoulder and looks steadily into his eyes. “I am Willum. I will see to her safety.”

  “She’s my sister and I will find her.” Roan tries to pull away, but Willum’s grip holds him back with preternatural strength.

  “Roan, understand: the entire City will be on alert. Every Master will be searching for her. And you would be a great prize.”

  “What difference does that make?” Roan, blind with fury, reaches for his sword.

  Willum stays his hand, his voice moving deep into Roan’s consciousness. “I will make explanations to the Masters. Then I will seek her out.”

  “That’s my responsibility.”

  “No. You must attend to other matters. You know this. I promise. I will bring her to you.”

  “Who are you—why should I trust you?”

  In a heartbeat, a multitude of images flashes before Roan’s eyes. The Novakin, clinging to the rift. Saint’s fevered eyes in the grip of hell. His mate, Kira, smiling in welcome, gesturing for Roan to come to her. The faces of more children. The eye of a cricket.

  When the bond is broken, Roan knows that he and Willum are linked. Beyond words, beyond experience. Though he has no notion how.

  “Go to Kira,” Willum whispers. “You have my word, Roan. I will find her and bring her to you.”

  “Why? Why would you do such a thing—take such a risk?”

  “Because everything depends on it.”

  A score of clerics smash and stumble onto the stage.

  “Journey well, Roan of Longlight!” says Willum, turning toward the clerics.

  “Let’s go, go, go!” shouts Kamyar, and pushing Roan through the panicked mob, they make their escape.

  THE LITTLE GIRL

  THE ARCHBISHOP BESTOWS ON HIS CITY A PHOENIX, RISEN FROM THE ASHES OF THE DEMON BASTION CALLED LONGLIGHT. A GOLDEN CHILD. HIS ADOPTED DAUGHTER. CURATRIX TO US ALL. OUR STOWE. LONG MAY SHE SERVE THE CONGREGATION.

  —PROCLAMATION OF MASTER QUERIN

  REMORSE CHASING HER LIKE A HOUND, Stowe runs. Enemies surround her, but what she’s escaping is the distressed face of her brother—that face so much like her own, yet also far different. Tucking the doll securely beneath her tunic, she hurls herself into the pandemonium, dipping and weaving through the panicking crowd. Stowe coaxes the tempest of her emotions into a gentle spiral as she clears her mind, then allows the spiral to curl over her surface like fog. The shimmering saffron aura that glistens over her every inch is well concealed by her tattered robes. And the clerics that glance at Stowe do so without recognition, their narrow consciousness easily deceived by this shield.

  Allowing herself to be swept along with the stampede of bodies, she scrambles out of the park and down the street. Ahead, a truck blocks the way, its headlights blinding the oncoming citizens. Clerics stand on top of the vehicle, holding huge stun sticks, poised for battle.

  “Remain where you are,” a booming voice commands. “Cooperation ensures safety.”

  Stowe watches in disgust as the clerics bring order to the crowd. Citizens of the Conurbation are all so timid, all so willing to obey. They will allow themselves to be moved along, shepherded out one by one, their papers examined. Well, there are thousands of them and only one of her. There’s enough time to calm herself and set her mind to planning an escape.

  Slowly she scans the street for a way out. Steel, concrete, and glass surround her on all sides, the crowd can only go forward or back, and both directions lead to clerics. Then she spots it—a narrow lane between two of the buildings, but getting there would mean moving against the tide, and she wouldn’t go far before she’d be noticed. Luck, however, is with her, for as another wave of terrified citizens rounds the corner, the ensuing tumult masks Stowe’s charge. Two years of training with Willum has prepared her for much greater obstacles. She is sure of her stealth as she glides into the lane and along its walls. But it soon opens onto a sparkling commercial street, windows aglow with elegantly dressed mannequins, no shoppers in sight. Too dangerous, she’d be exposed.

  Stowe swiftly cuts across the thoroughfare and follows the lane to the next street and the next until she arrives at a City she does not know. Here the people are walking corpses, as ancient and dirty as the buildings that surround them. Their hollow eyes stare right back
at her, no knowledge to share, nothing to lose. Fading posters of Our Stowe are pasted to every wall, to every boarded doorway. A man, his face unshaven, mouth toothless, picking through a mass of stinking garbage, looks at her and holds out his open palm. Stowe backs away, only to bump into an ashen-faced woman.

  “Are you lost, dear?” the woman gently asks.

  “No,” Stowe mumbles, backing away.

  The woman peeks beneath the cowl with her pallid eyes, trying to make out Stowe’s features. “Why do you hide your face, child?”

  “The festivities.”

  The woman sadly smiles. “You are scarred, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” says Stowe. “I have scars.”

  “It is safe to show yourself, little one. The clerics do not bother us here. Come out of the night. I have a warm room you can share.”

  Taking advantage of the woman’s kindness, Stowe allows her hand to be taken, making sure it remains concealed in the drape of her sleeve. She needs to get off the street and out of view. As a decrepit door swings open, the woman draws her into a dimly lit room that smells of mold and smoke and urine. In one corner, there is a small, threadbare carpet covered with dozens of broken plastic dolls. A hairless one-armed baby doll with no eyes, dolls with elaborate curls but no legs, or fusty cracked heads without bodies, all carefully arranged to surround and stare at the visitor. She feels her own rag doll and protectively presses it against her skin. Unable to avert her gaze from the eerie assembly, she draws closer to a little shrine. A few moldy grapes sit on a stained plate and two burning candles light a tiny photograph of Our Stowe.

  “She looks after us all,” says the woman. “Our Stowe is our guardian angel.”

  Stowe says nothing, for there’s nothing she can say, and obediently sits when the woman offers her a little red child’s chair.

  “You must be hungry.” The woman reaches into a box and takes out a small container. She lifts the lid, removes some tissue, and presses a chocolate chip cookie on Stowe. “I’ve been saving this for you.”

  Stowe stares speechless at the morsel in her hand.

  “Eat. It’s very good.”

  Stowe takes a small bite. Old and stale. She wipes the crumbs off her tongue.

  “I’ll give you one every day if you stay with me. You can be my little girl. I promise I won’t sell you.”

  Stowe drops her cookie and stands. The woman picks it up, brushes it off. “My little girl always finished her cookies. She ate them all up. She ate me out of house and home. I’m glad you don’t eat too much.” Her eyes well up and she extends her arms. “I’ll love you better, I promise.”

  Stowe pushes the madwoman away and, leaving her collapsed in the mass of mangled dolls, runs out the door. Back on the street, other wasted lives wait, and they all would like a piece of her. “Little girl,” they call, “little girl.”

  They all want to sell her, so she can be cut to pieces and fed into the City’s machine. Just hours ago, she would have wanted to cleanse this place, erase them all. It would have been so easy, one thought and they’d be gone. But that was before. Now she just wants to run.

  Stowe’s jolted by a familiar scent. It takes a moment to place it. Motor oil. It leads her to a chain link fence, behind which a score of official Conurbation cars and trucks in various stages of repair are parked. The sign reads VEHICLE MAINTENANCE. The fence is topped by razor wire and a heavy padlock secures the wide gate. The sirens sound like they’re closing in; she’s running out of time. She steals along the perimeter, steadying her breath, until she finds what she’s looking for: a gap along the ground wide enough for her to squeeze through. Sensing no presence, she ducks down and crawls through.

  One of the vehicles might serve as a place to spend the night, if she can find one that’s suitable. The sirens wail louder. Her eyes dart from vehicle to vehicle. Then she sees it. A white truck with a giant tongue licking an ice cream cone. She tries the cargo compartment. Open.

  Shutting the door behind her, she inspects her new sanctuary. The interior brings back a wave of not altogether unpleasant memories. Rows of seats in front of a long storage cabinet filled with pillows and blankets, food and snacks. Ah, yes, there’s the small icebox. Could it be stocked? Stowe peers in and smiles at the sight. Ice cream. She picks one up, takes off the wrapper and bites. Strawberry.

  THE SEWERS OF THE CITY

  COUSIN TO THE SON AND DAUGHTER OF LONGLIGHT,

  HE SHALL STAND BETWEEN THEM AND THEIR ENEMIES

  AND THEY SHALL KNOW HIM ALWAYS.

  —THE BOOK OF LONGLIGHT

  HALOED IN PALE YELLOW LIGHT, Gunther Number Six, still pushing his cart, guides the troupe through the ancient storm sewers of the City, tunnels made of huge concrete pipe wide enough for a large caravan to drive through. Abandoned long ago, these sewers are known only to the Gunthers, who, in Roan’s mind, are using them to greater purpose. The first hundred paces or so into the conduit, however, were revolting: terrible fumes rose off fetid mud smeared across dark, dank walls and a few of their members retched. None too soon, they were led through a well-hidden portal, and everyone seemed happier now that they were traveling down a dry, clean-smelling passage.

  “Why couldn’t we fight a little before we ran?” complains Talia, still a little testy from her recent bout of nausea.

  “That was not a backyard brawl, my lass,” says Kamyar.

  “No, it was a center of the City brawl, and I can’t believe we missed it.”

  Mejan lets out a well-worn sigh. “Any excuse to kill a few clerics.”

  “Yes, and if she doesn’t learn a little restraint, soon one of them is going to kill her right back,” growls Kamyar.

  “Easy, Shanah, easy now,” coos Dobbs to the pony, who is completely unnerved by the trumpeting voices and claustrophobic surroundings. A chastening glance from Dobbs forces the troupe into a restrained silence.

  With Mabatan and Lumpy at either side, Roan relaxes his defenses. Obsessing over every microsecond of his meeting with Stowe, he wallows in a morass of regret. He worries over the manic, frightened look in her eyes. The ache in her voice when she whispered his name. The way she radiated Dirt. How much has she been taking? He never should have given her the doll, it shocked her, made her remember her past in a flood, the trauma of loss drowning her. In his mind’s eye, he takes out the doll again and again, recalling her reaction. The tangled mass of conflicting emotions: hate, fear, sadness. He could feel a trace of love and longing, but it was tempered by deep resentment. She hated him as much as she loved him, felt betrayed by his absence, and envious. Of what? He focuses on the memory, freezing and examining each moment, each fragment of the emotion that cascaded over him. She is jealous of what he’s grown into, because she hates what she’s become. She thinks she is a monster.

  “They have hurt your sister’s mind,” says Mabatan.

  Roan emerges from his deep silence. “The Turned?”

  “I do not speak only of the Turned,” says Mabatan.

  “Then who else?”

  “She is inhabited. I sensed another presence within her.”

  “It’s a Dirt Eater,” says Kamyar. “Stowe went through the Wall. She attacked the Dirt Eaters and was attacked in turn. It’s Ferrell. At least that’s what Willum said.”

  Roan finds no comfort in having his suspicions about the Dirt Eaters confirmed—they may be responsible, but he has to face the cold truth. “Her feelings were clear. Carrying an entity inside her is no doubt adding to her problems, but her unhappiness, the core of the rage that fed her attack, that was her own.”

  “She did no more with her mind than you might have done with a weapon,” says Mabatan.

  “If the clerics hadn’t been there, if she hadn’t had something to focus her anger on, I think she might have turned on me.”

  “I only got a glimpse of her,” says Lumpy. “But she looked sad, not angry.”

  “Of the two, only anger offers a release,” says Mabatan.

  Roan cries ou
t in frustration. “Alandra was right. The Turned have broken her. The Stowe I knew is gone. I could smell the Dirt in her sweat. How could they do that to her?”

  Kamyar tries to reassure him. “Willum will take care of her, just like he said.”

  “If the clerics don’t get her first.”

  Kamyar laughs. “They won’t. They’re no match for Willum. And if he has to, he’ll give those Masters a run for their money as well.”

  Roan struggles to accept Kamyar’s assurances. Why did he feel that deep connection with Willum? If he is such a friend, why didn’t he do something about Stowe sooner? Why would he let it progress so far? “Tell me more about this Willum. Is he Turned or Dirt Eater?”

  Kamyar taps his finger on the mesh metal screen that covers a yellow bulb. “A little of both, I guess.”

  “And neither,” adds Mabatan.

  Lumpy’s getting impatient. “Is it possible to get a straight answer from anyone?”

  “There are none, my good Lump,” says Kamyar. “But I can offer what little I know. I met him fifteen years ago, wandering the Farlands. We were both about your age. He’d just spent a month alone, trekking in the Devastation, on some kind of spiritual search. He was in pretty rough shape, hadn’t eaten in weeks, kept muttering nonsense. I fed him but he didn’t offer much in return, except to tell me his calling was in the City. He had to prepare the way, he claimed. For what? I asked. But that was all he would say. I can’t explain why, really, but I decided to assist. Set him up with the Gunthers, who helped him blend in as only they can, so he could acquire a position that would allow him to work. And work he did, all the way into the Masters’ circle. I never breathed a word of it to the Dirt Eaters. Over the years, he’s become a good friend, if not a very forthcoming one.”

  Thirty days in the Devastation would have been an eternity. Roan knows that he never would have survived his time there if Lumpy hadn’t happened along.

  “He knew about the children. Showed me Kira. Crickets.”

  “Willum also told you where to go,” says Mabatan. “He has given you a map.”