by R. L. King
Sudden, searing agony. With a spasmodic jerk, he rose to a more upright position, eyes clamped shut, teeth clenched against the scream he could feel building inside him. The shadow’s tendrils gripped at him, squeezing with thousands of tiny claws, biting with thousands of tiny teeth inside his body, inside his head…as if something were devouring him with methodical precision from the inside out.
His hands flew to his temples, clutching his head as if that action could squeeze the shadows from it. A tide of red-gray broke over him, submerging everything but the pain. Faintly, from far away, he thought he heard voices calling his name, thought he felt hands grasping at him.
In a last, desperate attempt to stave off what he knew was inevitably coming, he tried to fling his consciousness free of his body, to project it into the astral plane. But the red-gray tide rose faster, almost as if it had anticipated his plan.
He thought he heard himself scream, and then even the pain was gone as everything faded to blackness.
CHAPTER 34
ABORIGINE CAMP
TUESDAY MORNING
Ocelot paced, his entire body thrumming with tension. His every impulse wanted to break free of the small hut where they’d been taken to wait. He wanted to punch through the walls and run out into the chilly Outback night. He wanted to do something.
Narrah had brought them here about a half-hour ago, after Thuma had instructed them all to leave him alone with Winterhawk.
“Why?” Dreja had demanded. “You can’t help him, can you?”
“I don’t know,” Thuma had said.
“We can’t help him,” Scuzzy pointed out. “Let’s let him try. Maybe he’s got a shot at it.”
Ocelot hadn’t wanted to go, but Dreja had taken his arm and pulled him along. Now he was here with the others, pacing and muttering obscenities under his breath and feeling useless. “I don’t like any of this,” he growled. “Who knows what the hell he’s doin’ up there with ’Hawk. And leavin’ that thing with these guys—”
Dreja sighed. “I don’t like it either, but it’s not our choice to make. It belongs to their people. We can’t take it away from them just because we don’t like the way things are going.”
Tiny snorted. “I think it’s all a load of drek anyway. That old fossil’s just tellin’ us that stuff about the spirit so we’ll let him keep it.”
“You just don’t give up, do you?” Scuzzy snapped. The decker was at least as restless as Ocelot, though probably not for the same reason: he’d made no secret to his teammates over the last couple of days that he’d never gone this long without Matrix access, and it was causing him serious distress.
Half an hour passed. By the time the koradji’s apprentice Narrah appeared in the doorway, Ocelot had thrown himself down on an old cot and was trying without success to achieve a catnap. All of them jumped up when the boy appeared.
“’Hawk?” Ocelot demanded. “Is he—?”
“Your friend’s still alive,” Narrah said. “But only barely.” He pointed at Ocelot and Dreja. “He wants to see you two.”
“Where?” Dreja asked, suspicious.
But Narrah didn’t answer, only turned and disappeared into the faint light of the dawning day.
“Why just you two?” Scuzzy asked. “Why not all of us?”
“He’s gonna make a deal with ’em for that thing,” Tiny said.
“Will you give it a fraggin’ rest?” Ocelot glared at him, the temptation to shove his cyberspur through the samurai’s ugly face growing stronger by the minute. Then to Dreja, he said, “C’mon. Let’s go see what he wants.”
Narrah was waiting outside. He nodded to them, then led them back to the same cave where they had been before. He motioned them inside, but didn’t go in himself.
Thuma was still seated cross-legged in front of the fire, the box containing the serpent next to him on the ground. Winterhawk lay near him; someone had placed a folded blanket under his head. The mage’s face was ashen; he could have been dead, except that his eyes were open, his gaze wandering and unfocused. He turned his head toward Ocelot and Dreja as they entered.
“What’s going on?” Ocelot asked without sitting down. “Why do you want to see us?”
“I’ve examined your friend,” he said. “He’s in the grip of powerful magic.”
“Yeah, tell us something we don’t know.” Ocelot was out of patience at this point. Diplomacy had never been his strong suit under the best of circumstances; right now it was out of the question.
“Can you do anything for him?” Dreja asked.
“His body is under assault by a malevolent and potent spirit,” Thuma said. “I’ve never seen anything exactly like this before. Do you know how it came to be there?”
“Some guy who doesn’t like him was into creative revenge,” Ocelot said. “Can you get it out of him? You know, like banish it or something?”
Thuma shook his head, looking troubled. “Like I said, I’ve never seen anything like this before. It’s not a question of just banishing it. It’s…somehow tied to his life force.” He paused, as if trying to figure out how to say it. “If it was a physical thing, I’d say it’s like a sort of…tumor growing inside of him, slowly reaching out to drain more and more of his life energy.”
Ocelot and Dreja exchanged glances. “It was a ritual,” Ocelot said. “Scuzzy has a vid of it, but it’s long, probably too long to show you now. Do you know about blood magic?”
Thuma nodded. “He told me a bit about the ritual, as much as he could manage.” His expression was grave. “That makes sense. There’s great power in blood. We use it in some of our own rituals—every important stage of life involves the shedding of blood. But not like this.” He looked disgusted. “Rituals like this are perversions. They’re…an insult to nature.”
“Yeah, no kidding,” Ocelot said, glancing at Winterhawk’s still, pale form. “So you can’t banish it. What can you do? I’m gonna guess you guys didn’t call us up here just to tell us that.”
The koradji closed his eyes as if gathering his thoughts. “There may be a way. It’s dangerous, and I don’t know if it will work.”
“What is it?” Dreja asked. “And who’s it dangerous to? You? Him?”
Thuma stared into the fire. “To have any chance of saving your friend, it will, I think, require a journey to the metaplanes. The spirit originates there, so it must be destroyed there. And he has to do it,” he said, nodding at Winterhawk.
“Huh?” Ocelot demanded. “How’s he gonna do that? He’s barely even conscious.”
“I can revive him for a short time, and we can journey there together. I can guide him to the right place. Fortunately, since the spirit is interconnected with his own essence, we can trace it back to its home metaplane. That makes things a little easier. But I won’t be able to help in the battle itself. It isn’t my fight. To be this effective and hide its effects so well, this ritual had to have been designed specifically for him. That means the spirit is attuned to him. In order to cast it from his body, he’ll need to oppose it with his own strength and destroy it.”
Ocelot was about to say something, but then he stopped. “His strength…” he said. “You mean his mental strength. His will. That’s the way it works, isn’t it?” It was coming back to him: the old days, when Winterhawk used to try to explain complex magical concepts to him. Half the time Ocelot had thought the mage just liked the sound of his own voice and a captive audience, but apparently some of his lectures had rubbed off.
Thuma nodded. “Yes. It’s not going to be easy, though. This spirit will know his weaknesses, and try to exploit them. He might still die.” He sighed. “He’ll probably still die.”
“But there’s a chance,” Ocelot said. “Can I help him? Can I go along? I’ve been on metaplane trips with him before.”
The koradji looked surprised at that. “Yes. I don’t know how much help you can be—you can’t defeat this thing for him. But I can call a spirit and ask it to open a way for you. He’ll have an
easier time of it if he has an ally to help him in his fight.”
“Two allies,” Dreja said firmly. When Ocelot looked at her in surprise, she shrugged. “I’m in, too. He’s paying me. I got a rep to protect.” She turned back to Thuma before Ocelot could say anything else. “So, can we both go? And how does this work? Can we do it right away?”
“We’ll have to,” Thuma said. “He won’t survive long if we don’t.” He called out, and Narrah hurried inside. The two of them conferred softly for a moment, and then Narrah nodded and darted back outside the cave. “We will have to travel a short way,” he said. “To a sacred place near a song line, where it will be easier to perform the ritual more quickly.”
“What about—that thing?” Ocelot asked, pointing at the box. “Are we taking it with us?”
“It will remain here. Narrah and our warriors will guard it until we return. I have shielded it, so anybody who might be looking for it shouldn’t be able to find it.” He rose in his eerie, graceful way, and headed for the cave exit. “Get ready. We’ll leave in a few minutes. We don’t have time to wait.”
Ocelot watched him go, then sank down next to Winterhawk. The mage’s eyes were open and aimed at him, but it was hard to tell if he was actually seeing him. He sighed. “Well, one thing hasn’t changed since the old days, ’Hawk,” he said. “You sure as hell don’t do anything the easy way.”
CHAPTER 35
ABORIGINE SACRED SITE
TUESDAY, DAWN
“Are you ready?” Thuma asked.
It was dawn, and they’d traveled by Jeep to the top of a rise on a narrow and winding dirt road. Here, Thuma had told them, his tribe had erected a ritual site, situated on a song line and carefully designed and constructed to facilitate the koradjis’ communication with the spirits.
“No one who is not of my people has ever been permitted here,” he said. “But in this case the need is great. I have consulted with the spirits, and they have agreed that an exception must be made. I ask that you do not speak of anything you see here to others.”
Both of them had assured him that they would not.
The old koradji sat now in the center of the circle of rocks, a fire blazing in front of him. Around it were three small stone braziers, each one emitting odd-smelling gray smoke from something he had set to burn. A fourth, slightly larger stone bowl, currently empty, sat on a three-legged stand between the fire and Thuma. He had been sitting there, chanting and weaving his preparations, for the better part of an hour after they’d arrived.
“What do we have to do?” Dreja asked. She looked nervous, and Ocelot thought he knew why: she was a warrior, accustomed to fast and decisive physical action. Any mages or shamans she worked with were most likely of the combat-oriented variety, more suited to slinging damaging spells and providing straightforward magical backup than to performing rituals like this. Still, he also wondered what the old Aborigine had in mind. In all his lectures, Winterhawk had never mentioned anything about Australian magic and how it worked. This was new territory for Ocelot almost as much as it was for Dreja.
“Bring him into the circle,” Thuma said, nodding at the rear of the old Jeep. They’d made Winterhawk as comfortable as possible in the back, and left him there while Thuma prepared the ritual.
They did as directed, laying him down on the other side of the fire, opposite where Thuma sat. The koradji nodded, motioning for both of them to take positions on either side of the mage. When they’d done so, he indicated the small brazier nearest them. “He has to be awake for this part—he must make the decision on his own, or not only won’t it work, we might get some nasty surprises instead. Wave that smoke over him.”
Ocelot took the brazier and wafted the gray smoke into Winterhawk’s face while on the other side of the fire, Thuma chanted. After a moment Winterhawk coughed and lurched upright, nearly knocking the brazier from Ocelot’s hands. His gaze darted around, as if he were confused by where he was, but his expression settled when he saw the circle of rocks and the rest of the ritual setup.
“This is it, then,” he said, blinking rapidly. He looked and sounded as if he wasn’t completely there, exhausted and emotionless. Ocelot and Dreja moved a little closer to steady him so he didn’t fall back over again.
Thuma nodded. He looked at all three of them. “What was done to you was done with blood, and it must be undone with blood. The difference is that this blood is given of your own free will, so it will add to your strength instead of taking away from it. But it must be freely given.” His dark eyes settled first on Ocelot, then on Dreja. “If you have any doubts, step out now. If you are not committed, you won’t be able to help, and you’ll probably cause the whole thing to fail.”
Ocelot’s jaw tightened as Thuma produced a stone knife from inside his jacket. He chanted over it for a moment, holding it in one hand and waving his other over it, tracing intricate patterns. The knife was covered in the same sort of symbols Ocelot had seen inside the cave where they’d first met Thuma. The koradji offered it hilt-first to Ocelot. When he took it after a pause, Thuma handed him the stone bowl from the empty brazier in front of him. It was obvious what was expected.
Glancing at Dreja and Winterhawk, Ocelot gripped the knife and sliced it across his palm, wincing as blood welled up. He turned his hand over and let it drip into the bowl. He thought he felt the stone receptacle tingle in his hand, but maybe that was just his imagination.
Thuma nodded approval and indicated Dreja. Ocelot passed her the knife and the bowl, and she repeated his actions, adding her own blood to the mix.
“Good, good,” Thuma said. He appeared to be entering into some sort of trance. “And now it’s your turn,” he said, pointing at Winterhawk. “You have to do it yourself.”
Winterhawk took the knife. His hand shook, but his expression was resolute. With almost a savage motion, he slashed his palm, deeper than Ocelot and Dreja had. Dreja moved quickly to get the bowl under the flow of blood. There was no mistaking it now: the crimson mixture thrummed with magical energy, and had started giving off a growing cloud of vapor.
“Give it here,” Thuma said with urgency. Ocelot pulled the knife from Winterhawk’s grip, and Dreja handed over the bowl. When he had both of them, Thuma made his own slice and added his own blood, chanting.
Winterhawk sagged again and collapsed.
The vapor cloud, shifting and so alive with magical energy that even Ocelot could feel it, streamed out of the bowl, billowing around all of them. Ocelot stiffened as his vision was obscured by what looked like reddish fog, gripping Winterhawk’s shoulder with one hand and reaching out to Dreja with the other.
He felt her hand close on his.
And the world changed.
CHAPTER 36
METAPLANES
UNKNOWN LOCATION
Winterhawk was alone.
He stood on a graveled path. The sky above was a bright, dazzling blue, with a few wispy clouds meandering by. To his left and right lay a manicured garden, such as might surround a large manor house, stretching as far as he could see, but he barely glanced at it.
In front of him, at the end of the path, was a vast, rambling structure. It had the clean, ordered lines of some sort of archetypal institution—perhaps a university, library, or hospital. A short flight of white stone steps led up to a pair of massive double doors, currently closed. He could see no sign or any other identifying information.
Looking down at himself, he noted that he was dressed in an idealized version of his standard style: tailored dark suit, crisp white shirt, long overcoat. Every line was immaculate, spotless, perfect in a way it could never have been in the real world.
He wondered where his teammates were, where Thuma was. He thought they were going to accompany him, but perhaps he’d been mistaken. His mind hadn’t been at its sharpest lately, and the shadow had been flooding his thoughts with odd and unsettling images as he drifted in and out of consciousness.
“They aren’t coming…you’re all alone…
”
The whispered voice in his head was so subtle that he wasn’t even sure whether he’d heard it or manufactured it. He shook his head and started forward. It was obvious where his path led.
The shadow inside him seemed to be gone. He walked slowly but steadily, his feet crunching on the gravel, his muscles moving effortlessly, without pain. Even his headache was gone. Of course. This isn’t my physical body. Even if he did end up having to die, doing it this way might be preferable: at least he wouldn’t have to deal with the increasing pain that threatened to pull his body apart.
He studied the building as he drew closer to it. He was sure he’d never seen it before, not per se, but he was equally sure that bits and pieces of it had been drawn from his own subconscious, blending together into a seamless whole that was impossible to quantify. He couldn’t say “those windows came from the University of East Anglia,” or “that door came from the Thaumaturgy department at UCLA,” but his mind still made those associations.
“Why didn’t they come along? They’ve given up on you…it’s hopeless…”
He paused at the foot of the stone steps, glancing at the garden again. There was something…off…about it; he couldn’t put his finger on it for a moment, but then it came to him: the orderly rows of plants and flowers, carefully pruned and arranged, had closed ranks. The gravel path terminated a few meters behind him in a solid row of blazing red rosebushes.
All right, then: no going back, he thought.
That didn’t surprise him. He’d been on enough metaplanar journeys to know that wherever he was, he might as well play along with the show. He smiled a bit as he recalled something an old teammate had said during a similar extraplanar trip long ago, something that had nicely encapsulated the experience. He murmured it aloud: “Moo.”
His smile faded quickly, though. There was no reason why this place should be unsettling: the blue sky, mild weather, lovely garden, and pristine structure should have added up to a pleasant, peaceful experience. Instead, something jangled at the edges of his subconscious, like a normally cheerful child’s tune played in a minor key. You didn’t expect it to be enjoyable, did you? he asked himself. Just get on with it.