by Terry Brooks
Logan watched him disappear into the shadows, lost to everything.
It was Michael at the end. It was madness.
“IS IT SETTLED?” Achille asked quietly, coming up to stand beside him. “You will face him in battle?”
Logan looked at him in disgust. “He seems to think I will.” He shook his head. “I don’t understand. Why do you follow him?”
Achille’s face was cadaverous beneath the shock of wild black hair. “Isn’t it obvious? Because he is invincible.” He gestured toward the wall of weapons. “Because he prevails in combat against all who stand against him. No one has been able to defeat him. No one ever will. Not demons or once-men. Not even other Knights of the Word. He is too much for any of them.”
He gave Logan a long look. “You’ll see. He will be too much for you, too.”
Achille’s smile was rueful as he looked away. “You don’t know him as we do, we who follow him. He has given us hope, when there is no hope to be found. He is the one who will save us all.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
P ANTHER PEERED THROUGH the bushes that screened him from the men gathered in front of the warehouse, searching for any clue that would tell him what had become of Logan Tom.
“How long has he been in there, anyway?” he whispered to Catalya.
She shook her head, a barely perceptible movement, her body flattened against the ground next to his.
“Well, what do you think is happening?”
She shook her head again.
“So what do we do?”
She shifted her gaze sideways. “Don’t you have a plan?” she whispered back.
“No! I thought you did!” Irritated with her, he scowled in rebuke. “Why would I have a plan? This was your idea!”
“Not my idea to bring you along, it wasn’t.”
“Your idea to come in the first place!”
She made no response, and he went back to watching the entry to the warehouse, searching the darkness for movement.
Nothing. For all he knew, Logan Tom might have been dropped into a black pit and covered over.
They were hidden on a rise off to one side of the building entrance, safely back and above the outbuildings and the ghost town beyond. Knowing that they must have been seen coming down the freeway initially from some distance off, they had chosen to come directly after the men who had taken Logan Tom, reasoning that while the freeway might be watched, the compound that housed the men might not. So far, they had been proven right. They had seen no one and not been stopped as they moved through the ravines and hollows that snaked between the hills, at last finding themselves in the wooded area they presently occupied.
But now that they had found the perfect hiding spot, a place where they could see what was happening below and not be seen, they were stymied as to what to do next.
Or at least Panther was. He glanced sideways at Catalya. Hard to tell about her.
He studied her mottled face. Strange, at first glance, but once you got past the Lizard patches, rather nice. She was different in the same way as Tessa—unusual, unique. Black hair like Tessa, but she had pale skin like Chalk. He couldn’t explain the attraction. Of course, part of it was the way she could fight. Any girl who could take out three men as fast as she did was something special. Even Sparrow couldn’t do that. He studied her some more. Couldn’t turn away. Didn’t want to. He wondered why she worked so hard at trying to make everyone think she was ugly.
She looked over at him suddenly, her mouth twisting into a wicked grin. “Can’t take your eyes off me, can you?”
He turned away, burning with embarrassment. Stupid Freak, he thought, then squelched the words at once. It was wrong to call her that, even without actually saying the words, wrong to think of her that way, double wrong to suggest that she was bad somehow just because of her condition.
He hated that he thought and said things before thinking them through. Hated that he did it so often. Like when Logan Tom had brought the girl into camp. First thing he did, he called her a Freak, his mouth quicker than his brain, like there was no connection between the two. Sparrow called him on it regularly. River, too, now and then. It was all right. He deserved it. He had it coming.
“I’m sorry I said those things about you earlier,” he whispered impulsively, not able to make himself look at her as he said it. “I shouldn’t have called you names. You don’t deserve that. I didn’t mean it. Not really. I was just being stupid.”
“Give me your Spray,” she said in response, almost as if she hadn’t heard him.
He hesitated, surprised by the request, but then handed over his weapon. Cat took it and slipped it quickly beneath her cloak, doing something he couldn’t quite see to secure it once it was tucked safely inside.
“Hey!” he objected. “What are you doing?”
She glanced over, giving him a wink. “Saving you from yourself. You’ll get it back when you need it.”
Below, the open space in front of the warehouse was beginning to fill with men and women, all rather ragged and haggard, all carrying weapons. They seemed to appear all at once and out of nowhere, but in truth they had come from the outbuildings and the hills beyond. They were all talking and seemed excited as they moved toward the open doors of the warehouse and poured inside.
“What’s going on?” Panther asked.
Cat looked over at him, her smile gone. “We’re about to find out. Don’t panic. We’ve been seen. They’re right behind us.”
He stared at her, thinking she was joking, that this was another of her games played at his expense. He started to say something in response, and she quickly put a finger to her lips.
“Stay where you are,” a voice ordered.
Panther felt his heart sink.
“What do you two think you’re doing?” a second voice asked.
“Just looking for something to eat,” Catalya answered at once, her voice pitifully frightened and desperate. “We didn’t mean any harm. Please, mister, we haven’t eaten in days.”
“Street kids,” said another voice. “That one’s a Freak. Look at her face. Don’t touch her.”
Panther started to turn. “I told you not to move,” the first voice said, closer now, and the cold muzzle of a weapon pressed up against his cheek.
“Just let us go, mister,” Catalya begged, starting to cry.
“I don’t think so,” the first voice said. “Not till I find out something more about you. I think you’d better come with us. Get up. Slowly.”
Panther was furious. I knew I shouldn’t have given her the Spray!
“Hurry it up,” the second urged. “We’ll miss the show.”
The muzzle of the gun left Panther’s face.
As the boy and the girl climbed to their feet, Catalya gave Panther a sideways glance and a wink and mouthed, Trust me. Then she said over her shoulder to their captors, her voice shaking, “What sort of show, mister?”
I hope you know what you’re doing, Panther thought sourly.
WHEN THE HOUR allotted to Logan was almost up, Achille brought him a suit of worn, scarred body armor that had obviously seen extensive use. Pieces were dented, and a few were cracked halfway across. Logan told Achille he didn’t want body armor, didn’t even want this fight, but the other man insisted he put it on. Krilka Koos would be wearing body armor and wouldn’t allow any disparity in protection or weapons that would lend one combatant or the other an advantage. Each would be identically dressed and armed.
Logan allowed the body armor to be fitted—chest and back plates, upper arm and elbow guards, and upper thigh and knee guards with overlapping plates at the juncture of shoulders and arms and hips and thighs. The armor was lightweight and strong, an alloy perfected in the waning days of the struggle that had seen the end of organized government and its armies. Michael had owned a set. Logan had not.
He found himself standing alone afterward, the body armor cinched tightly about him, his staff held in both hands as he faced the weapons display wa
ll, thinking that this shouldn’t be happening, that it made no sense. It was what he had thought from the moment he had learned what Krilka Koos intended, and even now, when it was clearly time to do so, he couldn’t make himself face the reality of his situation. It felt surreal to him, a dream that he would wake from at any moment. Even when he heard the sounds of voices outside the building, gathering in volume and intensity, and then inside, changing to shouts and cries of expectation; even when he heard the sounds of boots climbing into the bleachers and hands clapping with rhythmic encouragement; and even when the cacophony was so intense that it blotted out every other sound and left him blanketed in waves of wildness and frenzy, he could not find steady ground on which to stand. He was at sea, cast adrift, and everything around him seemed to be getting farther away.
How was he supposed to prepare for a battle he had no interest in fighting? The question rolled and spun with the bright insistence of sunspots flashing through dark clouds. He wondered suddenly if this was where everything would end for him—his service to the Word, his efforts to find and protect the boy Hawk, his care for the Ghosts, all the unfinished business in his life. Knights of the Word did not have long lives, but somehow he had always believed he would have more time than this.
“They’re ready,” Achille said suddenly, coming up to him.
Logan looked at the man, at the faint smile on his face, and he knew that no one thought for one minute that this was something he was going to walk away from.
“What do I do?” he asked.
“Walk out into the arena. Krilka will be waiting. The rest is up to the two of you.” Achille stepped back. “Good luck.”
What he was saying, Logan knew, was Good-bye.
He took a last look at the weapons display, imagining for a moment the men—and possibly women—who had carried them into battle. He looked once more at the three rune-carved staffs that had belonged to other Knights of the Word, dull and lifeless in their straps, the power gone with their bearers’ lives. They couldn’t have wanted this any more than he did. It was obscene that they should have come to this end. Krilka Koos killed to reassure himself of his prowess. He killed so that his followers would believe he was invincible. Everything he had sworn to do as a Knight of the Word had been subverted. Logan felt a slow burn of anger build inside. It would never stop unless someone made it stop.
Unless he made it stop.
He tightened his hands about his staff, took a deep breath, and walked out into the arena.
The roar that greeted his appearance nearly knocked him backward. Shouts of frenzied expectation rose out of the throats of hundreds of men and women. Boots stomped and banged against bleacher aisles, and hands clapped and pounded on metal seats. The faithful were gathered in force, there to witness his destruction at the hands of their leader, savior, and manufactured hero. Logan felt sick to his stomach, fear washing through him. He wasn’t immune to the latter, and while he had braved death a hundred times in his raids on the slave camps, he had never faced it down in circumstances like these. His throat tightened and his stomach lurched as the roar washed over him like an ocean wave that would drag him under and drown him.
But it was the massing of feeders all through the bleachers, around and under them, their dark shapes hunched and squirming in eager anticipation of what was to come, that chilled him to the bone. He had not seen this many since the boy Hawk, the gypsy morph, had been thrown from the walls of the compound in Seattle. Hundreds of them, waiting for the bloodletting. Waiting for their chance to drink in the pain and anguish, the dark emotions that would spill from the combatants. This was a battle between two Knights of the Word, and the chance to feed would never be more satisfying. No one could see them but Krilka Koos and himself. No one else would even know they were there.
Logan Tom felt his stomach constrict at the thought.
Krilka Koos stood waiting at the other end of the arena. He was dressed all in black and gray, clothing and body armor of a piece, and he carried his black staff cradled comfortably in his arms. Already its runes were glowing a dull blue. He had the look of a man who was neither afraid nor anxious. He waited with no sign of impatience or expectation. This would be just another battle for him, another killing. It would be a little more special than most because Logan was a Knight of the Word, but nothing more than that. The outcome was predetermined; his certainty of it was mirrored on his face.
He waited until Logan was fully emerged from behind the bleachers, standing open and exposed within the arena, and then he spread his arms wide in open invitation. “Come fight me, Logan Tom!” he roared. “Come test yourself against me!”
The crowd roared, the sound reverberating off the rafters and shaking the sheet-metal walls. The feeders climbed over one another in an effort to get closer. Logan glanced at the open doorway through which he had come earlier, still thinking of the possibility of escape. The men who served Krilka Koos were mostly crammed into this warehouse to watch the spectacle, and there was little chance that they could prevent him from reaching the Ghosts if he could get through the door. But to do that, he would have to fight his way past rows of men and women at least ten-deep and turn his back on Krilka Koos in the bargain. What chance would he have of making it through?
He gave it up and looked over at his adversary. The scarred face was bright with anticipation, the black staff pointing toward him now, leveled and ready for use. Logan shook his head and started to say, “Why can’t we take a different—”
He got that much out before the Word’s fire, wielded by its failed servant, slammed into him with pile-driver force and sent him tumbling backward, head-over-heels. The force of the attack was shocking. Pain ratcheted through his body, and his breath exploded out of him in a hard, quick gasp. He almost lost his grip on his staff; only instinct and desperation kept him from releasing it.
But the attack had another effect, as well. It knocked aside all hesitation and doubt, banishing in an instant every consideration but one. In his mind, the words screamed at him, harsh and commanding.
Stay alive!
His training and instincts took over, and he rolled back to his feet in a single fluid movement. He didn’t bother trying to defend himself against what he knew was coming. Instead, he attacked. He summoned the magic and sent it flying across the arena into Krilka Koos with every ounce of strength he could muster. He watched it strike the big man, shatter against him, and stagger him with its force.
But it did little else. It did not flatten him as Logan had intended that it should. It did not break apart his defenses and give him reason to question his self-confidence. If anything, it reaffirmed it. He shook off the blow, steadied himself, and raised his arms in triumph, almost as if he believed he had already won the battle.
The crowd roared its approval, and the foot stomping and handclapping reached new heights. Scattered invisibly through their midst, the feeders lunged and withdrew like wild dogs.
Logan was back on his feet, his staff held protectively before him, his defenses in place. Krilka Koos grinned broadly, beckoning him closer, taunting him. The two men circled each other, feinting without attacking, each looking to find a weakness in the other’s approach. Logan, having abandoned his reluctance along with any hope that his adversary could be made to listen to reason, was determined to end this quickly.
But it was Krilka Koos who struck first, again without warning, again without seeming to do anything but shift his stance slightly. He struck at Logan’s feet, a searing bolt that erupted from the lowered end of his staff, skimmed the dirt floor, and encircled Logan’s ankles, burning through his boots and knocking him to his knees. Instantly the big man followed up with a second strike, this one aimed at Logan’s head. Logan deflected the blow at the last moment, fighting back from his knees, unable to rise, his lower legs and feet numb. He threw up the Word’s fire from his staff in a shield that broke apart the blow intended to remove his head, and rocked back on his nerveless heels.
�
��Come, Logan Tom!” Krilka Koos shouted at him. “Surely you can do better than this!”
Taunts issued from the crowd in response, whistles and hoots and jeers of all sorts. Logan barely heard them, scrambling to gather up his scattered thoughts, struggling back to his feet. He was losing this fight. He had to turn the attack back against Krilka Koos. What had Michael taught him that he could use? What, that would keep him alive?
The big man attacked again, the fire of his staff slamming Logan backward once more, this time all the way into the first row of the bleachers. Rough hands shoved him away, fists pummeling and boots kicking at his back and shoulders. He was barely clear when the fire engulfed him once more. His defenses feeble and unfocused, his concentration shattered by the pain and the shock of what was happening to him, he went down on his knees, gasping for breath, fighting waves of nausea. He felt the first of the feeders climbing over him, their touch like cold wet leaves against his hot skin.
Do something! he screamed at himself.
But he couldn’t imagine what that something would be.
“PLEASE, MISTER, what’s happening in there?” Cat asked in her frightened-little-girl voice. She reached up and put her hands over her ears. “It’s so loud.”
Panther wanted to roll his eyes, but kept them firmly fixed on the entry to the warehouse they were passing on their way to whatever lockup their captors were planning to put them in. The metal sides of the building were shaking with the sounds of raucous shouts and stamping feet. Smoke drifted from the air vents and through seams in the sheet metal, and brilliant white light flashed through the building’s deep gloom. Bodies were packed tightly against the entrance, blocking any view of whatever everyone had gathered to see.
Didn’t matter if he could see or not, Panther thought. He could still make a pretty good guess as to who was involved.