by Jon Wilson
He turned, feeling the sobs racking his chest.Kawika. Kawika. You said you would take me.
Holt felt himself lifted, pulled into powerful arms. Warm breath brushed his ear. Whispered words came to him—words he did not understand. “Farysha. City of the Moon. My son.” Holt cried heavily into Kawika’s chest, giving himself over completely. “I will take you in the spring,” the ranger said.
No, take me now. Now!He felt Kawika kneeling—felt his own weight shift as too soon he was pulled away from that chest. Kawika had carried him to the wall, now he was being offered up to the man standing trapped within. Holt did not look at Keone, just as Kawika did not look. They gazed only at one another until slowly the ranger began to smile. “A few months more.”
As Keone’s burning hands slipped under his arms, Holt managed to swallow his sobs. He nodded. “All right. I’ll wait.”
The image of Kawika faded and Holt felt Keone cradling him in his arms—arms surprisingly strong and secure. The hissing demon reared suddenly beside them.
“Destroy that creature,” Keone said, indicating the troll with a contemptuous nod of his head. “What you have done to its mind is unspeakable.”
The demon laughed. “What you have done to this child’s mind is unspeakable. Will you destroy it?”
The stonediver said nothing, but Holt could feel the man begin to move. They were walking, unsteadily at first, but gradually faster. Soon they seemed to be running.
The demon’s voice trailed after them. “Come to me then. Let me give you back your beloved ranger.”
Just as it had during Holt’s first march into the wilderness, the frozen maze seemed to flash into and out of existence. One moment they were rushing down one of its icy halls and the next they were out under the open sky. Back and forth they seemed to glide until finally Holt knew Keone was carrying him up the mountainside.
He could hear the stonediver’s ragged breath. Holt wondered how long he had been running. The sun was still low in the sky. “I can walk,” he managed to say.
“No time,” Keone gasped back. “Despite his brave words he prepares to flee.”
The stonediver was right. From above, Holt could see down into the demon’s cave. He could see the beast hobbling on its new and as yet malformed leg. He could hear its labored respiration, a result of burns in its lungs from the fire at Fitts’ house. He saw how its blackened scales were scorched. Through its pain and terror, it grew suddenly aware of Holt’s consciousness.
Do you see what you’ve done to me? Do you know how I will make you pay for this?
Holt wondered how the demon had managed to appear so whole and healthy in the dream world, in the white room.This is not here; this is not now. Of course. That was why Holt’s shoulder no longer burned. His wound had not been a real wound, a wound of the flesh, but of the spirit. And Kawika had not been alive, only a memory of Holt’s. A memory that had carried him away from selfdestruction and into Keone’s real and strong
arms. But he will be too weary to fight,Holt decided.Even if we do somehow manage to catch it.He began to struggle.
Keone tightened his hold. “You’re too weak to keep up.”
Holt knew this too was true. However incorporeal his injuries had been, they had weakened him. He suffered as if the blood loss had been real. And his mind continued to expand and contract. His view of the world came to him through many eyes. He saw the cave through the eyes of the demon. He saw the mountain path through the eyes of the troll. He saw the entire mountainside from some mystical vantage point that held him high above them all. He saw Ardee miles below them, rushing to catch up.
“She’s coming,” he said. “Not far behind.”
The stonediver slowed, stopping. He set Holt roughly on the ground, dropping to one knee. “I-Impossible…No one could be that fast. Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Where is thejirran?”
Holt had to search. Shutting his eyes was no use; too many other eyes were open. Finally he told Keone, “Somewhere between us and her. Coming, but she’ll catch it before it can reach us…If we hurry.” He saw the stonediver’s look—the uncertainty that knitted his brow.How often has he been unsure?
Keone shook his head. Another ghostly smile played on his lips. He appeared ready to laugh. Instead, he drew a deep breath in through his nose. “You rangers will be the death of me yet,” he said.
Holt did not understand, but had not a moment to consider as he saw something else that gripped him with an icy dread. “No!”
“What is it?”
“The troll! It’s hiding. It sees her too.”
Far below them, the troll had hesitated, raising its muzzle to sniff the air. It sought out a hiding place, positioning itself among some high rocks overlooking the trail. Ardee would surely run right past, and in her haste…Holt half-turned. He took a step back along the path.
Keone cursed under his breath. “Of course. It sees everything you do.”
“Can you warn her?”
“No.” The stonediver bit his lips. His gaze, cast down, darted back and forth, as if surveying various invisible options. He gave his head another shake. “We must go back.” He swooped down on Holt again and grabbed him up, sprinting back the way they had just
come. What?Outrage and confusion battered Holt’s senses. Another great rent tore through the sky, spilling the black doubt that lay hidden behind the bright hope he had placed in Keone—false hope he saw now. Darkness and despair closed in around him. “No! You said the demon was going to flee. You have to catch it!”
But Keone shook his head. “I will not let another ranger die. Not because of…” His voice faded under his growing struggle for breath.
“Let me go! I’ll warn her!”
“Holt, stop fighting me!”
The words were low and full of power;
they seemed to penetrate Holt’s senses not just through his ears, but through rolling tremors in his bones. He felt his already tenuous grasp on reality slip. Various visions faded—what he saw with his physical eyes— through the eyes of the troll. Only the highflying perspective remained, sharpening. He realized he was not flying, but hanging in midair, rolled in the frozen wing of the demon.
The evil voice crooned in his ear. “Do you see what he has done toyou?”
“No.” The wing was wrapped so tightly about his chest, Holt could barely squeeze the words out. “He promised.”
“Empty promises. Lies. He has used you. He has given you to me.”
Holt began thrashing wildly.No! No! “No!” He managed to escape Keone’s grasp and spilled down onto the frozen ground. He scrambled along the path as the stonediver staggered after him.
“Holt, wait!”
“You’re a liar! A coward!” Holt continued to back away, clawing at the frozen ground. His hand came down upon a large rock, which rolled beneath his weight. He toppled painfully over onto his side. “How can you let Kawika’s murderer go free?”
“You don’t understand…”
Sobs began to once more rack Holt’s entire body. “Y-Yes! I do understand! I can hear it! It’s laughing at you. It’s laughing at us.” He bowed his head. “It’s laughing at Kawika!”
“Holt.” Keone’s tone was bleak and full of gravel. “It’s too powerful, I see that now. I —” His voice broke completely, and Holt could hear the pain in it when he resumed, “I’m certain Wika fought bravely, but he was a fool to think he could challenge—”
Holt spun up and around, swinging the large rock in his fist. Keone, kneeling, reaching out gently to grasp Holt’s shoulder, was struck powerfully above the temple. A great crack echoed through the air. Holt’s mouth sprang open in a wordless cry as he watched the stonediver’s eyes bulge slightly and then droop, fluttering.
The man swayed slowly to the side and then fell down onto the frozen ground.
Chapter 14 Raot’s muzzle went up again. She sniffed. But the boy and the witch were too far away. Down wind. That she could neverthel
ess somehowseethem, threw her senses into disarray.
But the child had struck the stonediver with a rock. She had watched the man fall.
The dark voice rose up again inside her mind. “Yes, Raot. I have shown the boy the error of his ways. Now. Go and destroy them both.”
But the troll-killer!
“Do not question me!”
The words tore through her thoughts like a jagged blade. She tumbled from her perch to sprawl in the trail. The troll-killer was gaining fast. And she was the danger—not the witch and the idiotfeldyshchild. They were nothing. The man was unconscious; the boy helpless.
The only thing worse than the dark voice bellowing in her head, was its whisper. The sound twisted like a hook into the base of her skull.We can escape the troll-killer, Raut. We can outrun her. But this witch must know that he can not challenge us.
The hook pulled her slowly, irresistibly upward. She swayed drunkenly. So tired. No sleep for so many nights. And she was drenched in blood. She had washed and wallowed, and yet never would her fur come clean. The blood ofjirranstained her. The look of betrayal and hatred on Katawanif’s face before Raot had killed her—it haunted her, flashing in the darkness when she tried to close her eyes.
Soon, the voice crooned. And then it laughed—because it knew she knew it was lying.
When it had first begun to woo her, so many months before, playing on the long lingering ache she had never been willing to surrender, she had known ultimately there would be no succor in its service. It might tease her with wellness, it might hint that devotion would one day render her whole; but she knew herself scarred beyond any sort of restoration. And remedy was not the province of demonkind.
Still, she had given herself over to it, letting it feed the tenacious flame of hatred in her belly. There was a bitter satisfaction in its lies. Part of her even wondered if knowing they were lies might spare her in the end. Though she had never quite managed to convince herself of that. But anything was better than the empty, aching frigidity of her sorrow. Slowly she had learned to embrace the burning darkness.
That darkness flared suddenly within her. The laughter fell like a whip across her shoulders. With an anguished cry, she lurched forward, sprinting up the mountain. She could see thefeldyshchild kneeling beside the witch, begging him to awaken. The boy did not seem aware of her approach. Perhaps she could destroy him and the witch and still make good her escape. Perhaps all was not lost. She could escape into the mountains and crawl into a dank crack and hide her bloody fur in the darkness. Perhaps at long last she could sleep.
The laughter continued, growing— building back up to a horrible bellow.Destroy them, Raot! The witch’s mate murdered your family and now you shall balance the scales. Rend him. Drench the earth with his blood… But do not try to feast upon his heart! It is a shriveled, puny thing. The heart of a weakling. The heart of a coward!
At the last moment, the boy managed to surprise her. He had given no indication he was aware of her proximity, then his small knife flew out and stabbed her shoulder. She roared, less in pain than utter fury. She leapt and her feet struck his chest. He flew backward and to the ground as she landed in a crouch, yanking the small blade from her fur and casting it aside.
The child scrambled quickly to his feet. He cried out, not in pain or fear, but as if attempting to mimic Raot’s own roar. He charged her—madly,she thought. What possessed him?Feldysh children did not attackjirran. They fled. They wept. But this one seemed beyond both tears and terror. Yes, she saw it in his eyes.Madness.It was identical, she knew, to the look in her own eyes.
Before she could defend herself, the small body crashed into her own, and they tumbled over to the ground. Her instincts were far too finely honed, however, and she soon had the boy pinned beneath her. He continued to struggle, surely as aware of the futility of fighting as she was, but unwilling to submit. In the back of her mind, the demon was calling:the witch!But first she would put this insane babe out of its misery. She spread her jaws, angling to close them around his throat, but the witch grabbed her from behind, pulling her over to the ground.
They rolled several feet before she managed to throw him off. His back slammed against the side of the mountain and she slashed furiously at his chest, rending his garment and the flesh beneath in a spray of blood. He struck at her, but feebly, and she howled her satisfaction, sinking her fangs into his shoulder, savoring the delicious taste of feldyshmeat—enjoying the glorious snap and crack of bone in her powerful jaws.
The man cried out in pain and wilted beneath her, helpless, sinking to the ground as she twisted her head from side to side, ripping, tearing, destroying him utterly. She felt the life go out of him and reared back as he flopped at her feet. Her cry of triumph echoed through the chill air. She imagined her pride, miles below, hearing it. They would know at last Raot was the first huntress of the Huerunan.
And then the world exploded. A great irresistible mass slammed into her side, bowling her over. Powerful arms encircled her neck. She had no time even to identify this new assault, before she was pinned to the frozen ground. Hands gripped her muzzle, twisting her head painfully around. Darkness closed in on her—not the flaming darkness that drove her madness, nor the sweet darkness that bribed her with promises of rest and restoration. It was a total, obliterating darkness that came upon her in a grinding cacophony of crackling bone.
* * * * The troll’s death stung Holt like another sharp blow to the chest. As her thoughts were ripped from his own, a cloak of darkness descended upon him. He felt as if one of his own eyes had been plucked out. He rolled over, gasping and retching.
Ardee disentangled herself from the corpse. “Are you injured?”
She was breathless, and when he looked up it was to find her studying him with a worried expression, even as she moved toward Keone. He shook his head. She responded with a single sharp nod, then knelt at the stonediver’s side.
“Here,” she said. “Here!” She grabbed Holt’s collar as he fumbled toward her. She jerked him forward, nearly atop Keone. “Place your hands here. Over the wound. Press down. We must slow the blood.”
Holt stared in horror at the gaping wound on the stonediver’s shoulder. Blood was flowing from it in irregular spurts, drenching the torn fabric of his shirt. It had already formed a large seeping pool on the frozen ground. His hands hovered, trembling over the ruined flesh. Ardee had to grab his wrists—force his palms down over the wound. Oozing, roiling red, squished between his fingers.
The blood was hot, and immediately Holt’s hands felt hot. He was overcome by a sensation it was not the stonediver’s blood that was flowing out and over the ground, but his own frozen flesh melting away. Tremors shot up his arms, flashing across his chest and up his neck. He tried to speak but the breath was trapped in his lungs. The world swayed. His eyelids grew heavy. And as darkness closed in, he sank into the wound. The torn flesh, the shattered bone, the gushing blood rose around him like the walls of the white room. They called to him, drawing him down into their ruined depths. Keone’s ragged breath echoed in Holt’s ears. And there, below it, was the feeble tapping of the stonediver’s heart.
Holt snatched his hands away, sitting back suddenly and opening his eyes.
The walls of the white room had risen around them. And there stood the demon, nearly atop them, looming like a storm cloud. It spread its wings, laughing triumphantly. “Do you see, child? They have wormed their way down inside of you. They have twisted you into what they desire you to be.”
Holt stared at his hands; theyhadgrown incredibly hot. His palms tingled. The blood throbbed in his fingertips. What had happened? He recalled Keone’s words: how the Danann did not sit you down and teach you this and this and that. Had he, Holt, a simple boy from Darnouth, somehow acquired the skill to heal? From Sihr?
“And that is by no means all.” The demon flapped its wings in wide sweeps, directing Holt’s attention to the walls of the white room. “He has invaded this sanctum, infected it with h
is desires. You built this as a sanctuary, but he has defiled it, made it his own. Made it a prison to contain you.”
Holt looked around, at the great icy walls surrounding them, at the high throne behind him, at the stonediver lying so still before him. It was true, he knew. Keone had somehow changed everything. The white room was more solid—more substantial. And the vast maze that surrounded it was certainly not Holt’s own creation. He had been lost in it, wandering helplessly in the wilderness as he struggled to escape its labyrinthine traps. It had robbed him of his voice; only by chance had he and Sihr stumbled upon it. But had it also robbed him of his free will? Had Keone forced Holt to help him track the demon? And, if so, why? In the end the stonediver had turned back.
“Oh, his plans were far more devious, child. He crafted your sanctum into a prison. He hoped to snare me in this pathetic trap…” The dark gaze abruptly focused on Holt, and the demon’s voice turned to a terrifying hiss. “With you for bait. A tasty morsel you shall make, too, my boy.”
Holt lowered his head, grabbing two fistfuls of his own hair. He wanted to cover his ears—to shut out the crowing voice—but he knew it was useless. He was not really hearingit. They were in his mind. And he was trapped there, unable to flee.
Something brushed his arm, and he looked down. Keone was moving, trying to reach up toward Holt’s face. The stonediver’s lips were working, but failed to formulate words. He was straining to accomplish something he no longer had the strength for.
The demon bent forward, cocking its head. It peered down into Keone’s face, displaying a wickedly delighted grin. “Hah! The witch awakes.” It stabbed the bony tip of its right wing down through Keone’s chest and hoisted the man up into the air. It held him there, peering curiously into the battered face. “I do believe it is trying to speak!”
The stonediver’s lips continued to move, pouring forth fresh blood. A wave of hot crimson splashed down his chin and broke across the wing lodged firmly in his chest. His voice was raspy, nearly indecipherable. “I knew you’d come…I knew you’d gloat.”