Who Shall Guard the Guardian Themselves

by K Ryn

  The blue eyes meeting his grew even wider.

  "I wish I could tell you that nothing will change... but I can't. I don't know what will happen. I only know that you have to do this. Accept the truth. Accept Incacha's presence."

  "How?" The question was a breath of sound, filled with the pain of an anguished soul.

  What do I tell him? How do I help him? Jim wondered.

  ~You know his strengths and his fears. Use what has held you together from the beginning... ~ The words of his Spirit Guide echoed in the Sentinel's mind.

  And what has held us together? Need? Friendship? No, more than that. Trust.

  The Sentinel loosened his hold, no longer fearing his Guide would try to flee.

  "You didn't know Incacha, but I did," he murmured. "He was my friend. I trusted him. I know that he never meant to hurt you. He understood how important you are to me. He had to have sensed that the moment the two of you met. I think he took one look deep into your soul and found a kindred spirit. That's why he picked you."

  A sharp, derisive laugh burst from the younger man.

  "Let's face it Jim," Blair whispered bitterly. "There weren't a whole lot of candidates available when he checked out. He picked me because there was no one else."

  The Sentinel cupped Blair's chin in one hand, tipping his Guide's head back, forcing the younger man to meet his gaze.

  "I don't believe that. This was too important to him. He would never have tried to give you his powers if he hadn't found you worthy. I think, had he never come to Cascade, that you would have followed his teachings and his path sooner or later, anyway. Incacha was a very powerful Shaman. He saw in a single glance what I see in you every day -- strength, compassion, loyalty, and a gentle, generous heart."

  "Jim --"

  "Believe me, Blair. Nothing he could do would change those things. He wouldn't have wanted that. And there's nothing he could do, alive or dead, that would shake the trust I have in you. You are my Guide. My Shaman. No matter what happens that will never change."

  The sounds of the hunters rang sharply in the Sentinel's ears.

  "Blair, my Spirit Guide promised that you'd be safe, if you allowed Incacha to help you --"

  "And what about you?" Blair's eyes blazed with fear -- fear for his Sentinel, not himself. "What about the attacks today? Was Incacha responsible for those, too? Could he see into the future? Am I... am I going to lose you?"

  Before Jim could answer, the quiet of the forest was broken by the thundering roar of the helicopter, hovering almost overhead. Blair's eyes jerked up to search the darkness and then slid back to the older man's face.

  Jim swung his partner around, shifting the backpack to his Guide's shoulder and pulling out his own gun in one smooth motion.

  "North is that way," he hissed, pointing into the darkness. "You were right. Anders isn't expecting us to head toward the mountains. It's the only path he hasn't blocked. I want you to head straight in that direction and don't stop until you find a place to try the cell. Now get going. I'm going to try to buy some time."

  He gave his partner a push and the younger man staggered forward a few steps before the words sunk in. Blair spun around and took a step back toward Jim.

  "I'm not leaving you here! I can't --"

  "You have to. One of us has to find help and that phone of yours is our best chance. Maybe our only chance."

  "Then you take it! Damn it, Jim, you'd have a better chance of making it into those mountains than I do. Give me your gun and I'll try to hold them off," Blair pleaded.

  "Blair, you wouldn't stand a chance against them. Even if you didn't get yourself killed in the process, they'd have you. Remember what you said? That Anders would use you to control me? You're right. I'd do almost anything he wanted in order to guarantee your safety. I'd have no choice. Please, you promised me you'd follow my orders. I want you to run and don't look back, no matter what you see or hear. Now go. GO!"

  Blair stood his ground for a moment longer, then with a groan of despair he turned and bolted into the darkness.

  Still tracking his Guide's fleeing presence, the Sentinel turned to face their enemies. Seeking a more defensible position, he faded into the trees, merging with the shadows. The urge to attack those who threatened his Guide clashed with the instincts of a cop and former soldier who needed to protect his partner. One cried out for vengeance, the other faced the grim reality of needing to fight a holding battle with no hope of winning the war.

  He heard them, all around him now. Closing in. A savage gleam filled his eyes when he caught his first glimpse of them. He still had an edge over his opponents. He was not blind in the dark as they were. He could sense them coming before they could see him. He could attack and still delay.

  Both sides of his soul satisfied with the compromise, he dove to his right, prowling silently toward his first target, downing the man before he could make a sound. He claimed the man's weapon and moved toward his next adversary, sliding a knife into the man's ribs with a killing stroke he'd learned in some distant memory. He moved within the shadows, striking without warning, taking down the hunters without remorse. Four of them would never stalk again. Would never threaten his Guide.

  The Sentinel shifted to the cover of a jumbled pile of boulders, lying in wait for the man he could sense moving in his direction. He watched as the hunter materialized out of the darkness, only a few feet a way. He flowed to his feet, focused on sight, intent on taking the man out. Suddenly the darkness turned to blinding daylight and screamed with excruciatingly painful sound -- he'd forgotten about the danger from above.

  Bathed in the chopper's spotlight, the Sentinel froze and his enemy saw him. Out of reflex, Jim fired into the air, hoping to shoot out the light and rolled to his left, scrambling for cover. But they had his position and shots rang out, the deadly missiles forcing him away from the relative safety of the rocks.

  He returned fire, filling the air with the explosions of his own discharging weapon. The scream of the chopper and the wash wind from the blades drove him stumbling, out into the open.

  He fired again in a desperate attempt to take out the helicopter, but the spotlight swung around, its beam transfixing him. Struggling with senses which suddenly surged out of control, he heard the click of a trigger and knew that they had him. He tried to send his hearing beyond the chaos, seeking the heartbeat of his Guide, desperate to know that he, at least, was still safe. But the sharp burning projectile that buried itself in his chest carried him to oblivion, his ears ringing with the fading echoes of an angry, ebony scream.

  Blair heard the sharp retort of gunfire and skidded to a sliding stop, trembling, torn between the need to obey his partner's orders and the instincts which told him he belonged at his Sentinel's side.

  Another volley erupted through the darkness and then there were shouts -- indecipherable, but filled with elation. With a moan, he dropped to his knees, digging frantically in the backpack for the headset he'd stuffed inside earlier. Pulling it out he switched it on, not caring that its use would pinpoint his location.

  There was a burst of static and then he heard the words he'd been dreading.

  "Ellison's down."

  And the attack struck -- just like before, but even more terrifying, because now he knew what it meant. There was only one thing in the world that could hurt this badly.

  It was real.

  Jim was dead.

  The wave of terror and despair hit him so hard it tore the air from his lungs. At that moment everything around him ceased to exist; he could see nothing but blackness, feel nothing except the raging fear and overwhelming sorrow which threatened to engulf him, hear nothing except his own voice screaming Jim's name.

  With a sob he threw himself forward, branches whipping his face. Surrounded by blackness, he stepped out into nothingness and fell forward...

  ... to land on his feet, splashing through a small creek. Ignoring the slippery rocks under foot he ran, driven by the desire to leave the impossib
le reality of his Sentinel's death far behind. Lungs straining for air, he lost even the ability to scream his anguish to the night.

  He turned, following the serpentine windings of the stream as it led south, drenched with the tears streaming down his face and the spray kicked up by his pounding feet. He fled into the darkness, not caring where he was going, hoping to leave the agony which had invaded his heart far behind. Instead, his mind filled with images that made the pain even worse.

  Memories of Jim -- at the station, at the loft, in the truck, sitting by his side in the hospital -- flooded through him, tearing a wrenching cry from his throat. He stumbled and fell. Physical pain from his injured ribs burst like a flare, ripping him apart from the inside.

  The water washed over him like a ritual cleansing. Sputtering, he lifted his head clear and gazed, mesmerized, at the dancing motes of water which shimmered in suddenly unleashed shafts of moonlight. He forced himself to his knees and then to his feet, the icy bath wiping all thoughts from his mind but one.

  He charged out of the stream, headed north once more. Bursting through the trees, he staggered out into a clearing and stared up toward the rocky crags. They beckoned to him, one in particular, shaping itself out of the shadows like an ancient dragon of myth. He headed toward it, fixing his eyes on that destination, his mind dropping its barriers in the face of his driving need.

  A burst of dizzying energy exploded through his body as another presence -- another spirit -- joined his and fought for recognition. For the space of a heartbeat, he struggled against the invasion, battled against losing himself and he stumbled. Fear of another kind shrieked through his mind -- if he fell again, he wasn't sure he'd ever get to his feet. And if he didn't, he wouldn't make it up the mountain. He wouldn't be able to call for help. He'd dishonor his Sentinel's last wishes.

  No! I've already lost him... I can't fail him in this, too... Please, help me!

  With a shudder, he surrendered his soul.

  The spirit which had once borne the name Incacha glided through the forest, an almost ethereal figure, dappled in moonlight and shadow. He allowed himself a moment to revel in the sensations which accompanied his return to physical form, before turning his vision upward, staring through the trees at the starry firmament shimmering through wreaths of windswept clouds. That was where his next journey lay, not within the body of the young one whom he was sworn to guard.

  He felt a stirring deep within, the object of his thoughts demanding to be heard. Memories and experiences from his own life -- and hundreds of others -- awakened to the Guardian's need. The ancient soul brushed the younger one with a reassuring caress, seeking to soothe the raging river of fear into a pool of tranquil stillness.

  He met an unbending will that would not be denied. There was a promise to be kept -- a pledge made by the Guide to his Sentinel. The Guardian resisted. If the Sentinel was dead, as the young one believed, then it was his duty to watch over the untrained Shaman, not place him in further danger. The Guide insisted, anger and grief fueling his desire, and finally the Guardian yielded to the need to honor that obligation.

  Satisfied for the moment, the younger man's weary, sorrowful spirit retreated into silence.

  The Guardian paused in the cover of the treeline. Before him stretched a rocky slope and beyond that, the mountain. He eyed the steep cliffs, letting himself adjust to the familiar, yet disconcertingly different feel of the younger man's body.

  He pushed long, wind blown strands of hair back from his face, the gesture automatic, yet the silky feel of the curling locks was different than the coarseness that he remembered... Stiff leather enclosed feet which were accustomed to the intimate touch of bare sole to earth, or the comfort of sandals... Eyes that had witnessed the moon's endless cycle of birth and death for countless years, stared across the softly illuminated landscape through irises of blue which had once been brown, and before that, black as the night... His skin chafed at the restriction of layers of cold sodden clothing, he who had known the freedom of skin bared to the heat and humidity of the rain forest...

  And deep within, untapped potential and strength. There was power there, waiting to be awakened.

  If he'd known how much, he would have never attempted his desperate, dying act. What he'd done was dangerous -- forbidden unless the need was dire. He'd never understood why, until now, inhabiting a strong young body once again, he felt the enticing temptation to remain, to take that power that he sensed and add it to his own.

  To live again...

  NO!

  The terrified mental scream staggered the Guardian. He fell to his knees and bowed his head.

  "Do not fear, young one," he murmured. "That is not my desire." He raised his eyes to the sky. "My destiny lies there, yours here. I am sorry I frightened you. It will not happen again. I give you my word. What is mine will be yours and a promise as well, for I too, honor Enqueri's soul.

  "We will go, flying ahead of the hunters. And when your duty is finished, we will seek justice for our Sentinel.

  "That, and my knowledge, are the gifts I make to you..."

  Sensory awareness returned first, along with a primal warning of danger. He remained motionless, obeying the message imprinted on his genes -- the same instinct all injured or hunted creatures depended on for survival -- wait, watch, listen for the enemy. The ice-cold metal fire surrounding his wrists, trapping them behind him; the sandpaper roughness of the coarse canvas tarp under his cheek; and the thundering of each red blood cell racing through his veins convinced the Sentinel to yield to that instinct, even though it warred with another -- the need to find and protect his Guide.

  As the paralyzing, drug-induced haze began to clear, other survival skills -- those honed by years of training and experience -- kicked in. They carried their own warnings and behavioral patternings; identify the enemy, determine his objective, and then -- when you can operate from a position of strength, not weakness -- counter his plans.

  Locking his terror over his young friend's safety deep within his heart, Jim forced his muddled thoughts into a more rational, less emotional direction. The painful, magnified input he was receiving from his senses made him vulnerable and until he could regain some degree of control, he would be no use to anyone.

  I could use your help, right now, Chief.

  He let a comforting memory float to the surface, hearing his Guide's soothing voice in his mind.

  "Control, Jim. That's what it's all about. Your senses are a part of you, like the muscles in your body. When you learned to walk as a child, you learned to control those muscles through practice. You can deal with your hyper senses the same way. Now, humor me for a minute, okay? Remember the dials we talked about? Each represents a different sense. It's a matter of turning them up or down to increase or decrease the sensory input. Your head's in control here, man. Get the picture?"

  Yeah, Chief, I got it, Jim thought grimly. Understanding's not the problem. It's the damn drug.

  A quiet chuckle rippled through his mind and his Guide's voice was back with a gentle reprimand.

  "Hey, man, it's not going to happen all at once. You have to work at it a little at a time."

  The Sentinel almost smiled, then remembered the danger and hid his amusement to himself.

  Even when you're not here, you're 'here', aren't you, Chief? Thanks for the suggestion.

  Turning his attention inward, the Sentinel contemplated the dials again. He'd been trying to wrench them down to normal, one at a time. Now he fiddled with each one in sequence, making minor adjustments instead of pushing for total control. At first, they resisted his efforts, but little by little he managed to nudge them all into line -- set higher than he wanted, but at least in some kind of balance.

  He opened his eyes and reached outward with his senses, sending grasping tendrils into the darkness. Drenched with sweat, he struggled to hold onto the tentative level of control he'd achieved. He managed to explore the boundaries of his environment before the dials shifted out of syn
c. Almost growling in frustration, he worked to align them again while his mind assessed the details he'd gathered.

  His prison was a medium-sized tent -- large enough to stand upright in. The only discernible opening was to his left, the entry masked by a simple flap which obscured his view of the outside. The pallet he lay upon and a small folding wooden camp chair were the only items in the otherwise empty space. Even the ground had been cleared of rocks, leaving nothing for him to use as a weapon.

  The Sentinel felt the dials click back into balance and pushed outward again, trying to focus beyond the canvas walls, hoping to scan the encampment for some sign of his Guide. But it was as if an invisible barrier had been strung around the tent. Prod and poke as he might, he couldn't find a way to send his senses past it.

  For a few desperate moments he wondered if Anders had come up with something like the white noise generators Lee Brackett had used against him. He pushed harder and felt a 'give' to the restraining field and let himself relax, deciding that the drug was responsible for his failure.

  Driven by the need to locate his Guide, the Sentinel continued to struggle against the barrier. He lost track of time. Nothing existed except the continual push outward and the fight to hold his control.

  Suddenly the dials spun out of alignment and he recoiled at the painful surge of sensations. With a frustrated hiss, he rolled to his side and levered himself into a sitting position, no longer caring if anyone heard him or not.

  He was still struggling to regain his equilibrium when the tent flap was thrust aside. The Sentinel's head snapped up and his eyes flashed with rage when he identified the man who stepped forward.

  Anders responded with a sneering smile. "Back with us, Captain Ellison?"

  Setting down a small lantern the older man started to move closer, but the force of the Sentinel's angry gaze stopped him. Jim enjoyed a moment's satisfaction at the brief flicker of fear in Anders' eyes and started to flow to his feet. The agent quickly raised a small dart gun and gestured warningly as he retreated a step. Ellison settled back onto the tarp, his eyes never leaving his captor's face.