Empyrion I: The Search for Fierra

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Empyrion I: The Search for Fierra Page 48

by Stephen Lawhead


  “We should probably talk about how we’re going to get inside.”

  “Plenty of time later,” said Crocker.

  “Okay. Sure. Later.”

  When they moved on, Crocker fell behind them, shuffling along flatfootedly now, where before he’d swung his long legs in an efficient, ground-eating stride. Calin hung close to Treet’s left hand, glancing back at regular intervals. Treet refrained from looking back, but once, when he could stand it no longer, he peered over his shoulder to see Crocker’s mouth working silently, as if he were debating with himself. Crocker stopped when he saw that Treet was looking.

  They stopped a few hours later for their first good look at Dome. The sun was high overhead, blazing in the crystal facets of its enormous webwork with white brilliance. From this distance, it would have been easy to mistake the structure for a glass mountain whose peaks and tors glittered as the sun’s rays played over its polished surface. From a closer vantage point, individual sections of dome clusters would be seen, giving Dome the appearance of a mound of soap bubbles dropped on an endless flat lawn.

  “There it is,” said Crocker through his teeth. He turned to Treet, but looked through him.

  Treet glanced away. “We can be there in a couple of hours. We’ll have plenty of time before sundown to find a way inside … if Tvrdy is still watching, that is.”

  They started down the hill to the last valley before the long, gradual climb to Dome’s low plateau. Crocker fell behind again, and Treet halted when he reached the bottom of the hill to wait for the pilot to catch up. Crocker waved him on. Treet, with Calin stuck like a second shadow to his side, continued on, growing increasingly worried. Something was terribly wrong with Crocker, he knew. What? Nerves? Treet was nervous himself; it wasn’t that. It was something deeper, more sinister.

  After walking for an hour or so, now beginning the trek up the slope to the plateau, Treet looked around to see Crocker, his back turned, standing over the carrier. “Anything the matter?” he hollered back.

  “Yeah, this robot is jammed up. It can’t make the climb. We’ll have to leave some of the gear.”

  “Stay here,” Treet told Calin under his breath.

  Calin, staring down at Crocker, nodded. As Treet turned away, he felt her hand on his sleeve. “Be careful,” she whispered.

  “What’s the problem?” he asked as he joined Crocker. The man was sweating through his clothes.

  “I don’t know. I heard it laboring, and I looked back and it was stuck.”

  “We’ve had tougher climbs than this. It always made them before.”

  The pilot shrugged. “Maybe its gears are shot.”

  “Let’s take some of the stuff out and see if that helps.” Treet bent over the carrier and started undoing the straps that held down the webbing. “Are you going to stand there or are you going to help?”

  Crocker stood rock still.

  Treet stooped, pulling articles from the three-wheeled robot. “Well?” He looked back just in time to see Crocker’s arm swinging down in a murderous stroke, sunlight gleaming on the object in his hand. Calin screamed.

  Treet ducked, but the blow caught him on the top of his right shoulder, missing his head, but smashing the median nerve into the clavicle. His arm fell to his side, paralyzed. Blinding pain flared from the shoulder a microsecond later.

  Treet collapsed and rolled on his back to avoid the next strike. He started screaming “Crocker! What are you doing! It’s me, Treet! Treet! Crocker! Stop! Sto-o-p-p!”

  The metal bar blurred in the air. Treet squirmed on the ground, dodging away as best he could, as the improvised weapon dug a little furrow in the dirt bare centimeters from his left temple.

  Treet heard another shout and saw Calin flying to his aid, arms flailing. She attacked her heavier adversary with her claws, raking red welts into the side of his face and neck. The pilot threw her off, but she was at him again, scratching like a she-cat. A slashing backhand blow sent her spinning into a heap.

  The diversion had allowed Treet to get to his feet, however. He lunged toward Crocker, his useless arm dangling. He thought to knock the mad pilot off-balance and somehow wrest the bar away from him.

  Crocker, with the quickness of the insane, roared and jumped to the side, wielding the short length of metal in a deadly arc. The swing grazed Treet on the lower jaw, tearing a ragged gash along the jawline. Blood spilled down the side of his throat. “Crocker,” he said, gulping for breath, “in the name of God, give it up.”

  The pilot lunged again, a strangled, inhuman sound bubbling from his throat, his eyes flecked with blood. With dreadful clarity, Treet’s pain-dazzled brain registered that Crocker meant to kill him. His only hope now was flight; he could try to outrun his assailant and escape, or at least put some distance between them until Crocker came to his senses.

  He turned to flee, shouting, “Run, Calin! Run for it!” The magician had circled around Crocker and now stood only a meter or two to Treet’s right. She did not move. Her eyes were half-closed and her face rigid in concentration. “Calin!”

  Treet flung out his good hand, snagged Calin by the arm, spun her around, and shoved her forward all in the same motion. He felt a sharp jab in his upper back, and then the force of the thrust wheeled him sideways. He tripped over himself and fell headlong to the ground.

  He landed on his right side. His dead right arm failed to break his fall, and he hit hard. The air rushed from his lungs in a terrific gasp. Black circles with blue-white edges dimmed his eyesight. He heard himself yelling for Calin to run for it.

  Standing over him now, Crocker, with a mighty snarl of rage, brought the metal bar down with both hands from high over his head. Too late to dodge, Treet threw his left hand up to divert the blow, expecting to see his forearm splinter as the heavy bar slashed down upon it. The second stroke would crush his skull like an eggshell.

  Instead, he saw the metal bar fall with lethal accuracy only to glance aside at the last second. One instant it was a deadly blur descending toward him, the next it was sliding away. He was untouched.

  Crocker appeared dazed. The weapon dangled in his hand. Treet threw himself at it, grabbed. With only one hand, Treet could not hope to hang on. The weapon slid by centimeters from his fingers as Crocker’s superior strength overcame his single-handed grasp. The pilot kicked out; Treet’s knee buckled and he toppled.

  The pilot staggered back, clenching the bar in his upraised hands. Howling, he swung the bar down. Treet’s eyes closed reflexively. Again the bar bounced harmlessly aside before impact.

  Crocker roared in pain—like a berserk rogue elephant stung by the dart of a keeper. He whirled away.

  “Calin!” Treet struggled to his knees. The magician stood with one hand upraised, her eyes closed, sight turned inward. Treet recognized the posture as her trance state. “Calin, look out!”

  Crocker’s furious lunge drove the end of the metal bar into Calin’s neck. They both fell together, Crocker sprawling headlong over his victim. The metal bar rolled on the ground. Treet scooped it up with his left hand and swung blindly at Crocker’s huddled form.

  The bar, awkward in his hand, slipped as he struck out, catching the pilot on the hip. Treet glanced down and saw his hand dripping red; the bar was slick with Calin’s blood.

  Crocker gathered his long frame to spring. Treet braced himself, raising the bar. The pilot rushed forward with a howl, his face twisted almost beyond recognition: eyes bugging out, mouth gaping, jaws slack, tongue lolling. The bar thumped ineffectually on Crocker’s chest and bounced out of Treet’s grasp as he stumbled backward.

  He lay facedown, panting, knowing that even as he thought it, the metal bar was closing on his skull. He waited. Rather than the sound of metal singing through the air to splatter his gray matter over the turf, he heard an odd grunting noise and the faint whir of a machine. Treet glanced up to see the demented pilot limping away, the little robocarrier rolling after him.

  Crocker’s body jerked spasmodic
ally, arms loose, legs stumping woodenly, shoulders rolling. He looked like a puppet whose strings were fouled. As he lurched along, a loathsome gagging sound came from his throat. With a shudder, Treet realized the pilot was weeping.

  On hands and knees he crawled to Calin’s side and gathered her up. The wound was deep. The bar had been plunged into the soft flesh of her throat and ripped upward, leaving a ragged hole. Blood streamed from the hideous wound; her jacket was drenched in crimson and sticky to the touch.

  “Calin,” Treet huffed, his stomach turning itself inside out. “You’re going to be all right. He … he’s gone.”

  She opened her eyes slowly, and from her unfocused stare Treet knew that she could not see him. “Hold … me,” she whispered airily. Her larynx had been crushed, or torn apart. “S-s-o … da-ark…”

  Treet drew her close, cradling her head against his chest. “You’ll feel better in a moment,” he told her, hating the lie. “Just rest.”

  Calin’s lips parted in the gesture of a smile. “Nho,” she wheezed. “Nho … came … back.”

  “That’s good,” he soothed. “Now rest.”

  She swallowed, pain convulsing her features. When she opened her eyes again, Treet saw the effort it had cost her. Still, she struggled to speak.

  “What is it?” He put his ear to her lips.

  “Ahh … I am … magician again …” She sighed, so lightly that Treet thought she had fallen asleep. When he looked he saw the empty, upward gaze, her dark eyes clouding with death.

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  Treet closed her eyes and kissed Calin’s forehead, smoothing her tangled hair from her face. He sat for a long time, cradling the body, rocking back and forth, oblivious to the tears streaming down his face, murmuring, incoherent in his grief.

  Slowly the warmth seeped from the body; Calin’s limbs grew cold, and at last Treet let her go. He laid her gently down, pulling his jacket around her to hide the thickening stain on her clothes. “I’m … Calin, I’m sorry …” he told her, lifting his face to the sky. “So sorry … I should have known … seen … protected you. I’m sorry. Forgive me, Calin.”

  Time passed—how much time he did not know. But his shadow stretched long when he finally raised his head and looked around at the vacant hills, thinking, I can’t leave her here like this. I have to bury her.

  Where? He had no tool to dig a grave—only his bare hands, and the turf was too thick, too dense. He turned his eyes toward Dome. Then, carefully gathering the body into his arms, Treet stood and began to walk.

  Night was far gone by the time Treet reached Dome. All the muscles in his back and legs had long ago twisted into throbbing knots, but he had walked on, ignoring the pain, his senses numb, heeding only the stubborn will to put one foot in front of the other and move on.

  The sun had set in a ghostly yellow fireball, tinting the Western sky briefly before night extinguished the golden glow and plunged the lonely hills into darkness. Dome loomed larger with every aching step, the conical peaks and bulging humps holding the sky’s last light long after the sun had sunk beyond the hills. Now its hulking mass brooded in the dark, except where starlight glinted cold from the planes of the crystal shell.

  At the foot of Dome’s foremost cluster, where the fibersteel and crystal sank into the earth, Treet lay Calin’s body down. The grass grew long around Dome, and the earth was soft. Treet pulled, and the stiff grass came up by the roots, dragging large, heavy clods with it. He cleared an oblong swath and dug his fingers into the soil, smelling the deep, rich scent.

  The stars bled dim light over him. With nightfall a haze had crept into the upper atmosphere, casting a pall over heaven’s face. With his fingers he gouged out a shallow depression, scooping the earth away in clumps. His fingernails tore and bled, but he toiled on until he had carved a rough grave beneath Dome’s roots.

  He slid Calin’s body into the grave, knelt over it, and, placing a hand against her cold cheek one last time, said good-bye. He started crying again as he heaped dirt over the body, watching her pale, smooth flesh disappear under the dark earth. When he had finished, he replaced the grass atop the mound and stood, brushing the dirt from his hands and knees.

  He turned to go, but felt that there ought to be some sort of ceremony; some words, at least, should be said. He stared at the rude mound, but could think of nothing suitable to say—until it occurred to him to recite the benediction Talus had given him.

  Raising his face to the dim stars, he imagined the magician’s spirit hovering nearby. He said: “Follow the light that is in you, Calin. May the Protector watch over you, the Sustainer keep you, the Comforter give you rest. Go in peace.” After a moment he added, “Infinite Father, receive this one into your care.”

  He turned away and began walking around Dome’s vast perimeter.

  Dawn found him standing at the edge of the canopy formed by the superstructure supporting the landing field. He entered, moving among the heavy fibersteel pylons as through a dark forest of smooth, branchless trees. As he came near the place where the doors opened into Dome’s Archives, he halted. The air held the retchingly sweet odor of decay, and as the light grew stronger he saw a grisly sight: two semi-decomposed corpses lying where they’d fallen a few meters from the door.

  The events of that hectic day flooded back as Treet remembered their harried departure from Dome and the ensuing firefight. The moldering corpses offered a stark reminder, as had Calin’s death, of the seriousness of his task.

  Treet swallowed hard and moved toward the doors. He searched for and found the code lock with which he was to signal Tvrdy, but the mechanism had been blasted. Nothing remained but a scorched spot where the fibersteel had bubbled. There was no way to signal Tvrdy—if Tvrdy still lived and waited for his return, which he had begun to doubt. How would he get in?

  He stepped to the great doors and saw that his entrance was provided: a third corpse lay pinched between the doors. The wretch had fallen on the grooved track, and the closing doors had crushed him. But not completely. The body had jammed the track as the doors ground shut, leaving a crack half-a-body wide.

  Treet grimaced as he stepped over the corpse and wedged himself into the crevice. Darkness and panic swooped over him. His mind filled with doubt. What if Jamrog’s men were waiting for him inside? What if Tvrdy had lied? What if he and his men had all been captured and executed?

  He fought down the fear, and in a moment the darkness cleared and he saw himself standing poised on an imaginary line. He gritted his teeth and took one last look at the narrow band of blue sky and green hills glimpsed from under the landing platform.

  “Now it begins,” he told himself. Then, squeezing through the narrow way, he disappeared inside.

  Copyright Page

  Other Books

  Title Page Forward to the 2011 electronic edition

  Epigraph

  The Search for Fierra PRELUDE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE
<
br />   FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  FORTY-SIX

  FORTY-SEVEN

  FORTY-EIGHT

  FORTY-NINE

  FIFTY

  FIFTY-ONE

  FIFTY-TWO

  FIFTY-THREE

  FIFTY-FOUR

  FIFTY-FIVE

  FIFTY-SIX

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  FIFTY-NINE

  SIXTY

  SIXTY-ONE

  SIXTY-TWO

  SIXTY-THREE

  SIXTY-FOUR

  SIXTY-FIVE

  SIXTY-SIX

  SIXTY-SEVEN

 

 

 


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