Holding his tongue for a minute, Clay turned to his older brother and asked, “You think that’s true, bro?” His tone was like that of a gullible spectator putting a question to a bogus clairvoyant.
“I don’t know,” Bingo replied, his head swaying from side to side. “But under the circumstances, traveling together could make things a lot easier later on. And you know what they say: it’s the company you keep that really makes the trip.”
EYES THAT GLEAM IN THE DARK
CHAPTER 2
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I
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Night soon fell without further incident. After tethering the horses to hooks on the back of the wagon, the whole group settled down for the evening behind a sand dune. A certain air of dignity prevailed over the world. Though darkness had covered everything, the heavens hadn’t lost their dull gray clouds, which continued to hang over the heads of the little group. As the temperature fell rapidly, no one said a thing. White breath alone spilled from their lips.
“A hell of a desert this is,” Clay groused as he warmed himself by the electronic heater he’d set down in a firmer spot in the sand. “Hot as a bastard by day and cold as a bitch at night. I don’t mind it cooling off some, but the damn temperature’s dropped more than sixty degrees!”
“There’s a good side to it, though,” Granny interjected as she held her hands out over Clay’s heater.
“Hey, don’t be sidling up to my stove like we’re best buddies or something. That lousy wagon of yours has a heating system in it, don’t it?” the younger Bullow said harshly.
Not the least bit fazed, Granny replied, “That’s pretty tight-fisted talk for someone who calls himself a man. Well, with a temperament like that, I’m not surprised you start blubbering at the first little chill. Sure it’s cold, but see how the grains of sand get heavier in the lower temperatures so it’s not blowing around like it does all day? Of course, it helps there’s no wind, either.”
“Damn straight,” Bingo concurred in a deep voice from a spot some eight or ten feet from Clay. Now the younger Bullow couldn’t possibly argue with Granny. But what kind of man could his older brother be? He wasn’t by the heater. Why, he wasn’t even lying down. He was still astride his cyborg horse, sitting in the kind of hard saddle that ordinarily left a rider numb below the waist after three or more hours of riding.
Granny muttered, “Strange tastes your brother’s got.” And it came as little surprise that she sounded a bit unnerved.
“Not really. You wanna talk about strange, there’s your guy!” Clay said, tossing his jaw in the direction of Granny’s wagon.
Leaving his cyborg horse beside the vehicle, D had lain back against a nearby sand dune with his sword in his left hand and his eyes shut.
“If that guy don’t look like the loneliest thing ever. And it ain’t because he’s turned his back on the world. With him, everybody’s happy to see him coming, but no one’s sorry to see him go. And anybody who catches sight of him is bound to step aside on account of that intense scent he’s got about him.”
“Yes, the scent,” the crone said with a nod as she followed Clay’s gaze. “The smell of blood. The scent of solitude. But you still don’t get it, do you?”
“Get what?” Clay asked, eyes opening wide.
“She’s right,” the slender black shadow on horseback said.
“Not you too, bro! You’re siding with an old hag over your own brother?”
Before Clay had finished airing his complaint, D sat up without making a sound. Grains of sand spilled like waves down the slope he’d been leaning against. Eyes still closed as he stood up straight, he then froze in place like a bronze sculpture.
“What is it?” Clay asked, squinting his eyes.
Granny’s face grew tense, too. There was no trace of movement around them—just the night frozen solid. That’s all that was out there.
D’s silhouette shifted. With a movement just as brusque as the one that’d put him on his feet in the first place, he seated himself again in the same spot.
Clay and the crone looked at each other.
“What is it?” Clay said again.
The old woman went over to D. “Did something happen?” she asked.
D didn’t raise his eyes. “It rained sand,” he said.
“Sand?”
“In this desert,” the Hunter continued, “what we know about the world doesn’t count for much, it seems.”
“Did you sense something?”
“It’s going to get more dangerous. Try not to make things any worse.”
“Is that a fact? Well, we’ll be counting on you, in that case,” the crone remarked, pursuing the matter no further. If she left things to the Hunter, she couldn’t possibly go wrong. Her feelings on the subject were more a matter of rationality than trust—she didn’t want to be burdened with too much information when she could have D shouldering it all. Cold air suddenly snaked into her nostrils, and Granny sneezed loudly.
“Hey,” Clay called out to D. “You seem to know an awful lot about this desert. So, why don’t you tell us what’s lying ahead? We’re in this together, and we’re all headed the same way. Why not share the wealth, eh?” His tone was somewhat belligerent.
D didn’t move a muscle.
“Hey, don’t play games with me. You plan on keeping everything to yourself?” Clay blustered, not giving up. In a desert crossing such as this, any information about the vicious creatures it contained could literally mean the difference between life and death. He was deadly serious.
“Wait just a second, you two,” Granny interrupted. “We’ve barely finished our first day out here, right? We have a falling out this early in the game, then there’s no point in traveling together in the first place. Think about it, D. There’s some sense to what he’s saying. We don’t want to go plodding off across the sands without the slightest clue now. Tell him some of what you know.”
“Not some of it. All of it.” There was composure to the warrior’s tone. He was ready to fight if need be. His right hand drifted toward the harp at his waist.
“Come now, D,” Granny prodded.
Clay’s index finger was poised by his harp. He pulled back on one of the strings, and then he stopped. He saw D open his eyes. Cold water rushed down from the nape of his neck to the base of his spine—the Hunter’s glare was that powerful.
“If I tell you, you’ll have to go first,” D said in the kind of voice that crept along the ground.
“Fine by me,” Clay replied with a magnanimous bow. It was no bluff. He seemed to have considerable confidence in himself. “I wouldn’t be a weasel and ask you to go first anyhow. I’ll plow dead ahead wherever we gotta go. So, just put your mind at ease and tell me all about it.”
“The moving forest,” said D. Clay noticed that the cloud of white that spilled from the Hunter’s lips with his breath was far fainter than that of the rest of them. “If the notes I have are correct, it was about a dozen miles southwest of here. But it is a moving forest, after all.”
“Meaning there’s no telling where it’s gone? That’s a hoot!”
“The person who left those notes only saw it in motion from a long way off, but didn’t go any closer. Whether or not he was lucky in that respect, I can’t say.”
“I see,” said Clay.
“And another thing—there are people.”
“What?!” Granny cried, her eyes bugging out. She’d thought whatever else slipped from D’s lips couldn’t possibly surprise her, but she was wrong. “People out in this desert? Stop pulling my leg.”
“That’s what it said in the notes,” D continued softly. “About thirty in all. Apparently, they attacked on cyborg horses about a hundred and twenty miles south of here. Killed almost a dozen of the traveler’s companions and made off with their goods and the corpses.”
“What would they take corpses for?” Clay asked.
Giving him no reply, D simply said, “There’s more. It seems they were shot and stabbed bu
t did not die.”
Silence descended.
Bingo’s torso rose from his mount. “Immortal, are they?” he said in a low sleepy voice.
“That’s all I know,” D said. His eyes were closed.
Clay shrugged his shoulders. “That’s no big freaking deal, is it, bro?” he said to the figure on horseback. He sounded thoroughly relieved. Perhaps a desert plagued by beasts and immortal bandits was nothing to them. “That right there scares me a lot more,” Clay said, tossing his jaw in the wagon’s direction. There was no one but Tae inside, but everyone was well aware of what the hidden represented.
It was at just that moment that the wagon’s door opened. Clay grimaced awkwardly and rubbed his scruffy beard. Tae’s head hung low; it seemed to be something of a habit with the girl. Perhaps averting her gaze had kept the weight of her fate from crushing her.
“Get back inside. It’s cold out here,” Granny shouted. The rebuff had a touch of animosity to it. While it was her job to find children who’d been “hidden,” she was entitled to feel however she liked about her charges.
“Aw, why don’t you just leave her be?” Clay said as he glared at the crone’s wrinkled face from the corner of his eye. “It’s a hell of a lot more comfortable here than blasting the heat in there. Besides, a person’s got a right to do whatever they damn well please. She don’t have to take orders from anyone. And I’d be tickled pink to have a cutie like her out here instead of all these ugly mugs I’m traveling with.”
Knowing as he did Granny Viper’s name, Clay also surely had a good idea of the girl’s circumstances, but his tone held neither fear nor loathing. No doubt he’d be brimming with confidence until the very moment he died.
Tae quickly ducked back inside.
Giving an appreciative whistle, Clay said, “Now, ain’t she a beauty. What’s her name, anyway?”
Granny met the man’s cheery inquiry with a stern visage. “Let’s be perfectly clear on something,” she said, her voice rolling across the ground like a toxic cloud. “That girl is my merchandise. Try anything funny and you’ll find yourself in hell trying to get some action from a she-devil.”
“Well, that’d have to beat looking at your ugly kisser,” Clay sneered back. “Your merchandise may be pricey, but that don’t mean it’s good. We all know what happens to most hidden who go back home, so you’d best pray that she ain’t one of them.”
“You needn’t worry about it,” Granny replied snidely. “My job just entails getting them home. What happens after that doesn’t concern me. On the other hand, until I get ’em there, I’ll look out for them even if it costs me my life. And I’m not letting anyone pull anything funny with her.”
“Interesting,” Clay said, licking his chops. “Well, just let me give you fair warning then. Before this little trip of ours is done, I’m gonna leave my mark on your precious goods.”
“Oh, is that right?” Granny shot back, her eyes growing wider by the second.
“Knock it off, Clay,” a sober voice said, shattering the tension. It belonged to Bingo. “Well,” he continued, “it looks like the best thing to do is pull out of here as soon as possible.”
Both Clay and Granny turned in the direction that the skinny figure indicated with a toss of his chin. White sand was dropping all around a form of unearthly beauty. Returning his weapon and sheath to his back, D stared out at one point in the darkness.
“What is it now?” Clay asked with seeming relish.
“Can you make something out?” Bingo inquired sleepily.
“Butterflies,” D replied, walking over to his horse without making a sound.
“Hey, Hunter! You just gonna turn tail and run then?” Clay sneered, as if he’d been waiting for the chance to say these exact words.
“So, we’ve got no choice but to plow right through them?” Bingo added.
Not replying to Bingo’s query, D merely said, “I don’t think this is a job for me.” He was looking right at the old woman.
“So you know what I have up my sleeve, then?” Granny said, her eyes going wide. “If my moves have become public knowledge, I may have to learn a whole new bag of tricks.”
Just as D mounted his horse, Granny seated herself in the wagon. With an expression that said he didn’t have a clue what was going on, Clay put his feet into the stirrups. Though all of them strained their eyes, they didn’t see anything—the darkness drank up every sound, leaving everything in a state of utter silence. D’s mount took a few steps away from them.
“Hold up a minute. Won’t we be tackling this together?” Granny called out to D.
“I don’t remember asking you to follow along after me.”
“When you said this wasn’t a job for you, was that supposed to mean you’re leaving the rest of us to our own devices then? You’re not a real compassionate man now, are you?” Granny railed at the Hunter, but D had ridden his horse beyond the reach of her abuse.
Perhaps nothing save the hyper-keen senses of a dhampir could’ve detected the paper-thin presence that was closing in on them from the depths of the darkness. At long last, the wind moved around them. The flowing air came from the beating of countless wings, yet was still strangely light. The mass consisted of butterflies beyond number—a swarm of thousands, or even tens of thousands. But where did they live, and what did they seek?
They rushed at D, enveloping the tall figure in black with the color of darkness. His blade flashed out. Without so much as the sound of a slash through the air, all of the bisected butterflies started to drop to the ground as D galloped through them. As the mount and rider advanced in a dusty cloud, the wave of black drifted away as if frightened of the Hunter, but an instant later it became a broad band that began following after him. It was only natural that the rest of the swarm set upon the wagon and the other two riders.
“Damnation! What in blazes is this?” Granny screamed from the driver’s seat.
“These little buggers sure have some nerve!” Clay shouted as he plucked off a few that were covering his face. The black butterflies relentlessly besieged his livid countenance; Bingo had already been reduced to an ebony sculpture.
Suddenly the world of darkness felt a protest of orange light. Caught in three thousand degrees of flame, the butterflies them-selves added fuel to the fire.
Pulling a tank filled with fire-dragon oil and a leather pressure-pump up onto the driver’s seat, Granny waved the reinforced plastic nozzle around as she cackled, “Well, how do you like them apples?! Have another taste of one of the Capital’s very own flamethrowers. I’ve still got plenty of this fuel to go around.”
And in keeping with the crone’s haughty talk, tongues of flame licked out in all directions as helpless butterflies fell like blazing scraps of paper. Not quite so conspicuous due to Granny Viper’s furious battle, Clay and Bingo nonetheless were engaging the butterflies about forty feet away. The odd thing was, the butterflies really weren’t doing anything. There was no sign of them injecting some solvent to melt the travelers’ flesh or clogging their windpipes to suffocate them; they merely kept going after them.
“Damn! No matter how many we fight off, they just keep coming. At this rate, there’ll be no end to it, bro.”
There was no answer to Clay’s remark—Bingo’s entire body was draped in black cloth. While the younger Bullow struggled to pull the insects off his own face, his older brother sat on his horse without moving a muscle. As a result, it looked like he’d grown twice as fat.
“Damn you little pests!” Clay shouted through the airborne butterflies that eclipsed the darkness. And then a beautiful note rang out that sounded like someone strumming a guitar. But what happened when that sound melded with the darkness, and then became a wave that rippled out?
The swarm of butterflies that appeared to float on into eternity all disappeared within a ten-foot radius. Another note resounded: every time the mellifluous sound rang out, the maddening black swarm of insects that rushed in to replace their fallen comrades di
sappeared. And in the center of the gap that’d opened so suddenly was Clay. His right hand was on the harp he wore on his hip. He kept one eye on his older brother.
“Bingo’s fine,” the younger Bullow told himself. “The old bag’s giving them a hell of a fight, too. Now where the hell’s that Hunter gone off to?”
While Granny was indeed on top of the situation, Clay’s older brother was blanketed, mount and all, with black butterflies. What was fine about that?
At that very moment, the swarm of butterflies smoothly drifted away. Because the creatures did no harm but merely trailed along after them, Granny and Clay found them all the more disturbing, and their expressions stiffened accordingly.
Gasps of surprise slipped from two pairs of lips at the same time.
The butterflies had begun to glow. So like the darkness in hue, first the contours of their wings and then their entire forms had suddenly begun to take on a silvery light.
“What the hell . . .” Clay muttered as the silver butterflies formed several thick bands before him that then intertwined and began to leisurely eddy about.
This wasn’t merely some pattern formed by the capricious flight of the creatures. It was clearly a configuration purposely orch-estrated by some higher intelligence. Straight lines and curves, polyhedrons and circles all existed in the same place and time, twisting together and pulling apart again. Yet for all that activity, the swirling figures remained focused on a single point in space.
While they weren’t sure how long they’d watched, Granny and Clay felt like they were being pulled into the center of that vortex, and the two of them frantically shut their eyes. A few seconds passed.
“Looks like it’s over,” said a cold voice that sounded equidistant from the pair as it set their eardrums trembling. Opening their eyes in unison, they found a man on horseback stopped about fifteen feet from them. It was D.
“I just knew you’d be back,” Granny exclaimed with joy, still holding a nozzle that dripped liquefied fat.
Pilgrimage of the Sacred and the Profane Page 4