by Lionel Fenn
"They wanted to kill me!"
"Sure, but it wasn't personal."
"It would have been to me."
"They're afraid," she said, looking at him steadily. "You have to understand that they are afraid. Going to Chey isn't like going to the mountains or to the Blades. When you go to Chey, especially now, things happen, and they don't want their homes... like Kori."
He covered his face with his hands and massaged his forehead, his temples, and lowered his arms slowly. There were fourteen or fifteen questions; he chose one at random. "What do you mean, especially now?"
"Now," she said, "is when the Blood rises."
"The Blood?"
She nodded solemnly.
"I see. And what in god's name does that mean? And don't," he admonished with a raised finger, "tell me that I'll learn about it soon enough. That's what Tag is always saying, and soon enough never happens."
"That's because he doesn't really know."
"Who does?"
"Nobody."
"Then—" He waved off the beginning of an explanation and started slowly back toward the others. Ivy remained beside him, close enough to touch, though they didn't touch at all.
"Okay. As I see it," he said in his best noncommittal manner, "there's a lot of serious trouble you people are expecting from this place Chey, trouble that's going to be stirred up even more because Tag wants me to go there, and it looks like I'm going whether I want to or not. And this trouble started with or was caused by or is a result of Glorian and her lost duck, whatever the hell that is."
"It's a duck," Ivy said, astonished he didn't know what a duck was.
"A quack-quack?"
She giggled and nodded.
"You mean a real, honest-to-god, white-feathered, flat-footed, mean-tempered duck? A quacker?"
She nodded.
He stopped again and held her arms, only vaguely aware that it was not an altogether unpleasant sensation. The woman was softer than she appeared, and, he reminded himself, this was no time to be thinking anything like that.
"Look, Ivy, since Tag won't tell me, and Glorian didn't have a chance to, would you mind letting me know what's so important about a duck that would cause a whole damned town to want to bring dismemberment upon my body?"
"You talk funny," she said.
"That's because I'm crazy."
"Oh."
"The duck."
"I'm surprised Tag didn't say anything."
"Ivy, please..."
She glanced nervously toward the road. Whale was still on his back, and Tag was brushing down Red with handfuls of grass. The light was almost gone, and the moon was climbing slowly toward the stars.
"Maybe," she said, toying with one of the buttons on her blouse, "you'll feel better if I take off my clothes."
"What? What?"
She slapped his hands from her arms. "What's the matter, aren't I pretty enough for you?" One eye closed dangerously. "You didn't... you and Glorian didn't... No. No, she's not the type. Or you're not the type. She's pristine, you know that? At least, she claims she is. I have my doubts, but when it's Glorian, what can you say?" The eye opened. "Or are you prejudiced because I'm not from across the Bridge?"
"What the hell," Gideon demanded, "does that have to do with a duck?"
"It's not a duck, damnit!" she shouted, then covered her mouth and winced as if afraid she'd been overheard.
"It's what?"
"It's not a duck."
"I thought it was a duck."
"Well, it is. And it isn't."
He narrowed his eyes and held his breath. "Are you going to tell me like, if I kiss this duck, it'll turn into a princess or something?"
"I hadn't thought of that."
"Ivy," and he took her arms sternly again, looked straight into those remarkably green eyes, and wondered if the explanation would make any more sense if she were in fact naked. It might clear his mind of extraneous inconsequence; it might also help his apprehension by discovering if these people were as physically human as they seemed. It was an admittedly interesting problem, and he would have explored it further had not Tag suddenly yelled a warning, and he suddenly turned, and they all saw the clutch of torchlights coming at them from the road.
"Too late," Ivy said sadly as she rebuttoned the blouse he hadn't noticed until now she had already unbuttoned almost to her waist.
"For what?" he grumbled as the light parade drew closer.
They ran.
Whale was awake, up and sprinting without needing to be told; Tag was on Red's back and charging headlong toward the haze visible even in twilight; and Gideon and Ivy raced over the grass, angling toward them and joining them in full flight.
The lights as they closed separated to show them a sizable army on the way; there was no noise from the Pholler save for an occasional clatter of metal.
Red kept his pace down so the humans wouldn't be left behind, but it didn't matter—less than a mile later, Gideon found himself running through what felt like an arctic fog, a chilled dampness covering him instantly and sending tremors through his legs that almost pitched him to the ground. He could no longer see the others, though he could hear their footsteps, could hear them calling to each other, could hear Red's nervous growling.
Streaks of blue and gold flared overhead, and he thought he heard the distant sound of thunder.
"Ivy!"
"Keep going," she called, though he couldn't see her. "Stay on the road, it's safer."
"Safer? Than what?" Almost immediately he remembered the pacch lunging hungrily from its burrow, and he stayed on the road, using the rain ditch on the side to warn him when he strayed too far left or right.
The chill increased, and he suspected that if it were daylight, he'd be able to see his breath plume between his lips; the dampness increased as well, cloying and sticky and forcing his lungs to work all the harder for a decent fill of air.
Blue and gold darted on either side, the colors clear, though they gave him no light.
"Ivy! Whale!"
He thought he heard them calling, but he couldn't find a direction to run to, nor, when he glanced back, did he see the lights that had driven them into the black fog. Slow down, he ordered them, before you kill yourself. He sensed that their pursuit was left behind and for one reason or another would not follow them into this place. Whether that was a comfort or not he could not decide, but without the others the devil-you-know did not apply.
He was almost at a walk, his knees weak and his right side burning, when he stumbled and fell off the cobbles into the grass. A yelp, and he scrambled to his feet, dove back to the road, and heard where he had been the sound of something large and sharp digging into the earth.
He didn't look; he started running again.
"Red!"
There was no indication at all that the lorra was still on its feet, much less carrying Tag full speed ahead.
"Red!"
Only his own voice, echoless and flat.
The fog made the road slick, and twice he had to slow down to prevent another fall, twice more spin around when one foot decided to try a different direction than the other.
Then he heard a scream and a feline roaring that faded quickly away—Tag and Red.
Whale shouted next, more in surprise than anguish.
And Ivy was the last, sounding furious and betrayed.
And it was silent.
Not a sound but his own feet running on, the hushed swing of the bat, his breath hoarse and burning between his lips. He slowed because he couldn't see the ground, slowed even further when he couldn't see more than a few feet in front of his face.
He called out.
There were echoes now, but they didn't sound like him.
He turned and looked back, and saw nothing at all but the dark.
He trotted, the bat snug against his chest, knowing he was in Chey and terrified that no one had told him it would be like this—formless, soundless, not even a trace of a scent of anything he knew.
He stopped at last, panting, leaning over to catch his breath, calling out again and hearing nothing but echoes.
Then he looked up, and saw the red eyes.
He yelled, spun around, and ran... and was astonished when after less than ten steps his feet were running on nothing but air.
He was falling, and he knew then that Chey was no figurative or mythic place.
It was literal, and he had found it.
He had found the end of the world.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I don't think I like this, Gideon thought as he pitched into the dark.
Like the blurred spokes of a runaway wheel, he felt in swift succession terror, rage, terror, puzzlement, terror, and, finally and most chillingly, an odd sense of calm resignation. He was, if the length of his fall and the condition of his luck thus far were any indication, going to die without benefit of an open casket; and this recognition and acceptance, he realized, were not unlike similar sensations experienced when he was in the river, floating on his back toward the rapids and watery demolishment.
Only this time there would be no Tag to save him.
Yet the only indication that he was, in fact, falling was the tug of his hair away from his scalp in the wind of his own making, the annoying thump of the bat in its holster against his thigh, and the watering of his eyes as he faced, he thought, downward. It was difficult to tell. The mist was still thick and, now that the lightning darts of color had vanished, dark as the night he had left above him. The air was cold and clammy, like a November drizzle that promises ice the moment the sun goes down.
By keeping his eyes tightly closed and thus giving them no points of reference, he was able to stave off vertigo with only a mild lurch or two of his stomach trying to wrap itself around his spine; with no sound but the wind, he was at least spared the ignominious and thoroughly understandable screams he thought he was making; and with nothing solid to touch, he could not fool himself into believing there was something to grab on to, something that would break his fall, something out there in the dark that would prevent him from dying upon impact.
Time also lost meaning, but he was sure enough that two or three minutes had passed to begin to wonder if this miserable world had something else in store for him beyond the scattering of his bodily parts across the landscape. It seemed, he thought with a light surge of hope, that he wasn't falling now so much as he was floating, or coasting. And he was undeniably still alive.
He recalled reading somewhere that most people who fall from a great height succumb to heart failure before they hit bottom; it was all theory, of course, since the flyers weren't interviewed or monitored on the way down, but it was a vaguely comforting notion since the only problem his own heart had at the moment was keeping up with his adrenaline.
He also recalled reading that a falling object reached maximum velocity after only a thousand feet or so. Maybe more. Sixteen feet per second, per second. He didn't know what that meant, but it sounded impressive and implied that he was now going as fast as he ever would. Meaningless now, but significant should he encounter a free-standing brick wall.
But again he had the feeling that the falling was now a floating, with a very slight side-to-side swaying as though he were lying facedown on a hammock.
And that, he understood abruptly, was lulling him into the possibility of dangerous complacency. His life might even begin to flash through his mind, and he would perforce fall asleep and miss the grand climax or an opportunity for salvation. There was no question but that he was going to have to stop hiding and take a look. After all, what did he have to lose?
His eyes wouldn't open.
He nodded without moving his head; that was perfectly reasonable. Why would anyone want to see the future, when the future was about to smash him into his several component parts?
He tried again. One eye opened warily, didn't like what it saw, and closed again with a snap he almost heard in the wind. He clenched his teeth, tightened his lips, and suggested to himself that he was being rather immature, that a real man would stand up, as it were, to whatever cards were being dealt and spit in the dealer's eye.
Besides, there might even be a slim chance that he was going to get out of this alive, which would permit him to find Tag and beat the hell out of him for not telling him about the cliff.
A brave smile, and he opened his eyes, finding himself in what he imagined was a skydiver's classic position—arms outstretched, legs slightly parted and bent at the knees. A sustained effort accompanied by a fair amount of grunting and grimacing drove as much tension from his limbs as was humanly possible under the circumstances, and he drew his left arm slowly toward his chest, noting as he did that he began to roll to the left; when the arm was thrust out again, he stabilized. A similar experiment with his right arm brought similar results. When he tried pulling his right knee toward his stomach, he was canted upright; his left knee made him fall upside down.
It was fascinating.
And not nearly as terrifying as he had feared.
The dark mist had become less so; so much so that he was able to see the face of Chey's cliff rushing past him several hundred yards away. It was irregular and pocked with caves, and he wasn't moving so fast that he missed spotting the ladders and switchback steps that seemed to lead all the way to the top and all the way down. A hell of a climb, he thought sourly, but rather preferable to the method forced upon him.
A wiggle of his hands turned him slowly on his horizontal axis, away from the cliff face.
The mist thinned even more, and the air began to warm.
He blinked away wind-tears, listened to the howling wind, and recognized suddenly the state he was in—almost as though he were experiencing the scene from a seat in a theater, watching it all happen to an actor who had the good sense to look exactly like him. It was, he decided, like the onset of an automobile accident, when time abruptly slows and vision takes on a clarity that enables the doomed driver to see every unalterable move, every spot and dance of dust, every step of the destruction that is aimed straight at him. Or when the center snaps the ball and six or seven tons of padding, snug uniforms, and fresh red meat instantly thunder across the turf toward him while the crowd rises ever so slowly to its feet and the roar it gives is like the drawn-out growling of a hundred prowling beasts. It was a subtle kind of terror, the calm before the end, holding a breath though the lungs were still working.
And he felt someone watching.
He wasn't surprised. Plunging toward the inevitable was bound to have some effect, and with a quick tuck and stretch of his right arm he reversed his position, lying now on his back, staring up into the mist.
Into the huge red eyes that had been dogging him from the beginning.
They were slanted slightly upward, rimmed in black, and each was centered by a flaring speck of gold.
Though no other feature was visible, nor could he spot even a faint suggestion of a body, he knew that whoever or whatever belonged to the eyes was smiling, the quiet pride of an executioner who had no feelings one way or the other toward the condemned at his feet.
"Who are you?" he demanded.
The eyes merely stared.
"What the hell do you want?"
The eyes only watched.
"Don't suppose you'd want to give me a hand."
The gold in their center darkened a little.
Gideon reached for the bat, rolled over until he was nauseated, then scowled and stuck out his tongue.
One eye winked, and both eyes vanished, and he quickly flipped himself back onto his stomach, swallowing at the blade-edged lump trying to climb out of his throat.
A look over his shoulder, and the cliff face had fallen away, replaced by an aerial-view city like no other he had ever seen—a low wall surrounded it, the stone buildings were small and square, the cobblestone streets meandering, and there appeared to be a steady flow of pedestrian and carriage traffic through the open front gates made of rusted spiked iron. And at t
hose gates, and ranged at irregular distances along the fieldstone wall, were creatures of such surpassing ugliness and indescribable meanness that none of the people looked at or spoke to them, none even came within touching distance of them. They remained still as gargoyles contemplating dinner, but the angle at which Gideon watched them was such that he was unable to see their features fully; he only knew that he didn't want to meet any of them, any time, any place—not, he reminded himself, that he was in any position to do so anyway.
He cocked his head, then, and the city vanished, the cliff face returned, and he sighed for the hallucinations his overloaded mind was dumping on him.
Like Ivy over there, standing sideways toward him in midair, one hand buried in the unbound mass of her blonde hair, the other toying coyly with the buttons of her blouse. She pursed her lips and winked at him, turned her back and maddeningly slowly slipped the blouse off, tossed it away, and kissed each of her shoulders. She kicked off her boots. She ran her palms down her buttocks. Then her head turned and her eyes narrowed, a slow bump, a slow grind, and she began to pirouette, dropping into a huddled crouch as she did, so that, when she faced him again, her naked torso was hidden by the protection of her knees. She smiled. She pouted. She reached out her arms toward him and vanished just as she leapt upward.
So this, he thought, is what dying is like.
Then he looked down, and saw the ground.
—|—
At first, Gideon was too astonished by the sight to think of anything but how beautiful it was.
Above and beyond him was a massive white cloud through which he had just passed, immense as he fell away from it, but not so large as to cover more than a slight fraction of a painfully blue sky.
The cliffs of Chey had retreated to become the stark, bleak side of a continent-huge mountain whose peaks were lost to the casual observer in broad swirling bands of dark grey and poisonous amber.
Below was a magnificent spread of verdant rolling forestland through which, from the east, west, and south, ran three meandering rivers whose surfaces reflected the bright sunlight in flares and lances that made his eyes tear when he stared at them too long. He could see, to the west, a horizon befogged and hazed much like that he'd seen on the higher ground, but elsewhere there were no signs of high ground other than the one he'd just left—there was only the woodland, the rivers, and an occasional expanse of impossibly green plain.