by Tom Deitz
And freeing it—to fling it straight at him with uncanny accuracy. He managed to dodge, but his frantic scrambles brought him full into the shadow of the oak, where hard lumps of acorns poked at him from the ground, adding their own tiny bruises to his already bleeding flesh. A ridge of knobby root ended his progress abruptly, and he grunted in dismay, still unable to regain his feet, use the scale, or get off a shot at his adversary—who was now hurling herself at him, oblivious to her obvious wound.
She might have struck him dead on, too, had Don not chosen that moment to drop from his branch onto her shoulders and wrap his arms around her neck in a sprawling clench that was born part in anger, part in panic, and part in abject surprise. The boy was also hollering at the top of his lungs, perhaps to keep himself sane; and Calvin could see the monster flinch as strong boy fingers found her trachea and curled inward. But then fury burned into her coal-lump eyes, and she gave her whole humped body a violent shake that sent Don’s legs flying straight out behind her. He held on through two such assaults, but by then Utlunta had snaked her hand to the side, so that the boy’s next gyration would impale him upon the finger.
“Jump!” Calvin shouted desperately. “Jump, Don, jump!”
Don did, coming to rest with an unceremonious thump maybe six feet to the Stoneskin’s right. The sudden shift in balance made Spearfinger stagger in the opposite direction—which gave both Don and Calvin time to regain their feet.
“Run!” Calvin motioned Don toward the open field. “Go help Brock, and then get the hell out of here!”
And then Calvin was himself on the move, trying to at least get clear of the tree, so he would have more options. The arrow hadn’t worked, which probably meant that Spearfinger’s heart was not where legend said it should be. But that still left the rest of her body. And he still had the gun—and, finally, a clear target.
Spearfinger was charging him, pounding toward him at a surprising pace, her awl-finger outstretched before her like a lance. It would have been a ludicrous enough image to make him laugh—a bag lady on angel dust—except for the leer of hatred that contorted her gray-brown face.
He aimed by reflex, pulled the trigger, spat six bullets into her chest. Dust erupted in a long line across the rags, and blood was everywhere, but she did not falter.
Calvin clicked the trigger twice more before he realized the .38 was empty.
And Spearfinger was still rushing toward him.
He tensed and turned sideways, gun in his right hand, scale in the other, hoping to club the back of her skull with the butt of the revolver when they came together. Next year, he told himself—hell, next week—he’d enroll in one of those martial arts classes he’d been promising himself forever. If there was a next week for him.
Closer and closer…then impact. The force jarred Calvin so much that he dropped the gun and retained the scale only by gripping it so tightly in his fist it almost brought blood. They grappled together for a moment, locked in an awkward embrace made more so by the pervasive gore and the fact that Calvin did not have full use of both hands. Spearfinger’s face was inches from his; he could smell her breath—sweet and sickly like rotting blood and day-old meat; nearly choked on the hot-stone-and-dust odor that, billowed out from her rags. Somehow he managed to confine her elbows at the waist, thereby restricting the deadly finger—whereupon he twisted sideways, hoping his superior leverage would hurl her to the ground. Once he got her down, maybe he could hold her until he could regain sufficient presence of mind to change, or one of the boys could retrieve the bow—which were the only options he could think of.
Miraculously, his effort succeeded—in part—for he felt Spearfinger’s legs leave the ground. Abruptly she seemed much lighter, which shocked Calvin so much that he lost his balance and toppled to earth again, fortunately atop her. He locked his legs around her, prisoning the finger between her thigh and his, and glanced up frantically. “Don! Brock! Get the bow, it’s under the tree I was in.”
He saw a small, dark-haired shape sprinting that way from the direction of the live oak; while another crouched to one side holding something dark before its face, all but hidden by the tall grass. That last was odd, too: he thought Brock was more reliable than to waste time playing games. But then Calvin had no time for puzzles, because Spearfinger was writhing beneath him, twisting back and forth so vigorously it took every ounce of strength and all his concentration to keep her pinned.
“You cannot defeat me, Edahi,” she spat. “When this day ends I will have eaten your liver!”
“The hell you will!” And Calvin renewed his desperate hold.
An evil grin crossed the Stoneskin’s face, and her features wavered: blurring, running, smoothing, and realigning—until Calvin suddenly found himself staring into the china-blue eyes of Allison Scott. “You wouldn’t hurt a little girl, would you?” Spearfinger cackled. “Not pretty little Allison Scott! But you already have, Edahi. She is dead and you are the one who brought death to her!”
Calvin gasped, sick at what he knew was the truth, but he maintained his grip, not daring to relax in spite of what he saw, for the shape beneath him, though a tiny girl’s, was strong as ever.
The features slid and shifted again, became those of a tired-looking woman in her late twenties. “This one’s liver I sampled first,” Spearfinger crowed. “But it was poisoned, as your kind poison all things including themselves. That is why I would keep you forever from Galunlati!
“But this,” she added with a triumphant cackle, “was sheer pleasure to devour: the liver rich with life and joy and strength.” And she took on the startled, perky features of Don Scott’s dead friend, Michael.
“And this—ah, this liver was tastiest of all!” With that Calvin looked upon the face of his father. “You killed me, my son,” he growled, though it was Spearfinger’s mocking tones. “As sure as you live you brought my death, and that will forever be on your soul!”
“No!” Calvin shouted, jerking back reflexively, and in that moment Spearfinger made her move, threw her whole unwieldy weight up and over, and Calvin was suddenly trapped beneath her. She was in her right shape now, but fortunately he still held the deadly hand immobile—though that did not seem to concern her.
And where were Don and Brock? He couldn’t see Brock at all, and Don was fumbling around the base of the tree Calvin had shot from. Which meant he couldn’t count on help from that quarter any time soon.
Spearfinger grinned even more gleefully and opened her mouth to sing. It was the alternate tune, the one that called upon the earth, and Calvin felt the ground trembling beneath him as limestone from the depths responded to her summons. Though the monster was astride him now, he could hear her feet keeping time against the ground, sending thrummings all along the meadow. He knew what she was about, too: she’d keep him here until the stone could rise up and engulf him. And then she’d eat his liver. Probably both boys’, too: she didn’t seem to fear them at all, though Don had something long in his hand now. Brock, for his part, was still missing.
“The arrows!” Calvin yelled again. “Get the arrows! Get the—”
The song shifted abruptly, became the paralysis spell, still mingling with the other. This close it was overpowering, and Calvin could feel the earth heaving at his back, even as his tongue went limp and his muscles began to weaken.
He jerked and twisted desperately, and as he did a glob of spittle flew from his mouth and splattered against Spearfinger’s bare arm. To his surprise a thin tendril of steam rose there. She grunted, as if she had been bitten by an insect, but for that instant her song faltered, and Calvin acted. He wrenched a hand free—the left, the one that was not holding off the deadly finger—and smashed it into Spearfinger’s mouth. It hurt like hell, and blood erupted from his knuckles, but he managed to work his fingers inside, and actually seize her tongue. It was like grappling with a wet rattlesnake, but he held on desperately, feeling his strength return as the song turned to strangled gaspings.
“Do
n!” he shouted again. “Any time, man!”
But Spearfinger had recovered, and very calmly and defiantly bit down. He felt her teeth tearing into his fingers until they grated against bone, but she was not strong enough to bite through, and he held grimly on, meanwhile trying with all his might to fling her away and get to his feet again.
He almost succeeded, but she dragged him back down as he rose to a crouch; and they rolled over and over on the ground. And then she was once more on top of him, her whole filthy, sticky body pressing down against his. He still had his hand in her mouth, was still being bitten, but the movement had made him lose his grip on her arm. Only then did he realize that he had somehow dropped the scale.
He tried frantically to locate it, but could not, and an instant later, she had him pinned even more thoroughly than before. He saw her left arm, the deadly digit at its end, shoot sideways, then arc around to snake between them. A snarl of glee contorted the hideous features inches from his own. He felt the finger pause above his heart, expected to find it jabbing up under his rib cage to still his live—but it drew back instead, until it was poised directly below his ribs on his right-hand side.
And Calvin could not move, for it was as if all the weight of the world held him down.
And slowly, slowly, he felt a warm wash of pain as the finger pierced his skin, poked through the long smooth muscles of his side, and encountered what they sought. It did not hurt as much as he expected, but the strangeness of it—something wiggling around inside him—made him gag.
Spearfinger cackled—which freed his hand, though there was little he could do with it now except flail ineffectually against her back—and she bent close to whisper in his ear. “I am touching your liver now, Calvin Fargo McIntosh. It feels like a nice plump one. I hope you enjoy losing it as much as I will enjoy taking it from you!”
Calvin struggled in vain, and gagged again as the finger rubbed against something deep in his gut. Another gag—base reflex—and suddenly something brushed his lips. It was the ogress’s ear! Lacking any other options, he bit down hard, felt cartilage part and his teeth meet, sawed them back and forth.
Utlunta howled, but did not release him, though now he could taste blood.
Something stirred in him at that: a fleeting flash of Power, almost exactly like he felt when he changed! And with it, unaccountably, came a realization. Spearfinger was a shapeshifter, was as full of Galunlati magic as the uktena was. He had lost the scale, but still tasted her Power now. And he had hunted her as well, which meant… One chance.
He closed his eyes, shut out the probing pain in his side, and prayed he was right—that her blood was as potent a talisman as the scale—and willed the change.
It was the hardest one he had ever done, because he had to shut out all outward sensations—the agony in his side, the stench in his nostrils, the awful taste in his mouth—in order to succeed.
But apparently it was working, for strange memories began to mingle with his own, and he felt his body grow at once weaker and stronger than before, felt the probing in his side become more distant and then vanish altogether as Spearfinger found herself embracing a twin as invulnerable as she.
He shoved, she shoved back; but she was the shocked one now and he regained his feet. A glance over his shoulder showed Don finally with arrows, heading his way, though he hesitated every few yards and looked back, as if torn by indecision. He was evidently shouting at someone, too; but Calvin couldn’t tell who, or hear what was said above Spearfinger’s rasping breathing.
But then he had no more time for him, for the Spearfinger instincts were trying to take over. He let them—dared to let echoes of that other mind touch his own, for maybe, just maybe, if he was careful, he could find out what he wanted.
A deep breath, a withdrawal of self to a deeper level, and the Spearfinger thoughts filled his mind. He prowled among them, searching…? And then…pay dirt! Her heart was in her other hand—that he should have guessed. But lurking in hidden places behind were those things she most feared:
Fire…air…and water!
It was as simple as that, for fire could crack rock, or wind and water turn its own sandy children against it and wear it away.
But there was no fire here, and it would be as dangerous to him as to her.
Air, though…Spearfinger had seemed lighter during that brief moment when he had held her aloft. He tried that again, filtering his human knowledge of wrestling through sorceress muscles—and had no trouble wrenching his foe from her feet and flinging her over his shoulder. Her weight diminished immediately, and he could feel her stabbing at him with the finger, though it could not pierce his skin, now as hard as hers. It was still an irritant, however, but a shift of his grip to include her bony wrist put an end to that.
Now if only he could get her to water, perhaps he’d have a chance.
The nearest wasn’t far, either: a tributary stream to Iodine Creek he’d spotted from the air. In fact, the narrow end of the meadow actually bordered it. He started that way at a slow trudge, for though Spearfinger was lighter than she had been, still she was a considerable weight for an old woman’s body to support.
Or did he actually need her form now?
But then a disturbing thought struck him: Spearfinger had tasted his blood as surely as he had tasted hers. Why, then, couldn’t she shift herself, become him, and begin the whole battle all over? And worse, since he had used the monster’s blood instead of the scale to empower the change, how was he going to return to his rightful form without either biting her again (which would be pretty awkward) or finding the latter? And then a ghost of alien memory answered both questions: the ogress had to have eaten a person’s liver to take his shape (she was evidently limited to duplicating humans); but his transformations were based on a slightly different system. More to the point, though, as long as her blood was in his body he no longer needed outside assistance to change.
So maybe…
A pause, a blanking, an application of will, and he was himself once more. Stronger now, he strode onward, until barely fifty paces separated him from his goal.
“I’d stop right there,” a voice shouted suddenly, amplified through a megaphone and echoing across the meadow. “Stop right there, Mr. McIntosh, or we’ll have to shoot!”
Calvin glanced toward the shout, and glimpsed three men—sheriff’s deputies Adams and Moncrief, and Robert the policeman—slowly advancing toward him, the deputies with drawn .38s. The coroner was with them too, though a little behind, waving his arms at them as if to call them back. He was also holding his video camera, and Calvin realized he was the one he’d glimpsed lurking in the tall grass earlier—the one he’d stupidly mistaken for Brock. A further check showed him that Don was there as well, fully equipped with bow and arrow, but no longer advancing.
His heart sank. He was so close, so close, but he knew what the cops must be seeing: a naked guy lugging a struggling old woman toward a creek. But he had no choice.
“Stop, I say!”
Brock’s voice interrupted from out of nowhere, cracking up and down the scale with urgency. “No, officers, you don’t understand, you don’t understand!”
“Get away, son!” That was Adams.
Calvin simply kept walking, determined to get as far as he could. Maybe if he was lucky, Don would get his act together and shoot Spearfinger in her vulnerable spot.
Maybe pigs would fly in from China.
“Stop!”
A shot rang out, coupled with a cry of dismay from Brock. But it had been a woman who had shouted, and Calvin turned just enough to see that Brock and Robyn had joined the fray. Brock was hollering at the men indignantly. But Robyn—bless the girl—she was holding them at bay with something that looked suspiciously like a pistol, without a doubt the inhabitant of the empty holster he’d spotted earlier. Evidently she’d just fired a warning shot, and not at Calvin. An explosion of conversation ensued, which Calvin couldn’t hear above the rustle of his legs through the gra
ss and the noise of Spearfinger’s grunts and threats and thrashings. But the next thing he knew, Don had slipped away from the furiously taping coroner and had drawn a bead on the lawmen with the bow, even as Robyn eased around to impose herself between the deputies and Calvin.
How long that standoff would last, Calvin hadn’t a clue. But he tried to move on a little faster.
The wind shifted somewhat, and he found he could hear more clearly: the sounds of scuffling, of shouts and orders and counter-orders.
“We’ve gotta get out there.”
“He’ll hurt her if we try to take him, though!”
“Let me go, goddamn it!” (That was Brock).
And then, “Jesus, damn! The bastard bit me again!”
“Catch him!”
“Don’t move a muscle, you asshole!” That was Robyn.
Calvin wished he could see what was happening. But Spearfinger was struggling even more violently than heretofore, and he had no choice but to continue his march toward the stream, with the hapless hag writhing, kicking, and kneeing him whenever she could. He still held the deadly hand, though, and she was powerless. And she was not singing, which he thought strange until he remembered something else from the brief time he had shared her mind: the earth would aid her only if she stood upon it—that was why she was so weak now.
More shouts, then; feet thumping on the ground, the swish of tall grass against clothing; and suddenly there was someone beside him. Calvin knew from the flash of blond hair who it was.