by Tanya Huff
He didn’t answer for a moment and all kidding had left his voice when he said, “That goes without saying.”
And then they sat quietly, watching the night go by.
“But where is he, Evan?”
“I don’t know, Lady. I can’t find him.”
“Is he dead?”
“No. I’d know if he were dead …”
The world felt wrong. Roland forced his eyes open and instantly closed them again as even that little bit of light drove spikes into his brain. He had the worst hangover he could ever remember having; his mind had been put through a blender, an iron bar cinched his stomach toward his spine, and his entire body wanted to puke. Again. The smell made it pretty evident that he already had. If his head would just quit flopping around,” maybe he could …
He remembered the Darkness, the terror, the pain, and he began to keen, arms and legs thrashing feebly.
“Told you it lived.”
A tightening of the vise around Roland’s middle squeezed him out of his hysterics, leaving nothing in his world but a fight for breath. When he no longer seemed to be in immediate danger of passing out, he opened his eyes again.
The ground bobbed by about four feet from his head, just beyond the reach of his flopping fingertips. A blurred brown blob came into and out of his line of sight and he wondered muzzily what it was. By focusing everything he had, which at the moment wasn’t much, he managed to gain enough control of his arms to push against whatever held him. It didn’t budge although it felt warm and vaguely resilient under his hands.
It tightened again and his arms dropped, his vision went yellow, then orange, then …
“Killing it now!” boomed a second voice followed by a sound like a clap of thunder, then, blessedly, the pressure eased and Roland sucked in great lungfuls of foul smelling air.
When his vision cleared, it cleared completely and he suddenly recognized the blurred brown blob as a bare and dirty foot.
About a size thirty, triple E, he thought dreamily, swinging back and forth. Then the implications hit him. “Jesus!” Panic gave him the strength to twist his head and look up.
The giant that carried him tucked beneath one massive arm had to be fifteen feet high. His buddy, walking alongside, was a little shorter. Each wore a number of foul and rotting hides, roughly shaped into a sleeveless shift.
He punched and kicked and when that had no effect, he tried to squirm free. He disturbed large numbers of flies which lifted from the hides, circled and settled again. But the giants ignored him. His strength gave out and his head fell, reality condensing to the patch of ground that swayed below him. Watching the dirt path turn to rock, he muttered, “I don’t think I’m in Kansas anymore.” It wasn’t original, but it was the best he could do under the circumstances. He didn’t seem to have any fear left—it had seeped out with his strength and now he just felt numb—but he supposed that would change as soon as more information gave him a better idea of what to be afraid of.
The giants waded through a pile of rotting garbage and the stench wafting up from it sent Roland’s stomach into spasms. He began to retch again. This proved too much for his oxygen-starved body and he slid back into unconsciousness.
He came to, minutes later, when he landed to sprawl across a soft, yielding mound laced with rigid chunks that dug into his bruised ribs. It was the best resting place he’d ever had. Not even the smell bothered him as he lay there and gloried in his ability to breathe freely. He couldn’t see a thing and his ears buzzed loudly, but he felt better than he had in—his mind skirted around the memory of the Darkness—hours. Suddenly, there was light and, without moving, Roland could see one of the giants standing about ten feet away, his shadow dancing over a stack of oddly angled objects that sparkled in the firelight. In his hands, looking like a toy when measured against his size, he held Roland’s guitar case.
Roland started and tried to push himself up. His hand sank through its support with a wet, tearing sound and into a cavity filled with what felt like rice pudding. But the grains of rice were moving. Scrambling back until his knees touched rock, he stared in horror at what he’d been lying on. Most of the bodies had decayed past recognition, the buzzing had come from a billion flies, and the chest cavity he’d broken into writhed. Given the flies, it didn’t take a genius to figure out why, even in the bad light.
Only his reaction to the bodies kept Roland from reacting to the maggots. Although a good part of him wanted to run about screaming “Get them off me! Get them off me!” he only gave his arm a shake and knelt, eyes wide with shock.
Like most of his generation in his part of the world, the only body Roland had ever seen had been laid out like a wax doll, looking as if it had never been alive. These bodies were both more and less real and the only reference Roland had for dealing with them came from movies he’d much rather have forgotten. No chance of mistaking this for a movie though, or even a nightmare. Neither movies nor nightmares had this kind of immediacy. His knee began to ache as something dug into it and he shifted to one side, glancing down. Three quarters of a finger had been crushed under his weight, the joint glistening and exposed. He began to tremble uncontrollably and felt a scream welling up from his gut.
“I wouldn’t scream if I were you.” The jaw of one of the corpses was moving and its voice was the voice of Darkness. “Remind those two that you’re here and they may decide to have an early lunch.”
Roland whimpered, but that was the only sound he made. He peered back over his shoulder. One giant still tended the fire, the other dug through the rubbish against the far wall of the cave.
“There is a way out,” the Darkness continued. “All you have to do is call on me. Ask my help and I’ll take you home.” The lips of the borrowed mouth were incapable of it, but Roland could hear the smile in the Dark Adept’s voice as he added, “Don’t wait too long.”
“Wait too long,” Roland repeated weakly as the corpse fell still. His mind tottered on the edge of insanity and he stared into the black depths with something close to anticipation.
That’s it, quit, sneered the little voice in his head. Take the easy road, just like Uncle Tony always says.
Escape beckoned. Roland stepped back. The hell I will. He forced his body to stillness. These guys are dead. They can’t hurt me. And if they tried, one good shove would break them apart. Brave words even if he didn’t entirely believe them. His overactive imagination kept animating the grisly remains. He wants me too terrified to think, so my only option is to call on him. Well, he can just … He pushed his thoughts away from the Darkness—that way would only lead back to the edge—and turned them to the immediate task of getting away from the giants. The Dark Adept had, in a way, done him a favor for his terror at the Darkness so overwhelmed him it didn’t leave much room for more mundane fears and, by concentrating on survival, Roland found he could cope.
“Drink now. Eat it later.”
That sounded encouraging.
“Eat it now. Before it dies.”
That didn’t.
Roland turned cautiously. The larger giant sprawled on the floor by the fire, his back propped against a heap of debris, a wooden keg cradled on his lap. The smaller sat chewing on the end of a femur.
“Eat it now,” he repeated sulkily as the bone splintered with a loud crack. Roland winced. “Not as good dead.”
“Won’t die,” insisted the other, taking a long pull from his keg. “Nothing broken.”
“Always die,” muttered the first.
It would, Roland realized, be very easy to fall into the trap of considering the giants foul-smelling buffoons. They might not be very intelligent, but the pile of bodies behind him testified to their effectiveness. As he’d been unconscious when they picked him up, he was, he suspected, probably the first meal they’d ever dumped in their larder that hadn’t been beaten almost to death. And if no one had ever tried to escape before, his odds of success improved immeasurably. All he had to do was move silently through th
Trouble was, the smaller giant was sitting between him and Patience and he wasn’t leaving without her.
He watched the larger giant pour a seemingly endless stream of liquid into his mouth, while the smaller sucked the marrow from the bone he chewed like it was some kind of yellow-gray peppermint stick. Surely they would have to piss, or something. Sometime. Hopefully they’d leave the cave to do it. To occupy his mind, he picked maggots off the hand and arm he had inadvertently plunged into the corpse. In a way, that was the most horrible thing that had happened so far for in it he had been an active participant, not just an observer. The temptation to shriek, “Get me out of here!” and to pay any price for that deliverance grew with every moment he waited, with every larva, with every fly, with every glimpse or half glimpse of the rotting bodies around him until his nerves were stretched tighter than his guitar strings.
Finally, the smaller giant stood and kicked his companion, who only snorted and closed his hands more firmly about his keg.
“Going out,” he declared. “Don’t eat!”
That sounded fine to Roland. He froze as his captor stomped by, then scrambled across the bone-strewn cave until the giant’s bulk cleared the cave entrance. Get Patience and get out. Get Patience and get out was the litany Roland moved to. Get Patience. His hands clutched at the guitar case. And get … holy shit. Although Roland didn’t play the harp, he had friends who did and he’d spent enough time with them to recognize that the instrument so carelessly tossed on the pile of rusting armor—all rosewood, tarnished silver, and twisted gold—had at one time belonged to a master. His fingers itched to run over the remaining strings or to stroke the smooth curve, but he held back. He knew if he touched it, he’d take it, and that was theft. Even from this pair of steroid cases, theft was wrong. And a man walking in Darkness had better be damned careful about abusing the Light.
He leaned away, paused, and suddenly decided; leaving the harp on this pile of garbage, leaving it to be shattered or, worse yet, fall slowly to pieces from neglect would be a greater abuse of the Light than stealing it. As he lifted it, careful not to sound the few strings still intact, he hoped the Light would see it that way. Tucking it up under his arm, he again reached for his guitar case.
With the plastic handle back in his hand where it belonged and Patience’s familiar weight hanging at his side, Roland turned and discovered that the larger giant was not, as he’d thought, asleep.
Surprisingly pale eyes peered out at him from under bushy brows and an incredibly vapid smile stretched the thin lipped mouth.
Great. He’s pissed. Maybe he’ll think I’m a hallucination.
“Meat?”
And then again, maybe he’s got the munchies. Shit! Roland ducked a wild grab and raced for the entrance of the cave, abandoning stealth for speed. Maybe I should stop and try a lullaby. The giant roared and lurched to his feet. Maybe not. He exploded out into early morning sunlight, swerved around the very startled smaller giant who made a half-aware attempt to scoop him up, and took off down the rock strewn slope. If he could get to the forest, a mere hundred yards or less away, he would easily outdistance his larger and clumsier pursuers among the trees.
He hoped.
“Are you sure I should go to work, Evan?” Rebecca stood in the doorway anxiously watching the Adept pace the length of her small apartment. “I could stay home and help you look.”
“And I would love to have your help, Lady.” Evan added two steps to his pacing and caught up her hand. “But you know that every disruption further weakens the barriers between your world and the Dark. And if you don’t go to work …” He rested his cheek against her palm.
“If I don’t go to work, it would disrupt a lot of people.” Rebecca nodded solemnly. “But Roland is one of my specialest friends. I wish I could help find him.”
“We each have our part to play, Lady.” The storm had died in his gray eyes and he appeared unnaturally still.
“I understand.” She sighed. “But I would rather be with you.”
“And I would rather you were with me, Lady.” And he would, for he felt stronger when she was with him, more confident, better able to reach the Light although he didn’t understand why. But he suspected Roland had been taken to trap him and he didn’t want Rebecca around when the trap was sprung. He couldn’t risk that. He couldn’t risk her. At her job, she’d be safe. And the rest of it, as far as it went, was true.
Branches slapped at his hair, caught and tore at his T-shirt, and raised painful welts on the unprotected skin of his arms. Roland ducked his head to keep a particularly aggressive evergreen out of his eyes and swore as his toe caught under a protruding root and he nearly pitched onto his face. He could move faster and more easily if he dumped the harp, leaving one hand free to force a path through the brush, but the same streak of stubbornness that kept him out on the street in all kinds of weather kept the instrument under his arm. He barked his shins on a log, swore again, and stopped running.
At first, he could hear only the sound of his own breathing. After a time, he stopped puffing like an entire aerobics class and the other sounds of the forest began to filter through.
Bird song.
Leaves rustling in the wind.
Two branches rubbing together with a soft shirk, shirk.
More importantly, he didn’t hear the crashing of underbrush or the bellowing of giants. It had been touch and go for a while, but not even the smaller giant could get up any kind of speed among the trees and Roland, with an agility born of desperation, had soon pulled ahead. From the sound of things, he was now safe.
He set the harp gently against the log and leaned Patience out of harm’s way behind the bole of a huge tree. Then he indulged in a well-deserved fit of hysterics.
When it was over, he felt much calmer. Tired, and still afraid, but no longer stretched almost to the breaking point. He sat down on the log, wiped his damp cheeks with the back of one hand, and sighed.
“Now what?” he asked the harp.
One of the broken strings stirred in the breeze and chimed softly against the whole string next to it.
Roland smiled, for the first time in quite a while. “You’re welcome,” he said, then reached back a long arm and drew Patience from her refuge.
The case had picked up a few more dents and abrasions but the guitar seemed fine when he took her out to examine.
“This is my lady,” he told the harp, unsnapping the guitar strap and setting Patience back gently against the foam and felt. “I imagine you were someone’s lady once.” Cradling the harp in his lap he managed to attach the strip of embroidered canvas to the curling end pieces. “And a lady deserves a better resting place. There.” He slung the strap over his shoulder and stood.
“A little low, perhaps, but it does leave me a hand free for defense.” Or de-giants, he added silently, his inner voice sounding very who-are-you-trying-to-kid.
He shifted Patience slightly, settling her securely—more for the feel of her in his hands than any other reason—and firmly closed the lid. By his hip, a soft tone sounded. From inside the case came a muffled but firm response.
He opened the lid.
Patience looked no different. He ran a finger over her strings. She sounded no different. Except that she never used to sound without him playing her. Finally, as minutes passed and both harp and guitar remained silent, he shrugged and closed the case again. Considering everything else that had been happening to him, this rated about a three out of ten and no more than the amount of worry it had already evoked.
“Okay,” he straightened. “My loins are girded. How do we get out of here?”
He seemed to remember having read something, sometime, about moss growing on the north side of trees. The moss around him grew where it liked and in a couple of places that meant all over the tree. The forest stopped him from getting a fix on the sun and no helpful boy scout eager to earn a woodsman’s badge appeared to direct him.
“And I don’t know where I’m going anyway.”
Finally, he decided to keep heading the way his wild flight had been taking him—vaguely downhill—holding tight to the thought that eventually he had to meet someone who could show him the way home. Turning to the Darkness couldn’t be the only answer.
And that damned little voice asked, But what if it is?
“Excuse me, don’t I know you from somewhere?”
Evan turned and glanced at the young woman. She was just as she seemed and not a construct of the Dark, so he smiled and said, “No, I don’t think so.”
She reached out and gently touched his arm above the bracelets. “Are you sure?” Her fingertip drew tiny circles on his skin.
“Yes.”
Moving slowly, she ran her hand up his arm until it kneaded his shoulder. She swayed closer until her breasts pressed up against his chest. “It doesn’t matter,” she sighed, “we’re together now.”
For a moment, Evan stood stunned by the burning desire in her eyes, then with a shake of his head he gently pulled himself free. Light is attracted to Light, he thought walking on with a smile as the young woman continued on her way with only a vague memory of the entire incident, but it’s never worked quite that way before.
By the time he’d walked the two blocks between Rebecca’s apartment and Yonge Street, it had worked “that way” with another three women, one old enough to be a great-grandmother, two men, a thirteen-year old boy, and an embarrassingly amorous dog. He stopped at the corner to think about it, aware that at least two pairs of eyes were gazing at him in open need.
He can do nothing to me directly, lest I find him, so he thinks to slow my search for both him and Roland by throwing these people in my way. As he’d put no one at risk, Evan had to admire the deft touch the Darkness had shown. It would be impossible to do any searching if he had to stop every two feet and disentangle himself from another admirer; the cost in both time and power would be enormous if these first two blocks were any indication. And then he thought it through to another level and went cold with rage.
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