He glanced out the window of the shop toward the wide avenue, and his heart skipped a beat.
Sure enough, Gallen’s wagon rolled into town, the huge travel beast frothing at the mouth from its exertions, one lone giant in the lead, the chest and armpits of his tunic stained with sweat.
The suns were setting, and the Tharrin’s company cast long shadows over the cobblestone streets. The white stone buildings gleamed intensely in the sunlight, and Zell’a Cree ducked behind the doorpost and listened.
“The travelbeast needs grain and rest,” the giant told the others, walking up to set the wagon’s brakes. “He’s nearly done in for the night, and won’t be able to carry you much farther along these mountain roads. We might as well eat here—the inns are highly renowned.”
“Thank you,” the Tharrin said, as the giant took her gently by the waist and set her down from the wagon. “I don’t know how we can repay your generosity.”
“Your safety is repayment enough,” the giant said, and Zell’a Cree nearly laughed. The others were climbing down from the wagon now, and Gallen O’Day stretched sinuously, reaching for the sky.
Zell’a Cree put his back to the doorpost, so that none in the company would have even the slimmest chance of spotting his silhouette in the doorway. Darkness, a lonely town, and Gallen unaware. And in my pouch, two copies of the Word. Zell’a Cree could not quite believe his good fortune.
And yet, and yet he was worried. He felt alone with his troubles. New converts often rejoiced at the sense of fullness that communion with the Inhuman gave them, the sense of boundless knowledge, the feeling of buoyancy, as if they were children who had been lifted up and were looking at the world from the height of tall shoulders. But in time, that sensation wore thin. After years of not hearing from the Inhuman, one sometimes felt lost, cast adrift. It was said that some great leaders were in constant communion—the Harvester, certainly, and the commanders of the armies and navies to a lesser extent. But not Zell’a Cree. Not once over the long years since his conversion had he heard the sweet voice of the Inhuman. And at this moment, he wished that he could be certain of the correct course—to let these people proceed to Moree, where the Inhuman could arrange a more appropriate reception, or to kill Gallen now and seek to convert the others.
He stood for several long minutes, pondering his choices, then peeked out again. The company had gone inside, with the exception of the giant, who was busy unharnessing the travel beast.
Zell’a Cree crept back to the bootmaker’s bench. “Just sew up the right boot for now,” he said softly. “I’m in a hurry.” The bootmaker glanced up at him in surprise and grunted, “Don’t think I can have it done by dark, and I close soon.”
“In the morning, then,” Zell’a Cree said. He checked out the door. The giant was leading the travelbeast away to the stables down behind the inn. The suns were falling rapidly, and in the cool evening air, some crickets had begun chirping. A few people scurried along the streets, heading home. Even here, the Inhuman’s agents were known to hunt at night.
Zell’a Cree pulled up the hood of his cloak, covering his face, and hurried across the shadowed avenue to the wall of the inn. From its shade, he could see the wooden stables in back, down a small hill. The giant had reached the stables, and he opened the broad doors, took the beast inside.
Zell’a Cree knew that he had to get Gallen alone, had to strip Ceravanne of her protectors. The giant himself was a formidable adversary. The Toskens were smaller in stature than the Im giants, and were not so strong, though they could endure greater hardships. And as a Tosken, Zell’a Cree knew no fear.
He ran down to the stable, slipped into the door. His eyes did not need to adjust to the dark. He saw the giant plainly enough, stooping over a feed bin, dumping in a bag of grain. The travelbeast was already stabled, nuzzling the feed.
The Im heard Zell’a Cree’s approach, turned his head partway. “May I help you with your beast, sir?” Zell’a Cree asked, taking the role of stable-hand, hoping that the giant would not recognize him. “Does it need water, or a comb?”
“Aye, it will take a couple of water buckets,” the giant said, not bothering to look back, dumping the whole sack of grain into the bin.
“Good enough, sir,” Zell’a Cree said, only a step behind.
Zell’a Cree grasped the haft of his sword, pulled it free, and plunged the blade deep into the giant’s back, just beneath his rib cage. He’d hoped to hit a kidney, send the giant into deadly shock, but the Im shouted and spun, hitting Zell’a Cree in the head with the bucket.
There was a moment of pain, and horses began neighing in fright, kicking at the doors to their stalls, and Zell’a Cree found himself struggling up from the stable floor to his knees. The giant had taken a step to the middle of the room, and he pulled the sword from his back, stood gazing stupidly at the blade.
Zell’a Cree jumped up, rushed at him, but the giant bellowed loudly and took a step back. Zell’a Cree tried to pull the sword from the giant’s hand, and for one brief moment they struggled together, both of them fighting for the blade.
The short sword twisted from Zell’a Cree’s grip, and the giant made a weak stab. Zell’a Cree leapt backward as the sword slashed at his midriff.
The giant stood, panting as if from long exertion, holding the sword. He sagged to his knees after a minute, dropped the blade, then fell facedown into the straw.
The horses were all neighing frantically now at the smell of blood, and Zell’a Cree knew that the noise would draw attention. He had hoped to commit a nice quiet murder.
Instead, he grabbed the short sword, stabbed the giant in the back of the neck to sever his spinal cord, then rushed to the rear door of the stables and stood panting, trying to get some air.
He wondered whether anyone had heard the giant’s bellowing. He did not know if he should run now or set a trap for Gallen and the others.
Gallen had settled into his seat at the inn and ordered dinner. The place had few patrons, and they were all sitting up in front of a little puppeteer’s theater, where marvelously decorated puppets were used to play a tale about a greedy king who was being robbed by some highwaymen. Gallen could not hear all of the dialogue, but two of the highwaymen were speaking aside to one another, and it sounded as if they were the king’s own wife and daughter, robbing the man in the hopes of curing him of his greed.
Gallen had just asked his mantle to amplify the sounds of the room, hoping to hear the puppeteers, when he heard Fenorah cry out.
He jumped from his seat, seeing the surprised faces of Maggie and the others. He had been trying so hard for the past few days to seem normal that he did not want to cause them alarm. “Trouble!” Gallen said, then he went tearing out a back door, where two cooks stood looking toward the stable.
“I’m sure I heard yelling, back here!” one said, though neither seemed inclined to go see who had screamed.
Drawing his sword free from its scabbard, Gallen raced down to the stable, pulled the door open, and let his mantle magnify the light, show him the scene. Fenorah lay in the straw, facedown. Gallen rushed to him, found blood flowing all down the back of his neck, soaking into his tunic. Gallen could see no sign that he was breathing, and for a brief moment, stinging tears came to Gallen’s eyes. The giant had never harmed anyone, had sought to do only good. He’d shared his food, given of his time and wealth.
“Goodbye, my friend. The wheel turns without you for a while,” Gallen whispered into his ears, and realized that he had subconsciously chosen to voice a death farewell common to the people of Babel.
He bit his lip, tried to calm himself. He was afraid, for he could feel the weight of years on him. He felt that he was struggling to control the voices inside him—strong Amvik of the Immatar, a scholar and physician, wanted Gallen to check Fenorah more thoroughly for signs of life. “Turn him over. Try to revive him,” the doctor warned, but Gallen knew it was no use. Even if he managed to revive the giant for a few moments, he had l
ost far too much blood.
Gallen noticed that someone had stepped over the body, making bloody footprints in the straw, and had rushed out a back door, leaving it open.
The horses and the travel beast were standing quietly in their stalls, looking out. Gallen glanced upward to the haylofts and empty stalls where tack and fodder were stored. He listened closely for any sound of the murderer, then took one last look at Fenorah.
The Inhuman has done this, a voice whispered at the back of Gallen’s mind.
Gallen went to look out the rear door with a heavy heart. Suddenly he heard movement to his side, and his mantle warned him to duck. Gallen spun in time to see Zell’a Cree exploding out of a stall where hay had been piled high. The stocky man had been hiding under the hay, and he threw some at Gallen’s face.
Gallen almost did not see the blade of Zell’a Cree’s sword, arcing through the flying straw, but fortunately he had his own blade up high enough to parry the blow.
Zell’a Cree’s sword hit Gallen’s with such force that Gallen barely held on. The blow knocked Gallen back a pace, and Gallen spun away from Zell’a Cree’s charge, feigning a loss of balance as if he’d fallen, then he whirled as he fell and thrust his own blade up into Zell’a Cree’s chest, a brief, biting kiss that left the tip of Gallen’s sword bloodied.
Gallen rolled to his feet and sat, hunched low, his sword weaving slowly before Zell’a Cree’s eyes.
Zell’a Cree spotted the well-bloodied sword, and seemed to react more to it than he had to the touch of the steel. His free hand rose up to his chest, and his eyes grew wide in surprise at the severity of the wound.
“Damn your hide for that! I’ll split your belly and strangle you with your own guts!” he cried, and he kicked a bucket at Gallen. Gallen dodged it easily, and waited en garde. “Come, then,” Gallen hissed, “and find out why I’m a Lord Protector!”
Zell’a Cree almost rushed him, but instead halted, watched him warily. And in half a second he turned and fled out the back door, slamming it behind.
Gallen ran to give chase, but when he threw himself against the door, it wouldn’t budge. Zell’a Cree had bolted it from outside.
Gallen rushed back to the front, then circled the stable and stood gazing over the valley. Along a trail downhill were dozens of stone houses and buildings with white stucco exteriors, many with low courtyards where someone could easily leap a wall to hide. Bright stars pierced the indigo sky, and Tremonthin’s three small moons were rising all in a close knot, shining like molten brass over the countryside. Gallen could see far to the south, across a great valley where dark hills rose as forested islands from a moonlit sea of fog.
There was no one on or near the road, no sign of Zell’a Cree. But in infrared Gallen’s mantle detected hot points of light on the ground, splashes of blood.
He stooped low and ran, following the trail. A dog began barking far ahead, perhaps a kilometer off, and Gallen wondered if his quarry were getting away.
He raced onward couple hundred meters, responding to the voice of Fermoth, a great hunter who whispered that he should be quiet, refrain from alerting his quarry, and Gallen found a bright pool of blood on the ground on the far side of a stone well. Zell’a Cree had rested here momentarily, dripping blood over everything.
More bright flecks beckoned farther on, and Gallen began stalking through dark alleys, over a wall. His prey moved like a fox—backtracking and zigzagging, and Fermoth whispered to Gallen, Yes, yes, this is how I would do it. This is the direction I would go, till Gallen wondered if the shared experiences of the Inhuman might not be a disadvantage to his quarry.
Gallen reached the far end of town and began circling back along a hill, at which point even Fermoth wondered what the quarry was up to, and Gallen began to wonder if Zell’a Cree was Inhuman after all.
Yet it was obvious that Gallen’s quarry was failing. Perhaps he was no longer thinking clearly. The droplets of blood were getting brighter, warmer. The man was slowing, weakening, until Gallen felt sure he was near, and that he would be weak, and dying, when Gallen found him.
Gallen felt confused. He was beginning to understand the servants of the Inhuman. Indeed, he thought that they might be friends, or that at least they thought themselves good. None of the voices inside Gallen were evil. They had just been people who were concerned with living their own lives, people who wanted to continue living. And though Zell’a Cree had killed Fenorah and was an Inhuman, he was also someone like Gallen who had become infected against his will. Gallen recalled the Bock’s warning, in which he told Gallen that at times he would have to choose whether to kill an Inhuman or spare it. And as he hunted, Gallen’s resolve to kill Zell’a Cree weakened.
Yet Fenorah had also been innocent, had not deserved to die, Gallen reminded himself. And Gallen could not understand how it was that basically good people could do this to each other.
After nearly twenty minutes, he reached an alley behind a store.
Blood was smeared on a white stucco wall in the moonlight, and Gallen could see droplets on the dusty road. He heard the sound of coughing ahead.
He rounded a corner, and a beefy man was there in the moonlight, lying on his side in the alley, his pale eyes looking almost white. Zell’a Cree. He held his wound and lay gasping, bubbles of blood dribbling down his chin.
Gallen held his sword point forward, carefully stalked up to the man, to the Inhuman, he reminded himself, and he stared into the man’s face. We share so many memories, Gallen thought, looking into Zell’a Cree’s eyes. The Inhuman struggled to run, moved his legs about feebly, and stared forward into the dust, his eyes blind. He breathed furiously, and small puffs of dust rose up near his chin. His face contorted in a grimace, and beads of sweat stood out on his forehead.
“Boots. Boots are inside building,” Zell’a Cree whispered to Gallen, as if it were terribly urgent, and Gallen could smell the tanned leather scraps outside the back door of the bootmaker’s shop. Indeed, Zell’a Cree’s right boot was tied together with a scrap of cloth. And Gallen suddenly realized that this man had circled back to town to get some new boots.
Now that Gallen had caught him, he considered stabbing him again, but didn’t have the heart. Gallen shared the memories of twenty lives with this man, and all of those people had lived extraordinary lives. They were not small-minded killers.
“Damn you,” Gallen said. “Why did you have to stab Fenorah?”
Zell’a Cree didn’t answer. Gallen suspected that Zell’a Cree had taken a mortal wound. Yet Gallen could not afford mercy. His friends’ lives might still be at stake. Gallen stuck his sword at Zell’a Cree’s throat, demanded, “How many of you are stalking us? Where are your men camped?”
Zell’a Cree did not answer, merely turned his head up at the sound of Gallen’s voice. Gallen put the sword to his chin, and asked again, “How many more are you?” Zell’a Cree said nothing, and Gallen wondered if he were past talking.
‘‘Join us,” Zell’a Cree breathed, “and we will stalk you no more.”
So Zell’a Cree still felt himself at war and would give up no information. Gallen respected that. He studied the creature. Zell’a Cree looked human, simply a beefy man with pale eyes that were much like Ceravanne’s. He could have been a baker or an innkeeper in any town that Gallen had ever visited, and Gallen felt ashamed at wanting him dead.
“What did you do, before the Inhuman converted you?” Gallen asked.
“I … farmed,” the big man panted. “Apples. I make, uh, cider.”
“I think you’re going to die,” Gallen admitted softly. ‘‘There’s little that you or I or anyone else can do to stop it now. I can let you die slowly, in your own time, or I can take you quickly.” He let the tone of his voice ask the question.
“Slowly,” Zell’a Cree asked. “Life is sweet. Savor it.”
Gallen was dismayed by the answer. How could life be so sweet that you looked forward to coughing up your own blood for five minutes? But the voic
es of the dead within him bubbled up, all of them clamoring, “Yes, yes, life is sweet.” They craved it, even a miserable few moments of pain.
Gallen looked back toward where he imagined the inn might be. He was tempted to leave Zell’a Cree on the road, head back to check on the others, but he was acutely aware that Zell’a Cree had lost his life at least twice: once when the Inhuman had converted him against his will, and once when Gallen had plunged a sword into his lung.
So Gallen sat down in the dust, prepared to wait with Zell’a Cree, stay with him to the end.
“Forgive me,” Zell’a Cree asked, grunting, his words raising small puffs of dust. “I never wanted to hurt you … anyone.”
Gallen wasn’t sure what to answer, but settled for “I know.”
The voices of the Inhuman rose within Gallen, crying out across the centuries. “Join with us.”
Gallen felt torn. For several minutes Zell’a Cree only lay breathing, gasping at an ever more frenzied pace, droplets of sweat rolling down his face into the dust. At first, Gallen feared the man, but Zell’a Cree made no move against him, seemed less and less capable of moving at all. He wheezed for a bit, and coughed until fresh blood began foaming from his mouth.
Zell’a Cree closed his eyes and began weeping, concentrated on breathing.
“Let me take you now, friend,” Gallen said. “There’s nothing left to savor.”
“Please …” Zell’a Cree mumbled after a long moment, “water. A drink first. Then kill me.”
Gallen looked about. His own water skin was back in the wagon, but there was a rain barrel under the eaves of the shoemaker’s roof. Gallen went to the barrel, found that it was nearly full. He sheathed his sword, cupped some water in his hands, and went back to the dying Zell’a Cree, put his hands down under Zell’a Cree’s lips.
The dying man didn’t take the water. Just lay there breathing heavily, lapsing into sleep.
“Wake up,” Gallen said. “I brought your water.”
Beyond the Gate (The Golden Queen) (Volume 2) Page 30