Neither Jane nor Sig reacted at all when I appeared beside the cage. They didn’t look up, they didn’t startle, they just sat in the same positions they’d been in since I’d started watching them. My stomach did flip-flops.
They weren’t there at all. I reached for one of the iron bars, and my hand passed right through it. It was as much a part of the glamor as the image of Jane or Sig was.
I turned and ran back to the alley, fighting desperation and a mean, dark depression. I was halfway back when I heard him laughing. It was the same sickening laughter I had heard in the safe house while I shot him over and over. I whirled, looking for the man I’d known as Chris Hatton. Luka. Meuhlnir’s brother. I didn’t see a soul, but his laughter was louder than ever.
“Where are they, you son of a bitch?” I yelled. “Why not come out? I brought my pistol!”
I was standing there, glaring around me when the troops started pouring back into the square. Frustration and anger were pounding through me like nitromethane through a dragster engine. I wasn’t surprised to feel the pistols in my palms.
“Hank, run!” screamed Yowtgayrr.
He was right, of course, but running was the last thing I wanted to do. The depression of a moment ago had been trampled by a dark fury. All I wanted to do was to fight.
To kill.
I forced myself to holster my guns instead of setting them free to chew their chaotic way through the men pouring into the square—into the trap Luka had set for me. I muttered the activation word for my cloak and ran toward the alley. As I entered it, I dispelled the cloak’s enchantment and ran toward the other end, feeling the invisible Alfar running with me. I pulled the citrine whistle back out of my pocket and blew sharply into it three times in rapid succession.
Luka’s laughter boomed, seeming like it was coming from all around us, as we sprinted toward the back of Piltsfetl. Snarls and howls rent the air from every direction. It sounded like oolfa were all around us. My heart thudded in my chest, and I could feel it all the way to my wrists. Ka-thud, ka-thud, ka-thud. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, but whether it was to the Alfar at my side or to my family, I couldn’t have said.
“It isn’t over yet, Hank,” said Yowtgayrr.
“Run and hide,” I whispered. “Let them think I was here alone. Get away—tell Meuhlnir and the rest that I thank them.”
Yowtgayrr answered me with silence, but I could still feel them running with me.
Friner began to roar and smash things in earnest. I could hear the Pitra regulars screaming in terror as the gates of the garrison splintered and then exploded inwards. The snarls and growls were getting closer, and it became clear that they were herding us away from the back corner where the stairs had been. I couldn’t tell how many oolfa were out there stalking us, but Luka was not alone. I was running blind, getting farther and farther from where I wanted to go—reacting to snarls or yips from around corners or at the end of streets we were racing down. We were being herded toward the southern wall of the garrison. “Can’t go where he wants!” I panted. I turned west, heading away from the open route I was supposed to follow.
Almost instantly, the snarling in that direction grew more savage. I kept on, though, refusing to go where Luka wanted me. To the east, I heard Friner growling and hissing flame into the village. No doubt that Piltsfetl was going to be devastated by this ill-thought plan, but there was nothing I could do about that now.
We were running full tilt toward the back wall of the garrison when we saw the oolfur. Nearly twelve-feet tall and as thin as a winter bear, he stood, arms raised to his sides. His reach was so wide that his talons scrapped along the plaster walls of two houses facing each other across the lane. He looked like a man with a bear trapped beneath his skin. He was either wearing a bear pelt, or his suppurating skin was sprouting rough fur. His smell was foul, and I had to fight to keep from vomiting. He roared and snarled at us, but didn’t move to engage us.
This time, when I felt the weight of my pistols in my palms, I let them have their way. I remembered Yowtgayrr saying I had to outpace their healing abilities to kill them, and I began to fire Kunknir and Krati as fast as I could pull the triggers and maintain any kind of accuracy. The oolfur jerked and thrashed his arms as the bullets smashed into his torso. Wounds gaped in his flesh, and black blood drained down his body, mixing with the purulence already running across his skin. His snarls turned into howls of pain and rage. I roared my own rage, frustration, and disappointment as I poured lead into his bent and twisted form. I’d expected him to leap to the attack, but instead, he turned and ran—using his superior speed to escape us, rather than using his superior strength to end us. I kept firing at his retreating back until the slides of both pistols locked back, empty. The immediate area was very quiet in the aftermath of all that shooting. The only sounds came from Althyof and Friner, who were fighting their way toward us. The path to the back wall, and subsequent escape from Piltsfetl, was clear of threats. We could escape to the promontory to the west of the garrison, blow Althyof’s whistle, and be airborne in a matter of minutes, but the thought that the long ride through the Darks of Kruyn, evading an army of truykar, everything that had happened in the past two days, had been for nothing was loathsome and repugnant to me. The thought of just chucking it all and running away burnt the anger out of me.
I stood there amidst the screams of the villagers, the snarls and howls of the oolfa, the roars of Friner, and felt nothing but dejection and despair. My hands fell to my sides, still holding my weapons, but in a weak, loose grip.
“Hank? We should get out of here,” said Yowtgayrr, as the three Alfar became visible again.
I opened my mouth to speak, but then just stood there, not knowing what to say. I should have been saying “yes” and putting words to action, but I had a sense that if I left, I’d never find Jane or Sig. That if I ran away, I’d live the rest of my life, no matter how long or short that was to be, under the cloud of the Dark Queen’s curse.
“Hank?” asked Yowtgayrr, putting his hand on my shoulder.
Suddenly, mist swirled in the air in front of me. It had no source, no telltale steam from a convenient puddle of water. It thickened and began to coalesce into the vague form of a man. “Do you see that?” I croaked, pointing at the mist with Kunknir, its slide still locked back and empty.
The Alfar looked where I was pointing and then exchanged concerned looks with one another. “See what, Hank?” asked Urlikr.
The mist congealed into a white, statue-still form that was about my height. As I watched, the misty-form began to animate—seeming to breathe and swallow. Then he looked me in the eye, and I took a slow step backward, having no idea what to expect next. The form lifted its arm and pointed west, then shook its head. Color was bleeding into the misty form. His gaze was fixed and keen, and his face clarified. It was Veethar looking back at me. Veethar’s mist-double opened his mouth to speak, but I couldn’t hear anything it said.
“I can’t hear you,” I said.
“Hear who?” asked Skowvithr, coming to stand at my left side, brandishing his sword and dagger. “Is it some kind of attack, Yowtgayrr?”
I shook my head. “It’s Veethar, I think.”
“We see nothing, Hank,” said Yowtgayrr, his mouth drawn up into an intense frown.
Veethar’s form now looked solid and was rendered in full color. With a gasp, he drew air into himself. “Don’t leave!” The words seemed to explode into the air around me.
“It was a glamor, Veethar,” I said. “They weren’t in the iron cage.”
“They are there, Hank. Frikka has seen it. Even if your Alfar were fooled by the glamor, Frikka was not. Your family is being held in a small dwelling on the south side of the garrison. Look for a flower box with old, dead flowers in it, under a window to the left side of the door. Your family waits inside. Go! Save them!” Veethar said the last two phrases with such intensity that I seemed to feel them in my bones.
I didn’t want to believe Jane and Sig were in
Piltsfetl only to have my hopes dashed again. “How do I know you aren’t another kind of glamor? How can you be so sure?”
Veethar looked to the side—at nothing but air. “Frikka says to tell you to choke back your despair and marshal your faith once more. She says that…” He looked to the side again, his facial expression the picture of dubiety. “Frikka says that Supergirl needs you, and she needs you now. Run!”
The rosy promise of hope blossomed within me, right alongside the bête noire of fear that we would be too late. “Okay,” I said. “Okay.” Color began to drain from Veethar’s form, washing out of his image like sand from a river bed. He raised his hand and pointed to the southeast. His form was getting soft around the edges, like a Hollywood special effect. He opened his mouth to speak, but his form was already too soft to hold enough air for speech. It was clear that he wanted me to hurry, though.
I turned my back on the form as it lost more coherence and looked Yowtgayrr in the eye. “I’m going back. I don’t expect any of you to come with me. You didn’t see it, but I was just in communication with Veethar and Frikka. My wife and son are here. I’m going to them.”
Yowtgayrr put his hand on my forearm. “We’ve sworn to protect you, Hank.”
“Yes, and I release you from your oath. I have to do this, but you three don’t.”
“Yes, we do,” said Urlikr in a tone that didn’t allow for dissent.
“We go where you go, Hank,” said Yowtgayrr.
“Now, let’s go save your family,” said Urlikr. “No matter what the cost.”
I turned back toward the east and marched toward the sound of Friner wreaking havoc. Snarls and savage cries sounded from every direction now, like the sound of a noose sliding ever tighter. I reloaded my guns and, holding them ready, started steering toward the south, moving in a kind of zigzag through the streets of Piltsfetl. The oolfa were getting closer, content to drive us south, but not yet ready to show themselves and risk our wrath. Excitement and fear boiled through me. I felt like I was going home. Somewhere along the walk, I developed a spring in my step and even caught myself whistling a time or two.
The sun was on the verge of setting, and the shadows lengthened around us. We never saw a single person—not an oolfur, not a villager, not a legionnaire from Pitra. We never saw a door creak open to allow a villager a glimpse of the strangers attacking their town, but I could hear them whispering behind their doors and shutters.
The houses near the southern wall were different from the ones to the west, more opulent. In the west, the houses had been small, plaster-over-wooden-lathe affairs, but in the south, they were made of dry-stacked stone. Color was painted on the doors and shutters, flower boxes rested under windows, and planters stood guard beside the doors. Then I saw it, the house Veethar had told me about. The door was painted a bright red color, as were the shutters. The flower box was a garish shade of orange that clashed with the doors and shutters such that it hurt to look at it—the clear result of ‘winter-psychosis’ like back home.
Fear froze me in front of the door. The house was a duplicate of the one in my nightmare. It was identical in every detail right down to the garish colors. In my dream, this moment was my last few seconds of peace and hope, the last chance to make things work out right. The fear of opening the door and finding the house empty was bad, but the fear of opening the door to find Jane or Siggy—or both—dead was debilitating hideous. “I…I can’t,” I mumbled.
“I understand.” Yowtgayrr took two quick steps forward, and before I could say anything to stop him, he kicked the door open and rushed inside, sword and dagger flashing.
It was all inky-black shadows inside, but a female form and a smaller form were tied to chairs facing the door. My heart beat so loudly that I was sure it could be heard over the sounds of the dragon destroying Piltsfetl behind us.
“Who is it, Mommy? Who are those people?” said a small voice.
“I don’t know, Sigster, but whoever they are, we have to be brave like Daddy. Okay?”
It was her voice. The keystone of the universe as far as I was concerned. It was the woman I love more than anything else in the world. It was Supergirl.
It was Jane.
I stumbled forward on numb legs. Light flashed off the pistols I held in both hands, and I thrust them savagely into the holsters on my hips. My heart beat like it was going to explode in my chest. I tried to speak, but what came out was a kind of croaking rustle—like a frog eating leaves. I saw four glints as both people in the house turned at the sounds coming from my throat. I am not ashamed to say that tears covered my cheeks, nor am I ashamed to say that in that moment I felt the love of my wife and son like a physical force. I forgot about everything else and just rushed forward, unseeing, to fall at my knees before them. I dreaded to touch them, fretting that they would be insubstantial, another glamor, but their eyes were tracking my face, and I saw matching tears on two sets of cheeks.
“Daddy?” asked Sig in the little voice he reserved for hope.
“Hank?” asked Jane at the same time.
“Yes,” I croaked. “I’ve finally found you.” I brought my hands up to caress one cheek each—Jane’s left and Siggy’s right.
In real time, it hadn’t been that long—not even a month. But it felt longer. It felt like an age had passed, and I realized that deep down inside me, in that place so deep that it is impossible to lie to yourself, that I hadn’t really expected to see them again. Not alive in any case. A strange feeling was running through me like a greyhound chasing a rabbit. It was something fluttery and golden; it was elusive and yet ubiquitous. It was relief. It was joy. It was love.
“Daddy, who are those men?” Sig asked.
“Friends,” I said. “Good friends. I’ll tell you all about them later. Now, we have to get you and Mommy out of here.” My voice cracked with emotion.
“We have to be brave, Daddy,” whispered Sig.
“Yes, Siggy, we do.” I bent myself to finding all the knots that were holding my family in that little house. I got their hands free and untied the ropes that were wrapped around their waists. I bent down in front of Jane, gazing into her face like a love-struck buffoon, I’m sure. I began fiddling with the ropes that held her feet to the legs of the chair.
“Oh, Hank,” she breathed in relief.
“Has it been terrible?” I asked in the same tone.
She didn’t speak, but she nodded slightly. “But we made it through, didn’t we, Sigster?”
Pride swelled inside me as my son nodded and looked me in the eye. “We were brave like you, Daddy.”
“Yes, I’m sure you were,” I said, fighting to keep my voice even, steady. Having freed them both, we stood for a moment and just looked at one another before crushing into a group hug, Sig pressed between us—what we used to call a Sig-sandwich. “We are a family again,” I said.
“We were always that,” said Jane around her sniffles. She stared at my face—it was a moment I had been avoiding thinking about. She touched the eye patch Althyof had enchanted for me, her fingers light and gentle. “Oh, Hank,” she said in a tiny, hurt voice. “Your eye. What happened to your eye?”
I trapped her hand in my own and pulled it away from the leather patch. “Time for that later,” I said with a meaningful glance at our son. She leaned into my arms and squeezed hard, but I could still feel her trembling. It felt great to be there in that warm huddle, but the world outside was still full of howling monsters. It sounded…it sounded as if they believed they had won.
“Oh,” I said, pulling away. “I brought you a present, Sig.” I fished the dagger Althyof had made for him out of my belt. Jane’s eyebrows shot up when she saw me hand the runed dagger to our twelve-year-old son.
“A knife, Hank?” she whispered.
“This isn’t Western New York,” I said. “There are things here… He needs this. It’s been enchanted to allow him to avoid having to fight.”
“Okay,” she said in a small voice, looking down
at Siggy.
“Remember our talk about firearms, Sig?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said with the simplicity reserved for the young.
“This dagger demands respect as much as any firearm. It is not a toy, and it should not be used for anything but defending yourself as a last resort.”
“Okay.”
“This dagger is very special,” I said. “It was made by the Tverkar, and—”
“What’s that?” he asked.
“It’s what our ancestors called a race of beings that lived in a place called Nitavetlir. They are very skilled craftsmen—”
“Oh, a dwarf? Like in J.R.R. Tolkien?”
I nodded. “Yes. Tolkien got his inspiration from the Norse Sagas. That’s a group of stories that tell the myths and legends about Norse mythology.”
“Yeah, I know, Dad. We had a unit on all that last year in ELA.”
I glanced at Jane in time to catch that special little smile she reserved for moments when Sig was being especially cute. “Okay. The Tverkar made this dagger and have given it special powers.”
“A magic dagger? Cool!”
I told him what the dagger could do, and how to activate the invisibility enchantment. “Whenever there is any kind of danger, Sig, I want this dagger in your right hand, and I want you to activate it. Don’t wait for me or Mommy to tell you to do it, just activate it and get away from the danger. Can you do that?”
Sig looked down at his feet. “I want to be brave. Like you, Daddy. I want to fight and protect you and Mommy.”
“You can do all that when you are older. For right now, I need to know you will be safe so I can be brave. Will you do that?”
“Well… Okay, I guess.”
“Promise me, Sigster.”
“I promise.”
“Go ahead and try it out,” I said. “Stay in this room, though, please.”
Immediately, Sig was gone. He laughed from the far corner of the room behind me. “That was neat,” he said.
“Good. See how you can always get away from anything that threatens you?”
He nodded. “Like school.”
Blood of the Isir Omnibus Page 46