Freewalker Page 11

  “Quickly!” Mabatan insists.

  As the whine of an engine rises over the still water, Roan rolls the first body into the lake.

  Lumpy grabs Roan’s arm. “No time!”

  Mabatan pulls her boat up onto the shore. The engine grows louder. They tear at the rushes, throwing them over the craft until it’s indistinguishable from its surroundings.

  Suddenly the motor cuts out. Lying low in the brown foliage, six eyes silently watch as a flat-bottomed boat drifts up to the remaining corpse. Its passengers are three gaunt men in blue robes. One stares through a scope that’s mounted on a crossbow, scanning the river. The second, armed with a bladed spear, steps onto the shore, dangerously close to where they’re hidden. The tallest one, grim-faced, with owlish eyes, moves from the boat and crouches near the body, closely inspecting the rocks. Did Roan leave some tell-tale sign that could be traced? The cleric shifts to focus on the body. His hand grazes the dead woman’s leg, moves up her torn jacket, touches her arm. He stops, scrutinizing the woman’s face. His finger rises, touching her eyelid where Roan had touched it moments before. He is so close that Roan can see the hone of the blade at his side, the tension in his neck, the bulge behind his ear.

  With a sudden thrust of his arms, the cleric pushes the corpse off the rock. He watches it slowly dissolve in the acid water, then, seemingly satisfied, motions to his companions. He pulls the boat through the rocky passage, climbs in, and the clerics motor off.

  Mabatan emerges from the rushes, her face grim. “I have seldom seen another traveler on these waters. Now clerics in powered boats appear. We must abandon this route and go on foot.” Without hesitation, Mabatan ensures her boat is well-hidden and sets off through the lush rust-colored rushes. Staying low, she follows the narrow lake, Lumpy and Roan close behind.

  Roan cannot dislodge the ravaged corpses from his mind. So ruthlessly killed, by the soldiers of the City, men called clerics. What if they’re looking for him? Could Stowe have seen him in the Dreamfield? Or perhaps that vulture spotted Roan and sent out an alert. Whether or not that’s the case, anxiety presses him to exercise supreme caution.

  Hands covered in small cuts from the sharp-edged leaves and soaked with sweat, at dusk they seek a brief respite from their arduous trek. Mabatan and Lumpy are about to settle into a small clearing, when they notice Roan shifting anxiously.

  “Smell that?” he asks.

  Lumpy and Mabatan silently join him as he makes his way through the foliage to the water. Dozens of bodies lie scattered over an embankment.

  Dizzied by the sight, Roan starts to count them. One, two, three... eight, nine... thirteen, fourteen... twenty, twenty-five...

  He counts every person, hoping to make some kind of sense of what he sees, make the deaths less anonymous, even though he knows there is no sense to be made. Counting does nothing; nothing can give a massacre meaning. Thirty-seven. Thirty-seven people lost their lives here.

  Mabatan’s face has gone pale. Lumpy’s breath catches in his throat. For several minutes, no one speaks. Then Mabatan turns. Beyond the shore, at the crown of a knoll, stands a village. A village without movement, without sound, without light.

  “Silenced,” whispers Mabatan.

  “Why?” asks Lumpy.

  “That only the City knows.”

  “Somebody may still be alive.”

  Mabatan gives Lumpy a doubtful look. “They do not leave survivors.”

  “Someone may have had a chance to hide. Maybe children,” says Roan, embracing Lumpy’s hopefulness.

  “The moon is nearly full,” Mabatan informs them, exasperated. “We must leave before it rises and travel in the shadows.”

  Lumpy looks at her, eyes awash with grief. “We can’t just leave the bodies.”

  Looking at Roan and Lumpy’s determined faces, Mabatan sighs. “You are both right. We cannot leave without honoring these lives. I was wrong to think only of our safety. I thank you for reminding me of who we are.”

  The three share a somber look, the task they’ve agreed to take on weighing heavily on their hearts.

  The swollen moon hovers over the village, and the three friends stand bathed in its unearthly glow. Exhausted from the sorrowful labor of consigning the dead to the lake, they join in speaking the prayer of passing:

  That the love you bestowed might bear fruit

  We stay behind.

  That the spirit you shared be borne witness

  We stay behind.

  That your light burn bright in our hearts

  We stay behind.

  We stay behind and imagine your flight.

  Picking up their packs, they move cautiously up the hill.

  “They had no wall to protect them,” says Lumpy.

  “Maybe they figured they had nothing worth coming this far to take,” Roan says, thinking of Longlight.

  “They were wrong,” Mabatan utters with a dour finality.

  Careful to remain invisible and silent, they approach the cluster of buildings, seemingly untouched by any act of violence.

  “Fine craftsmen lived here,” Roan whispers. “Each stone was squared and fitted. Look, no mortar was used.”

  Coming to the first house, Lumpy runs his finger along the junction of two stones, admiringly. Roan looks inside to see breakfast dishes in the sink, beds unmade, a pot of beans soaking by the stove.

  “It must have happened early morning,” observes Mabatan.

  “Why, though?” asks Lumpy, taking in a row of child-sized shoes by the door.

  Roan shakes his head sadly. “Does there have to be a reason?”

  It’s not until they’ve explored every home and come at last to the community building that Lumpy finds his answer.

  Unlike the residences, which were left unscathed, the interior of this building was savagely ransacked. Benches, chairs, and tables are strewn everywhere, the tapestries on the walls torn and thrown into the dust. Moonlight spilling through the windows reveals the inky stains of blood sprayed everywhere.

  Roan breathes deep, trying to slow his heart. “This is where they were all executed.”

  “And this must be why,” says Lumpy, straddling a hole that floorboards had once clearly covered. A candle and a firestone are secured under one edge. He hits the rock on the sharp bit of metal hanging at its side, and lights the candle with the spark.

  A ladder leads them to a large, once hidden room. Even in the flickering candlelight, the room’s purpose is apparent. There are cribs for babies, a feeding table, a play area filled with toys for small children. Mabatan runs a hand over the wooden trains, rag dolls, dress-up clothes, and building stones.

  “How many kids do you think they had in here?” wonders Lumpy.

  “At least six. All ages,” she states, without looking up.

  Lumpy picks up a counting stick, and moves the beads up and down, an almost absent expression on his face. “So... the clerics came for the children. They took them and killed the adults as a warning. And that’s why they left the bodies exposed, as a message to anybody who passes. Give up the few or we take all.”

  Something on the wall catches Roan’s eye. Taking the light from Lumpy, he moves closer. When he makes out what it is he’s seeing, he reels, nearly dropping the candle.

  It’s a picture of a girl. Her clothing is extravagant, regal, her smile angelic, and benevolence seems to radiate from her. Her hand is slightly lifted, as if she’s about to gently stroke the head of the viewer. At the bottom of the picture are two words: OUR STOWE.

  Roan gapes at it, uncomprehending. He moves closer, taking in her eyes, her mouth. He leans his head on the wall, close to his sister’s image. “She’s growing up.”

  Lumpy says nothing until Roan has stepped back again. He tries to sound out the words, something Roan’s been teaching him. “Our... St... Sto... Stowe,” Lumpy reads. “Our Stowe. Like she belongs to everyone.”

  Mabatan lays her hand over the image and closes her eyes. “This picture was left by the cl
erics.”

  Roan’s stomach burns. “It’s like saying she’s responsible for this.”

  “Like she is the City,” Lumpy adds in grim agreement.

  Mabatan shrugs. “She might not know anything about what’s happening.”

  “I wish I could believe that.” The sound of motors echoes across the water, silencing their conversation. Roan reaches out to the wall, touches Stowe’s picture, and scrambles up the ladder after the others.

  Taking no chances, they crawl to the door. Peeking around it, they can make out two boats in the distance, silhouetted in the moonlight. “We run for it?” asks Lumpy.

  “Past the buildings, to the other side of the fields,” whispers Mabatan, and disappears into the shadows just as an arrow meant for her thuds into the stone beside them and blasts apart.

  “He must have night glasses,” Roan says, pulling Lumpy behind the doorway. “Saint had some, a gift from the City. They won’t need much light to find their target.”

  Another arrow soars through the doorway, smashing into a pillar behind Lumpy, and sharing a quick look, he and Roan charge off.

  The roar of the engines cuts out. The clerics are on land. Doubled over, Roan and Lumpy run through furrows of cornfields too young to provide much cover. With arrows whistling past them and the shouts of their pursuers close behind, they weave across the rows of plants in hopes of throwing their pursuers off course.

  Lumpy falls. Hard. “I’m alright, keep going!” he shouts as Roan rushes to him.

  “Don’t be stupid, your foot’s caught in a hole!” Roan grabs Lumpy’s leg, heaves, then heaves again.

  “And I used to think gophers were cute,” Lumpy winces as his mud-covered foot finally dislodges.

  “Can you run on it?”

  An arrow thuds into the ground between them.

  “Absolutely,” says Lumpy, and he’s off in a flash.

  The clerics are already crashing through the corn when Lumpy and Roan spot Mabatan crouched by a large tree stump, signaling them to hurry. As she reaches between the thick tree roots, they hear something click. The ground on the far side of the stump opens, just wide enough for a person to fit through.

  “Lie flat, your packs between your legs. The tunnel will be tight and steep.”

  Lumpy puts his legs in, sets his pack, and slides out of sight. Roan does the same. Weaving and looping through the ground, the tunnel is at times so narrow it scratches his nose.

  Suddenly, after a second of free fall, he thuds heavily into a roughly hewn room to find Lumpy already struggling to his feet. The ceiling is barely high enough for them to stand, the walls covered in a series of holes much the same as the one they used to enter. A gas flame flickers, providing an eerie bluish light. A reassuring thump behind them means Mabatan’s made it in safely.

  “Pretty handy escape hatch. Did you build it?” Lumpy asks her.

  “No,” she replies, her voice flat. Roan notices that her eyes are darting from hole to hole. Within seconds, figures slide out into the blue light. Waxen skin, smooth earless heads. Their pink eyes narrow and they slowly rise, moving closer, baring their fanged teeth. Blood Drinkers.

  THE TRAILBLAZER

  BLESSED BE THE TEN,

  PYRAMID OF LIGHT

  BLESSED BE THE SEER

  HIS GUIDANCE, OUR SALVATION

  BLESSED BE OUR STOWE

  WHO BREATHES NEW LIFE INTO OUR HEARTS

  —LITURGY OF THE CONURBATION

  “STOWE... STOWE... CAN YOU HEAR ME?” Stowe’s eyes open blearily to see Darius peering down at her. His smile tests skin already stretched past its limit so that his lip curls up, exposing his small incisors. Where is she? How long has she been unconscious?

  “I can hear you, Seer,” says Stowe softly. “I almost brought you back a present.” The sadness in her voice is genuine. Best to tell the truth; who knows what he might have discovered.

  Darius is pleased. “A present?”

  “One of the Eaters. But the thing irritated me so much, I killed it. I am sorry.”

  Darius’s milky eyes barely conceal their sparkle; excitement trembles beneath the steady calm of his voice. “You killed it? Are you sure?”

  Ah, he didn’t think she could do it. Make it seem easy. “I crushed it in my hand. It was dead.”

  He ponders each sentence, savoring it, turning each over in his mind.

  “Have I done something wrong?”

  “On the contrary. Killing an ether form with your bare hands, this is good news indeed.”

  Could it be no one’s accomplished this before? Stowe knows the Dreamfield itself can consume lives, and so can the Constructions the Masters have made within it. But to kill in hand-to-hand combat appears to be something new. It must have been the energy from the Wall, the light coursing through her, that amplified her strength. “What about the corporeal body?” she wonders aloud. “Is it dead too?”

  Darius laughs. “They are part of the same whole, my Stowe. If one dies, the other passes also or, at least, ceases to function in any meaningful way.”

  “It was a lizard, the one I killed.”

  Darius, usually so restrained, gasps with delight. “Ferrell! Finally we are rid of him.”

  “How old was he? What did he do?” Stowe hungers for details about him, wanting proof he was the enemy she thought he was, to justify, perhaps even magnify, her triumph.

  “He would have been a little older than Willum. A tactician,” Darius purrs. “One of the designers of their Wall.”

  “You’ve met him?”

  “My Stowe, I have never set eyes upon him. What I know is based on our intelligence. And this I can say with authority: Ferrell was a great threat, a scheming, word-twisting, treacherous opponent, and his loss to the Eaters will immeasurably weaken their cause. You have made us proud. Now you must tell me of your experience in its entirety. I want to hear every minute detail.”

  Stowe dutifully describes the Wall, careful to leave out her absorption of the energy. She tells of the cloud that almost trapped her and how her attackers rose like demons from the sea.

  As she finishes, she realizes she’s been unconsciously stroking her abdomen. It tingles where the lizard clawed into her. Lingering effects from the bite? Or maybe it’s not the wound at all, but an aftershock where the light penetrated her form more deeply and intensely.

  “Are you alright, my darling?” asks Darius. He’s being more doting than usual and she’s no longer naive enough to think that these attentions are benign.

  “Yes, fine, thank you,” she says, hoping to appear stoic. He must not find out what’s happened; it’s her trump card. No one else is capable of entering the Wall and coming out unscathed. Only she has real knowledge of what it offers, and what she knows is precious little. She needs to know more. She needs to go back. “Father, I felt strong, so strong. You have taught me well. But now, I am so tired.”

  “Yes, of course, rest, my Stowe, rest. Then we will celebrate you, my dearest. You most certainly deserve it.” He strokes her hair, blessing her with a look of... pride? Triumph? Her killing of the Eater pleased him. Is this how he plans to use her? She manages a slight look of bliss before she closes her eyes. The power of the Wall must be hers. It will be. Her wellspring. Her treasure trove. Their demise.

  The Grand Epulary is reserved for the Masters’ celebrations, a stark, imposing room with high vaulted ceilings and massive skylights. Its austere design belies the wealth assembled here. When Stowe enters, the applause is deafening. Every man and woman is standing, no mean feat, for most are ancient, their decrepitude barely kept at bay. She scans their faces. Their transplanted eyes are riveted on her. They are all here, the forty-one Masters of the City. How delightful. All that newly replenished blood pumping through artificial veins—she can see it throb beneath the skin grafts that strain their corpse-like smiles.

  She bows and raises her hand magisterially. “Thank you, esteemed ones. Your appreciation fills my heart with joy.” Stowe then puts her ha
nd to her heart, pausing for effect. All of them in one room. Does she have the power to burst all their skulls with one scream? Perhaps, but first she must be certain. She will preserve this thought as a future pleasure to savor. It could be amusing, imagining all the varied ways in which she might obliterate them.

  “You are my elders.” She pitches her voice perfectly: respectful, yes, but with the vibrant power of her youth pulsing beneath each word. “And I thank you for your kindness. Most of all, I must thank the Keeper of the City, Archbishop of the Conurbation, The Great Seer, my godfather, Darius. It is to him we owe all our good fortune.”

  More applause. They will always applaud, long and loud, for Darius. Especially when his eye is upon them. Bowing her head, she sits demurely between Darius and Kordan. Darius squeezes her hand. “You owe nothing to anyone, my sweet,” he whispers under the applause. “You were born to be where you stand today. I only provide the proper environment for your talents to blossom.”

  Stowe strokes his hand as the first course is set before her, an asparagus and endive salad. Her favorite. Mesmerized by the variance in the greens, her head begins to throb. The plate begins to waver as if she were seeing with two pairs of eyes. She braces herself against the table.

  “Is everything all right, Our Stowe?” asks Kordan, an arch coldness in his voice. He’s jealous of her triumph. His place by Darius’s side hangs by a thread. And that thread is her willingness to have him there.

  “The kitchen must not have been aware of my allergies. I cannot eat this,” she smiles sweetly at Kordan, the lie like sugar on the tip of her tongue. “Could you return it, honored teacher, and ask that they prepare something else?”

  She’s pleased to see her demand has made Kordan blanch. Yes. He must accept his new place in her scheme of things.

  “Apologies, Our Stowe. Someone will be punished for the oversight,” he hisses, and sweeps away.

  She can feel Willum’s eyes burning into her. He’s leaning against a pillar, a drink in one hand. His face seems relaxed but his eyes never leave her, a sure sign of irritation. She wishes she could ignore him. The reason for his displeasure is transparent. Why must she always leap to strike at Kordan, like a spoiled child? And why will the throbbing in her head not stop? It’s like a screw twisting into her brain. She squeezes her temples with her fingertips, pushes hard, trying to stop the ache. Her hands go clammy, the back of her neck flares, her legs tremble.