Freewalker Read online

  ACCELERATING RAPIDLY, SHE CALLS UP ALL SHE KNOWS ABOUT THE RAMPARTS. IT WAS ON THIS BORDER THAT THE EATERS ONCE ATTEMPTED TO EXTEND THEIR TERRITORY. THE COLUMNS THEMSELVES ARE ALL THAT REMAINS OF A PREVIOUS STRUCTURE THAT PRE-DATED THE DISCOVERY OF DIRT. DARIUS SECRETLY REFURBISHED THEM, CREATING AN IMPENETRABLE BARRIER THAT PUSHED THE EATERS BACK AND HAS CONTINUED TO PREVENT FURTHER INCURSIONS.

  STOWE FLIPS OVER SO THAT HER DIAMOND LEGS ARE WHAT PASS BETWEEN THE COLUMNS. SPIKES BURST OUT, BUT WITH A FLURRY OF KICKS THE PROJECTILES SHATTER. THE MORE SHE DESTROYS, THE FASTER THEY COME UNTIL SHE IS A BLUR OF MOVEMENT, SHARDS OF METAL AFLAME ALL AROUND HER.

  CONSUMED WITH THIS ORGY OF DESTRUCTION, SHE ALMOST MISSES THE SCREECH OF THE VULTURE. SHE BACK-FLIPS AWAY FROM THE GIANT PILLARS, REJOINING HER TEACHERS.

  “WELL DONE,” SAYS WILLUM. THERE IS NO MISTAKING THE SWELL OF PRIDE IN HIS VOICE.

  “IT WILL BE A GREATER CHALLENGE WITH FULL ARMOR. WE’LL SEE HOW YOU MANAGE TOMORROW,” SNAPS KORDAN.

  Stowe rises from the glass chair and looks at her two instructors. “What is the mission I am training for?”

  Willum is silent. Kordan grins, relishing the hint of pleading in her voice. “As you’ve been told, only Darius has the authority to discuss this with you. And Darius will do so when he pleases.”

  Kordan’s tempting her to strike out, but she will not lose her discipline again, certainly not on account of him. No, all will come if she is patient.

  How she hates patience.

  MABATAN

  THE FRIEND COMMANDED THE PROPHET TO LEAVE THE WORLD AND PREPARE A WAY FOR THE ONE. AND SAINT SPOKE THE FRIEND’S WORD TO BROTHER WOLF SO THAT HE MIGHT CONTINUE TO PRESERVE AND ENFORCE IT IN THE PROPHET’S STEAD.

  —ORIN’S HISTORY OF THE FRIEND

  AT ROAN’S SIGNAL, Lumpy tosses in the packs, then delicately steps into the craft, careful not to capsize it. Once he’s seated, Lumpy turns to the boy. “I may look it, but don’t worry, I don’t have Mor-Ticks.”

  The boy looks at him curiously.

  “I mean, I did, but not anymore.”

  The boy shrugs, unconcerned.

  Lumpy smiles. “I’m Lumpy, by the way. And that’s Roan.”

  Roan puts one foot in the bow and pushes them off the shore with the other. Hook-sword in hand, he sits warily, unwilling to put all his trust in the musky smoke.

  “I am Mabatan. We travel until the sun sets.” Seeming to respond to an unspoken command, the boy turns the boat around, adroitly maneuvering through the narrow passageway between the plants. As the boy paddles, Roan admires the workmanship of the craft. Its skin is made of thin tree bark strips lashed to a wooden frame, so it’s light in the water, perfect for a shallow swamp. He moves his fingers along the craft’s smoothed edges, and takes a long look at the boy. The child of the visions, certainly, but much younger in appearance than Roan imagined. No more than eleven or twelve years old, he guesses. The boy’s dark hair is long and tied back, his tawny pants and shirt woven from rough fiber. His paddling is stronger and smoother than it should be for a child of his age. This is someone who fends for himself, Roan thinks, who probably spends all of his time alone.

  Emerging from the plant-infested waters, they’re welcomed by the glow of late morning sunlight. Roan lifts his head, enjoying the warmth on his face, and finally feels free to speak.

  “How did you find us?”

  “I followed the Skree.”

  “Is that what you call those plants?” asks Lumpy.

  “They are not plants. They are Skree.”

  “How long have Skree been in this swamp?”

  “They were here before my father,” the boy replies. “But they were smaller then. They had only begun to wake.”

  Roan stares at him. “Sentient beings?”

  The boy nods.

  Hanging his head, Roan murmurs, “I killed dozens of them.”

  “How were you supposed to know?” says Lumpy.

  “You did not kill any Skree. What was cut will grow back.”

  “That’s a relief,” Lumpy sighs, with half-concealed sarcasm.

  “You should know that your friend had won their respect.”

  “By hacking their heads off?”

  “By cleansing his mind. An attack on the Skree is impossible otherwise. Thoughts are what draw the Skree.”

  Lumpy mutters, “Those must’ve been pretty deep-thinking frogs.”

  “They are not drawn to frogs. They harvest frogs. But they like eating larger game better. Especially strong-smelling ones like you. The reek of dragonweed alone would have been enough to track you.”

  Lumpy laughs. “Do you have an extra paddle?”

  “You must rest. You have not slept. You have much more traveling to do.”

  “Not before we wash up, I hope,” says Lumpy. “Wouldn’t want to tempt any other creatures looking for an overripe lunch.” Then he opens his pack, takes out some bean sticks, passes one to Roan and offers one to Mabatan.

  The boy sniffs it. “Good,” he says, and starts chewing. He reaches down and lifts the lid of a basket. Inside are dozens of small, charred globes. “Eat.”

  Lumpy takes one and examines it. “Is it a larva?” he asks hopefully. Roan’s never shared Lumpy’s appetite for eating bugs and fervently hopes this food does not have legs that wriggle.

  “No, an egg,” replies Mabatan.

  Lumpy hands it to Roan, who happily pops the whole egg, shell and all, into his mouth. A couple of quick chews and he swallows. “Better than grubs,” he says, and with that pronouncement, Lumpy grabs a few and gulps them down. Stomachs soon full, their lack of sleep quickly catches up with them, and it isn’t long before the glare of the noonday sun reflecting off the water lulls them to sleep.

  A scraping on the keel wakes them. Roan’s eyes open as Lumpy groggily sits up. To their surprise, the western horizon already glows with the pale green haze that anticipates darkness.

  Lumpy gives Mabatan a suspicious look. “Did you put something in those eggs?”

  “Just eggs. The Skree made you tired. They always do. It’s in their dust.”

  “I sensed it,” says Roan, getting out of the craft and carefully stepping over the mossy rocks. “But I didn’t realize what it was.”

  “You were not meant to.”

  Lumpy grins at Roan. “Wow, he doesn’t just know what they are, he knows what they’re thinking.”

  Mabatan smiles. “He?”

  “Lumpy’s talking about you,” says Roan.

  Mabatan laughs, a sound like the tinkling of bells.

  Both Roan and Lumpy take another, closer look. “You’re a girl,” says Lumpy, astonished by their mistake.

  “I am a girl.” With an amused smile, she pulls the boat onto the shore.

  Seeming to not quite believe her, Lumpy leans in closer, then turning to Roan wide-eyed, he exclaims, “Look!”

  There, perched contentedly on Mabatan’s shoulders, are both of their crickets.

  “Remarkable,” Roan says, his voice filled with awe. There’s rarely been a time when Roan’s cricket has gone near another person, and he’s certain Lumpy’s shares that shyness.

  “They tell me they are fond of you both,” Mabatan says. “That is good.” Her face grows suddenly somber. “I have seen the little ones.”

  “Little crickets?” asks Lumpy.

  “The children,” she replies.

  “In Newlight?” asks Roan, barely able to contain himself.

  “Only their bodies remain there.”

  “What do you mean?” demands Lumpy.

  “Please explain,” Roan urges.

  “I can do more than that, Roan. I will take you to them.”

  “Are they with the Turned? In the Dreamfield?”

  “They are not where those who eat Dirt can go.”

  It’s much more than Roan had hoped for. But his excitement is tempered by just the slightest of doubts. Can he truly believe what she is telling him?

  As if reading his mind, Lumpy s
tares at the crickets on Mabatan’s shoulders. “The crickets wouldn’t go near her if she couldn’t be trusted.”

  “I am just a guide. Nothing more.”

  “That’s good enough for me,” smiles Roan.

  “I’d go in a second, too, if I could,” says Lumpy mournfully.

  “Whether you could or not, we would need you to stay here,” she says, patting her chest, “to look after our shells.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Good. Thank you, Lumpy.” Mabatan grins widely as she says his name, but when she turns to Roan her tone is more pressing. “We must make haste.”

  Mabatan leads them to a grove of huge, ancient red cedar and sits beneath the giants on the mossy ground.

  Lumpy looks up, admiringly. “Must be five hundred years old.”

  “Older,” says Mabatan.

  Roan and Lumpy stand quietly for a moment, appreciating the grandeur of the trees, breathing in their sweet fragrance.

  “This area, there’s something about it,” says Roan.

  “You can feel it. Good. This is an earth place,” says Mabatan. “Very special.” She reaches into the leather pouch dangling from her neck. Between her thumb and forefinger, she draws out a silver needle. Roan leans over for a closer look. Miniscule symbols are etched into the head. “Do those mean something?”

  “It’s the old language. It says, the earth remembers.”

  “What does the earth remember?”

  “Everything.”

  “What’s the needle for?” asks Lumpy.

  “It sings the path. Are you ready?”

  “Yes—where is your Dirt?”

  Mabatan’s eyes darken and she spits with a contempt that startles both Roan and Lumpy. “I eat no Dirt. I follow the call.”

  Roan has never met anyone else who can travel without Dirt. He watches Mabatan, fascinated as she pushes her needle’s sharp tip into the exposed edge of a thick tree root. Kneeling before the tree, she touches her forehead to its bark—almost as though she’s asking a favor of it. Then, drawing herself up, she strums the needle’s exposed end. A very quiet but clear tone slips into the silence. The tiny sound is penetrating; it echoes through Roan’s head, peals through his bones, and his whole body begins resonating, ringing, vibrating. It’s a feeling completely unlike anything he’s ever experienced.

  The reverberation suddenly thrusts forward out of his chest, generating a blistering heat that collapses him into a blinding flash of light.

  THE GROUND IS CHARRED AS FAR AS THE HORIZON. DUST, GRAVEL, GIANT STONES, ALL BLACK. ROAN’S EYES BLINK AT THE DARK EXPANSE AND HE ATTEMPTS TO TURN HIS HEAD FOR A LOOK IN THE OTHER DIRECTION, BUT HE CANNOT. HE CANNOT MOVE AT ALL. IT SEEMS HE’S CAUGHT IN ONE OF THE STONES. A SINEWY RABBIT WITH AZURE FUR JUMPS BEFORE HIM, NOSE QUIVERING.

  “HOW DO I GET OUT?”

  “DIDN’T YOUR FATHER TEACH YOU?”

  “NO.”

  “YOUR MOTHER?”

  “NEITHER OF THEM TOLD ME ABOUT THESE THINGS BEFORE THEY DIED.”

  “BUT YOU KNOW YOU ARE NEVER CHANGING AND ALWAYS CHANGING, DON’T YOU?”

  “THE DIRT EATERS TOLD ME I WAS GESTATING UNTIL I FOUND MY DREAM-FORM.”

  “YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT TO DO?”

  “NO, I DON’T.”

  “I WILL WAIT.”

  WHILE THE RABBIT BUSIES ITSELF CHEWING A TUFT OF GRASS, ROAN CLOSES HIS EYES AND CONCENTRATES, TRYING TO FIND HIS FORM WITHIN THE SOLID ROCK, STRAINING TO BURST THROUGH IT. HE FEELS THE EFFORT, CAN SENSE HIMSELF PUSHING, BUT IT’S USELESS. HE TRIES TO OPEN HIS EYES BUT CAN’T. THEY AREN’T THERE ANYMORE.

  BLIND AND CAUGHT IN A STONE. PERFECT. WHY IS IT THAT EVERY STEP FORWARD PUTS HIM TEN STEPS BACK?

  ROAN TRIES LOOKING AT THE PROBLEM THE WAY LUMPY WOULD: FIRST, HE WOULD MAKE A JOKE, SECOND, HE WOULD EXPLORE, AND THEN HE’D EXAMINE THE INFORMATION AT HAND. FINALLY, HE’D COME UP WITH A PLAN.

  RIGHT. WELL. FIRST OF ALL, THIS IS NO JOKE. SECOND, ROAN CAN’T EXPLORE. INFORMATION? THE GIRL—MABATAN, SHE’S NOT ONE OF THE TURNED, NOT A DIRT EATER, SHE HASN’T TRAPPED HIM, HE KNOWS IT, HE CAN FEEL IT. PLAN: HIS JOB IS TO GET UNTRAPPED.

  HE FOCUSES ALL HIS THOUGHTS ON THE SURFACE OF THE ROCK, PROBING IT, PRESSING IT, PULLING IT, NUDGING IT, USING ALL OF HIS MENTAL STRENGTH. PAIN RENDS HIM, AS IF HE’D BEEN RIPPING AT HIS OWN SKIN.

  HIS OWN SKIN. COULD IT BE THAT HE’S NOT TRAPPED IN THE ROCK—BUT THAT HE IS THE ROCK? NEVER CHANGING, ALWAYS CHANGING. ROAN CONCENTRATES AGAIN, FEELING THE ANCIENT SOLIDITY OF THIS FORM. THE COOLNESS. THE JAGGED EDGES. THE DENSITY. HIS ENTIRE BEING HAS BECOME STONE. STILL AND SLOW, THE WAY HE’S BEEN FEELING. WHAT ELSE CAN HE FEEL, COULD HE BECOME? ROAN PICTURES HIS HUMAN BODY, HIS HANDS, HIS FEET, HIS HEAD. AND IN THAT MOMENT, THE STONE TURNS TO FLESH AND RECONSTITUTES ITSELF. ROAN STRETCHES OUT HIS ARMS, FEELS HIS FINGERS. HE’S NO LONGER THE ROCK, BUT IN HIS OWN SHAPE. NOT THE CLAY MAN. HIMSELF.

  THE RABBIT LOOKS UP FROM THE GRASS. “YOU HAVE ARRIVED.”

  “IS THIS MY DREAM-FORM—MY OWN BODY?”

  “THIS IS NOT YOUR BODY. IT’S WHAT YOUR MIND MADE YOU.”

  “WHY DON’T YOU TAKE YOUR HUMAN SHAPE?”

  “I CANNOT. I AM NOT LIKE YOU. NO ONE IS LIKE YOU. YOU ARE ABLE.”

  “ABLE TO DO WHAT?”

  “WHAT YOU HAVE DONE. IT IS ONE OF YOUR GIFTS. COME.”

  THE RABBIT LEAPS. IT JUMPS SO FAR, SO FAST, ROAN ALMOST LOSES SIGHT OF IT. HE RUNS, BUT FALLS TOO FAR BEHIND. HE THINKS OF THE RABBIT, OF ITS SUPPLE FORM, ITS POWERFUL LEGS, ITS INCREDIBLE ABILITY TO LEAP IN THIS ENVIRONMENT. AND ROAN JUMPS, MATCHING ITS BOUNDS. HE’S SOON CAUGHT UP WITH MABATAN, WHO WAITS BY A HUGE FRACTURE IN THE GROUND, NEARLY AS WIDE AS THE HUMAN MABATAN IS TALL.

  “WHAT’S DOWN THERE?”

  “EMPTINESS.”

  ROAN WALKS, FOLLOWING THE JAGGED RUPTURE. IN THE DISTANCE, HE SEES A STORM PUMMELING WHAT APPEAR TO BE IRON STATUES STRETCHED ACROSS THE GAP. HE MOVES FORWARD, FIGHTING WIND AND LASHING RAIN. HE CAN MAKE OUT THE HANDS OF THE METAL STATUES GRIPPING ONE SIDE OF THE FISSURE. THEIR FEET ARE BURIED IN THE OTHER SIDE. THE FIRST STATUE’S HEAD PIVOTS SLOWLY ON ITS NECK. ITS LIPS CURL SWEETLY UPWARD. IT’S LONA.

  “WE KNEW YOU’D COME.”

  “ARE ALL OF YOU HERE?”

  “EVERY SINGLE ONE,” SAYS ANOTHER IRON CHILD.

  ROAN SEES HIS FACE. “BUB!”

  “HI, ROAN!” YELLS JAW, AND HIS VOICE IS FOLLOWED DOWN THE LONG LINE BY GIP AND RUNK AND JAM AND DANI AND THE OTHER SEVEN CHILDREN OF IRON.

  “I HAVE TO GET YOU OUT.” ROAN REACHES TO PULL LONA UP BUT SHE SCREAMS.

  “NO!”

  ALL THE HEADS OF THE IRON CHILDREN TURN SLOWLY TO ROAN. “WE HAVE TO STAY, ROAN,” SAYS BUB.

  “IF WE LET GO, IT’LL JUST GET BIGGER,” GIP TELLS HIM.

  “SO WE CAN’T LET GO,” ADDS RUNK.

  “GOT HERE JUST IN TIME,” SAKE PITCHES IN.

  “WHO BROUGHT YOU HERE?”

  “NOBODY,” LONA REPLIES.

  DANI NODS. “WE JUST CAME.”

  “WE KNEW WHAT TO DO,” BUB SAYS.

  “WASN’T HARD TO FIGURE IT,” SAYS JAW.

  “THE CRACK WAS GETTING BIGGER AND BIGGER,” GIP PIPES IN.

  “AND BIGGER AND BIGGER AND BIGGER!” SHOUTS LITTLE DANI.

  “WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME?”

  “HAPPENED TOO FAST,” JAW SAYS.

  “WE COULDN’T WAIT,” BUB ADDS.

  LONA’S EYES SHINE IN HER FACE OF IRON. “NOW YOU KNOW WHERE WE ARE, SO DON’T BE MAD, ROAN.”

  ROAN’S FACE SOFTENS. “I’M NOT MAD. I’M NOT MAD AT YOU AT ALL.” BUT TURNING BACK TO MABATAN, HIS GENTLENESS TURNS TO FURY. “WHO DID THIS?”

  THE RABBIT TWITCHES ITS EARS. “THOSE WHO EAT DIRT FIGHT TO CONTROL THIS PLACE. THEIR BATTLE HAS MADE THE RIFT. IF IT IS NOT STOPPED, THE RIFT WILL GROW. THE CHILDREN WILL BREAK AND BE LOST. THIS PLACE, YOU CALL IT THE FIELD OF DREAMS, IT WILL BE FORSAKEN AND WE WILL CHANGE. THIS VAST EMPTINESS THAT LIES BENEATH THE CHILDREN WILL OVERTAKE US.”

  ROAN CONSIDERS HER
WORDS, THE FIRST ANYONE HAS SPOKEN THAT HELP MAKE SENSE OF THE SITUATION. WHAT CHOICE DOES HE HAVE BUT TO TRUST HER?

  “WHAT CAN WE DO?”

  “END THE CONFLICT.”

  “HOW?”

  “I DO NOT KNOW. THIS IS THE STRUGGLE WE FACE.” A SHUDDER RUNS DOWN THE LENGTH OF THE RABBIT’S LONG BODY; ITS PINK EYES DART AWAY FROM ROAN’S. “THERE IS A PLACE THAT CALLS FOR YOU.”

  ROAN TURNS BACK TO THE CHILDREN.

  “GO, ROAN, GO!” SHOUTS BUB.

  “ROAN, GO, GO!” THE OTHERS CRY, ONE VOICE ECHOING AFTER THE OTHER.

  “WE KNOW YOU WON’T FORGET US,” LONA SAYS.

  “WE’RE STRONG!” HOLLERS BUB.

  “STRONGER THAN YOU THINK!” YELLS JAW.

  IS THIS THE FATE ROAN SAVED THEM FOR? THEY SEEM TO KNOW THIS IS WHERE THEY BELONG. NOT FOR THE FIRST TIME, ROAN WONDERS WHO THESE EXTRAORDINARY CHILDREN REALLY ARE. AND THOUGH IT FEELS WRONG TO LEAVE THEM HERE, IT’S OBVIOUS THERE IS NOTHING HE CAN DO FOR THEM—NOT HERE, NOT YET.

  “PROMISE YOU WILL CALL FOR ME IF YOU NEED HELP!” HE SHOUTS.

  “WE PROMISE!” THEY ALL CRY AT ONCE.

  RELUCTANT TO LEAVE, ROAN WAITS FOR THE RABBIT TO LEAP AWAY, THEN FOLLOWS HER TO THE EDGE OF A VAST EXPANSE OF WATER. MABATAN JUMPS, SAILING ONTO AN ICE FLOE. ROAN DOES THE SAME. AS THEY BOUND FROM FLOE TO FLOE, THE AIR BECOMES STIFLING. THE WATER AROUND THEM STEAMS. IN THE MIDST OF THIS ROILING, FOAMING SEA, THEY ALIGHT ON A JAGGED ROCK.

  MABATAN POINTS OUT THE NEXUS OF A WHIRLPOOL. “THIS IS THE WAY IN.”

  “YOU FIRST.”

  “IT DOES NOT CALL FOR ME.”

  “DOES IT MATTER?”

  “IT WILL HOLD ONLY THOSE TO WHOM IT CALLS. I WOULD NOT SURVIVE THE PASSAGE.”

  “BUT I CAN?”

  “YES. IT WOULD HOLD YOU, WHETHER YOU WERE CALLED OR NOT. YOU ARE A FREEWALKER, ROAN, YOU TRAVEL WHERE YOU WILL.”

  “IS THAT PART OF MY GIFT?”

  “SOME OF IT.”

  “YOU SEEM TO KNOW AN AWFUL LOT ABOUT ME.”

  “I HAVE SPOKEN TO THE CHILDREN, I HAVE FELT YOU. YOU KNOW MORE ABOUT YOURSELF THAN YOU WANT TO KNOW.”

  SCANNING THE RAGING WATER, ROAN EXPERIENCES A STRONG APPREHENSION THAT THERE IS SOMETHING BENEATH THE WHIRLPOOL, SOMETHING THAT IS DESPERATE AND THAT WANTS HIM.