Matt Archer: Legend (10 page)

“You sure this is the place?” Johnson asked, cutting Brandt
a scathing glance. I wasn’t the only one suspicious of the guy, apparently.

Twi nodded. “Ahmatku live here. His wife, she want to meet
you. She been asking after Captain for a time now.”

Asking for Brandt? Just how long had he kept this woman
waiting?

Brandt spat some tobacco out, not looking the least bit
bothered by Johnson’s glare. “Well, better late than never, right?”

I’d never wanted to punch him so badly. “And let’s not be
a-holes about it, either.”

“Matt…” Mike said, warning me off. I shrugged. Johnson was
starting to lose patience with Brandt. Mike would, too; hopefully before it was
too late and we were surrounded by monsters because Brandt did something
careless.

Twi led us into the encampment. A group of boys were playing
soccer on a barren field outside the perimeter of the houses and their shouts
rang out, loud and happy. It was so familiar I had to smile—just a pickup game
in the neighborhood. But the differences were striking. The boys wore
mismatched clothing that didn’t fit any of them well—pants too short, shirts
too baggy—and all of them went barefoot. I felt self-conscious in my
thick-soled boots and custom-tailored camo.

They stopped the game to watch us file past. Every boy had
light brown skin, dark eyes and a ready smile for the soldiers. Most of them
were elementary or middle school aged and they stared at us with open
curiosity, at least until I passed by.

One by one, the smiles left the boys’ faces. I tried to look
friendly, harmless, but their eyes widened and they stood utterly still,
staring at me. Without a word, Twi stopped, holding his arm out so I couldn’t
go on.

“Greet them,” he murmured.

For the first time, Twi lost his “I’m here to please”
expression and tension radiated off of him in waves. Something was wrong, that
much was obvious. Not wanting to start an international incident, I did what he
asked. Feeling like a statue on display, I stood up straighter and faced the
boys. “Hi, guys. What’s up?”

The largest boy called something out to the others. They
nodded and murmured to each other. Then the littlest guy, he couldn’t have been
more than seven, darted forward and saluted—banging his small fist against his
chest over his heart. I shot a look at Mike. He shook his head, mouthing, “no
idea.”

All the boys followed the little one’s lead and saluted,
too. Freaked, I said, “I don’t know who you think I am, but you…you don’t have
to do this.” I pointed at Mike and Brandt. “They’re the ranking officers. I’m
nobody important.”

“Oh, but you are,” a voice cracked with age said. “And we’ve
been waiting ever so long.”

The woman had white hair, but her skin was smooth and
wrinkle free. Still, I got the feeling she was older than any of us could
guess, even if she didn’t look it. The liveliness of her eyes and her proud,
straight posture reminded me of someone, too. Or maybe it was the sense of
power that surrounded her.

She reminded me of Jorge.

The boys darted past us and gathered around the woman,
laughing. They jumped and bounced on their toes like a pile of puppies while
reaching out to touch the hem of her patched shirt. In response, the woman laid
two fingers on each boy’s forehead. Once acknowledged, the boys ran for the
huts, flashing bright teeth.

She smiled as the last boy scampered away, shaking her head.
“Always so eager for blessing. Their youth is a gift.” She turned to me.
“Welcome. I am called Zenka. My husband was a chief to this village. I carry on
in his place.”

Her English was heavily accented, but I understood her
perfectly. The others seemed to be straining to catch what she was saying,
though. I nudged the knife-spirit. “You translating for me?”

Something like innocent whistling filled my head.

“Yeah, right,” I muttered. “And that thing about ‘you’re
going to find out soon’ from earlier? Does Zenka have anything to do with
that?”

More whistling, but this time Tink sounded gleeful, like I’d
been caught in a practical joke. Zenka watched me with a knowing smile, almost
as if she was in on it. Kind of unnerving, to tell the truth.

“Your name, child?” she asked.

“Yeah, uh, hi. I’m Matt Archer, and I’m part of a special
paranormal division for the U.S. Army.”

“A wielder,” she said. “We’ve heard of you.”

A little shiver ran down my back. “Um, okay.”

As I introduced the rest of the crew, Zenka’s gaze rested on
Brandt longer than the others. She studied his face, much as she studied mine
when she first walked up. I don’t know how, but it seemed like she recognized
us. I shared an uneasy glance with Brandt. Something very strange was going on.

Zenka led us into the village, taking us to a hut at the
edge of the circle. It was small, made of old wood, and smelled of smoke, even
from outside. We wouldn’t all fit inside, so she had us wait out front while
she rummaged around.

She came back out carrying a walking stick. “Better. Come, I
have much to show you. We’ll talk on the way.”

“Where are we going?” Uncle Mike asked. None of us liked to
walk blind into anything, especially with some strange lady we just met. We’d
learned too many hard lessons that way.

“The caves.” Zenka patted Uncle Mike’s arm. “You have
nothing to fear. Come, come.”

Without another question, Mike shouldered his pack and
followed Zenka. The others gave him wary glances and Lanningham asked, “Sir? Would
you like me to do a sweep first?”

A tingling at the base of my neck told me to go with her.
“The knife says it’s okay.”

The others shrugged and followed Mike’s lead. I didn’t
bother to tell everyone the knife-spirit wasn’t always a hundred-percent trustworthy;
she’d just get offended and give me a headache. Plus, we’d waste time. Zenka
was weird, but she knew something important and I wanted to hear what it was.

We left the village, heading into deep grasslands. The paths
were narrow, and the grass heads kept getting caught on my pack, my knife’s
handle, my clothes. From the muttered cursing behind me, I gathered everyone
else had the same problem. Zenka glided through the waves of grass without so
much as a snag. Oh, yeah, she was definitely like Jorge in that respect. Nature
got out of
her
way.

“Ahmatku, my husband, he saw visions of times coming. Of
people, too.” Zenka said over her shoulder. “They were grounded in stories
foretold long ago. That’s why I’m taking you to the caves. To show you what our
people prophesied in the days before history.

“There are symbols there, things that tell of approaching
darkness. Ahmatku went to the caves again and again, seeking meaning. I believe
he found it just before he died. It all goes back to the symbols.”

“How did your husband die?” I asked. I knew, but I wanted to
hear it from her.

“The darkness killed him,” Zenka said, her bright eyes fixed
on mine. “In the shape of a lion that walked—and spoke—like a man.”

That confirmed it. Brandt had failed his mission here; the
monsters found the shaman before we did. Would we ever find out what this man
wanted us to know? Or was it lost now? And, if so, was that because Brandt
didn’t do the legwork he was supposed to do? Or was his faith in the
knife-spirit too weak?

We topped a small hill. Thirty yards ahead was a series of
small caves, their mouths barely big enough for one man to pass through at a
time. Caves and I had a bad history, and I shuddered, but that was nothing
compared to Lanningham’s reaction. His eyes went wide and wild and he backed
away several steps, stumbling into Johnson.

“Maybe I should stay out here,” he said. His voice was
higher than normal, cracking at the end.

Brandt snickered. “Sergeant, you’re too big to be scared of
the dark.”

I shot a glare at him. He had no right to poke fun. Had
Major Ramirez been here, Brandt would’ve seen what a real fear of caves was…and
for good reason. Ramirez probably would’ve smacked Brandt down for his asinine
comment, too.

Zenka laid a hand on Lanningham’s arm. Instantly his wide
shoulders relaxed and she smiled. “That’s better, yes? Come, the caves are
shallow. You need not fear.”

Lanningham nodded and walked right in like a sheep led by a
shepherd.

The one-eighty in his behavior made me pause. Zenka had
touched Uncle Mike earlier, too, when she suggested we follow her out here. He
had put on his backpack and followed without question after that. Did she have
some kind of persuasive power? Apprehensive, I trailed them inside.

Zenka was right; the cave was shallow and not very tall,
maybe seven feet, and enough sunlight streamed inside to give it a twilight
vibe. More interesting, though, were the walls. Prehistoric drawings were
painted onto nearly every surface: hunting scenes, ceremonies, a group of women
skinning an antelope—daily life type stuff. The paintings were faded and the
style was old, simple and crude. It was like the cave drawings in my history textbook
had come to life right in front of me.

“Here…this one.” Zenka pointed to a drawing dominating the back
wall.

The scene was two-feet tall by four-feet wide. An upside down
pentagram had been carved into the rock on the left side, and it’s center
pentagon was painted black. At each point of the star, some kind of monster or
demon stood. At the top, two creatures. One looked like the Gators we’d fought
in Peru. The other was a giant winged creature, resembling the Zoroastrian’s
fallen god—the one Parker and I had killed in Afghanistan. At the side points
were drawings of a humpbacked creature with talon-tipped hands and feet, and a
great lizard breathing fire. But it was the bottom point that made me gasp. The
figure was indistinct, a blur, but built like a powerful man. It carried a
spear ending in a hooked point. All the creatures appeared to have been painted
a long time ago, faded like the other drawings in the cave, all except the
blurred figure. Its black enamel shone in our flashlight beams.

My hands shook. It was the Shadow Man from my nightmares…the
same smeared figure the professor said he’d seen in the missing physicist’s
office. These ancient people had seen or knew about the Shadow Man. How could
they have known about him? Were they in league with this thing?

I looked around wildly, half-expecting a platoon of demons
to emerge from the walls. Tink gave me a steadying nudge.
The taint here is
old, weak. The power is long gone. You need not fear this cave. Other caves,
perhaps, but not this one.

Not the best of reassurances, but my breathing slowed.

“Is someone restoring these paintings?” Uncle Mike asked,
pointing at the shadow man. “That one looks fresh.”

Zenka grinned, revealing three missing teeth. “Oh, no. These
figures are very old. Each generation has been taught never to touch the dark
figure. Its paint runs like blood if you do, and your hands burn.”

Holy crap. “No touching. Right.”

She pointed at me. “What about the other figures? What do
you see there?”

A right-side up pentagram had been carved across from the
first one, and it’s center pentagon was white. At each point was a man. They
were in various positions, crouched, standing with an arm in striking position,
lunging. Each one held a knife.

Brandt sucked in a breath behind me. “Look at the top.”

The top figure stood tall, feet apart. His head was tilted
upward, as if receiving instruction from the heavens, and he held the knife
aloft, pointing at the sky. Lines emanated from the blade, like rays of light.
He was painted white, and the paint was as fresh as the dark figure’s.

“It’s… us,” Brandt whispered.

“Yes,” Zenka said. “One of the dark, one of the light, you
see? Come back to my home, I have more to show you.”

I stumbled along at the back of the group. Five wielders,
five knives. We’d seen the Gators and the winged creature. But what about the
lizard or the taloned giant? Did this mean we’d have to fight those, too? And
what about the Shadow Man? After my nightmares, I knew a time would come when I
had to face him.

The prophecy of the knives pounded my brain. Born of the
ground, tied to the heavens, meeting their
brothers
in combat for men’s
souls. That’s what Jorge’s people believed, and why they worked for so long to
bring the knives into existence. Then there were the Zoroastrians, with their
notion of a savior fighting to end the dark. And what about that tale from the
professors in Canada, about the Iroquois and their boy leader?

Now we had Zenka with her ancient cave drawings. All these
cultures—these very different cultures—had legends depicting the same thing,
evil spirits doing battle with their equals on the good side.

What did this mean for the team?

What did it mean for
me?

My doors were flat blown off by the time we reached Zenka’s
hut. She gestured for all of us to sit on the ground in front of her home.
After disappearing inside for a minute, Zenka returned carrying a large,
leather-bound sketch pad. “Ahmatku’s. He studied the caves, couldn’t seem to
get them off his mind toward the end of his life. Shortly before he died, he
had a series of visions about the men, the blade-carriers. And he started
drawing what he saw.”

She flipped the book open. The first picture was a
half-sketched face. The head was shaped kind of like Brandt’s, but the features
weren’t drawn in, so it could’ve been anyone with a slightly large noggin.
“This one he couldn’t ever quite finish.”

Brandt grunted. “Pretty.”

Uncle Mike glared at him. “Show some respect.”

Zenka flipped the page. “How about this one?”

This man’s face was fully drawn in. Aristocratic nose,
slightly buck-toothed, with a buzzed flattop haircut. Uncle Mike leaned
forward. “My God…that’s Parker!”

Jorge was next, his sharp cheekbones and dark eyes fully
captured. He crouched by a fire, wearing his regular outfit of field pants and
tunic, along with a mysterious expression, and he had his knife clutched in his
left hand. The handle was even right – solid black.

Then Ramirez, standing, head
cocked to one side. His knife hung loosely from his fist, the hint of the black
markings on the white handle showing through. His dark hair, his build,
everything was perfect, almost like Ramirez had posed for the portrait.

“The four points,” Zenka
said. “Guardians of the elements—of the earth herself. Protectors of the
people.”

She leaned forward, catching
our eyes in turn. “But there is one more knife-carrier. The one we call the
Sentinel. The guardian of the spirits, he who watches over that which gives us
life—the keeper of light. The one directly opposed to the dark Master, who
gives nothing but death. The Sentinel leads the four points, the guardians.”

Sweat ran down my back as
Zenka flipped the last page. Unlike the others, this sketch was done in color.
The man in the picture was about eighteen, maybe nineteen, and he wore
desert-hued fatigues. He stood proud, with his chin up, clutching the white
bone handle of his knife in his right fist. Brown hair, shaved in a close-cut
buzz. Dark blue eyes.

Tiny silver pentagram
tattooed on his right wrist.

The world blacked out and
suddenly I was fifteen again, leaning against a tree in the jungle on a
pitch-dark night. Seeing a vision of myself leading a strike force against a
dark army. Looking exactly like the man in the portrait.

“Jesus,” Mike breathed.

“No, not exactly,” Zenka
said, rasping out a chuckle. “But someone who certainly carries our lives in
his hands.”