The Forever Hero (77 page)

Touching his tongue to the side of the special tooth, the gaunt man, the rail-thin man who had carried the title of Eye for too long, sighed. Sighed again, and touching the side of the tooth with his tongue again, read the cryptic message a second time.

“Devilkid home. Exact location unknown. Energy consumption indicates probability of lift less than five percent.”

Eye frowned. No probability involving Gerswin could be that low, not with the resources and ingenuity involved.

He tried to relax the muscles in his face, but failed.

Despite the power squandered in the deployment of three squadrons, despite the continuing use of energy such deployment required, and despite the sacrifices and efforts of the overstrained Service as a whole, Gerswin had gone home. Just as the man had done whatever else he wanted. Gone home and left a devil's brew behind. Gone home, brushing aside the Service as an inconvenience.

Although he had left the foundation behind, the administrator was dead in a strange fire, and the records were blank, except for scraps that confirmed Eye's worst fears. The bank records, those few that Eye could reach, only confirmed the confirmation.

The gaunt man touched the golden call button.

Unlike his predecessor, he would not wait to be called by the Emperor. He had already waited too long.

Then again, it had been too late before he had taken the reins. Calendra had known, but neither he nor the Emperor had believed Calendra.

The Earl of Selern touched the call button and began to wait.

Onull crouched at the base of the largest boulder between her and the demon. She shivered in the fog that had swept in off the northern sea, the fog that the doc had said would come because of the black demon that twisted eyes.

She had not seen the demon when it had flown over the huts and into the hills the day before. Devra had, and now she would not speak of what she had seen. Devra had seen and refused to come back to tend the southern flock.

That was why Onull was there, crouched into as small a ball as she could make herself, hoping that the demon would not notice.

Like the other youngsters from Wallim's village who had been in the forest, gathering, she had smirked behind her hand at Devra's tale, and at the visions seen by the old women who sat in the square by the well. She had even volunteered to watch the flock the next day, until Wallim decided who the new shepherd would be. Watching sheep was far easier than grubbing and gathering in the muck of the woods.

Then, just moments before, the ground had trembled beneath her feet, and she had run for the rocks, her mouth agape as the flat cliff had split in two and revealed a dark cave down to whatever depths the demon had come from.

She shivered again, waiting for the demon to come and take her, afraid to move, for fear any motion would call her to the attention of the monster.

The fog continued to swirl in from the not-too-distant sea, wrapping itself around the hillocks and dropping from the higher hills as it flowed inland.

Onull hoped its grayness, and the tattered gray garment that was her cloak, would shield her.

Click, click, click, click
.

She shuddered at the metallic sounds, drawing herself closer to the boulder, wanting to look, and afraid to look.

Rurrrrr…clunk
.

The ground vibrated under her feet, and she glanced upward.

Through the mist, she could see that the gray cliff face was smooth, totally smooth, as it had been through all her life.

She shuddered.

Who else but demons could make caves appear and disappear in solid rock?

Click
.

She finally peered around the boulder.

At the base of the sheer cliff stood a figure, seemingly in black, looking out toward the sea, though it could not be seen, Onull knew, except from the very top of the hill above the cliff, and then only on a clear day.

She darted another look, ready to duck her head behind the stone that sheltered her should that black-clad figure turn her way.

It looked like a man, a slender man with golden hair, but with demons, doc said, you could never tell.

The demon man turned toward her, and she flashed behind the stone before he could see her.

Click…click
.

Her heart began to pound as the terrible steps moved toward her, and she wanted to run. But her feet would not move, and she curled into a ball at the base of the stone that had not sheltered her enough.

Click, click, click. Click, click
.

She could hear it coming around the boulder, as if it knew she were there, searching her out.

Click. Click
.

The footsteps paused, and she could feel the burning gaze of the demon as it penetrated her thin and ragged cloak. But she did not move.

“So much fear. So much. Best not…”

Then its voice deepened.

“If you wish to live beyond the instant, promise yourself you will not speak of this moment and this meeting.”

Though the words sounded strange, she understood. She shuddered, but said nothing. Knowing she would never, could never mention what she had seen, even if the demon had not bound her.

Click, click. Click. Click
.

The awful steps died into the fog, echoing ever more faintly through the stony hillside, until at last the demon was gone.

Onull scraped herself into a sitting position, shivering, wondering if she would ever feel warm again, and wrapped her cloak more tightly about her as she stumbled back to the village.

The man whistled as he walked south along the dusty trail above the river, pausing at times to stop and to listen, but always resuming his steps toward the southern mountains.

The patches of lifeless ground were fewer in the higher reaches, as were the twisted trees and stunted bushes. Occasionally, as he viewed an area where house trees flourished or where the ecological recovery seemed well along, he nodded.

Before him, the trail veered left abruptly, away from the river. He stopped.

The reason for the path's change of direction was clear enough from the purpled ground, the scraggly growths, and the tumbled bricks and stone. He peered over the low rock and rail barricade at the desolation.

After completing his cursory study, he paused again, letting his ears and senses take in the environment around him, alert for any sounds or indications of movement. The waist-high undergrowth that surrounded the path was silent, and from the forest that began a good hundred meters up the hill, he could hear only the distant sounds of a single jay. Farther away, there was the intermittent caw of a croven.

The dust of the path showed day-old scuffs of a wide-tired wagon, the kind pulled by the traveling peddlers who brought Imperial and Noram goods into the back reaches of the continent.

His right hand on one rock post, he vaulted the rail barrier and landed lightly on the purpled moss. In a dozen quick steps he was down the hillside and in the shadowed hollows of what he assumed had been some sort of factory or commercial establishment. Farther downslope he could see the cracked pavement of the old highway, the sterile strip that hugged the eastern bank of the river, without even the traces of that scruffy purple grass that struggled up in all but the worst polluted areas.

Off came the backpack, and from it two thin canisters.

Picking spots with shelter and soil, no matter how contaminated, he planted two minute seedlings. Next came the pouch with the capsules.

He lifted his head and estimated the area. Three capsules, one of the spores and two of the virus. He pricked the first, the catalytic virus, and scattered the contents with a practiced motion. Within weeks the improvement would be dramatic.

After repacking and reshouldering the black backpack, he took another dozen long steps and scattered the contents of the second capsule, the spores. On the far end of the sundered complex, he released the contents of the third and last capsule.

Although his journey was more survey, more for personal satisfaction and knowledge, while his supplies lasted, he would try to provide an additional boost to the most blighted spots.

As he had suspected, once he crossed the factory site, the path returned to its previous course paralleling the river. Again, he vaulted the makeshift rock and rail barrier to continue his southward trek.

“Just a regular jonseeder,” he murmured as he stepped up his pace.

In time, the slender man in the dark olive singlesuit reached a junction where a larger trail, nearly a road, emerged from the forest and met the river path to form what appeared to be a major route southward.

He wondered if he should have donned his black cloak as he caught sight of another traveler. A heavyset man, who had appeared from a shadowed section of the wider trail shadowed by the overarching trees, waddled down the gentle slope toward the river and the man in olive.

“Yo!”

The waddling man, who resembled the extinct walrus in his brown leathers and flowing mustache, hailed the man with the pack.

The slender traveler waited.

“Yo!” hailed the bigger man again.

The slender man who waited returned the greeting with a wave vaguely akin to a salute, but said nothing until the other was within a few meters.

“Beg your pardon, but I speak the local tongue poorly.”

“No problem,” exclaimed the overflowing man. “No problem. Panglais, then?”

“That would be better,” returned the other in Panglais, “if you do not mind.”

“Fine! Fine! All the same to me. Language is language, I say.” He shivered and looked at the faint sun, strong enough to cast shadows, but struggling nonetheless to disperse the high gray haze.

“Would that words could warm as well as the sun should. And you, a peddler of some sort, I bet. That or a pilgrim, heading south and over the deadly mountains to the fabled southern shrines.”

“No. Just a traveler, seeing what I can see.” His ears had picked up the rustles in the underbrush. He gestured generally as he spoke and placed his hands so that his thumbs rested on the wide equipment belt.

The walrus man gestured in turn. “Werner D'Vlere, at your service. Minor magician, basso profundo, and bon vivant.” He carried but a small satchel of scuffed brown leather that, in general terms, matched his jacket and trousers.

The traveler inclined his head. “Magician?”

“A bit of sleight of hand, a few jokes. Enough to guarantee a meal or two from the small clumps of cots that call themselves towns.”

The traveler said nothing, but nodded, as if to ask the magician to continue.

“And you, my friend the traveler, how do you pay your way through these backward reaches?”

“Somehow, I find a way. Usually I perform services.” He shifted his weight and stepped to the left a pace. The rustlings continued, though more quietly and slowly.

“Services? Well, I would suppose that a traveler such as you would have some skills that they would not have.”

“I manage. Better some places than others.”

While the sounds from the underbrush had stopped, the traveler was aware that the individuals who had created them were alert, quite alert. Either the pair in hiding had no energy weapons, or deigned to use them on a lone traveler.

He stepped toward the heavy man, stopping less than a meter away.

“Will you introduce me to your friends?” He gestured toward the underbrush.

“Alas, you have seen through my sleight of hand.” A small projectile pistol appeared in the left hand of the leather-clad man. He gestured with his right hand, and from the shoulder-high brush rose two youngsters, both in leathers stain-darkened in blotches to create a camouflage effect.

“May I see your pack, if you please? And gently, please. If you would put it—”

Like a spring wound nearly to the breaking point, the traveler uncoiled, his hands blurring from his waist, and his body moving sideways at the same speed.

Thunk! Thunk! Thunk!

Three silver flashes creased the heavy riverside air, and the traveler crouched beside the body of the walrus man, the projectile pistol in his own hand.

He stood.

The two youngsters looked down, openmouthed, at the heavyweight knives buried in their shoulders, knives that had struck with enough impact to force them to drop the long knives they had carried.

The traveler nodded at the two.

“Come here. Leave the knives on the ground.”

As they edged toward him, he studied the pair, still listening for the telltale sounds that would indicate reinforcements.

He realized that the one on the left, as they converged from their spread positions, was a young woman, and that they were related, probably brother and sister. Their eyes differed from earth-norm, not like the hawk-searching of the devilkids, but more catlike, with a reflected luminescence that suggested night vision.

“Sit down.”

He pointed to a spot for each. Then he tucked the gun into his waistband, and eased the pack off, ready to drop it and disable either or both if necessary.

He pulled out what he needed and set the pack on the ground, out of the way.

“Speak Panglais?”

“Yes.” That from the woman, scarcely more than a girl.

He nodded at the other youth.

“Yes.”

“I'll take the knife out and treat the wound. If either of you moves, I'll kill the other.”

He smiled at the confusion his remark caused, knowing instinctively that each would want to protect the other.

He started with the young man, not out of reverse chivalry, but because he couldn't count on the brother's good sense if he began with the woman.

The knife came out simply enough, since it wasn't barbed. The weight and design were for initial shock value and reusability, not for cruelty.

Next, he sprinkled some bioagent into the wound and covered it with gel.

“That's it. Muscle tear is pretty bad. Should start healing immediately. Won't have any infection if you don't mess with the gel. Don't touch it.”

The youth twitched when he pulled the knife from the sister, but said nothing as he treated her wound as well.

Then he retrieved the third knife from the body of the dead man, cleaning all three quickly and replacing them in the sheaths hidden in his belt.

Standing and stepping back, he surveyed both siblings.

Dressed identically, with black hair, cut roughly at shoulder length, pointed jaws, cat-green eyes, smooth chins, and virtually no body hair, he guessed. The man's features were marginally heavier than the woman's, and his legs, under the loose leather trousers, indicated thicker muscles.

“What should I do with you?”

“Don't turn your back,” suggested the man.

“Do you really think you could move faster than I can? Heard you all the way down the hill. Remember, you had your knives in hand. I did not. Also, I chose not to kill you. Could have.”

“You sleep,” observed the girl, ignoring the implications of his statement.

“Bad assumption.” He paused. “What about your defunct friend?”

“No friend.”

“Pardon. Former employer.”

“We had no choice.”

“Oh? And you talk about surprising
me?
” The traveler raked them with his eyes. “What do they call you here? Devilkids? Nightspawn? Devilspawn? Fire-eyes?”

The two looked at each other from their cross-legged positions on the dusty flat where the three paths joined, then back to the slender blond and curly-haired man, seeing for the first time his own hawk-yellow eyes.

Their glances dropped away from the intensity of his gaze as he pinned first the man, then the woman.

“Here?” she asked. “There are others?”

“There are always others.”

“Will you take us to them?”

“Not now. My path does not lie in that direction. Might call me a pilgrim. The heights.” He pointed up the river toward the unseen mountains that lay over the hills and beyond the horizon, beyond the seemingly endless young forest through which the deadly river flowed.

Both shivered.

Finally, the woman spoke. “The trees disappear in the distant hills. No one lives there now. Not with the cold and the poisons.”

“I know. But that is where I travel. There and beyond.”

Silence stretched between the three.

The traveler pointed. “Stay here until you cannot see me. Then do what you will. But do not try to surprise me again. I know your step.”

Both dropped their heads, though they still watched him. The traveler knew they would wait until his steps had taken him clear and out of sight.

While he had time, perhaps forever, he did not like delays on his road to nowhere.

With that, he shouldered his pack. With quick strides he was close to fifty meters up the river path before the pair looked at each other.

Shortly, the two were lost over the hill and behind the gray haze that had dropped onto the region.

He wondered what their names were, or if they had any, and whether they would follow.

He began to whistle another of the newer double-toned songs he had composed as he crossed the continent. The older ones he tried not to remember too often.

After a time and a number of songs, he looked back over his shoulder, down the winding stretch of trail, for it now had narrowed so greatly it could scarcely be called a path, toward the two figures who marched as effortlessly as he himself.

He shook his head.

“Damned fools.”

But he stopped and waited, and as the light began to dim, they approached the scrawny tree under which he sat. Both walked slowly now, showing open hands, palms up as they neared him.

Finally they stopped.

He stood.

“Yes?”

“I am Tomaz. My sister is Charletta.”

“You may call me Gregor. Close as anything these days. Now that the pleasantries are over, what do you want?”

“We would like to travel with you. Or until you find others. Others like us.” The woman's voice was light, with an odd huskiness he found appealing.

Careful there, he told himself.

“How do you know I'm not an evil magician?”

“You are not.”

“If you say so.”

He spread his hands, palms up.

“Onward, then. For a place to sleep.”

“There are caves farther up,” offered Tomaz.

“Best offer so far. Lay on, McTomaz.”

“McTomaz?”

“Let's go.”

He shook his head.

Always trying the singles game, and always someone seemed to come along and join up. Not that it didn't work out, but never quite as he had imagined.

No, never quite as he had imagined.