The Gypsy Morph (19 page)

He no longer needed to worry if he could find a way to summon the power of the Loden.

Its magic was coming awake.

He could feel it unfold like a flower and then work its way through him, an entwining of heat and light, a twisting of something alive. It was magic born of the Loden, but of himself, too. He could not explain how he knew this or why it should be so, but he could sense it as surely as he could sense the change happening. He opened his eyes, a quick peek. In the palm of his hand, the Loden was a glowing orb. Heat was rising and light spreading, the former filling him up, the latter encapsulating him. He experienced a moment of panic, but fought back against it and locked it away.

He closed his eyes once more. There was no point in watching. Watching only frightened him, a window on possibilities he would rather not consider. Whatever was going to happen, it was too late to stop it. The heat flooded through him, its temperature steady now. The light was all around him and still spreading. He could feel it, even without looking. It was stretching and reaching and gathering in the city, the Elves, the Ellcrys, everything that was fitted around and under and above them. He could see it happening in his mind, the whole of it, a miracle.

He was taking in deep gulps of air, panting hard with the effort. He couldn’t seem to stop. He tried to steady himself and failed. His body was responding to the magic’s invasion, adjusting perhaps. Or fighting back. He let it happen, but kept himself still. Until the wind started, howling around him like a winter storm, harsh and raw, blowing with a ferocity that backed him up a step, unprepared. He squinted, but there was nothing to see. The light had closed him away, and everything beyond was gone. He hunched his shoulders and gritted his teeth against the force of the wind, wondering what would happen if it picked him up and blew him away. He shifted into a half crouch, again wishing he knew more, knew what else to expect. But his ignorance was complete, and he thought in a moment of lucidity that perhaps it was better so.

The wind rose to a shriek, mind-numbing and bitter. Then its fury spiked, diminished, and was gone. All that remained was the deep silence of before, when he had first called up magic. He waited, uncertain. He could no longer sense the presence of the Elfstone’s light or feel its warmth. It sat within the palm of his hand, cool and still.

In the ensuing silence, he heard a series of gasps and sharp intakes of breath. He could feel the tension and shock radiating from all quarters. He opened his eyes in response.

He stood at the edge of a massive crater, shallow but so broad it stretched away down the slope of the mountain farther than his eyes could see. Everything that had occupied that space had vanished—the whole of the Elven community. Gone, every last vestige. As if a giant’s hand had reached down into the earth beneath it and scooped it away. He stared in disbelief at the scar that remained. At the emptiness. Even knowing what had happened, he could not bring himself to believe what he was looking at.

Nothing remained. His friends, his family, his home—virtually everything he knew from the whole of his life had vanished.

In the palm of his hand, the Loden Elfstone glimmered faintly. He could see traces of movement in its depths. Life.

His sense of loss collided with his sense of responsibility, and for a moment he was so overwhelmed he could not move.

Then Simralin was next to him, the Elven Hunters had closed about, and the Knight of the Word, Logan Tom, was saying, “We have to go. Quickly!”

E
VEN SO
, even though they started away almost as soon as Logan Tom urged them to, they lingered long enough to look back on the beginnings of the battle between the Elves and the demons. The enemy hordes appeared almost instantly, flooding out of the woods below the crater, thousands strong, a river no dam could hold back.
Once-men,
Logan Tom had called them. They were wild, unkempt things, humans turned into dark imitations of themselves, more animal than man or woman. Ragged, dirty, brandishing everything from lengths of pipe and jagged sticks to automatic weapons, they shouted and screamed their incoherent words of rage and frustration. They never slowed as they reached the crater’s rim, but simply kept coming, sometimes stumbling over its edge. Those that fell either rose quickly or were trampled by those that followed. A surging mass, they spilled into the bowl of the crater in a flood.

When they were halfway across, the Elves, concealed in the trees on one side, counterattacked. Hundreds of arrows tore through the demon ranks, a deadly rain out of the sky. They died by the scores, screaming as they fell, slowing those that followed and making them better targets for the hidden archers. At first the enemy could not understand what was happening. Even when they did, they could not determine the source of the attack. Hundreds more died as they slowed within the killing bowl of the crater, turning first this way and then that, easy targets for the Elven archers. Some fired their automatic weapons blindly into the trees. Some fired them into their fellows. The chaos and slaughter were indescribable.

But they kept coming anyway, and because there were so many the living finally surmounted the mounds of dead and reached the far side of the crater. There, within the shelter of the trees, they posed a flanking danger for the lines of Elven Hunters positioned farther down the slope, and so Arissen Belloruus was forced to pull back.

By now Kirisin and his companions were rushing up the slope toward the hot-air balloon, intent on getting away before the enemy got any closer. But even as they did so, they heard fresh shouts and cries from the trees to their right. The once-men had gone not just into the crater but around it, as well. In doing so, they had encountered the Trackers set to screen against any enemy approach, and the two forces were engaged in battle. Logan Tom, in the lead, called back to Kirisin and the others, urging them to hurry, to shift left, away from the fighting. Even as he did so, the boy saw movement in the trees ahead, shadowy forms scrambling to cut them off.

Simralin, trailing him by several steps, saw them, too. “Logan!” she called ahead, and at the sound of her voice the Knight of the Word immediately wheeled back.

In the next instant a small owl swooped down out of the trees, nearly colliding with Logan Tom, who flinched and then turned to watch the owl wheel away. Again, he started forward, and again the owl intercepted him, cutting him off.

He turned back this time and waited for the others to catch up before saying, “We have to change direction. The once-men are ahead of us. They must have begun encircling the city during the night. We can’t go forward. Take everyone left, Simralin, through those trees.”

He pointed to a towering stand of old growth that layered the earth beneath in shadows and climbed through an outcropping of rocks to the wall of the mountains.

“But the balloon is the other way!” Simralin insisted.

Logan shook his head, eyes shifting quickly, scanning the trees behind them. “We’ll have to leave it. They’ve probably found it. In any case, we can’t fill the air bag in time to make an escape. Do what I say.”

For just a second, Kirisin thought his sister was going to argue. She didn’t take orders easily. But Logan Tom was a Knight of the Word, and perhaps that proved the difference.

“Let’s go, little K,” she called to him.

They charged ahead once more. Behind them, Logan Tom was hanging back, protecting their rear. A scattering of figures burst from the trees. Elves. Trackers. Kirisin recognized Praxia and Ruslan. Then Que’rue and several more he knew appeared, as well.

Seconds later a wave of once-men charged into view, brandishing their weapons. One dropped to his knee and leveled a gun. Kirisin gave a short cry of warning, but Logan Tom was already bringing up the black staff. A blue bolt exploded from one end and sent the once-men flying backward. They landed in crumpled heaps and did not rise.

“Run!” he called up to the Elves, seeing them hesitate.

They did so, gaining the forest of old growth and rushing into its shadowy maze. They were not more than twenty strong, a small force against what appeared to be hundreds. Kirisin could see the movement of their shadows and hear the sounds of their approach. Farther down the slope, the battle between the Elven Hunters and the larger portion of the demon army had shifted from the crater into the trees and was moving their way, as well. The Elven lines were clearly broken, the weight of enemy numbers forcing the defenders to give way. How much longer they could stand against such a huge force was anybody’s guess, but Kirisin did not think there was much hope.

“Faster, Little K!” Simralin shouted in his ear, coming up on him all at once and giving him a hard shove.

He thought he was moving fast enough, but when Sim told him to go faster, he knew enough to do so. He redoubled his efforts, flying through the last of the trees. Behind him, he could hear the sounds of battle drawing nearer. When he risked a quick look over his shoulder, he caught a glimpse of combatants flooding the forest, fighting on the run, the Elves falling back as quickly as they could, the once-men trying to bring them down. The gap between them was narrowing, and the Elves’ forward progress had slowed as they struggled through the forest debris. The way ahead, beyond the tangle, seemed open, but it was impossible to be certain. Dozens of hiding places lined their passage—fallen logs, clusters of boulders and heavy scrub. The Elven Trackers saw the danger. They closed about Kirisin protectively, carefully warding him on all sides as they tried to look everywhere at once.

An explosion from behind caused all of them to slow and turn. Blue fire flooded through gaps in the huge trees, a wall of flames that momentarily blocked the enemy pursuit. Logan Tom was creating a protective screen for the fleeing Elven Hunters, providing them a measure of relief from the enemy pursuit. He stood against the rush as long as he could, then turned and ran toward them, his black staff dotted with brightly glowing runes that pulsed like white-hot coals. The Knight’s face was dark with purpose, and his eyes were dangerous. Kirisin looked away as he swept by and took back the lead from the Elves.

“Just ahead!” he called out to them.

Moments later they reached a clearing in which an armored vehicle sat waiting. Logan Tom released the locks and opened the doors, beckoning for Kirisin to climb inside. “Belt yourself in tightly, Kirisin,” he told the boy. “This won’t be easy.”

Then he was holding Simralin by the shoulders, a gesture so familiar and protective that Kirisin gasped. “Remember the plan, Simralin. Bring the King and rest of the Elves to Redonnelin Deep, down by the bridge. Everyone who’s left, bring them there. We’ll be waiting.”

Simralin reached up suddenly and touched his cheek. Then she was calling to Praxia, Ruslan, and Que’rue to climb into the vehicle with Kirisin. A pair of Elven Hunters joined them. Kirisin sat frozen in place a moment longer, and then he was out of the AV and running to his sister.

“What are you doing?” he demanded, seizing her arm. “You have to come with us!”

“I can’t do that, Little K.”

“What are you talking about? We have to stay together!”

“Not this time. Arissen Belloruus is risking a great deal for you. I have to stay to help him.” She reached down and removed his hand from her arm. Then she embraced him. “I love you, Kirisin. Now go!”

She shoved him away. “Keep my little brother safe!” she shouted over to Praxia and the others.

“But, Sim—”

“Go, I said!” she snapped, turning away.

“Wait!” he cried. Impulsively, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the blue Elfstones. “Take these.” He thrust them into her hand. “That way you’ll be sure to find me.”

“I can’t do that!” She tried to give them back. “They belong to you! They were given to you!”

“Well, now I’m giving them to you!” His hand closed over hers. “You can give them back when you find me again.”

“Kirisin, no!”

He was already moving away. “That’s how it is, Sim. You stay, the Elfstones stay with you.”

She started to say something more, then decided against it. She gave him a final look, a quick wave of her hand, and turned away, moving off into the trees where the bulk of the Elven Hunters were just appearing. She didn’t look back.

Kirisin rushed to the AV and climbed inside, still not quite believing he was going without Sim. Logan Tom scrambled in after him, closed his door, threw the locks, and started the engine. Kirisin shivered, not quite certain why. The Knight of the Word looked over at him, dark face set, unreadable. His gaze shifted almost immediately to the Elves in the back and then ahead to the road leading out.

“Hold on,” he said softly, and threw the levers on the dash all the way forward.

THIRTEEN

T
HE VENTRA 5000
lurched ahead through the trees at breakneck speed, bouncing wildly over ruts and holes, hummocks and fallen branches, its broad frame shaking and groaning, its big engine whining in protest. Trees whizzed past the vehicle occupants in a blur of dark vertical shadows, and the rising sun burned through the canopy of the forest in fiery flashes. Kirisin was gripping the armrests in preparation for an inevitable collision with something, but Logan Tom seemed to know what he was doing, even when there was every reason to doubt it. His dark face was angry and set as he drove, his eyes fixed on the road, his hands moving over the control levers and wheel with quick, sure movements.

“First time in one of these?” he asked the boy.

He never looked over, never changed expression, never showed the slightest interest in Kirisin’s answer. He just asked the question and kept driving.

“
Last
time,” the boy answered finally.

He gave the Knight of the Word a quick glance. Logan Tom was stone-faced. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

They struck a deep hole that caused the AV to pitch forward, jump up sharply, grind as if metal was tearing loose, and then gain fresh purchase and rumble on. The straps securing Kirisin had been wrenched loose, and he tightened them at once. He risked a quick glance over his shoulder and found Praxia staring at him from out of the Elves clustered in the rear seats. The young woman’s face was pale, her lips set in a tight line, her hands clenched in fists. But she gave him a wry smile.