torg 01 - Storm Knights (13 page)

The ferry slip on the far side of the river was no longer there. The Mountie post and the restored Hudson Bay Company trading post were no longer there. The small town had been obliterated by a huge, growing stalk, half a mile wide, rising in a gently curving arc, and disappearing high in the dark sky.

The sound of the engines on the ferry stopped, and the boat, caught in the current, began drifting downstream. The ferry was still close enough for Macklin to see the high-cheekboned, Slavey Indian face of the pilot through the glass of the windows in the small wheel-house, and he could see the faces of the two deckhands, who had been leaning against the bow railing. The pilot, with the quick, head-turning movement of a man confused by his surroundings, dashed from the wheel-house and to the port rail, staring fixedly at the giant stalk that had smashed into Fort Providence. As the boat spun in the current, the pilot ran from port to starboard and back, trying to keep the mutant plant in sight.

The deckhands joined the pilot in his fixation on the stalk, which they now saw was actually hundreds of stalks and vines and leaves twisted together. As the boat drifted farther downstream, they leaped over the rail and began swimming toward the north shore of the

river. The current carried them swiftly away and Macklin soon lost sight of their bobbing heads and splashing arms.

"What in hell is going on?" Macklin asked vainly of the horse beside him. For answer, the horse neighed loudly and shook its head as its ears and nose caught the sounds and smells coming downwind from the people and creatures stepping off the stalk on the far side of the river. The horse reared and tried to bolt. With his left hand, Macklin pulled down on the reins, bringing the horse's flailing forelegs back to earth. He grabbed a handful of mane, pulled himself up and flung his right leg over the back of the horse.

As he seated himself in the saddle and fought his feet into the stirrups, he was better able to control the frightened animal. He brought the horse to a snorting, stiff-legged standstill and stared at the plant bridge — which was what his mind decided it was when he saw the things walking off of it.

What Macklin had assumed were people because of their upright stance turned out to be reptiles of some kind. But there was more than that stepping into the remains of the town. Macklin saw tusked, hairy, elephantlike beasts dragging large travois piled high with leaf-wrapped bundles. At the edges of the mass of lizard people were large, tawny creatures that moved with the sleek grace of hunting lions. Some of the lizards rode on the backs of one-horned beasts that looked to Macklin like the pictures and reconstructions of dinosaurs he had seen.

Macklin's horse began to chomp at the bit and stomp and curvet in its aversion to the alien smell of the beasts on the other side of the river and to the tight rein that Macklin was keeping. To calm the horse, Macklin ran him a short distance back and forth along the river bank, while always focusing his own eyes on the exodus on the site of the smashed town. He watched the creatures walk west and east along the northern bank of the Mackenzie, and he watched them move northward, away from the river.

"Easy, boy," Macklin spoke softly while he made mental note of the numbers and types of creatures coming off the bridge. He knew the officers down at the Hay River post were going to want details, not some panicky story about lizard men, mastodons, saber-tooths, and dinosaurs camping along the Mackenzie. It was some time before Macklin noticed that there was someone on the other bank, watching him. That the creature watching him was intelligent Macklin knew just from the intensity of its interest in him. That the creature was not human was also obvious from his saurian face and body. "Uh oh," Macklin muttered to his horse.

Then the saurian waved with one of its clawed forelimbs, gesturing behind, as if calling someone forward from the mass coming off the bridge. Silent in the

distance, what looked like two winged reptiles flapped into the air and headed across the river, toward Macklin.

"Shit," said Macklin. "I think it's time to go make our report."

He reined his horse to the right and spurred him into a gallop, heading southeast along the shore of the river, not following the bottom half of the Yellowknife Highway but taking the shorter way across country to the town of Hay River. Macklin had the horse at full gallop along the grassy bank of the river, and he had his service pistol in his hand, when the first winged lizard reached him. Half turned in the saddle, the Mountie saw that one of the lizard people rode atop the winged creature. The lizard man menacingly held a spear at the ready, preparing to throw it at Macklin.

With his arm extended and the pistol aimed just to the left of the protruding breastbone of the lizard man, Macklin squeezed the trigger. The recoil kicked his hand upward. The report echoed off the surface of the river. The lizard man screamed wildly; it fell to the ground, crunched into a boulder, and lay unmoving. Macklin yelled in triumph, spurred his horse and galloped on.

The second winged reptile flew high and ahead of Macklin. Judging its angle of attack, it clapped its leathery wings closed and plummeted hawklike at Macklin, with its taloned feet opened and ready to grasp. Macklin aimed his pistol forward over his horses head and fired. He missed. His second shot, close upon the quickly fading sound of the first, blasted off the top of the creature's skull, splattering blood and brains onto the seated lizard man.

Before the dying winged reptile crashed to the ground, the lizard man launched his spear. The spear flew into the chest of the galloping horse, burying itself halfway up the shaft. The forelegs of the horse collapsed and it began to tumble headlong to the ground. Macklin let his pistol drop to the end of its lanyard and used both hands and all the strength in his arms and shoulders to haul back on the reins, trying to keep the horse's head up, trying to keep him from running into the ground.

But the horse went down. Macklin pulled his feet from the stirrups and rolled over the horse's neck and head as the horse crumpled and its kicking legs churned up the grass and soil. Macklin made it to one knee before the pain of broken bones and torn flesh hit him like grating, tearing fire in his left shoulder. He lurched to his feet. Slumping, he retrieved his pistol into his hand and waited.

He could see where the flyer had landed, but there was no sign of the lizard man. He cursed himself for losing sight of it when the horse went down. But he didn't have to wait long for it to show itself.

Rising from behind a boulder was the tall lizard man. It roared joyously, then began to bound toward the wounded officer. Macklin aimed with pain-blurred vision, fired, and missed. He fired again, at close range. The bullet hit the left arm of the lizard man, but it didn't slow the creature. If anything, the beast seemed to relish the pain.

"If you like it, monster, I've got more where that came from," Macklin cursed through clenched teeth.

Already his reflexes were slowed, and the biting pain threw off his concentration, so the next two shots were wide of their mark. Then the lizard man was upon him. Its claws ripped at his stomach, and its teeth tore at his face. It pushed downward on the arm holding the pistol, and Macklin's last shot thudded dully into the ground. While the lizard man amused itself with Macklin's body, the now-riderless flyer landed atop the broken-legged, screaming horse, and calmly tore out its throat.

The exodus over the bridge into what had been Fort Providence continued while Macklin's blood flowed onto the ground, and over the next few days. Five tribes of edeinos spread sixty miles to the northwest, along the north bank of the Mackenzie and fifty-five miles to the northeast, along the north shore of Great Slave Lake. Using the Yellowknife Highway, they managed to travel nearly eighty miles toward the provincial capital at the town of Yellowknife. They had not yet found a ford that would allow them to cross to the south bank of the Mackenzie. They would, though, and the edeinos would continue to spread, following the waterways and valleys of the north.

When the optants connected with the trees and other living things of nature, all the beliefs of the Jakatts flowed into the land, making it their land and the land of Lanala. What few Indians were left in the territory quickly succumbed to the spirits of the newcomers, and in their minds, life was as it always had been and always should be. If one of the locals ever dreamed some vague dream that the gods had changed names and shapes, he would shrug, on awakening, and know that the gods were the gods and could do as gods chose.

And, as they settled, the edeinos and their new tribe members prepared the land for the planting of the gospog. For this was the will of their Saar, Baruk Kaah.

40

At Trenton, Father Bryce and his companions caught up with the refugees. They were fleeing the madness that had claimed New York as its own, running from the marauding lizards. There were other working vehicles on the roads now, so the van did not stand out as it had in Manhattan and Newark. But the group decided to keep Tal Tu out of sight, just in case the refugees turned ugly.

In Bristol, Alder turned the van into a gas station/ convenience store. It appeared closed, abandoned. Still,

Alder parked near the pumps and shut off the engine.

"We're running low," he said, "and who knows, maybe there's still some in the lines. We won't know unless we try."

As Alder prepared to work the pump, Coyote eyed the convenience store. Its windows were smashed, and much of the merchandise appeared to be missing.

Coyote shrugged. "We won't know unless we try."

Alder smiled, and Coyote, Rat, and Tal Tu ran over to take a look.

But something more important caught the priest's eye. Across the road was a liquor store. It looked to be in worse shape than the convenience mart, but it was possible that something was left inside. He started toward it.

"Where are you going, Father?" asked Alder as he examined the pumps and hoses.

"I'm out of wine," he called back, "without wine or hosts, how will I comfort the dying?"

The liquor store was a mess of smashed glass and powerful smells. Not only had the display window and door been smashed in, but every shelf and rack had been overturned, every case emptied. Bryce carefully stepped into the gutted building, making his way around the interior.

Sip by sip, he thought, the blessed wine he carried in his mass kit had moistened parched, moaning lips, and finally run out. If he could find something — anything — to replace it with, he would feel much better. As he shoved the glass around the floor with his foot, he happened upon an unbroken bottle. He reached down and clutched the fifth in his hands. Reverently, he lifted it to examine. It was a bottle of Mogen David.

"I'll take that."

The voice startled the priest, and he nearly dropped the precious bottle. But, though he fumbled with it, he managed to hold it tight as he turned to see who spoke.

Standing in the broken doorway was a large, blonde-haired man dressed in dirty work clothes and heavy, metal-tipped work boots. On his right forearm was the tatoo of a cobra, poised as if to strike. Bryce's gaze drifted to the man's hand, which clutched a large, serrated hunting knife.

"Come on," the man said, "unless you want me to cut you?"

Bryce stammered, trying to explain that he needed the contents of the bottle for the dying souls he was sure to still encounter. But what came out was an incoherent mumble that was part fright and part gibberish.

"Maybe I'll cut you anyway," the man said as he shuffled forward, brandishing the blade.

Bryce looked into the man's eyes and saw bottomless pools of madness that frightened him more than any weapon ever could. He handed him the bottle without being asked again, letting his overcoat fall open.

The man studied the bottle label for a time, then looked at Bryce's soiled, white collar that peeked out of his open coat.

"You're the priest," the man exclaimed.

Bryce only nodded, as he was still unable to find the words to say, and he had no idea where this man knew him from.

"I've never killed a priest," the man said, and Bryce swore that in that instant the man's eyes lit up. "But I don't want to deal with all your friends, too."

He shoved the bottle back at Bryce. "Take it and get out of here, Father."

As the priest cradled the bottle and pushed his way carefully past the tatooed man, the man said, "We're a lot alike, Father. We both send people on their way." The man looked again at the bottle Bryce carried and added, "I hope it does somebody some good."

Me, too, thought Bryce as he looked at the label on the bottle. Maybe sending people on their way with a taste of sweetness was not such a bad idea.

"Maybe next time we'll try it the other way, Father, " the man called as Bryce left the building. The priest ignored the remark and continued to walk, hoping that the tatooed man could not see how badly he was shaking.

When Bryce returned everyone else was back in the van and the motor was idling. Bryce climbed in and took his seat, not certain if he should mention his encounter.

"Father," Rat said, "Tal Tu has something for you."

The priest, in surprise, took the small carton the lizard man presented. It was a box of Saltine crackers.

"Hosts," said Tal Tu, and the priest smiled, forgetting all about the incident in the liquor store.