The Way of the Black Beast (16 page)

Hours later, she woke and gathered her things. She made a funeral pyre out of the shack, and over Gregor's burning body, she vowed to kill Jarik and Callib for this and all the misery they had brought to her life.

"Malja?" Fawbry called. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," she said and leaned her head against the cool boulder. Whenever she thought about that day, the day that started everything, she rarely considered the man she killed. Her first. She always thought of Gregor and the vow and the man that got away. But her first kill had also been that day. That's the honor she had failed to ever pay.

She took a moment to remember his face — hook nose, small eyes, and a dark hatred on his brow. She knew nothing more about him than that frozen look, but it sufficed. She could feel the memory easing down inside her to a place where it would not plague her thoughts.

"How much farther?" she asked Fawbry as she walked around the boulder.

"A couple miles, I think, and we'll see the cabin."

Fawbry stretched out on the ground, and Malja sat next to him. Playing with a few rocks in the dirt, she knew her mind needed to refocus. She said, "The other night Tumus mentioned something about machines. That Cole Watts makes machines."

"Yeah, she did."

"She? I thought Cole Watts was a man."

"Not in the least," Fawbry said with a snicker.

"Oh? Did you have a relationship with her? Is that how you know her?"

"Absolutely. She's an incredible woman. I met her when I first came down here. She helped get me on my feet, helped me work through all my guilt over Pung."

"You're not together now. What happened?"

Fawbry's eyes darkened. "She's ambitious. I tried to be, too, but you know what? Nolan was right. Some parts of us can't be changed. I don't have the ruthless instinct required. By Kryssta, I couldn't even keep a gang of griffles together."

Neither spoke for a while. At length, Malja left to retrieve the horses. When she returned, she said, "So what about the machines? Is it true? Cole Watts is making machines."

Fawbry swung up onto his horse. "Probably."

* * * *

The ride was short. The afternoon sun barely began its descent. Fawbry pointed to the last hill, and when they crossed over, Malja saw the cabin.

The base had been built of gray and white stone. The rest used wood and a flimsy metal not often found this far from a city — Cole Watts would have had to carry it in on horseback. A gated, metal fence formed a perimeter. One floor, a porch, some windows, even a chimney. In a town or countryside, a cabin like this would be enviable even with the rust, the dirt, and the dents. Out here, such a thing was unfathomable. If Malja had not seen it, she would never have believed it.

They walked the horses a short way back and tied them to a tree out of eyesight. Then they approached on foot. Malja had Viper out and ready. She heard the wind, saw the shadow of a little creature darting under a rock, smelled the Freelands' usual odors of mold and decay. A patch of tilled soil made a rough square in front of the home, but nothing grew and nothing rotted. Just empty soil.

"Don't touch the fence," Fawbry said as they approached the gate. He picked up a rock and tossed it at the fence. The entire gate brightened as if reflecting the sun. A second later, when it had returned to normal, only a pile of dust remained of the rock.

"She's a magician," Malja grumbled.

"No. But she's always been fascinated by magic, and she's always tried to find ways for regular people to make use of it."

"So how do we get in?"

"As long as the password's the same, that'll be no problem." Fawbry winked as he pulled out his small copy of the Book of Kryssta. He searched for the correct page, leaned towards a meshed, circular object next to the gate, and said, "Password start —

We are fragile —

Without wonder, we languish —

Without knowledge, we suffer —

Without purpose, we perish."

The gate clicked open. Fawbry flashed a smile and led the way onward. They walked the yard without incident, but the fence and gate had heightened Malja's alertness. She would have pounced upon a bird if it had flown near her.

As they stepped on to the creaking porch, Malja listened for any signal of attack. She stopped at the front door and motioned for Fawbry to stay still. She listened. She scanned. She sniffed.

"I don't think anyone's here," she said.

"Of course not. That would've let me out of this mess." Fawbry banged on the door. "Cole? You in there?"

Malja shoved Fawbry to the side. "Just 'cause nobody's here doesn't mean you can't be heard."

"I'm going to assume you're referring to either hungry animals or Kryssta himself, both of which don't matter in this case. Let's just try the door."

The door opened without trouble, and after feigning shock, Fawbry entered. Malja scanned the outside one last time before following.

Inside, the cabin was sparse but tasteful. It reminded Malja a little bit of the shack she had lived in with Gregor. Though far more roomy, the place felt comfortable like a true home. It also felt wrong — the comfort did not exist for them. They were trespassers.

"This is Cole Watts's place?"

"I know it doesn't seem like it, but this is it." Fawbry pointed to a torn, yellow couch. "I slept there for almost three months. And that fireplace hated me — it always sent sparks flying in my direction. I swear it used magic. Didn't matter where I stood in here, a spark always found its way to me."

"How sweet. Where's Cole Watts?"

"Not here, apparently."

"I can see that much. Where would she go?"

"Could be anywhere."

Malja heard a clicking — a steady sound like a bird repeatedly poking between rocks in search of food.
Click. Click. Click.
Slow and silent, Malja edged around the room listening for the source.
Click. Click.
Fawbry heard it, too. He moved just behind Malja as she neared a closet door. Making as little noise as possible, she tried to lift the door latch. It popped up with surprising ease.

As she opened the door, the clicking grew louder. Old wood-plank stairs led into a dark basement. "We'll need torches, if we're going down there," she said.

Fawbry peeked over her shoulder. "Then let's not go down there."

"Just get some wood."

"Wait. She probably has something rigged for light." Taking tentative steps, Fawbry climbed down the stairs, all the while feeling along the walls with his hands. "Here we are." He pushed a button and the basement flooded with the pale light of magical electricity.

Malja went downstairs. The basement reminded her of being in Barris's mind — stark white room, stark white couch, stark white tables. This was no office, though. The tables overflowed with metal parts, colored wires, and strange equipment. All showed various levels of decay — some just tarnished, some rusting away. The air was cooler than above and smelled oily.

From a back corner, Fawbry called out. "Found that noise."

Malja walked over, careful not to disturb any of the metal contraptions. At Fawbry's feet Malja saw what looked like a metal arm ending in a sphere, the whole thing mounted on a wide, flat stand. The clicking noise appeared to correspond with the arm moving in a circle.

"What is that?" Malja asked.

"Don't know. Just another of Cole's machines."

"I'm glad Tumus isn't here. She'd think this is the end of everything."

Fawbry chuckled.

Browsing amongst the tables, Malja came across a doll's head. Wires poured from the neck and connected to a metal box with several buttons. Like water raging over a levee, a memory of Jarik and Callib splashed into her.

She had thought it no more than a toy. At seven-years-old she couldn't be expected to understand. Besides, her fathers presented it as such.

"See here, little Malja? See this button? This brings the machine to life," Jarik said, pushing a green button, and indeed, the machine sprang into motion.

It looked like a stick man with a doll's head on top. Over the coming years, she would learn its true purpose. It stood firm on its platform, but it could thrust attack, side parry, and weave its torso with amazing agility.

"Every day," Callib said, standing at her doorway, "you are to practice with this machine. This is in addition to the rest of your training."

"Cole Watts," Malja said, and Fawbry looked up. "She made all this?"

"She's very bright. But she thinks she can save the world. Bring us back to before the Devastation. I told her that there aren't enough people anymore. Cities like those of before — they need people to operate them. Lots of people. I doubt we have enough left in the world to man even one city."

"Is that why you left her?"

"She started trying to contact Jarik and Callib. Said she worked for them before, that they understood her, that they would help her change everything. It was pretty clear she didn't need me anymore."

"Doesn't look like she's been gone long."

"She might've gone to stock up on supplies. Maybe we should wait. See if she returns."

"Maybe," Malja said, wondering first if the doll head would sound like the one she practiced on long ago, and then if she wanted to hear that sound ever again.

"Look at this." Fawbry lifted a rusty frame from a pile of rusty frames.

"Looks like scrap."

"That's why it isn't. Cole likes to hide her work in plain sight. The shiny, impressive machines usually do the least. Something like this, though — it could be great. Maybe some super weapon for you."

"Or maybe just a frame for a painting."

"Who paints anymore?"

"Somebody must, otherwise, where do the paintings come from?"

"Very true. But in this case, very wrong. See here? There's a button on this frame."

"Don't —"

Too late. Fawbry pushed it. A high-pitched whine emitted from the frame. Fawbry placed it on the table like a father handling his baby and backed away. A clipped beeping began.

"That doesn't sound good," Fawbry said. The beeping quickened. "I think maybe we should —"

"Run!"

They raced up the stairs. As they reached the top, a loud whomp reverberated the floor and hot air pressed against their backs. Fawbry fell hard while Malja stumbled but regained her footing. Dust filled the air. Crackling like a healthy campfire seeped up through the floorboards along with thick smoke and intense heat.

Malja helped Fawbry to his feet and shoved him towards the door. He pushed back in the opposite direction. The smoke thickened fast. She saw only a hazy outline of the cabin. She tried to turn Fawbry around, but he swatted her hands away. He tried to speak and merely coughed into a hacking fit. But even as he coughed, he managed to point and Malja finally understood. She had been the one going in the wrong direction.

As they staggered outside, flames climbed the walls. She forced Fawbry to keep walking until she thought they had reached a safe distance, several feet beyond the fence. There they both collapsed — coughing, gasping, wheezing, and eventually breathing.

Fawbry sat up first. Malja watched as his face broke into the smile of someone relieved to be alive. She had seen that look many times; probably had it cross her own face, too. Often, the next expression became serious — either a heartfelt gratitude or a sober recognition of mortality. Neither came to Fawbry's face, though. Instead, he looked into the distance with dismay. And he raised his hands.

She knew it was too late but instinct propelled her to her feet. Five Bluesmen covered them with three handguns, a shotgun, and a guitar.

"Care for a song?" the guitarist said.

They rode in on horseback. Malja and Fawbry's hands tied behind their backs. The shotgun-wielding Bluesman towed them along, holding both of their horses' reins in one hand. Their captors made no effort to hide their destination. That troubled Malja more than anything.

From afar, the place appeared like an oasis — an extra-large farmhouse surrounded by acres of working farmland nestled amongst barren mountains. Two men handled livestock in a small but sufficient pasture. Farm hands tilled land, harvested food, fixed fences. A well-maintained stable stood near a wide barn. In every direction beyond — gray rocks, straining trees, dust and death.

The closer they came the more Malja smelled the fragrant farm aromas — most pleasant, a few rank. Even as she noted numbers of men and women, exit windows and doors, easy to climb terrain and dangerous spots to avoid, the smells lifted memories of Gregor into her mind. He knew a farmer nearby and would trade for manure to fertilize their garden. He would take their food scraps and dump them around their apple tree. If she wrinkled her nose at the odor, Gregor would look askance and say, "Just wait 'til you taste an apple from here. You'll want to toss everything onto the pile." Gregor said he had picked the spot for the shack because of the tree. Wide and gnarled, wrinkled with age, unlike any apple tree Malja had ever seen. And he had been right. It created the most delicious fruit.