"Myself! For my own good and for the good of my beloved ... people.” It grimaced at her again, then sobered. “You see, dear lady, there were three kinds of people who survived the Cataclysms.” He looked at her askance. “I assume you want to know what happened. I know, I would."

  Suzanne did not answer him, but merely nodded.

  A manic gleam touched the saint's blue eyes. “After the fires had burned out and the earth stopped shaking,” he said in loud, instructive voice, “the first kind died quickly of disease and biological contamination. Poor bastards. The second kind died a normal death, unscathed, but after a lifetime of struggling to survive. And the third kind prayed to die, but could not."

  "Skags,” Suzanne whispered.

  "Such an ugly term. We prefer the Others. The Others-of-Us, because that is what we are."

  Kyrk spun his chair around and wheeled to a small table set near the cot. He picked up something and hurled it through the iron bars. “There! The report. Read it! The painstaking, useless study on how human beings can live, undying, yet slowly change into ravenous, mindless monsters!” He pointed a skeletal finger at her. “Oh, yes, pretty Wordsayer, my metamorphosis is nearly complete. Soon, I'll be just like them."

  Nathan picked up the ancient report, a thick, spiral-bound stack of yellowed paper and retreated swiftly next to Suzanne. He handed it to her; his face a mask, white with guilt and shame.

  Kyrk watched the young Master of the Keep with a malicious gleam in his eyes. “Wisely done, boy. You wouldn't want to be lunch, now, would you?"

  Suzanne tugged the report from Nathan's hands and scanned the faded blue cover. There was no date on it, but it had been done on a computer. Whoever had written this had made an attempt to unravel the mystery of the skags from a biological standpoint—perhaps even find a cure for them. She looked at the pitifully deformed creature in the cage.

  "You have seen much in your long lifetime. Perhaps you knew Vandervelde?” she asked.

  The saint's reaction was immediate. He whirled away from the table and wheeled to the other side of his cage. “Vandervelde! That arrogant fool. Nearly got us all killed!"

  "You were with him?"

  Kyrk looked at her, anger contorting his disfigured face. “Yes, we were with him. He was the one who knew everything; knew how to survive in the wild and how to build shelters. It was he who promised he would lead us east, over the mountains to a new life where we could start over. Except most of us didn't make it.” Claw-like fingers reached for a small picture frame on the desk. He touched the faint image gently. “It took them all so fast ... there was no time to find an antidote. I buried my poor wife in the mountains."

  Suzanne's heart seemed to stop pounding for a moment. She took a hesitant step toward him, until Nathan caught her arm, cautioning her not to go any closer. “Then ... it was you who wrote the diary, the Sacred Text. You also wrote that note."

  Beneath the ancient, decaying flesh was a man who still had a heart, who clung to the shreds of his humanity. The mad light faded from his gaze.

  "Yes, I did.” His ragged voice took a softer edge to it. “It helped me keep my sanity. I felt if I could just write down my thoughts, I could sort it out later. Vandervelde promised me that when we got to a safe place, I would have the time and the means to do more research—find a way to stop this terrible thing that was destroying so many people. Maybe, I would find an antidote for all the contamination and the toxins.” Kyrk slowly lowered his head to his hands and grew silent. A tear slid down his pocked cheek.

  Suzanne thumbed open the report and read the title page. “'Study on Prolonged Aging, Concurrent with Rapid Morbid Physiological Metamorphosis in Humans', written by Dr. Andrew E. Kyrk. You wrote this, didn't you?"

  Kyrk nodded. “Little good it did anyone. The city soon lost all electricity—no lights, no power. Food was scarce, all the livestock animals were dying and the water was contaminated. Those of us who could travel, packed what we had and headed east. Then, Karl Vandervelde showed up, formed a caravan and led us over the mountains to this place ... what was left of it. He should have known the contamination was on this side, too."

  Nathan, who had been listening to the exchange between her and Kyrk, cleared his throat. “I do not understand, Holy One. If you wrote the Sacred Text, the diary, then who was the first Messenger?"

  Suzanne limped back to the rock wall where she found a small stool hidden in the shadows. Painfully, she eased down onto the stool, rubbing her aching thigh. “I can tell you that, Nathan,” she said wearily. “Your blessed Saint Kyrk was probably the Messenger, too."

  "No, Lady Wordsayer,” Kyrk said sadly. “Karl Vandervelde became that beloved legendary figure, the revered Messenger."

  "Vandervelde was the Messenger?” Nathan asked, incredulous.

  The look in Kyrk's eyes swiftly changed from sorrow to rage. He slammed his fist on the desk. “No one elected him leader, but he controlled everything—who got the medicine, who got to eat! He even decided what books we could read and what we needed to know. He started to re-name everything, because the old names only stirred up bad memories. If you challenged him, you simply vanished, disappeared. But, after twenty-five years of him playing the self-appointed tin god, I'd had enough. I decided to go back to the west, through the Pass and find someone, anyone who could help me stop him. So, I stole his Tearstone, and a sword then left."

  The saint rose from the wheelchair and stood, clutching the prison bars with ivory-colored talons. Nathan backed a step, and Suzanne rose from the stool uncertain what Kyrk would do next. He began shaking the bars so violently, bits of dust and rock shattered from the bolts in the rock ceiling, as he began to shout. “Except, Vandervelde followed me! He tried to stop me, but I wouldn't let him. I was going back."

  Strength suddenly depleted, Kyrk sank to his knees. His hands slide down the bars until they fell into his lap. “I didn't mean to do it,” he whispered to no one. “It was an accident. I warned him, but he wouldn't listen. So, I hit him and he didn't get up. And when he didn't get up, I had to think of a plan, didn't I?"

  Suzanne stared at the pitiful ruin of a man kneeling on the floor, too appalled to say anything. Nathan looked at her. Fear and shock were deeply etched across his slender features. His entire world and all he revered was slowly crumbling with each word of Kyrk's tortured confession.

  Finally she found the nerve to ask, “Did you kill him?"

  Kyrk shrugged. “Vandervelde's disappearance wasn't my fault. I carried him into the Pass between the rocks. There was some shelter in there. I even gave him my sword. I made certain no one saw me either, but I couldn't stay there.” He looked at her. “It was the wrong past for me, wasn't it? There was no one who could help me. Who'd believe me?” He laughed maniacally. “Who'd believe anyone running around with a sword, claiming he'd come through a time portal from the future ... a not very pleasant future. That's what it is, isn't it Wordsayer? An unexplainable anomaly. A time portal."

  For a moment, Suzanne hid her face in her shaking palms. Had Vandervelde survived and was he truly Sheriff McKenna's frightened and lost ‘stranger?'

  Kyrk pulled himself to his feet, then settled into the wheelchair. “I made up the rest,” he said matter-of-factly. “Kept alive a preposterous myth: our brave leader, our Messenger, who went to find help, but never came back. After a few centuries, it wasn't too hard to change that story. A Messenger would be sent to find the Wordsayer.” He pointed at her. “I guess that would be you."

  Suzanne found the courage to glare at him angrily. “And during all those long, dark centuries you kept alive a lie; gave these people false hope; had them living out their lives believing in a ridiculous prophecy while you sat down here, feeling sorry for yourself!"

  "I gave them purpose!” Kyrk lunged to his feet, grabbing the bars for support.

  "You did nothing, you disgusting coward. For a thousand years—a thousand years—you've wallowed in self-pity while generations died fighting those things—"

  "They were human beings! They couldn't help what happened to them."

  She took a step closer to the prison cage. “No, but you could have helped those who survived, the ones who have clung to life with their bare hands. It's too late for the Others, Dr. Kyrk. They're gone, they're changed forever.” She took a step and pointed upward. “But up there, Prince Akken'ar is trying to end this madness, because if he doesn't stop them, we'll all be dead. You said it yourself: “the third kind prayed to die, but could not.” Dr. Kyrk, the skags don't remember their human life; they don't even have a life now. They're completely mad ... like you."

  Kyrk threw back his head and howled a wild, raw cry of despair. He shook the cage bars, writhing against them like a demented animal. “You were not supposed to come here! You will ruin everything!"

  "Here, what is the meaning of this? How dare you upset the blessed saint!"

  Suzanne whirled in the direction of that voice. A torch flared in the chamber, lighting the face of the intruder. “Master Eika?"

  "Grandfather!” Nathan gasped.

  Faster than anyone could respond, Kyrk's taloned hand shot out and managed to snag the sleeve of Suzanne's dress, then her arm and jerked her against the bars. His right arm slid around her throat, pinning her against the cage in a vise-like grip.

  Master Eika hurried into the chamber. “What have you done, Nathan? You were supposed to do what you were told."

  "I'm sorry, Grandfather, but I could not,” Nathan said edging back to the wall. He turned his tortured gaze on Suzanne. “Forgive me, Lady Wordsayer, but I had no choice."

  "I beg your pardon, my master,” Eika said, bowing to Kyrk. “I had Nathan released so he could complete his duty, as he was instructed to do."

  "Shut up, you old fool,” Kyrk said, tightening his hold on Suzanne's neck. “Get the keys, boy."

  "No. I can't—"

  "Get the keys, Nathan, or your precious Wordsayer dies."

  * * * *

  DURING THE LONG afternoon hours, late into the second day, Akken'ar oversaw every aspect of transporting the steel canisters to the rim canyon. Great care was taken to make sure none of his men were seen by the skags; it helped when it began to snow. The creatures could not see clearly during the day. Keenly sensitive to light, they had difficulty focusing and the fluttering snowfall made it impossible for them to separate objects, like trees from people.

  However, Akken'ar took no chances. The entire mission was accomplished in complete silence. Except for the occasional snorting horse, no one, beast or man, made a sound.

  It was not a particularly arduous task—unloading the containers of the volatile fuel from the work sleighs—but moving stealthily in broad daylight made it difficult. Akken'ar sent out several warriors to look for any possible sign of the skags. So far, they had seen nothing.

  As the sun dipped behind the mountains, the five sleighs were gathered under a thick stand of pines. Each sleigh had been loaded with dozens of smaller canisters in various sizes, filled with the sharp-smelling ‘Jet-A’ fuel. Every archer carried three small containers and each of his arrow points had been wrapped tightly with cloth that had been soaked in the fuel, then sealed in paraffin. Once lit, the fire would blaze hot and spread fast, making it almost impossible for the skags to extinguish it.

  The rest of the fuel would be used to light straw and rags packed along the upper rim of the canyon, forming a flaming barricade the skags would not be able to cross. Once all the creatures had gathered below and the Eclipse had begun, the ring of dry tinder would be lit.

  At the entrance to the canyon, hidden archers would launch their flaming arrows into the mass of gathered skags, forcing them to run up the canyon wall, becoming trapped by a sudden barrier of fire and another row of flaming arrows.

  The most dangerous position was at the opening to the canyon. It was impossible to block or guard it, since the archers would be seen by the skags as they hurried through the entrance to witness the Eclipse. Only the best warriors, skilled with bow and sword would lie in ambush, waiting for the panicky skags as they fled the burning canyon.

  By midnight all was in readiness. They had one day left until the Red Eclipse. Akken'ar and Zykov crept to the very edge for a glimpse of the canyon below. Long, deep, and narrow, it was the perfect trap for the unsuspecting skags. But the creatures were not stupid and when cornered, they were incredibly fast. Sensing any hint of danger, they would turn and flee, not even entering the canyon. Cornered without the advantage of fire, Akken'ar's men would be decimated.

  He peered cautiously over the ridge. Only a handful of skags had gathered, huddling together in pale lumps of shivering rags and filthy, wild hair. Akken'ar felt no pity for them. By tomorrow night, he expected every skag in the canyon to be burned to ash.

  Zykov tapped his sleeve and pointed to the opening. “More are coming. They're early,” he whispered.

  Akken'ar snorted softly, amused. “How would you know that? Were you here the last time?"

  The general said nothing, but acknowledged him with a slight smile. There was no one still living who had witnessed the long-ago gathering of skags and very little had been recorded about the event. At that Eclipse, the ruling prince had tried to use the black water, the foul oily substance found in small pools to the east of san'Sorafel. It did destroy some, but there hadn't been enough of the black oil to kill all of the skags. This time, Akken'ar vowed silently, there would be enough to burn every single one of them.

  A slight disturbance among the warriors below caused Akken'ar and Zykov to abandon there observations. A fleet-footed young archer hurried up toward them through the thick brush and trees.

  "My lord,” he whispered hoarsely. “You must come down immediately. There is someone, just arrived, who insists on seeing you."

  "Who?” Akken'ar asked.

  "I do not know who she is. A young woman, very frightened—hysterical. She will not leave until she sees you."

  "Lady Suzanne?"

  "No, my lord. She is a plain sort ... a servant, I think."

  Akken'ar muttered an oath under his breath, but nodded to the archer. “Very well. I'll see her.” He hurried down the snowy hillside, dodging the bushes and trees. Without a torch, only the moon lit his way through the dense woods. At the clearing he saw a group of warriors gathered around a single horse. The animal had been ridden hard. Its flanks were slick with sweat, heaving with each labored breath.

  Akken'ar pushed through the gathered men, just as a small, cloaked figure slid from the horse's back and knelt before him in the snow. “My lord, I beg you, please come back to the keep!"

  "It is Miri,” one of the warriors said.

  The girl looked up at Akken'ar. Terror riddled her plain features. “You must return to Ironhold."

  He motioned for someone to help her stand. “Calm yourself, Miri,” he ordered. “Tell me what has happened."

  "Master Jonovar sent me. He said you wouldn't believe him and that I was the only one you'd listen to..."

  "And what is that?"

  "He took her away. That ... horrible thing! I saw it. He's kidnapped her. He's taking her to Knife Edge Pass.” Miri's thin body shook with uncontrollable sobbing. Tears ran down her red-cheeked face as she struggled to tell him the last of her message.

  Akken'ar took Miri by the shoulders and gave her a small shake. “Who, Miri? Who has kidnapped Lady Suzanne?"

  "Th-th-the blessed Saint Kyrk!"

  Chapter Eleven

  A COLD WIND buffeted Suzanne's back as Kyrk shoved her into the traveling sleigh. Nathan had been forced to take it from the stable while the remaining guards looked on, helpless to stop him.

  The interior was small, but it had enough room for two. Someone, probably Nathan, had found her cloak and tossed it onto the seat. She hastily wrapped it around her shoulders and cringed against the leather cushions as Kyrk clambered inside. Sitting opposite her, the darkness inside the sleigh concealed his hideous form but did nothing to mask the ghastly smell emanating from his scabrous flesh.

  She heard Nathan call to the team and the sleigh jerked forward. Kyrk leaned back and closed his eyes momentarily.

  "Why are you doing this?” she demanded. “I thought you were going to kill me."

  Without opening his eyes he replied, “I need you to help me get through the Pass. I know the shortcut—known it for a long, long time. Once we're there, we can go back."

  "Back? Back to what?"

  Kyrk opened his eyes. “As you discovered, Knife Edge Pass is a way through time. I intend to go back, where I belong. Where you belong, dear lady ... if you have a shred of sense."

  "You can't. What if you're wrong? You were wrong the first time you went through. What if you go back to a different time?"

  He glared at her. “Does it matter? As long as I can go back far enough.” He held out his hands, gnarled and claw-like. “Then, I'll be whole again. Maybe I can do something—find a way to stop this terrible thing from happening."

  "Then, you don't need me, Dr. Kyrk. Leave me here. I won't stop you."

  "That's where you're wrong. I need you to guide me, to help me find my way around again."

  Arguing with a lunatic was useless. Suzanne hugged the cloak closer to her, hoping someone in Ironhold was resourceful enough to find Akken'ar. He had to find her in time to stop this madman. Suzanne admitted Kyrk frightened her. When dragging her out of the cavern he had backhanded Master Eika, knocking him against the rock wall. The elderly scribe collapsed into a heap and Suzanne feared the old man was dead.

  "You didn't have to hurt Master Eika."

  "Eika is a witless old fool. He did not follow instructions, and that idiot boy, Nathan, is no better."

  "How long have they know about you?” Suzanne ventured, hoping she wouldn't further rouse Kyrk's considerable wrath.

  "All their lives, just like all the scribes in their family before them.” Kyrk's grin was ugly. “It became quite an honor to be chosen as the saint's guardian. Of course, only two could be let in on my little secret. An extraordinary accomplishment, don't you think? Keeping my whereabouts hidden for a millennium, as well as the fact that I was still alive?"

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22