Freewalker (7 page)

Kordan holds up the spoon. “Enough?”

She shakes her head. He knows all too well one dose hasn't been enough for weeks. Willum enters the room, and takes his place, not realizing that this spoonful is her second. If he knew, he'd be sure to protest.

Stowe swallows. Ah, there it is.

And the warm glow envelops her and slips her into the Dreamfield.

AN ASSEMBLY OF TENDRILS

THE RED RAIN BURNED ALL THAT IT TOUCHED. BUT ALL THAT IT BURNED DID NOT DIE. AND THAT WHICH DID NOT DIE WAS UTTERLY AND COMPLETELY TRANSFORMED.

—THE WAR CHRONICLES

B
Y THE AFTERNOON OF THE NEXT DAY,
Roan and Lumpy are thigh-deep in murky water, sinking in muck.

“Should've known swamp was inevitable,” Lumpy moans.

Gone are the butterflies and the floating flowers. Instead, thick, milky white stalks rise high out of the water. Capped with a tangled mass of crimson tendrils, they have an unpleasant resemblance to raw meat.

“Those hairball things look tasty. Think I'd feel better if I ate one?”

Roan grins. Lumpy's appetite knows no bounds. But just as Lumpy reaches to snap one off, a fat dragonfly swoops down and, within seconds of landing on the stalk, is engulfed by the tendrils.

“Maybe not,” Lumpy shrugs.

Chuckling, Roan points to a tall shape rising in the distance. A tree with orange, peeling bark. “There. That's where we want to go.”

“That's the marker from your dream?”

“Yeh.”

“Well,” says Lumpy, unimpressed, “at least it's not submerged in this muck.”

Reaching the tree, however, proves no easy matter. Every step plunges them deeper into the mire, so that they seem to be retreating from, rather than gaining on, their goal.

“Now this is more like it,” Lumpy comments dryly.

Impatient and irritated, Roan attempts a long step forward. Plunging deep into a sinkhole, he tries to regain his footing, but every movement draws him farther into the muddy bottom. Blind in the dark water, he stops struggling and focuses on slowing down his heart rate.

H
E'S SOARING IN A TAWNY, SUN-SPATTERED SKY.

I
T'S INCONGRUOUS, HIS BULKY BODY OF CLAY SO EFFORTLESSLY AIRBORNE, BUT HE FEELS LIBERATED.
H
E DIVES AND SOMERSAULTS, HOPING
L
UMPY MANAGES TO PULL HIS CORPOREAL BODY OUT OF THE MIRE.
A
S MUCH AS HE LOVES IT HERE, HE DOESN'T WANT TO BE TRAPPED IN THE
D
REAMFIELD FOREVER, A MISSHAPEN HUNK OF FLYING CLAY.
W
OULD HE VANISH ALTOGETHER IF HIS BODY DIED?

T
HESE MORBID THOUGHTS ABRUPTLY HALT WHEN HE COLLIDES INTO A COLUMN OF PITCH-BLACK STONE THAT RISES FROM AN ISLAND FAR BELOW.
I
T'S PART OF A LIMITLESS ROW OF EBONY PILLARS EXTENDING ACROSS THE SEA AND SKY.
R
OAN CAUTIOUSLY PASSES BETWEEN TWO COLUMNS AND A GIANT SPIKE SHOOTS OUT OF ONE, HEADED STRAIGHT FOR HIS CHEST.
H
E PIVOTS AND IT NARROWLY MISSES HIM.
T
HE PILLARS BLAST DOZENS OF ARM-LONG SPIKES AND IT TAKES ALL
R
OAN'S FOCUS AND DEXTERITY TO AVOID THEM.
H
E MAY BE IN HIS DREAM-FORM, BUT HE'S STILL ABLE TO USE ALL HIS MARTIAL SKILLS, DUCKING AND WEAVING, STRIKING AND KICKING.
F
INALLY HE FINDS AN OPENING AND RETREATS, SPINNING UP INTO A CLOUD.

S
AFELY HIDDEN IN THE VAPOR, HE STUDIES WHAT SEEMS TO BE A DEFENSIVE WALL.
T
HIS TYPE OF FORTIFICATION IS DIFFERENT THAN ANYTHING HE'S EVER SEEN IN THE
D
REAMFIELD.
W
HAT DOES IT PROTECT
?

B
EFORE HE CAN PONDER THE QUESTION FURTHER, A SMALL FALCON APPEARS, CIRCLING BELOW.
I
TS SHAPE IS SUPERSEDED BY A MUCH MORE TROUBLING SIGHT: HUGE BROWN WINGS.
R
ED, BULBOUS SKIN HANGING OVER A LONG BEAK.
I
S THIS THE SAME VULTURE-LIKE CREATURE THAT PURSUED HIM ONCE BEFORE?
H
E DIVES DEEPER INTO THE CLOUD AND WATCHES THROUGH ITS CONCEALING MIST.

A
BOOMING SOUND ERUPTS FROM THE SEA BELOW.
S
MOKE PILLOWS UP AND THROUGH IT BURSTS A SHAPE, ROUGHLY FORMED, ITS TERRA-COTTA SKIN RIPPED AND SHREDDED, ITS THICK HANDS DRIPPING BLOOD.
T
HE FACE IS RUDIMENTARY BUT HE RECOGNIZES HER INSTANTLY.
I
T'S THE EYES THAT GIVE HER AWAY.
S
TOWE.

H
IS SISTER.
L
OST TO HIM FOR SO LONG.
H
E WANTS TO SCREAM HER NAME, TO FLY AFTER HER, GRAB HER, TAKE HER BACK WITH HIM.
B
UT HE'S PULLED UP THROUGH THE CLOUDS, HIGHER AND HIGHER INTO THE ATMOSPHERE UNTIL HE BURSTS OUT THE OTHER SIDE—

Roan is coughing, gasping for breath. “I saw her, I saw Stowe.”

“Easy, easy,” says Lumpy, gripping him tight under the arms. “I had to find a place to get some footing, you were under a long time. What were you doing in the Dreamfield, anyway?”

“I didn't mean to be there. It just happened.”

“Did Stowe see you?”

“I don't think so, but she wasn't alone.”

“Well, there
is
some good news.”

“Really? What?”

“You're not dead.”

“We'll both be if we don't take it nice and slow to that tree.”

They pick their way cautiously, avoiding the ubiquitous bog holes, and what would have taken minutes on solid ground consumes precious hours. Soaked with mud, sweat, and swamp water, they're relieved to find themselves on dry land before nightfall.

Throwing off his pack, Lumpy examines the tiny patch of earth that sustains the tree. “How am I supposed to build a fire on this miserable clump of tree root?”

Roan reaches, grabs a branch, pulls himself up, and in a moment, he's sitting at the top of the tree, scanning the marsh.

“See anything?”

“Yeh. More swamp.”

“I wish I could say this place was growing on me.”

“Well, it almost grew on me and I don't want to repeat the experience.”

Holding onto the tree trunk and ensuring his footing is secure, Roan quickly hacks off two long branches with his hook-sword and tosses them down to Lumpy.

Lumpy sighs, shaking his head mournfully. “Now why didn't I think of that?”

While they busy themselves cleaning the twigs off for kindling, Roan worries over the events of the day. He was careless in the marsh. For the first time he realizes how excited he feels, how free of responsibility. It's an illusion, he knows, and a dangerous one at that. One that almost got him killed—in more ways than one. What were those strange, deadly pillars in the Dreamfield? Had that vulture or Stowe sensed his presence? Would she pursue him, perhaps even find him?

Immersed in thought over his unbelievable stupidity, it takes Roan a moment to notice that Lumpy's neglecting his freshly made fire to stare, unusually still, at something: two bulging eyes peeking out of the water. In a flash, Lumpy lurches forward and snaps his branch against the green shape. “Dinner!” he smiles, gathering in the huge bullfrog.

Roan's heart sinks. In Longlight, they never killed animals for food. Necessity has turned him into an omnivore; he's even grown used to eating fish—but this?

“Look at the size of it,” Lumpy says. “Biggest frog I've ever seen. Ever eaten frog's legs?”

“No,” says Roan, looking a little pale.

“You're going to love them.” Lumpy waves a shorn twig at Roan. “Perfect size. Almost like you knew we'd be roasting frogs tonight,” he chortles, grinning wickedly. He cuts off the frog's legs, skewers them and sets them on the fire.

“I'll be eating a bean stick.”

“Oh, no, you don't, we've got to conserve our food and eat fresh when we can.”

Aware of the truth in Lumpy's words, Roan prepares himself for the worst.

Lumpy smiles. “Don't worry, it's better than termites.”

The meal was easier to eat than Roan feared, and his stomach is fuller than it's been since leaving Newlight. Bedrolls spread out, Lumpy tends the fire, adding the largest sticks to keep it burning through the night. Roan hones the blade of the hook-sword, performing the task with the focus of a sand painter. Completely engrossed in the tiniest action, he transforms the mundane task into an intense exercise in seeing. He carefully smooths his stone across the blade, surveying every nick on its edge, and as he works, a picture forms in his mind. A rough, scarred hand, the hand of the sword's maker. Metal red hot, the maker's mallet pounding it down. Then a young man's face, Brother Wolf, but the same age Roan is now.

“Don't you think you should put that down?” asks Lumpy. “Wouldn't want to fall asleep and slice off a finger or three.”

Roan snaps out of his trance. “I was meditating.”

“It looked like more than just that. Your eyes started fluttering.”

“The blade was showing me its past,” Roan says.

“Great, another new trick. Why don't you put your hand in the muck and see if it will show us the way out of here?”

“I wish I could. But it doesn't work that way—you're right, though, I'm bone tired. It's been a long day.”

“Been a long four days, if you ask me,” says Lumpy, who stretches out on his bedroll, closes his eyes, and is asleep.

Roan fastens the sword on his pack but keeps it within easy reach. He lies back, contemplating a sky clouded with stars, and falls easily into a well-earned slumber.

Something heavy shuffles on Roan's lap, waking him. He touches it with his finger—cold, slimy. He opens his eyes. In the light of the first quarter moon, he makes out a bulbous form. It's a giant bullfrog. Startled, he pushes it off. Wide awake now, he sees that every inch of their little island is covered in bullfrogs.

Lumpy jumps up, throwing a frog off his chest, kicking another at his feet.

“I'm sorry, okay? I was hungry. Sorry!”

Slinging his bedroll over his shoulders, Roan gingerly makes his way up the tree, followed by a thoroughly revolted Lumpy. Side by side, bedrolls wrapped like armor around them, they nestle in the topmost branches, observing the quivering mass below.

“It could be possible they resent us making a meal of them, but more likely they were driven out of the water.” Roan isn't sure which thought makes him more uncomfortable.

“And what, do you suppose, could have done that?”

“A predator that eats bullfrogs at night.”

“I was afraid you'd say that.”

“Maybe we're sharing their safe haven and don't know it.”

“What sort of predator, do you think?”

“Some kind of fish?” Roan replies.

“It'd have to be a pretty big fish to eat one of these giant frogs.”

“Snake?”

“I don't like snakes. And I really wouldn't like a snake that eats frogs this size.”

“It might just be that they're attracted to the dry ground. Or maybe it's mating season.”

“I don't see any mating going on.” Lumpy looks nervously at the water. There's no sign of movement, apart from the swaying of the tall, red-tendrilled stalks. Then his eyes narrow. “Wait—the plants... they're moving.”

Although they only appear to be bending with the breeze, Roan can see that the plants are actually mobile. Very slow, like the sea anemones he once read about, but there's no question they've changed their position.

“Weren't there only a few around here when we came?”

Lumpy shudders. “They brought friends.”

Their island is now encircled by the stalks and the pale glow of daybreak reveals that more are on their way.

One of the stalks closest to the shore suddenly bends over, its tendrils grasping a struggling frog. It's over in a blink. The bullfrog is still, then gone. As if on cue, the other plants bend over, each scooping up its supper.

“Tell me it's a crazy idea,” says Lumpy, “but could these plants have herded them here?”

“That would be a pretty complex hunting strategy.”

“Have you ever heard of a plant doing this kind of thing?”

“Nope,” says Roan.

The feeding frenzy goes on. By the time the sun peeks over the horizon, the only surviving bullfrogs are the few that have managed to leap onto a branch out of the tendrils' reach.

“Natural selection in action,” Roan comments dryly.

“Yeah. I'd be fascinated if we weren't surrounded by a forest of carnivorous plants.”

Though the vegetation now stands straight and motionless, its relentless carnage is so fresh in Roan and Lumpy's minds that they remain glued to their spots, staring and waiting.

“They haven't fed for a while now,” says Lumpy.

“They've probably all eaten their fill.”

But the two friends stay safely aloft until all the remaining bullfrogs jump off the island and survive their venture back into the water, undisturbed by the plants.

“As good a time as any,” says Roan.

Slowly, they slide down the tree. All remains still. Roan lifts up his pack, which, apart from a bit of slime, seems intact. As they carefully step toward the water, Lumpy instantly lurches backwards. A stalk has swallowed his left hand. He frantically attempts to extricate himself, but within moments his arm is sucked in up to his elbow.

Slipping his hook-sword from his pack, Roan slices the bulbous head off the plant with one hand while the other pulls Lumpy up and away. Two more plants strike, but by then the friends are huddled against the tree, just barely out of range.

“Guess we're the second course.”

“Are you okay?”

“I'll be a lot better once I have this thing off my hand.”

The neck of the severed stalk gives way easily, but Roan finds removing the sticky tendrils a delicate and painstaking task. Once the last one is detached, Roan sniffs it. A sharp, almost sickeningly sweet scent. Before Lumpy can stop him, Roan tastes it.