Beyond the Gate

Chapter 23

In the early afternoon Zell’a Cree had reached the mountains a few kilometers north of High Home when he limped to the junction to the Old King’s Road.

He’d killed two stolen horses to get here, and he’d run without much sleep for most of the past two nights. His right boot was held together with a strip of cloth tom from his tunic.

But his work was paying off. South of Battic he had met up with five servants of the Inhuman who had given him a Word. And more importantly, last night he’d spotted a scout, flying high beneath the clouds. With a gesture he had pulled it to earth and asked it to carry a message south, warning the Inhuman that a Lord Protector was coming.

With that done, Zell’a Cree had felt a great sense of relief. The scout flew south, and it would deliver its warning long before Gallen’s wagon got to Moree. Still Zell’a Cree could not rest. He wanted to capture this band himself.

Marbee Road met the Old King’s Road at the mouth of a small valley where an old wooden bridge crossed the river, its boards whitened by the summer sun. Zell’a Cree stood for some time, tasting the scent of the air. There was no stench of travelbeast, no perfume of the Tharrin or taste of the others, but it was hard to tell for certain. An orchard had been planted here many years ago-Zell’a Cree recalled it from the memories of Anote Brell, a soldier who’d died six decades past-and still there were many apple trees growing on both sides of the road. The smell of the pungent, fallen apples filled the air, so much so that Zell’a Cree could smell little else.

Still, after a bit, he felt sure that the wagon had not passed. More good news. If the Tharrin’s company had not passed, he had managed to stay ahead of them.

He hurried along the road south to High Home, and soon began climbing the long hills. He was well up into the mountains by now, and the air was growing thinner, too thin for a Tosken to breathe comfortably.

Yet Zell’ a Cree managed the climb until he reached the crown of the mountain and stood in the small hamlet. Iron ore was mined from ridges above town, so that on the upper slopes there were red holes gouged in the earth, and the miners had tunneled deep into the hills. Down below town, sheep farmers grazed their herds on the green slopes.

The homes here in town were not your standard northern fare. They were built of heavy stone, mudded over on the outside with a white plaster the color of bones, topped with tile roofs that were an ash-gray. The houses kept cool in the hot summers when the wind blew out of the desert, but in the winters when the snow flew, the folks hereabout would have to fasten tapestries to their walls and stuff straw behind them to provide insulation against the cold.

In the summer, frequent cool winds blew down from the mountain slopes so that High Home had a reputation among desert folk as something of a mountain resort with “healthy air,” a place where the rich could escape the blistering summer months.

But now it was fall, cool but not unpleasantly so, though the three fine inns in town were fairly deserted, as were the streets. In the summer, the streets would have been filled with merchants out to sell their wares, but now there were only a few shops open, their doors thrown wide in invitation to potential customers.

Zell’a Cree asked around until he found a bootmaker who was willing to throw together something cheap and durable.

In the bootmaker’s shop, Zell’a Cree put his foot on the thick leather for the soles and let the old man scratch his cutting marks, then they chose something more supple for the uppers. In moments the old man had cut the leather and begun sewing, when Zell’a Cree heard the rumble of hooves and the clattering of wheels.

He glanced out the window of the shop toward the wide avenue, and his heart skipped a beat.

Sure enough, Gallen’s wagon rolled into town, the huge travel beast frothing at the mouth from its exertions, one lone giant in the lead, the chest and armpits of his tunic stained with sweat.

The suns were setting, and the Tharrin’s company cast long shadows over the cobblestone streets. The white stone buildings gleamed intensely in the sunlight, and Zell’a Cree ducked behind the doorpost and listened.

“The travelbeast needs grain and rest,” the giant told the others, walking up to set the wagon’s brakes. “He’s nearly done in for the night, and won’t be able to carry you much farther along these mountain roads. We might as well eat here-the inns are highly renowned.”

“Thank you,” the Tharrin said, as the giant took her gently by the waist and set her down from the wagon. “I don’t know how we can repay your generosity.”

“Your safety is repayment enough,” the giant said, and Zell’a Cree nearly laughed. The others were climbing down from the wagon now, and Gallen O’Day stretched sinuously, reaching for the sky.

Zell’a Cree put his back to the doorpost, so that none in the company would have even the slimmest chance of spotting his silhouette in the doorway. Darkness, a lonely town, and Gallen unaware. And in my pouch, two copies of the Word. Zell’a Cree could not quite believe his good fortune.

And yet, and yet he was worried. He felt alone with his troubles. New converts often rejoiced at the sense of fullness that communion with the Inhuman gave them, the sense of boundless knowledge, the feeling of buoyancy, as if they were children who had been lifted up and were looking at the world from the height of tall shoulders. But in time, that sensation wore thin. After years of not hearing from the Inhuman, one sometimes felt lost, cast adrift. It was said that some great leaders were in constant communion-the Harvester, certainly, and the commanders of the armies and navies to a lesser extent. But not Zell’a Cree. Not once over the long years since his conversion had he heard the sweet voice of the Inhuman. And at this moment, he wished that he could be certain of the correct course-to let these people proceed to Moree, where the Inhuman could arrange a more appropriate reception, or to kill Gallen now and seek to convert the others.

He stood for several long minutes, pondering his choices, then peeked out again. The company had gone inside, with the exception of the giant, who was busy unharnessing the travel beast.

Zell’a Cree crept back to the bootmaker’s bench. “Just sew up the right boot for now,” he said softly. “I’m in a hurry.” The bootmaker glanced up at him in surprise and grunted, “Don’t think I can have it done by dark, and I close soon.”

“In the morning, then,” Zell’a Cree said. He checked out the door. The giant was leading the travelbeast away to the stables down behind the inn. The suns were falling rapidly, and in the cool evening air, some crickets had begun chirping. A few people scurried along the streets, heading home. Even here, the Inhuman’s agents were known to hunt at night.

Zell’a Cree pulled up the hood of his cloak, covering his face, and hurried across the shadowed avenue to the wall of the inn. From its shade, he could see the wooden stables in back, down a small hill. The giant had reached the stables, and he opened the broad doors, took the beast inside.

Zell’a Cree knew that he had to get Gallen alone, had to strip Ceravanne of her protectors. The giant himself was a formidable adversary. The Toskens were smaller in stature than the Im giants, and were not so strong, though they could endure greater hardships. And as a Tosken, Zell’a Cree knew no fear.

He ran down to the stable, slipped into the door. His eyes did not need to adjust to the dark. He saw the giant plainly enough, stooping over a feed bin, dumping in a bag of grain. The travelbeast was already stabled, nuzzling the feed.

The Im heard Zell’a Cree’s approach, turned his head partway. “May I help you with your beast, sir?” Zell’a Cree asked, taking the role of stable-hand, hoping that the giant would not recognize him. “Does it need water, or a comb?”

“Aye, it will take a couple of water buckets,” the giant said, not bothering to look back, dumping the whole sack of grain into the bin.

“Good enough, sir,” Zell’a Cree said, only a step behind.

Zell’a Cree grasped the haft of his sword, pulled it free, and plunged the blade deep into the giant’s back, just beneath his rib cage. He’d hoped to hit a kidney, send the giant into deadly shock, but the Im shouted and spun, hitting Zell’a Cree in the head with the bucket.

There was a moment of pain, and horses began neighing in fright, kicking at the doors to their stalls, and Zell’a Cree found himself struggling up from the stable floor to his knees. The giant had taken a step to the middle of the room, and he pulled the sword from his back, stood gazing stupidly at the blade.

Zell’a Cree jumped up, rushed at him, but the giant bellowed loudly and took a step back. Zell’a Cree tried to pull the sword from the giant’s hand, and for one brief moment they struggled together, both of them fighting for the blade.

The short sword twisted from Zell’a Cree’s grip, and the giant made a weak stab. Zell’a Cree leapt backward as the sword slashed at his midriff.

The giant stood, panting as if from long exertion, holding the sword. He sagged to his knees after a minute, dropped the blade, then fell facedown into the straw.

The horses were all neighing frantically now at the smell of blood, and Zell’a Cree knew that the noise would draw attention. He had hoped to commit a nice quiet murder.

Instead, he grabbed the short sword, stabbed the giant in the back of the neck to sever his spinal cord, then rushed to the rear door of the stables and stood panting, trying to get some air.

He wondered whether anyone had heard the giant’s bellowing. He did not know if he should run now or set a trap for Gallen and the others.

Gallen had settled into his seat at the inn and ordered dinner. The place had few patrons, and they were all sitting up in front of a little puppeteer’s theater, where marvelously decorated puppets were used to play a tale about a greedy king who was being robbed by some highwaymen. Gallen could not hear all of the dialogue, but two of the highwaymen were speaking aside to one another, and it sounded as if they were the king’s own wife and daughter, robbing the man in the hopes of curing him of his greed.

Gallen had just asked his mantle to amplify the sounds of the room, hoping to hear the puppeteers, when he heard Fenorah cry out.

He jumped from his seat, seeing the surprised faces of Maggie and the others. He had been trying so hard for the past few days to seem normal that he did not want to cause them alarm. “Trouble!” Gallen said, then he went tearing out a back door, where two cooks stood looking toward the stable.

“I’m sure I heard yelling, back here!” one said, though neither seemed inclined to go see who had screamed.

Drawing his sword free from its scabbard, Gallen raced down to the stable, pulled the door open, and let his mantle magnify the light, show him the scene. Fenorah lay in the straw, facedown. Gallen rushed to him, found blood flowing all down the back of his neck, soaking into his tunic. Gallen could see no sign that he was breathing, and for a brief moment, stinging tears came to Gallen’s eyes. The giant had never harmed anyone, had sought to do only good. He’d shared his food, given of his time and wealth.

“Goodbye, my friend. The wheel turns without you for a while,” Gallen whispered into his ears, and realized that he had subconsciously chosen to voice a death farewell common to the people of Babel.

He bit his lip, tried to calm himself. He was afraid, for he could feel the weight of years on him. He felt that he was struggling to control the voices inside him-strong Amvik of the Immatar, a scholar and physician, wanted Gallen to check Fenorah more thoroughly for signs of life. “Turn him over. Try to revive him,” the doctor warned, but Gallen knew it was no use. Even if he managed to revive the giant for a few moments, he had lost far too much blood.

Gallen noticed that someone had stepped over the body, making bloody footprints in the straw, and had rushed out a back door, leaving it open.

The horses and the travel beast were standing quietly in their stalls, looking out. Gallen glanced upward to the haylofts and empty stalls where tack and fodder were stored. He listened closely for any sound of the murderer, then took one last look at Fenorah.

The Inhuman has done this, a voice whispered at the back of Gallen’s mind.

Gallen went to look out the rear door with a heavy heart. Suddenly he heard movement to his side, and his mantle warned him to duck. Gallen spun in time to see Zell’a Cree exploding out of a stall where hay had been piled high. The stocky man had been hiding under the hay, and he threw some at Gallen’s face.

Gallen almost did not see the blade of Zell’a Cree’s sword, arcing through the flying straw, but fortunately he had his own blade up high enough to parry the blow.

Zell’a Cree’s sword hit Gallen’s with such force that Gallen barely held on. The blow knocked Gallen back a pace, and Gallen spun away from Zell’a Cree’s charge, feigning a loss of balance as if he’d fallen, then he whirled as he fell and thrust his own blade up into Zell’a Cree’s chest, a brief, biting kiss that left the tip of Gallen’s sword bloodied.

Gallen rolled to his feet and sat, hunched low, his sword weaving slowly before Zell’a Cree’s eyes.

Zell’a Cree spotted the well-bloodied sword, and seemed to react more to it than he had to the touch of the steel. His free hand rose up to his chest, and his eyes grew wide in surprise at the severity of the wound.

“Damn your hide for that! I’ll split your belly and strangle you with your own guts!” he cried, and he kicked a bucket at Gallen. Gallen dodged it easily, and waited en garde. “Come, then,” Gallen hissed, “and find out why I’m a Lord Protector!”

Zell’a Cree almost rushed him, but instead halted, watched him warily. And in half a second he turned and fled out the back door, slamming it behind.

Gallen ran to give chase, but when he threw himself against the door, it wouldn’t budge. Zell’a Cree had bolted it from outside.

Gallen rushed back to the front, then circled the stable and stood gazing over the valley. Along a trail downhill were dozens of stone houses and buildings with white stucco exteriors, many with low courtyards where someone could easily leap a wall to hide. Bright stars pierced the indigo sky, and Tremonthin’s three small moons were rising all in a close knot, shining like molten brass over the countryside. Gallen could see far to the south, across a great valley where dark hills rose as forested islands from a moonlit sea of fog.

There was no one on or near the road, no sign of Zell’a Cree. But in infrared Gallen’s mantle detected hot points of light on the ground, splashes of blood.

He stooped low and ran, following the trail. A dog began barking far ahead, perhaps a kilometer off, and Gallen wondered if his quarry were getting away.

He raced onward couple hundred meters, responding to the voice of Fermoth, a great hunter who whispered that he should be quiet, refrain from alerting his quarry, and Gallen found a bright pool of blood on the ground on the far side of a stone well. Zell’a Cree had rested here momentarily, dripping blood over everything.

More bright flecks beckoned farther on, and Gallen began stalking through dark alleys, over a wall. His prey moved like a fox-backtracking and zigzagging, and Fermoth whispered to Gallen, Yes, yes, this is how I would do it. This is the direction I would go, till Gallen wondered if the shared experiences of the Inhuman might not be a disadvantage to his quarry.

Gallen reached the far end of town and began circling back along a hill, at which point even Fermoth wondered what the quarry was up to, and Gallen began to wonder if Zell’a Cree was Inhuman after all.

Yet it was obvious that Gallen’s quarry was failing. Perhaps he was no longer thinking clearly. The droplets of blood were getting brighter, warmer. The man was slowing, weakening, until Gallen felt sure he was near, and that he would be weak, and dying, when Gallen found him.

Gallen felt confused. He was beginning to understand the servants of the Inhuman. Indeed, he thought that they might be friends, or that at least they thought themselves good. None of the voices inside Gallen were evil. They had just been people who were concerned with living their own lives, people who wanted to continue living. And though Zell’a Cree had killed Fenorah and was an Inhuman, he was also someone like Gallen who had become infected against his will. Gallen recalled the Bock’s warning, in which he told Gallen that at times he would have to choose whether to kill an Inhuman or spare it. And as he hunted, Gallen’s resolve to kill Zell’a Cree weakened.

Yet Fenorah had also been innocent, had not deserved to die, Gallen reminded himself. And Gallen could not understand how it was that basically good people could do this to each other.

After nearly twenty minutes, he reached an alley behind a store.

Blood was smeared on a white stucco wall in the moonlight, and Gallen could see droplets on the dusty road. He heard the sound of coughing ahead.

He rounded a corner, and a beefy man was there in the moonlight, lying on his side in the alley, his pale eyes looking almost white. Zell’a Cree. He held his wound and lay gasping, bubbles of blood dribbling down his chin.

Gallen held his sword point forward, carefully stalked up to the man, to the Inhuman, he reminded himself, and he stared into the man’s face. We share so many memories, Gallen thought, looking into Zell’a Cree’s eyes. The Inhuman struggled to run, moved his legs about feebly, and stared forward into the dust, his eyes blind. He breathed furiously, and small puffs of dust rose up near his chin. His face contorted in a grimace, and beads of sweat stood out on his forehead.

“Boots. Boots are inside building,” Zell’a Cree whispered to Gallen, as if it were terribly urgent, and Gallen could smell the tanned leather scraps outside the back door of the bootmaker’s shop. Indeed, Zell’a Cree’s right boot was tied together with a scrap of cloth. And Gallen suddenly realized that this man had circled back to town to get some new boots.

Now that Gallen had caught him, he considered stabbing him again, but didn’t have the heart. Gallen shared the memories of twenty lives with this man, and all of those people had lived extraordinary lives. They were not small-minded killers.

“Damn you,” Gallen said. “Why did you have to stab Fenorah?”

Zell’a Cree didn’t answer. Gallen suspected that Zell’a Cree had taken a mortal wound. Yet Gallen could not afford mercy. His friends’ lives might still be at stake. Gallen stuck his sword at Zell’a Cree’s throat, demanded, “How many of you are stalking us? Where are your men camped?”

Zell’a Cree did not answer, merely turned his head up at the sound of Gallen’s voice. Gallen put the sword to his chin, and asked again, “How many more are you?” Zell’a Cree said nothing, and Gallen wondered if he were past talking.

‘‘Join us,” Zell’a Cree breathed, “and we will stalk you no more.”

So Zell’a Cree still felt himself at war and would give up no information. Gallen respected that. He studied the creature. Zell’a Cree looked human, simply a beefy man with pale eyes that were much like Ceravanne’s. He could have been a baker or an innkeeper in any town that Gallen had ever visited, and Gallen felt ashamed at wanting him dead.

“What did you do, before the Inhuman converted you?” Gallen asked.

“I … farmed,” the big man panted. “Apples. I make, uh, cider.”

“I think you’re going to die,” Gallen admitted softly. ‘‘There’s little that you or I or anyone else can do to stop it now. I can let you die slowly, in your own time, or I can take you quickly.” He let the tone of his voice ask the question.

“Slowly,” Zell’a Cree asked. “Life is sweet. Savor it.”

Gallen was dismayed by the answer. How could life be so sweet that you looked forward to coughing up your own blood for five minutes? But the voices of the dead within him bubbled up, all of them clamoring, “Yes, yes, life is sweet.” They craved it, even a miserable few moments of pain.

Gallen looked back toward where he imagined the inn might be. He was tempted to leave Zell’a Cree on the road, head back to check on the others, but he was acutely aware that Zell’a Cree had lost his life at least twice: once when the Inhuman had converted him against his will, and once when Gallen had plunged a sword into his lung.

So Gallen sat down in the dust, prepared to wait with Zell’a Cree, stay with him to the end.

“Forgive me,” Zell’a Cree asked, grunting, his words raising small puffs of dust. “I never wanted to hurt you … anyone.”

Gallen wasn’t sure what to answer, but settled for “I know.”

The voices of the Inhuman rose within Gallen, crying out across the centuries. “Join with us.”

Gallen felt torn. For several minutes Zell’a Cree only lay breathing, gasping at an ever more frenzied pace, droplets of sweat rolling down his face into the dust. At first, Gallen feared the man, but Zell’a Cree made no move against him, seemed less and less capable of moving at all. He wheezed for a bit, and coughed until fresh blood began foaming from his mouth.

Zell’a Cree closed his eyes and began weeping, concentrated on breathing.

“Let me take you now, friend,” Gallen said. “There’s nothing left to savor.”

“Please …” Zell’a Cree mumbled after a long moment, “water. A drink first. Then kill me.”

Gallen looked about. His own water skin was back in the wagon, but there was a rain barrel under the eaves of the shoemaker’s roof. Gallen went to the barrel, found that it was nearly full. He sheathed his sword, cupped some water in his hands, and went back to the dying Zell’a Cree, put his hands down under Zell’a Cree’s lips.

The dying man didn’t take the water. Just lay there breathing heavily, lapsing into sleep.

“Wake up,” Gallen said. “I brought your water.”

“Unh,” Zell’a Cree grunted, twisted his head to try to get his lips to the water. Gallen held his hands down lower, and to his surprise, Zell’a Cree tried to sit up to drink, put a hand on Gallen’s shoulder as he steadied himself.

Gallen held his hands to the man’s mouth, let him drink it for a moment, and Zell’a Cree leaned back against the wall, his eyes focusing on Gallen. He seemed only a bluish shadow in the moonlight, all colors washed from his face, as if he were already fading into dust.

The cicadas and crickets began singing in the still night, and a little breeze whipped through the streets, raising the hair on Gallen’s back.

Zell’a Cree smiled weakly, stared up at the sky, and Gallen thought he would die now. “Thank you,” Zell’a Cree whispered as if addressing the universe, and then he looked into Gallen’s eyes. “It has been so long … so long since I have heard the voice of the Inhuman … but now, I know what it wants me to do.”

Gallen leaned closer, curious, and looked into Zell’a Cree’s eyes. “What does it want from you?”

Zell’a Cree reached up quickly, and there was the jingle of metal rings as he pulled at Gallen’s mantle. Gallen grabbed at the Tosken’s wrist, but like the Tekkar he was immensely strong-so their struggle lasted only a brief second, then the knowledge tokens flashed in the moonlight as Zell’a Cree ripped Gallen’s mantle free.

It went sailing through the air and clanked against the wall of the bootmaker’s shop, and Gallen gasped and drove his sword into Zell’a Cree’s neck.

For one moment, Gallen still could not feel the Inhuman’s presence. He was not lost in strangers’ memories, and for a brief few seconds he dared hope that the Inhuman would spare him, and he lurched toward his mantle in the moonlight.

And then there was a surging in Gallen’s ears, dozens of voices clamoring, as if a tide were swelling from a distant shore. His arms and legs fell out beneath him, and Gallen could almost imagine that someone had reached into his body and pulled his spirit free. He felt disconnected-the sounds of crickets and cicadas suddenly ceased. Gallen crumpled to the ground, barely conscious of the fact that his head bounced off the dirt street.

And he felt them come leaping and tumbling after him, the hosts of the Inhuman, the ghosts with their iron will. Until now, they had taken him gently, slowly, but now he could feel something akin to desperation emanating from the machine, the desire to crush him before he could resist.

Far away he heard a desperate shriek, a harrowing wail that shook him and demanded aid, but Gallen hardly recognized that it was his own voice.

It had been thirty minutes since Gallen jumped up and rushed from the inn. Maggie and the others had gone down to the stables where they found poor Fenorah lying in a pool of blood.

Ceravanne was still beside his body, weeping, while Maggie tried to comfort her. Orick had headed south along the outskirts of town with Tallea, sniffing Gallen’s trail.

At last Maggie went and stood outside the bam, hoping to see Gallen’s shadow against the white stucco walls in the moonlight.

A maid from the kitchens was up at the inn, beckoning to her, urging Maggie to “Come back indoors, where it’s safe!”

Then Maggie heard Gallen’s bloodcurdling scream.

Gallen’s voice rang out over the small town, echoing from the hilltops and from the buildings so that she couldn’t be sure where it came from. Almost, it seemed to rise from the earth itself, but she thought it might have come from a ridge to the west.

Maggie’s heart began pounding, and she looked about frantically. She wondered if it really had been Gallen’s voice-it had been blurred and distant, after all-but she knew that it was. It sounded like a death cry, as if he’d taken a mortal wound in the back, as Fenorah had done. She raced toward the sound for a moment, looked about hysterically, realized that anyone who could have killed Gallen could also kill her.

And yet it didn’t matter. If Gallen was dead, she didn’t really care to live anymore.

So she ran uphill, west toward the ridge, and began searching. For an hour she wandered through town, investigating every street, until she met Orick and Tallea coming up from the south of town.

“Maggie, girl, what are you doing out here?” Orick demanded.

“I heard Gallen scream,” she said.

Orick and Tallea looked at each other. “We heard a shout some time back,” Orick said, “but I couldn’t say it was Gallen’s. It sounded to us as if it came from the north.”

“No sign of Gallen?” Maggie asked.

“Whoever he was chasing,” Orick said, “knew how to cover his scent. He ran me in circles, and his scent didn’t stick to the dust. And Gallen’s wearing that damned cloak of his, which hides all smell. So we’ve lost their trail.” Maggie filed that information away. She hadn’t known that a Lord Protector’s cloak masked his scent.

“Maybe Gallen went back to inn,” Tallea said, and Maggie realized that she had been gone for over an hour. If Gallen were hurt, he’d have gone back to the inn, if he could.

And it seemed her last hope. So they went back to the inn, down to the stables. A maid from the inn had brought a lantern down, and Fenorah had been washed and turned on his back. A clean quilt was stretched out over him, but it was too short for the giant, so that it covered his feet, but not his face.

Shivering from a chill wind that was beginning to blow down the high mountain passes, the companions sat in the stable, waiting for Gallen’s return for several more minutes, until at last Ceravanne said in her clear voice, “All things pass away. It is time, my friends, to consider the possibility that Gallen is gone, and what that means to the quest.” She stood above Fenorah, and the lantern’s sharp light reflected from her angular face. She seemed somehow washed out, unreal under such light.

“Are you saying we should leave without him?” Orick grumbled, rising to his hind feet. He sniffed the air once again, as was his habit when he felt nervous.

“I hesitate to say it,” the Tharrin answered. “Gallen has not returned, and almost two hours have passed. I doubt he would stay away so long, if he were able to return to us.”

“And if he’s dead, killer waiting for us,” Tallea muttered, resting her unsheathed sword by letting its tip settle into the floorboards under the straw.

“And that means we have little choice but to press on as quickly as possible,” Ceravanne whispered. “But there is something else we must consider. If Gallen is dead, then his killer may have taken Gallen’s mantle. We will have someone with the powers of a Lord Protector hunting us, and he will have access to all of Gallen’s memories. He will know where we plan to go, what we plan to do.”

“So you want us to stay and see if we can find Gallen’s body,” Maggie asked, “just to make sure we get his mantle?” And she knew Ceravanne was right. Knowledge is power, and the Lord Protector’s mantle would be a powerful weapon if it fell into the hands of the Inhuman.

“I think,” Orick said, “you’re all worried for nothing. If Gallen is dead and his enemies took his weapons, why haven’t they come after us? He had his mantle, that fancy sword, and his incendiary rifle.”

Maggie clung to his words, knowing they made some sense, hoping he was right. “Gallen may still be hunting,” she said at last. “He’s thorough when it comes to blackguards. He wouldn’t let one give him the slip.”

“Aye, that’s possible,” Orick grumbled. “Down in County Toorary, Gallen tracked a cutthroat for three weeks, chased him two hundred miles.”

Ceravanne licked her lips, looked out the open door southward. “Perhaps we should wait,” she said. “But there is something just as portentous that could have happened. Gallen has been very … deep in thought these past two days. We all know that his loyalties are wavering, hanging in the balance. He may have joined the Inhuman, or he may have gone in search of solitude while he considers his future course.”

Maggie wanted to deny this, wanted to slap Ceravanne for even bringing up the possibility, but this too seemed very likely. “I don’t think he’d leave me,” Maggie said, her voice small in the close darkness of the stable.

“I would hope not,” Ceravanne offered, and she took Maggie’s hand in hers to offer comfort. “But he is under great pressure. You must remember that he is living with many other voices inside him, rich recollections of other loves. Those who become infected by the Word, they sometimes become lost in the … history that the Inhuman offers. Their small voices are drowned out by the bitterness and despair of the Inhuman. And I fear that Gallen may be susceptible to this. Those who are most susceptible are those who are weak of purpose, or weak of mind, and those who are simply inexperienced-the young. Gallen is neither weak of purpose nor stupid, but he is young.”

“You forget,” Gallen said loudly from the far end of the room, “the others who are equally susceptible to the Inhuman’s domination.” Maggie turned, and Gallen stood in the front doorway to the stable, all draped in the black robes of a Lord Protector. Yet there was something terribly wrong. The way he stood-with a certain swaggering confidence as he leaned casually against the doorpost-was nothing like Gallen. Indeed, a terrible light seemed to blaze from his pale blue eyes, and he wore the mask of Fale. Yet strangest of all was his voice. It sounded deeper, and it resonated more, and all of his accent was gone. Where a few weeks ago he’d been a charming boy from County Morgan, now an older and wearier man stood. It seemed to Maggie suddenly that a stranger was wearing Gallen’s body, and that Gallen stood smiling, mocking their fears for him.

“What others are susceptible to the Inhuman?” Ceravanne asked. Gallen waved his hand at her. “The trusting,” he spat, then waved to Orick. “The naive. And those who are actively evil.”

Gallen reached into the pocket of his robe, pulled out his mantle, and its black rings and silver stones glimmered in the moonlight. He draped it over his head.

“So, you are Inhuman now,” Ceravanne whispered, and Maggie found her heart pounding within her. “But you have never been any of those-naive, trusting, or evil.”

Gallen straightened, and he seemed taller and more menacing to Maggie as he crossed the stable, gazed out to the south, over the wide valley below with its shroud of fog that glowed like gauze in the moonlight.

“Yes,” Gallen said, staring to the south. “The Inhuman has tried to claim me as its own.” For a brief moment it looked as if he would collapse, and he held to the door frame as he struggled for control. Maggie could see the old Gallen. “And, my friends, it is good for us all that the Inhuman has finished its task-else I would not have suspected its plans, and we would have walked into a trap.

“Maggie, come here.”

Maggie went to his side and followed his eye. He took off his mantle, placed it on her head. “Listen to the radio frequencies on the higher end of the spectrum,” he said, “and look south to Bern’s Pass, beneath that far mountain, four hundred kilometers from here.”

Four hundred kilometers? she wondered. She couldn’t imagine seeing that far. But Maggie concentrated, and the mantle brought a faint sound to her ears, bursts of radio signals squealing indiscernible messages. It was a code.

She looked to their source, beneath the far mountains that suddenly appeared in her mind as she gazed, and Gallen’s mantle magnified the distant image. Something vast and black was crawling down a mountainside.

“Dronon hive cities,” Maggie realized, “crawling toward us.”

“Yes,” Gallen said. “They are far away, but they’re coming. Part of the memories the Inhuman gave me came from a dronon technician. All those who join the Inhuman know how to use dronon technologies, and now that the dronon have been forced to abandon this world, leaving the hive cities behind, the Inhuman hosts have taken them up. With these they will march against Northland, for the hive cities can also swim across the oceans, and here in Babel their guns are not dismantled.

“So the dronon who abandoned this world betrayed it, leaving behind weapons for the Inhuman to use.” Gallen breathed deeply. “Ceravanne, your people are in far graver danger from the invaders than even you had imagined!”

Maggie was watching the distant image of the dronon hive city, crawling down the mountainside like a huge spider, when a second crested the ridge. And then she saw something else, a knot of large birds in the darkness, their body heat registering white, hurtling across the distant valleys. She wondered how far away they were, and her mantle flashed an image before her eyes. Two hundred and twenty kilometers.

“Gallen, there are scouts flying this way, hundreds of them.”

“I know,” Gallen said. “The Inhuman is coming for you. It knows where we are, and because of the interference my mantle offered, it has guessed at our purpose.”

“It could only have learned our location from the transmitter in your head,” Maggie said, and she looked at Gallen sharply.

“I know,” Gallen admitted. “The Inhuman sent a message to Zell’a Cree in his last moments, telling him to pull off my mantle so that the downloading could be finished. The Inhuman could only have sent that message if it were tracking us and knew that Zell’a Cree and I were together.”

“Of course,” Ceravanne whispered. “Then if it knows where you are,” Maggie said, “the Inhuman only has to follow you to find us.”

Gallen looked about helplessly, threw up his hands. “Unless Maggie can remove the transmitter, or we can somehow block it, then you will have to leave me.”

Gallen took Maggie’s hand, looked steadily into her eyes, and touched it to the back of his head. “Here is where the Word burrowed into my skull. I can feel a small bump there. It only makes sense that the transmitter is still outside the skull; the Inhuman would not try to beam messages through bone. Perhaps the tail end of the Word is the transmitter.”

Maggie had suspected this possibility before, but dared not admit it. The implications horrified and sickened her. She didn’t want to have to pry this thing out of Gallen’s head. “I know what you’re going to ask, Gallen, and I can’t do it. The Word has inserted itself into your brain. I can’t just pull it out!”

An image flashed through Maggie’s mind, a vision of neural wires slicing through the gray matter of Gallen’s brain as she pulled.

“We have to try something,” Gallen said. “I want you to try now to cut away anything outside the skull. And if that doesn’t work, you must pry the Word out. I know it’s dangerous, but it is the only way for me to remain with you. Unless you do this, I might as well be dead.”

Maggie looked nervously to the south. “What of the scouts?”

“They will not make it here for several hours,” Gallen said. “And we can hide from them tomorrow.” When next he spoke, Gallen spoke not as himself, but as the Inhuman, and it was reflected in his demeanor. “For six thousand years, I’ve lived in this land. I can guide you to Moree like no others, except those infected by the Inhuman. But I cannot help you, unless you do this for me. And perhaps it will avail nothing.”

Maggie looked to Ceravanne. “I don’t think I can do this.”

“I can, maybe,” Ceravanne said. “I’ve mended festering wounds, and I’m handy with a knife. But I’m not sure what you’ll require of me.”

“Do you have any more Healing Earth?” Maggie asked.

“A pinch, perhaps, no more,” Ceravanne said. “He can have a few drops of my blood.”

Maggie wondered where to perform the surgery. It seemed ghastly to do it here in the stable, in the dim lamplight surrounding Fenorah’s pale corpse, but it sheltered them from the chilly night air and from prying eyes. Maggie looked for some clean straw. Some of the horses nickered querulously as she pulled the hay from a crib and sprinkled it on the floor. Ceravanne brought the lantern near, and Tallea brought her sharpest dagger from its sheath.

Ceravanne bit her lower lip, and her hands shook as she did the cutting, opening the back of Gallen’s neck down to the blue-white bone. She pulled Gallen’s hair gently, opening the flaps of severed skin so that she could see more clearly, and Maggie had to use a bandage from her pack to daub the blood away.

There was a small, perfectly circular hole in his skull, and two small wires dangled from what had once been the Word’s hind feet. Maggie couldn’t be sure what the wires were for, so she ran up to the wagon at the front of the inn and got her mantle of technology, then came back and looked closely at the wires. The sensors in her mantle magnified the image. From the Word’s hind legs, tiny microfilaments, like veins, had grown out in a gray web, wrapping themselves around Gallen’s skull. It was not a particularly powerful antenna for either receiving or transmitting information, but Gallen’s skull acted as something of a dish.

“This is it,” Maggie said. “This is the antenna. This is a more complex design than I’d imagined, but it’s also easy to defeat-at least I think we can keep them from tracking us.”

“Do it,” Gallen said.

And to her own surprise, Maggie found that she was able to take the knife from Ceravanne. “It’s too intricate to do this without a mantle,” she explained. She severed the web in a circle, then dug out as much of the wiring as possible. She tried to clear her thoughts, concentrate only on doing the job. She watched for several seconds, to see if the web would grow back, but apparently this component of the nanotech weapon was too unsophisticated to regenerate. After thirty seconds, the wound so filled with blood that she could no longer see well.

Maggie blotted it away again with the bandage. “I’m done,” she whispered.

“Try to pry the Word out,” Gallen said.

“There’s no need,” Maggie argued, imagining how the webs of metallic neurons would slice through his brain if she pulled. “I’ve already cut off the antenna.”

“I don’t want it in me,” Gallen shouted, his voice muffled as he yelled into the straw. “Cut it out! Pull it out partway, if you can, and then cut it in half.” Maggie found herself breathing hard, imagining the possibilities for infection in the wound, the possibilities of brain damage. She touched the tail end of the Word with her knife, wondering if it could be pried out. Suddenly, as if it had been burned, the Word lunged forward into Gallen’s brain, and blood began gushing out from Gallen’s brain cavity.

“Ah, God,” Orick cried out in fear.

“What?” Gallen asked, moving a bit.

“Nothing,” Maggie said, suddenly terrified, her knees going weak. “I’ll close now.”

Ceravanne held out her finger, and Maggie cut it, dropped a bit of Ceravanne’s Immortal blood into the wound, and in moments the cut began to heal. Gallen lay quietly while Maggie washed the blood from the back of his neck. And when Gallen sat up, he replaced his mantle on his head and asked Maggie, “Did you get it out?”.

“I couldn’t get the Word out,” Maggie said. “It dug itself in deeper. But I cut all of the connections to the antenna, and I dug out part of the wiring. I think the Word will be permanently disabled.”

Gallen considered, got up, and gazed off to the south. “I fear that my presence could be a danger to you even still. I will not guide you south, unless you all desire me to. But I warn you in any case that we may not be able to elude the Inhuman-a great race is afoot. I suspect that those marching hive cities have come searching for us, as have the scouts. Our enemies hunt us by land and air.”

He looked back, into the faces of Orick, Tallea, and Ceravanne. “Will you have me?”

And Maggie looked into the face of Gallen, the Inhuman, and one by one, the others said yes, until at last Tallea said, “For now.”

* * *