The Elves of Cintra

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

LOGAN TOM was marched off the freeway toward the roofs of the buildings cradled by the low hills, his captors fanned out on all sides to keep him securely in their midst. He forced himself not to look back at the AV and the hay wagon and the Ghosts, trying hard not to get ahead of himself, to concentrate on the moment and wait for his chance. He could escape anytime he chose. But escaping meant putting the kids at immediate risk, and he was con–vinced that he must find a way to avoid that. There was still the possi–bility that Krilka Koos, whoever he was, only wanted to talk, only sought his help with something.

He needed to give that possibility a chance.

Still, the urge to strike back, to lash out with all the power that was his to command through possession of the black staff, was almost more than he could resist. He could scatter these men like bits of dust, burn them to ash, and flee back to free his helpless charges. He could turn this thing around in an instant's time.

Maybe. But all it would take was one shout, one shot fired, one hint that something was wrong.

The men around him kept their distance, walking in loose, easy fashion, following the lead of the man who had done all the talking ear–lier. But their casual attitude was only a pretense that was betrayed by the constant surreptitious glances they directed Logan's way when they thought he wasn't looking. He detected wariness in those glances, but something else as well–an excitement, an eagerness for something these men understood and he did not.

It was this secret knowledge that bothered Logan most. He had seen such looks before on the faces of other men like these, and it al–ways signaled a fresh form of bloodletting. But he had committed him–self; he had his staff to protect him, and his training as a Knight of the Word to reassure him. Whatever waited, it would find him ready.

They passed down through the hills, winding between the gentle slopes toward the buildings, leaving the freeway and Ghosts behind. No one talked. Logan thought once or twice to ask questions, and then decided against it. He was better off keeping his uncertainties to him–self

"Just ahead, now," the man who had done all the speaking advised. "You knew I was coming," Logan said, changing his mind about staying quiet. "You were waiting for me."

The speaker glanced at him. "We did and we were. We keep watch on the roads to see who passes. Those who suit our needs, we bring back. Most, we ignore. Not you, of course. We knew you for a Knight of the Word ten miles back. That staff. There's no mistaking it."

"So you only stop Knights of the Word?"

The speaker smiled. "Krilka Koos will explain."

Krilka Koos. Even the name was loathsome by now. Logan kept the rage from his face, his expression purposely blank. Krilka Koos was going to have a lot to answer for. Maybe more than he was expecting.

They rounded a berm, and Logan found himself moving toward a warehouse–size building that had the look of an implement sales and storage facility. There were faded images of tractors and machinery for which he did not know the names painted on the sides of the corru–gated sheet metal, and a tractor–shaped weather vane on a squat steeple. Huge doors were rolled open on the long side of the building facing him, clusters of men standing watchfully at their edges. The in–terior was lit faintly by daylight that spilled through the doors and seeped through cracks and breathing holes in the ceiling and walls. The stale smells of dirt and manure and hay hung mingled in the air, trapped in the low spaces between the hills.

Beyond the larger building were other, small buildings–houses and sheds and livestock shelters. Beyond that was what remained of a small village, its structures falling apart, long since abandoned and neglected. He studied the ruins for a moment, then glanced back at the larger build–ing. The earth surrounding it was muddied and worn, as if trod on re–peatedly by many men. Logan did not see those men and wondered why.

They reached the rolled–back doors and entry into the warehouse building, and the man leading him gestured for him to stop. "Wait here," he said.

He left Logan standing in the midst of his other captors and walked into the warehouse. Logan glanced at the men surrounding him. All of them were pointing their weapons at him, uneasiness reflected in more faces than not. Logan decided not to give them further reason to worry. He sat down where he was, his legs crossed, his staff resting in his lap.

A few minutes later, the man in charge returned. "Go on in. Krilka Koos is waiting for you."

Logan got to his feet, smiling. "All by himself ?"

The man laughed. "Of course. He's no different from you." He winked. "'You'll see."

Logan resisted the urge to turn that wink into something else and passed through the entry into the mix of shadows and suffused sun–light. His eyes worked hard to adjust to the change of brightness as they swept the vast interior. At first he could see almost nothing, but slowly he began to make out a vast open area ringed by bleachers that were set back against the walls. A space had been left between the bleachers at the building entry, and he could see that the flooring below the bleachers had been torn up. The exposed earth had been carefully, almost lovingly raked, the dirt made soft and loose.

An arena, he thought.

He passed between the stands and stepped out into the center of the open space. A man was sitting on the seats to his right. The man lifted one hand in greeting. "You're here!" he called out, sounding de–cidedly cheerful about it. "The road–weary traveler has found his way!"

He stood up and walked over, whistling tunelessly. He was big, much bigger than Logan, and his dark, seamed features suggested that he was older, too. His black hair was long and uncut, and a heavy beard shaded his jaw. But even the hair and the beard failed to hide the scars that criss–crossed his face like spiderwebbing. One set lasered up from his mouth to what was left of his right ear in vivid red streaks. Another slashed diago–nally across his mouth. His eyebrows appeared to have been burned away.

"I've been looking forward to this," he added, breaking into a grin. "Quite anxious for it, really. I can't deny it."

He was dressed in loose–fitting gray and black clothing that was tat–tered and frayed, but the loosening of the seams and the rips in the cloth seemed to suit him. He carried no weapons, but then perhaps he had no need of them: in his right hand he held a black, rune–carved staff identical to Logan's.

"I'm Krilka Koos," the big man announced. He glanced at his staff, his smile twisting crookedly.

"Are you surprised to find that I'm one of your own?"

Logan nodded. "If you mean that you're a Knight of the Word, I guess I am."

"You should be. How could you even suspect? Achille would never tell you. He never tells my guests anything."

Achille. That would be the leader of the men who had brought him here. "He didn't this time, either."

"What's your name?"

"Logan Tom."

Krilka Koos held out his hand, but Logan ignored it. "I was not brought here by polite invitation, so let's get to it. What is this all about?"

The big man laughed, reaching out boldly to clap Logan on his shoulder. "This? This is about–everything!" He extended his arms wide, his laugh deepening. "Everything that matters in this godforsaken world, this hellish killing ground populated by demons and once–men and things that are abominations too terrible to name. It is about being cast out of our lives like rats from a sinking ship. It is about being forced to rebuild those lives in the image of our enemy. It is about who will die and who will survive in the days ahead."

He paused. The scars on his face were livid. "It is about you and me, Logan. Because when you come right down to it, we're all that counts."

Logan stared at him. Krilka Koos might have been mistaken for something approaching normal if not for his eyes. They were eyes that Logan recognized immediately, because he had seen them once before, ten years earlier, staring back at him from Michael's face on the day he had killed him.

He shook his head. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Krilka Koos nodded, as if Logan were merely stating what he al–ready knew. "Give it time. Now then, let me see if I can guess which one you are. Which of the Knights who remain alive. There are only a few of us left, you know. Only a handful, and that was yesterday's news. Let me guess. You travel with children. I like that. A man who has children fights for someone other than himself And you drive that modified Lightning S–One–fifty AV. Shows you have talent, skills that other men lack. You'd be the one who's laid waste to the slave camps all through the middle of the country, freeing the prisoners so that they can run off to find a new set of captors and be made slaves once more. Am I right?"

"Probably. How do you know of me?"

"Word gets out this way, if you know how to listen for it. Word trav–els through one means and another. I came here five years back to make my stand. Fought all the way out from the East Coast while the oceans rose and the seaboard flooded and its cities sank. Fought all the way past the inland cities after that and watched them fall, one by one, to the demon–led armies. Took out my share of demons and once–men while it was happening, and I liked doing it. But there were always more, always others. I grew tired, Logan." He paused. "Isn't that what's happened to you? Haven't you grown tired?"

"Long since," Logan agreed. A dark suspicion was beginning to form. "So you came west to escape all that. Over the mountains?" "Through the passes."

"North, traveling through what used to be Montana?"

The big man smiled. "You know who I am, don't you? You found those pathetic creatures that worship the mountain spirits, and they told you about me."

Logan nodded, his suspicions confirmed. This was the rogue Knight of the Word whom the Spiders had told him about when he crossed the mountains on his way west weeks earlier. This was the man who'd killed thirty of them for challenging his right to pass.

"I heard they had made the mistake of angering you, so you killed several dozen in retaliation."

"Not in retaliation," Krilka Koos advised with a thoughtful look. "As a lesson. My reputation is not something I can afford to let anyone tarnish–certainly not a bunch of Spiders. If word of that got around, I would be finished. They had no right to challenge me. So I made an example of them. By the time I was settled in this place, ready to make my preparations, word had gotten around. Those who came to join me already knew that there would be no tolerance for disobedience. It saved me a lot of time. You would have done the same in my place. Don't pretend otherwise."

There were many responses Logan could have made, but the bright gleam in the other man's eyes suggested he wasn't open to hearing them. So he shrugged his seeming indifference. He didn't need an ar–gument. He simply needed to get out of there. "What is it you want of me?" he asked.

"What is it I want of you?" The big man laughed anew. "Why, Logan? I want you to join me!? I want you to stand with me when it comes time to face them down!"

"Face who down?"

"Our enemies! The demons and once–men! The armies that are coming here to destroy us! Wake up and smell the roses, Logan? They tear down the compounds one by one. They enslave or kill the inhabi–tants. They eradicate everything. Eventually, they'll come here to try to do the same. But they won't find it so easy when they do."

He leaned forward conspiratorially. "I have been preparing for them for almost three years now. I have been training every day, working at making myself invincible. Testing myself We exist in a crucible where our metal is toughened by the raw heat of combat. We pass through the fire and emerge purer and stronger. More resilient. When they come, the demons and once–men and anything else that seeks to destroy me, I will be ready for them." He paused. "I am ready now."

"Why can't you do this alone?" Logan asked quietly. "You seem to have been managing all right until now."

Krilka Koos gave him a hard look. "You don't understand."

Logan nodded. "Maybe not. Maybe you should explain it."

"One is good, but two are better. Two would share the burden of the struggle, make it easier, make it more bearable." His voice lowered, and his eyes strayed off into the distance. "What good are you doing anyone, Logan? You travel here and there, you attack slave camp after slave camp, you do battle with one set of once–men or another, you face down a demon or two, and what does it get you? How much better off are you now than you were ten years ago? How much better off is any–one you've tried to help? It won't last, you know. Your luck. Your de–termination. Sooner or later, it will give out."

"I took an oath to serve the Word," Logan said. "I am doing what I can where I can. It doesn't do any good to sit around waiting for the enemy to find you. You have to get out and find them. You have to de–stroy them before they have a chance to destroy you." He hesitated. "What about the oath you took as a Knight of the Word? Have you for–gotten it?"

The big man made a dismissive gesture. "It was a false oath made to a false god. It was a promise given without adequate consideration for the consequences. What help does the Word offer us? What hope are we given? The Lady and the Indian, where are they when it comes time to fight our enemies? Where are any of them? No, Logan, we owe noth–ing of allegiance to anyone but ourselves."

The gleam in his eye had grown brighter, and there was an almost rapturous look on his scarred face. Krilka Koos, whatever else he was, had turned his back on his life as a Knight of the Word and embraced something Logan could not yet define. He might carry the staff and wield the power of the Word, but he no longer served the cause he had once committed to.

Logan shook his head. "I don't think it would work out, you and me. Your fight and mine, they're not the same. You decided to go one way, but it's not my way. I have my own path to follow."

"Once you join me, you will be second in command of my army." Krilka Koos seemed not to have heard him. "I have been training my followers. They are invincible. They will stand and fight against any–thing that threatens. They will survive because they have no fear of dying, because they have been tested, over and over. I will not let them die. There are thousands, and more come to join every day. If you join, as well, you will have a chance to do something that matters, a chance to make a difference. No more wasting time and effort on those who don't merit it. Slave camps were built for sheep. You and I, we're wolves We stand and fight! We do what Knights of the Word should have done years ago: we leave the sheep to their fate and conduct our–selves as warriors."

Again Logan shook his head. "We were given the staffs we carry to help those sheep. We owe it to them to do so."

"We owe no one!" the other screamed suddenly, the words echoing off the metal walls of the building. "No on& We have tried that way, and we have failed! We have been all but broken trying to save those sheep, those pitiful creatures that won't fight for themselves! We've wasted enough time on them!"

Logan knew where this was going, and there was nothing he could do to change its direction. "I can't join you," he said simply.

Krilka Koos, flushed with his passion, stared at him for a long mo–ment. "You might want to rethink that answer. Come with me."

He took Logan to one corner of the building, back behind the bleachers where the shadows were deep and layered. There was a sort of alcove there, a recessed portion of the wall perhaps fifteen feet high and another thirty long. Logan could just make out what appeared to be a series of implements fastened to the sheet metal by means of ties and bolts, all carefully arranged.

Krilka Koos walked over to the adjoining wall and threw open a pair of metal shutters to let in the light.

Logan stared. The alcove wall was decorated with weapons, every–thing from Parkhan Sprays and Tyson Flechettes to knives and spears and swords, Iron Stars and viper–pricks and hundreds of others. At the very center of the collection were three black staffs carved with runes, their once polished surfaces turned dull and lifeless, their symbols of power as gray and cold as ashes.

Logan looked quickly at Krilka Koos. "You're not mistaken," the big man answered his unspoken question. "They belonged to other Knights of the Word, men and women who stood where you are standing now, men and women who gave way to the darkness in their hearts. They were asked to join me; they refused. The price of refusal is sometimes much steeper than what we imagine it will be."

"You killed them?" Logan asked in disbelief "Other Knights of the Word? You killed them?"

Krilka Koos shook his head. "Not in the way you think. I wouldn't do that. That isn't who I am.

They killed themselves."

He stepped around so that he was facing Logan squarely. "I asked them to join me, just as I am asking you. For one reason or another, they said no. They were foolish. In this world, you must make your stand. You cannot walk away. You cannot refuse."

He pointed at Logan. "If you are not with me, then inevitably you are against me. Perhaps not today, not right now, but sometime. The po–tential for it is there; there is no point in pretending otherwise. Those who are not our friends are our enemies in waiting. We cannot afford to let our enemies escape us. We would be foolish to do so."

Logan got the gist of it, but still had trouble coming to terms with what he was hearing. "You said they killed themselves?"

"In a manner of speaking. I used them to measure my own strength and skill. I gave them the choice ofjoining me or testing themselves in combat against me."

Logan almost laughed. If Michael had been insane at the end, Krilka Koos was beyond even that. "You made them fight you?"

The big man nodded, no longer smiling. "If you choose not to join me, you are choosing to set yourself against me. The matter is settled through a test of strengths, yours against mine. Trial by combat. Have you made the right decision by refusing to join me or have I by insist–ing you must? A battle to the death will decide. It is nothing new. It has been an approved method ofjudging right and wrong for thou–sands of years."

He gestured at the wall. "These three–and all those others whose weapons hang here, those who were not Knights of the Word but who chose trial by combat nevertheless–fought and died in this arena. I was the stronger, the better trained, the more prepared. I was the one who prevailed." He paused. "I was in the right. They were not."

He folded his arms across his chest. "Now you must decide, just as they did. Do you wish to test me?"

Logan shook his head, a great feeling of hopelessness welling up in his heart. He should have tried to make his escape earlier; he should have taken his chances. "I wish to go back to where you found me, take my kids, and go on my way. Let me do so."

The big man shook his head. "Choose. Join me or fight me. Those are your options."

"This doesn't make any sense. What purpose does it serve for Knights of the Word to fight one another? We share a common enemy. Let me go. Let me carry the fight in the way I feel is best. I leave you to do the same. Why can't we do that?"

Krilka Koos gave him a rueful smile. "Because combat is how we settle everything, Logan. Because the world is ending and the battle to save her is lost. What we have left, in the time we have left, is a chance to take the measure of ourselves. Do we stand around waiting to die like the sheep you are so anxious to save? Or do we die fighting like the men we are? You know the answer. In your heart, you know. We are the last and the best. How good are we? Set against one another, we can discover the truth."

Logan shook his head. "I won't fight you. I won't do it."

"I think you will. I think you don't know yourself as well as you imagine." He unfolded his arms and blew into a whistle hung on a chain about his neck. "Trial by combat, to the death. You have one hour to prepare yourself Achille will keep you company until then. Do not at–tempt to escape. If you do, you already know what will happen to your children. It will be on your head. If you defeat me, you will be allowed to take them and go. It is the code I have established, and my men will follow it."

He shook his head. "I should have preferred it, of course, if you joined me. But killing you will be exciting, too. One hour."

He started to walk away, beckoning to Achille and the guards who were already responding to the sound of the whistle. "What does not kill us makes us stronger, Logan Tom," he called back over his shoulder. "It's an old saying. Try thinking on it."

Logan watched him disappear into the shadows, lost to everything. It was Michael at the end. It was madness.

"IS IT SETTLED?" Achille asked quietly, coming up to stand beside him. "You will face him in battle?"

Logan looked at him in disgust. "He seems to think I will." He shook his head. "I don't understand. Why do you follow him?"

Achille's face was cadaverous beneath the shock of wild black hair. "Isn't it obvious? Because he is invincible." He gestured toward the wall of weapons. "Because he prevails in combat against all who stand against him. No one has been able to defeat him. No one ever will. Not demons or once–men. Not even other Knights of the Word. He is too much for any of them."

He gave Logan a long look. "You'll see. He will be too much for you, too."

Achille's smile was rueful as he looked away. "You don't know him as we do, we who follow him. He has given us hope, when there is no hope to be found. He is the one who will save us all."