The Elves of Cintra

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

PANTHER PEERED THROUGH the bushes that screened him from the men gathered in front of the warehouse, searching for any clue that would tell him what had become of Logan Tom. "How long has he been in there, anyway?" he whispered to Catalya. She shook her head, a barely perceptible movement, her body flattened against the ground next to his.

"Well, what do you think is happening?"

She shook her head again.

"So what do we do?"

She shifted her gaze sideways. "Don't you have a plan?" she whis–pered back.

"No? I thought you did'!" Irritated with her, he scowled in rebuke. "Why would I have a plan? This was your idea!"

"Not my idea to bring you along, it wasn't."

"Your idea to come in the first place?"

She made no response, and he went back to watching the entry to the warehouse, searching the darkness for movement.

Nothing. For all he knew, Logan Tom might have been dropped into a black pit and covered over.

They were hidden on a rise off to one side of the building entrance, safely back and above the outbuildings and the ghost town beyond. Knowing that they must have been seen coming down the freeway ini–tially from some distance off, they had chosen to come directly after the men who had taken Logan Tom, reasoning that while the freeway might be watched, the compound that housed the men might not. So far, they had been proven right. They had seen no one and not been stopped as they moved through the ravines and hollows that snaked between the hills, at last finding themselves in the wooded area they presently occupied.

But now that they had found the perfect hiding spot, a place where they could see what was happening below and not be seen, they were stymied as to what to do next.

Or at least Panther was. He glanced sideways at Catalya. Hard to tell about her.

He studied her mottled face. Strange, at first glance, but once you got past the Lizard patches, rather nice. She was different in the same way as Tessa–unusual, unique. Black hair like Tessa, but she had pale skin like Chalk. He couldn't explain the attraction. Of course, part of it was the way she could fight. Any girl who could take out three men as fast as she did was something special. Even Sparrow couldn't do that. He studied her some more. Couldn't turn away. Didn't want to. He wondered why she worked so hard at trying to make everyone think she was ugly.

She looked over at him suddenly, her mouth twisting into a wicked grin. "Can't take your eyes off me, can you?"

He turned away, burning with embarrassment. Stupid Freak, he thought, then squelched the words at once. It was wrong to call her that, even without actually saying the words, wrong to think of her that way, double wrong to suggest that she was bad somehow just because of her condition.

He hated that he thought and said things before thinking them through. Hated that he did it so often. Like when Logan Tom had brought the girl into camp. First thing he did, he called her a Freak, his mouth quicker than his brain, like there was no connection between the two. Sparrow called him on it regularly. River, too, now and then. It was all right. He deserved it. He had it coming.

"I'm sorry I said those things about you earlier," he whispered im–pulsively, not able to make himself look at her as he said it. "I shouldn't have called you names. You don't deserve that. I didn't mean it. Not re–ally. I was just being stupid."

"Give me your Spray," she said in response, almost as if she hadn't heard him.

He hesitated, surprised by the request, but then handed over his weapon. Cat took it and slipped it quickly beneath her cloak, doing something he couldn't quite see to secure it once it was tucked safely inside.

"Hey!" he objected. "What are you doing?"

She glanced over, giving him a wink. "Saving you from yourself You'll get it back when you need it."

Below, the open space in front of the warehouse was beginning to fill with men and women, all rather ragged and haggard, all carrying weapons. They seemed to appear all at once and out of nowhere, but in truth they had come from the outbuildings and the hills beyond. They were all talking and seemed excited as they moved toward the open doors of the warehouse and poured inside.

"What's going on?" Panther asked.

Cat looked over at him, her smile gone. "We're about to find out. Don't panic. We've been seen. They're right behind us."

He stared at her, thinking she was joking, that this was another of her games played at his expense. He started to say something in re–sponse, and she quickly put a finger to her lips.

"Stay where you are," a voice ordered.

Panther felt his heart sink.

"What do you two think you're doing?" a second voice asked.

"Just looking for something to eat," Catalya answered at once, her voice pitifully frightened and desperate. "We didn't mean any harm. Please, mister, we haven't eaten in days."

"Street kids," said another voice. "That one's a Freak. Look at her face. Don't touch her."

Panther started to turn. "I told you not to move," the first voice said, closer now, and the cold muzzle of a weapon pressed up against his cheek.

"Just let us go, mister," Catalya begged, starting to cry.

"I don't think so," the first voice said. "Not till I find out something more about you. I think you'd better come with us. Get up. Slowly." Panther was furious. I knew I shouldn't have given her the Spray! "Hurry it up," the second urged. "We'll miss the show."

The muzzle of the gun left Panther's face.

As the boy and the girl climbed to their feet, Catalya gave Panther a sideways glance and a wink and mouthed, Trust me. Then she said over her shoulder to their captors, her voice shaking, "What sort of show, mister?"

I hope you know what you're doing, Panther thought sourly.

WHEN THE HOUR allotted to Logan was almost up, Achille brought him a suit of worn, scarred body armor that had obviously seen exten–sive use. Pieces were dented, and a few were cracked halfway across. Logan told Achille he didn't want body armor, didn't even want this fight, but the other man insisted he put it on. Krilka Koos would be wearing body armor and wouldn't allow any disparity in protection or weapons that would lend one combatant or the other an advantage. Each would be identically dressed and armed.

Logan allowed the body armor to be fitted–chest and back plates, upper arm and elbow guards, and upper thigh and knee guards with overlapping plates at the juncture of shoulders and arms and hips and thighs. The armor was lightweight and strong, an alloy perfected in the waning days of the struggle that had seen the end of organized govern–ment and its armies. Michael had owned a set. Logan had not.

He found himself standing alone afterward, the body armor cinched tightly about him, his staff held in both hands as he faced the weapons display wall, thinking that this shouldn't be happening, that it made no sense. It was what he had thought from the moment he had learned what Krilka Koos intended, and even now, when it was clearly time to do so, he couldn't make himself face the reality of his situation. It felt surreal to him, a dream that he would wake from at any moment. Even when he heard the sounds of voices outside the building, gather–ing in volume and intensity, and then inside, changing to shouts and cries of expectation; even when he heard the sounds of boots climbing into the bleachers and hands clapping with rhythmic encouragement; and even when the cacophony was so intense that it blotted out every other sound and left him blanketed in waves of wildness and frenzy, he could not find steady ground on which to stand. He was at sea, cast adrift, and everything around him seemed to be getting farther away.

How was he supposed to prepare for a battle he had no interest in fighting? The question rolled and spun with the bright insistence of sunspots flashing through dark clouds. He wondered suddenly if this was where everything would end for him–his service to the Word, his efforts to find and protect the boy Hawk, his care for the Ghosts, all the unfinished business in his life. Knights of the Word did not have long lives, but somehow he had always believed he would have more time than this.

"They're ready," Achille said suddenly, coming up to him.

Logan looked at the man, at the faint smile on his face, and he knew that no one thought for one minute that this was something he was going to walk away from.

"What do I do?" he asked.

"Walk out into the arena. Krilka will be waiting. The rest is up to the two of you." Achille stepped back. "Good luck."

What he was saying, Logan knew, was Good–bye.

He took a last look at the weapons display, imagining for a moment the men–and possibly women–who had carried them into battle. He looked once more at the three rune–carved staffs that had belonged to other Knights of the Word, dull and lifeless in their straps, the power gone with their bearers' lives. They couldn't have wanted this any more than he did. It was obscene that they should have come to this end. Krilka Koos killed to reassure himself of his prowess. He killed so that his followers would believe he was invincible. Everything he had sworn to do as a Knight of the Word had been subverted. Logan felt a slow burn of anger build inside. It would never stop unless someone made it stop.

Unless he made it stop.

He tightened his hands about his staff, took a deep breath, and walked out into the arena.

The roar that greeted his appearance nearly knocked him back–ward. Shouts of frenzied expectation rose out of the throats of hun–dreds of men and women. Boots stomped and banged against bleacher aisles, and hands clapped and pounded on metal seats. The faithful were gathered in force, there to witness his destruction at the hands of their leader, savior, and manufactured hero. Logan felt sick to his stom–ach, fear washing through him. He wasn't immune to the latter, and while he had braved death a hundred times in his raids on the slave camps, he had never faced it down in circumstances like these. His throat tightened and his stomach lurched as the roar washed over him like an ocean wave that would drag him under and drown him.

But it was the massing of feeders all through the bleachers, around and under them, their dark shapes hunched and squirming in eager an–ticipation of what was to come, that chilled him to the bone. He had not seen this many since the boy Hawk, the gypsy morph, had been thrown from the walls of the compound in Seattle. Hundreds of them, waiting for the bloodletting. Waiting for their chance to drink in the pain and anguish, the dark emotions that would spill from the combatants. This was a battle between two Knights of the Word, and the chance to feed would never be more satisfying. No one could see them but Krilka Koos and himself. No one else would even know they were there.

Logan Tom felt his stomach constrict at the thought.

Krilka Koos stood waiting at the other end of the arena. He was dressed all in black and gray, clothing and body armor of a piece, and he carried his black staff cradled comfortably in his arms. Already its runes were glowing a dull blue. He had the look of a man who was neither afraid nor anxious. He waited with no sign of impatience or expecta–tion. This would be just another battle for him, another killing. It would be a little more special than most because Logan was a Knight of the Word, but nothing more than that. The outcome was predeter–mined; his certainty of it was mirrored on his face.

He waited until Logan was fully emerged from behind the bleach–ers, standing open and exposed within the arena, and then he spread his arms wide in open invitation. "Come fight me, Logan Tom!" he roared. "Come test yourself against me!?"

The crowd roared, the sound reverberating off the rafters and shak–ing the sheet–metal walls. The feeders climbed over one another in an effort to get closer. Logan glanced at the open doorway through which he had come earlier, still thinking of the possibility of escape. The men who served Krilka Koos were mostly crammed into this warehouse to watch the spectacle, and there was little chance that they could pre–vent him from reaching the Ghosts if he could get through the door. But to do that, he would have to fight his way past rows of men and women at least ten–deep and turn his back on Krilka Koos in the bar–gain. What chance would he have of making it through?

He gave it up and looked over at his adversary. The scarred face was bright with anticipation, the black staff pointing toward him now, lev–eled and ready for use. Logan shook his head and started to say, "Why can't we take a different — "

He got that much out before the Word's fire, wielded by its failed servant, slammed into him with pile–driver force and sent him tum–bling backward, head–over–heels. The force of the attack was shocking. Pain ratcheted through his body, and his breath exploded out of him in a hard, quick gasp. He almost lost his grip on his staff; only instinct and desperation kept him from releasing it.

But the attack had another effect, as well. It knocked aside all hesi–tation and doubt, banishing in an instant every consideration but one. In his mind, the words screamed at him, harsh and commanding.

Stay alive!

His training and instincts took over, and he rolled back to his feet in a single fluid movement. He didn't bother trying to defend himself against what he knew was coming. Instead, he attacked. He summoned the magic and sent it flying across the arena into Krilka Koos with every ounce of strength he could muster. He watched it strike the big man, shatter against him, and stagger him with its force.

But it did little else. It did not flatten him as Logan had intended that it should. It did not break apart his defenses and give him reason to question his self–confidence. If anything, it reaffirmed it. He shook off the blow, steadied himself, and raised his arms in triumph, almost as if he believed he had already won the battle.

The crowd roared its approval, and the foot stomping and hand–clapping reached new heights. Scattered invisibly through their midst, the feeders lunged and withdrew like wild dogs.

Logan was back on his feet, his staff held protectively before him, his defenses in place. Krilka Koos grinned broadly, beckoning him closer, taunting him. The two men circled each other, feinting without attacking, each looking to find a weakness in the other's approach. Logan, having abandoned his reluctance along with any hope that his adversary could be made to listen to reason, was determined to end this quickly.

But it was Krilka Koos who struck first, again without warning, again without seeming to do anything but shift his stance slightly. He struck at Logan's feet, a searing bolt that erupted from the lowered end of his staff, skimmed the dirt floor, and encircled Logan's ankles, burn–ing through his boots and knocking him to his knees. Instantly the big man followed up with a second strike, this one aimed at Logan's head. Logan deflected the blow at the last moment, fighting back from his knees, unable to rise, his lower legs and feet numb. He threw up the Word's fire from his staff in a shield that broke apart the blow intended to remove his head, and rocked back on his nerveless heels.

"Come, Logan Tom?" Krilka Koos shouted at him. "Surely you can do better than this?"

Taunts issued from the crowd in response, whistles and hoots and jeers of all sorts. Logan barely heard them, scrambling to gather up his scattered thoughts, struggling back to his feet. He was losing this fight. He had to turn the attack back against Krilka Koos. What had Michael taught him that he could use? What, that would keep him alive?

The big man attacked again, the fire of his staff slamming Logan backward once more, this time all the way into the first row of the bleachers. Rough hands shoved him away, fists pummeling and hoots kicking at his back and shoulders. He was barely clear when the fire en–gulfed him once more. His defenses feeble and unfocused, his concen–tration shattered by the pain and the shock of what was happening to him, he went down on his knees, gasping for breath, fighting waves of nausea. He felt the first of the feeders climbing over him, their touch like cold wet leaves against his hot skin.

Do something! he screamed at himself

But he couldn't imagine what that something would be.

"PLEASE, MISTER, what's happening in there?" Cat asked in her frightened–little–girl voice. She reached up and put her hands over her ears. "It's so loud."

Panther wanted to roll his eyes, but kept them firmly fixed on the entry to the warehouse they were passing on their way to whatever lockup their captors were planning to put them in. The metal sides of the building were shaking with the sounds of raucous shouts and stamping feet. Smoke drifted from the air vents and through seams in the sheet metal, and brilliant white light flashed through the building's deep gloom. Bodies were packed tightly against the entrance, blocking any view of whatever everyone had gathered to see.

Didn't matter if he could see or not, Panther thought. He could still make a pretty good guess as to who was involved.

"You don't need to know about that," one of the men snapped at the girl, while the other gave Panther a shove for good measure. "Just keep moving. Hurry it up!"

"We're missing it?" his companion muttered angrily. "The whole thing?

They passed the building entrance, moved around to one side, and started toward a series of sheds clustered near the back. Panther had a knife tucked into his boot, but he couldn't think how to reach it or even what to do with it if he did. He needed the Spray, but that was safely tucked away inside Cat's cloak. Which their captors hadn't even bothered to look under, he added bitterly. They were so scared of her disease, whatever they imagined it to be, that they had checked only him. Frickin' stump heads, he thought.

They reached the sheds. "Okay, this is as far as you go," one man said, moving toward the nearest door and loosening a chain looped through a metal hasp.

"Are you going to lock us in there?" Cat asked in horror.

"That's right, Lizard face," he said, giving her a knowing grin. "Shouldn't bother you all that — "

She flung out her arm, and an Iron Star embedded itself in his chest. He went down in a heap. The second man stared in disbelief, then tried to bring up his weapon. But by then the second Star was already buried in his neck. He gasped once, clutched at his throat, and collapsed.

Neither Panther nor Cat said a word as they dragged the men into the nearest shed, closed the door, and locked them in by knotting the length of chain through the hasps.

Then the boy turned to her. "You knew we were gonna be captured by these stump heads, and you let it happen?"

"How else were we going to get this close?" She gave him a look. "What? You thought we could sneak in without being seen, maybe? Don't you know anything? How have you managed to stay alive?"

"Stayed alive just fine before you showed up!" he snapped at her.

She reached under her cloak, fumbled with the ties that secured it, brought out the Parkhan Spray and handed it to him. "Here. Maybe you can manage to stay alive this time, too, if you pay attention to me."

"Oh, so now you have a plan?"

She pulled up the hood of her cloak so that her face was concealed. "Sure. Go in, find him, and get him out. How's that sound?" He stared at her. "Sounds brain–dead."

"It isn't. We have the advantage of surprise."

He stared at her some more, then sighed. "Don't know why I should expect anything out of you. Okay, let's do it."

She led the way at a trot across the empty grounds.

LOGAN TOM was back on his feet, the Word's magic summoned from his staff once more, its ragged defenses warding him as best they could. The feeders that had attempted to devour him had been thrust aside, driven back into the bleachers. Not that any of this meant he would be alive five minutes from now. Across from him, Krilka Koos was already celebrating, taunting him anew, stalking him as a predator stalks a wounded animal. Logan knew that he needed a plan, a way to catch the big man off guard, a way to negate his strength and power. He needed to call to mind all of the lessons that Michael had taught him about hand–to–hand combat. But wounded and in pain, fighting to keep him–self from falling apart, he was finding it difficult to recall anything.

"Logan Tom? Are you still alive over there?" Krilka Koos laughed, feinted playfully, and stepped aside from an imaginary retaliation. "I don't think you've got much left in you? Do you want this to be over with quickly? Or do you wish to keep dragging it out?"

Overconfident of his victory, he revealed something he hadn't in–tended. Logan watched him feint and withdraw, feint and withdraw, and he saw a pattern to his movements. If he could take advantage of it, he might still have a chance.

Without giving anything away as to his state of mind or intentions, he started advancing on the other man. Koos could not be uncertain what he was doing; the advance did not seem to signal an attack. If any–thing, it must seem more a submission, an acceptance of his fate.

"Are you finished, then?" he shouted. It was what he was anticipat–ing, what he believed Logan wanted. "Throw down your staff, and I promise to make it quick?"

Still playing with his captive, he started to feint and withdraw once again.

Only this time Logan was waiting. The moment Krilka Koos began his feint, Logan summoned the magic in a rush and sent it hurtling into the space into which the other's now predictable withdrawal would take him. The big man stepped right into it. He tried to change direc–tions at the last instant, aware of what was happening, but he was al–ready moving and it was too late. The Word's bright fire slammed into him, catching him full–on, knocking him completely off his feet and sprawling into the dirt.

Logan rushed him instantly, charging across the space that sepa–rated them, using his own magic not to attack, as the other would ex–pect, but to shield himself As he had anticipated, Koos struck out at him from where he lay, trying to stop him in midstride. But his defenses held, buoyed by the adrenaline pumping through him and by his deter–mination. He heard the roar of the crowd all around him, the sound heartening this time because it betrayed their dismay at the unex–pected turn of events.

Then he was on top of Koos, using his staff like a cudgel, hammer–ing it downward on the other's arms and body in sharp, rapid blows, striving to break past the other's efforts to block him. He was success–ful enough that he heard Krilka Koos grunt with pain, still sprawled on his back, unable to get back to his feet. Logan would not let him up. Could not, if he wanted to live. He could feel the feeders all around him, climbing over them both, pressing down, sucking in the leavings of their dark struggle. He pressed his attack, doubling his efforts, Word fire spurting from both ends of his staff in response to his rage. Fire burst from the ends of Krilka Koos's staff as well, but he could not bring it to bear.

Then, perhaps in desperation, the big man rolled into Logan, one arm reaching out to grapple with his legs, to try to bring him down. He dropped any semblance of an attack using his staff, tucking it against his body with his free arm, relying instead on his enormous strength. He ducked his head between his hunched shoulders, shielding it as best he could, and tore at the smaller man. Logan was already losing his bal–ance, unable to kick free.

When he went down, Krilka Koos was on top of him at once, pounding into him with staff and fists. Blows exploded against Logan's head, and for a moment he thought he would lose consciousness. He survived mostly on instinct and training, burying his head in the big man's shoulder while his fingers found a set of vulnerable nerves in the other's thick neck. Krilka Koos gasped and cried out, thrashing to break free. His attack on Logan stalled as they rolled across the dirt arena in a tangle of arms and legs, the cries of the men and women on the bleachers rising to a fresh crescendo. Koos was bigger and stronger, but Logan, lacking size and strength, knew more about self–defense. Keep–ing his fingers locked on his enemy's neck, he lifted his head out of its protective hunch and head–butted the big man in the face, breaking his nose. Koos howled in dismay, and blood spurted all over both of them.

More important, half blind and in desperate pain, he released his grip on Logan.

Logan broke free at once, scrambling to his feet before Koos could stop him. Fire lanced down the entire length of his staff, a blinding blue–white brilliance that brought a collective gasp from those watching. With every ounce of muscle he could bring to bear, Logan slammed the fiery staff against the side of the other man's head. The head snapped back, and Krilka Koos shuddered. Fighting his way past the clutch of feeders that had suddenly shifted their attention, Logan brought the length of his staff down hard on the other's knuckles, first on one hand and then the other, breaking several fingers. Koos cried out once more, dropped his staff from his shattered hands, and curled into a ball.

Feeders swamped him in a frenzied rush, a black, snarling mass of shadows.

The roar of the men and women gathered died to a soft buzz of dis–belief Logan ignored them, standing over his enemy–the enemy he had not wanted in the first place but accepted as one now.

Krilka Koos was still gasping, trying to speak words that pain and shock were blocking.

Logan bent close. "Kill me," the other whispered, teeth gritted, fierce eyes fixed on him. He thrust aside the feeders threatening to en–gulf him, his dark face twisting in fear and disgust. "Do it quickly, be–fore they eat me alive!"

Logan hesitated. It was what the other man would have done to him if their positions had been reversed. It was the smart thing to do. He glanced at the crowd, looked into their faces, and saw that they were expecting it. He felt suddenly sick to his stomach, the magic roil–ing through him in steady, violent waves. Kill him. It would be so easy.

Instead he straightened, reached down for the staff Krilka Koos had dropped, and tossed it aside. "You won't be needing this again," he replied, bending down so the other could hear him clearly. He kicked at the feeders, scattering them back toward the bleachers. "You won't be pretending at being something you're not after this."

"I'll hunt you down!" the other seethed. The dark, scarred visage twisted with fury. "I'll find you and kill you, no matter where you go. I'll kill all your children first. All of them? I'll do it right in front of you?"

Logan bent close. "You'd better hope you never see me again."

Krilka Koos grinned at him, a death's-mask grimace, and then spit in his face. A moment later Logan felt something sharp pierce his calf, burning into him. He looked down just as the other man was with–drawing his hand, seeing the tiny dart sticking out of his leg.

Viper–prick.

Instantly the feeders were back, swarming this time over Logan.

He lost control then, slamming the hardened length of his staff against the other's right knee, shattering it. Krilka Koos sobbed audibly. Logan hesitated a moment, and then he broke the left knee, as well.

"Find me if you can?" he spit. The feeders had become a dark mass at the edges of his vision. His head was buzzing with the magic and the world was all on fire around him, a bright red haze. "Hunt me if you want? But you'll have to crawl to do it!"

Unaware of what had happened, the crowd was celebrating his vic–tory, cheering and calling out his name. In their minds, he had already taken Krilka Koos's place. He had become their new invincible. He stood without moving amid the cacophony, staring down at their old leader, the fire of his staff running up and down its length like a live thing. The feeders seemed to be everywhere. He felt light–headed and disoriented, and everything around him began to lose shape and form.

He turned toward the crowd. "Get out!" he screamed.

When they hesitated, waiting to see what he would do, he turned the staff on them, sending sheets of fire hurtling into the bleachers, set–ting everything that would burn aflame. Those who had hesitated a moment earlier went flying down off their seats, fleeing for the entry and the safety of the world outside the building. Logan chased them with his fire, half mad with rage and frustration.

His thoughts were dark and destructive. A kind of battle madness enveloped him, stealing away his reason entirely.

They're animals! Nothing but animals!

His mind reeled and his body swayed. The poison was already working its way through his system. He retreated deep inside to pro–tect himself, shutting and bolting doors, throwing locks and bringing down bars.

Animals!

Burn them all to ash!

PANTHER AND CATALYA, hiding beneath the section of the bleach–ers they had crawled under after wriggling through an opening in the sheet metal near the back of the building, had watched the last of the battle between Logan Tom and Krilka Koos through gaps in the legs of the audience. When the Knight of the Word turned the fire of his staff on the crowd, they threw themselves backward and lay flat against the flooring as the wooden parts of the bleachers caught fire and people began fighting to get clear. Heat and flames washed over them, and the building took on the red glare of a furnace. In moments it had emptied of almost everyone. Through the smoky haze, they could see Krilka Koos lying prostrate at the center of the arena and Logan Tom standing alone, leaning on his staff, swaying uncertainly.

Catalya jabbed Panther's shoulder to get his attention, then scram–bled to her feet. Together they worked their way out from under the bleachers, avoiding the flames and heat, hurrying to reach the Knight of the Word. No one tried to stop them. No one remained to try.

Panther glanced at the display of weapons mounted on the wall be–hind them as they passed it.

Most were scorched or melted, flames lick–ing off the wooden stocks and handle grips, the wall itself seared an uneven gray. Only the three rune–carved staffs seemed unaffected, their smooth lengths a dull, flat black that the flames had failed to damage.

They slipped from behind the bleachers and ran across the floor to the Knight of the Word. He didn't seem to see them coming, was barely cognizant of their presence once they reached him, his gaze dis–tant and empty as he fought to stay upright.

"Logan," the girl called to him.

She got to him before Panther, and without hesitating reached down and pulled free the viper–prick. "Hold him up, Panther' she or–dered.

She tore away the pant leg and exposed the wound, an ugly pur–plish bruise already swollen to a knot. Panther, both arms wrapped about the Knight of the Word, shook his head. Viper–pricks were al–ways fatal. There was no cure. But he didn't say that, didn't say anything. He just watched as Cat tied off the leg above the wound, and then fumbled in the pockets of her cloak for a small tube of ointment that she smeared on the knot, covering it over with a compress and binding it in place with tape.

"That will help draw the poison out," she said by way of explana–tion. "Let's get him out of here."

Shouldering him from either side, the boy and the girl began to walk him across the arena toward the entry. Panther held the Parkhan Spray cradled in one arm, ready to use. But the few men and women who lingered outside fled quickly at their approach.

Behind them, they could hear Krilka Koos moaning and calling out Logan Tom's name: Panther wanted to go back and cut out his tongue.

Once outside, they began the slow journey toward the freeway. The afternoon was waning, the light fading. East, the sky was already dark. Panther staggered under Logan Tom's weight, trying to glance over his shoulder, worried that one of those militia stump heads would shoot them in the back.

"Weighs a ton," he muttered, fighting to keep Logan upright. Across from him, Cat nodded, her mottled face flushed.

"He might not make it, you know." Panther glanced at her. "Most men wouldn't."

Her lips tightened. "He's not like most men."

Couldn't argue with that. Panther tightened his grip about the Knight of the Word, his mind flooding with images of the battle they had just witnessed.

No, Logan Tom definitely wasn't like most men.