The Elves of Cintra

CHAPTER THREE

TIME STOPPED, an intransigent presence.

But at the same time, it seemed that it fled in the wake of their pounding footsteps on the city concrete, another frightened child.

Panther was ahead when they reached the T-intersection at the end of the alleyway Sparrow had sent them down, and he drew up short, uncertain which way to go.

"Go left," she ordered as she came up behind him, her breathing quick and uneven.

He did what he was told, unwilling to argue the matter. He could tell she was beginning to fail, her strength depleted from their struggle with the Croaks and her own physical limitations. She was younger than him, and her endurance was limited. She would never admit it, not to him and probably not to anyone else. Sparrow, with her dead warrior mother and her legacy of self–expectations, he sneered to him–self Frickin' bull.

But he held back anyway, just enough to let her keep pace. He didn't look around, didn't do anything to indicate he knew she was tir–ing, just slowed so that she could stay close. Say what you wanted to about that girl, she was a tough little bird. She gave him a hard time, but she was a Ghost and no Ghost ever abandoned another. Didn't matter how much she bugged him; he would never leave her behind.

They reached the end of the alley and emerged onto a street filled with swarming forms that had come up from the docks and the water–front and maybe the square, as well. Spiders and Lizards and Croaks and some others Panther had never seen before in his short life–things dark and misshapen–all of them massed together as they ascended the hill to get away from the battle being fought below.

"Must be bad down there for this to happen?" he declared, catching Sparrow by the arm as she almost raced past him into the surging throng.

He had never seen anything like it. Normally these creatures, their strange neighbors, kept carefully apart from one another. Some, like the Lizards and the Croaks, were natural enemies, fighting each other for food and territory. Not today. Today the only thought, it seemed, was to escape a common enemy.

"What now?" he demanded.

Wordlessly, Sparrow turned back into the alleyway, and they re–treated down the darkened corridor to a pair of metal–clad doors. Pan–ther didn't ask what she was doing. Sparrow never did anything unknowingly. He watched as she climbed a short set of steps to the doors and wrenched on the handles. The doors opened with a groan, but only several inches. Sparrow pulled harder, but the doors held.

From deeper inside the alleyway, a handful of shadowy figures lum–bered into view, coming out of the T-intersection and turning toward them.

Panther went up the steps in a rush. "Let me try," he said, all but el–bowing her aside. He heaved against the recalcitrant doors, and they moved another few inches. Rust had done its work. "What's in here, anyway?"

"Hotel," she answered, shoving him back to let him know she didn't appreciate his aggressive attitude. "Connects to buildings farther up through underground tunnels. We can avoid all the Freaks if we can get inside."

"Big if, looks like," he said, hauling back again, straining against the handle. "Isn't there some other way?"

She surprised him by laughing. "What's the matter, mighty Panther Puss?" she taunted. "Cat's on the wrong side of the door and can't get in?"

He tightened his lips, grunted as he heaved against the door, and wrenched it all the way open. "Ain't nowhere I can't get in!"

They slipped inside ahead of their pursuers and followed a short corridor to a down stairway. Sparrow, leading now, switched on her solar–powered torch to give them light in the blackness, and they de–scended the stairwell to the long, broad corridor below. The corridor ran straight ahead before branching. Sparrow didn't hesitate in choos–ing their path, turning left for a short distance to a second fork, then turning right. Panther followed without comment, his finger on the trigger of his prod, his eyes sweeping the dark corners of the spaces they passed through.

From somewhere farther back, he could hear the Croaks again, shuffling their way after them. Stupid Freaks, he thought angrily. Ain't got the sense to know when to quit!

He looked down at the power level readout on his prod. Less than half a charge remained. They needed to get out of there.

They hurried on, reached a wide set of stairs, and began to climb. At the top of the stairs was an open space, a common area serving a series of ruined shops. An escalator rose ahead of them, frozen in place, metal treads dulled by time and a lack of care, a black scaly snake. It was so long that its top could not be seen.

"We have to go up that?" Panther growled.

"The street's up there, and right across from that, the freeway." Sparrow took his arm. "C'mon, let's get to where we're going and be done with it."

She practically raced up the steps, leaving Panther to either watch or follow. He chose the latter, hurrying to catch up, taking the stairs two at a time. Their shoes padded against the metal, and once or twice Panther's prod clanged against the sides of the escalator. Too much noise, he chided himself But he didn't hear the Croaks anymore, so maybe it didn't matter. He watched the steps recede beneath his feet and found himself wondering how escalators worked, back when they did work.

How did those steps fold up and flatten out and return to shape like that? Fixit would know. He shook his head. Must have been something to watch.

They crested the stairs and moved across an open space to a set of wide double doors that opened into the lobby of another hotel. The lobby stretched away through gloom and shadows to a wall of broken–out glass windows and a pair of ornate doors that were closed against the world. Old furniture filled the lobby, most of it torn apart and tipped over. Fake plants lay fallen on their sides, still in their pots, dusty and gray, strange corpses with spindly limbs. Bits and pieces of metal glittered on railings and handles, but the rust was winning the battle here, too.

He was starting across the lobby toward the doors when Sparrow grabbed his arm. "Panther," she whispered.

He glanced over quickly, the way she spoke his name an unmistak–able warning. She was looking up at the balcony that encircled the lobby.

Dozens of Croaks were looking down.

"I don't believe this?" Panther muttered.

The Croaks began shuffling along the railing, their strange, twisted faces barely visible in the gloom, their bodies hunched over. There didn't seem to be any of them on the lobby level, but by now Panther was looking everywhere at once, his prod held ready for the inevitable attack.

"We have to get to the doors," Sparrow hissed at him. "We have to get outside again."

She had that much right, even if she'd gotten everything else wrong. Panther started toward the doors, turning this way and that as he did, searching the darkness, watching for movement. Overhead, the Croaks had reached the stairs and were coming down, the sounds of grunting and growling clearly audible. Too many of them to be stopped if they attacked, Panther knew. If they trapped Sparrow and him in that lobby …

He didn't bother finishing the thought. He gave it another two sec–onds, measuring their chances, then yelled, "Run?"

They broke for the doors and almost instantly a Croak appeared right in front of them, seemingly out of nowhere. Panther jammed his prod into the creature's midsection and gave it a charge that knocked it backward, twitching and writhing. Others were surfacing all around them, come out of the shadows in which they had been hiding, so many of them that Panther felt his courage fail completely. He hated Croaks. He had seen what they could do. He didn't want to die this way.

He howled in challenge, a way to hold himself together, and with Sparrow next to him leapt for the double doors that led to the street. The Croaks were too slow to stop them. They gained the doors, and Panther shoved down hard on the handles.

Locked.

Without hesitating, he grabbed Sparrow's arm and pulled her to–ward the largest of the broken–out windows. Sweeping his prod around the frame to clear out the fragments of glass, he shoved her through to the street, then dove after her without turning to look back at what was breathing down his neck. Claws ripped at his clothing, slowing but not stopping him. Twisting, he broke away and tumbled out onto the con–crete.

He was back on his feet instantly, turning to run. But more Croaks had appeared in front of them, come from inside the hotel or from across the street or maybe from the sky–who knew? He screamed at them, rushing to the attack. What else could he do? Sparrow was next to him, her pale face intense, her prod swinging like a club, electricity leaping off the tip as it raked the Croaks.

They fought like wild things, but both of them already knew that it wouldn't be enough.

SPIDERS!

It was Owl's first thought. An entire community of them, living in those rusted–out vehicle shells. It was an odd choice of habitat. Spiders preferred basements or underground tunnels with a dozen entrances and exits. Shy and reclusive, they mostly kept away from the other denizens of the city. They were not normally a threat to anyone. But she shivered anyway, despite herself There was something creepy about Spiders–about the way they moved, crouched down on all fours, arms and legs indistinguishable; about their hairy bodies and elongated limbs, disproportionate and crooked; and about their flat faces, which were almost featureless. They were Freaks like the others, mutants born of the world's destruction, humans made over into some–thing new and unnatural. Rationally, she understood this. Viscerally, she had difficulty accepting it.

As she watched this bunch creep into view, still nothing more than a featureless cluster of dark shapes in the gloom, she tried to think what the Ghosts should do. They could turn back and seek sanctuary in the buildings at the top of the freeway ramp and wait there for Logan Tom. Or they could continue ahead and try to make their way past the Spiders to where the Knight of the Word's vehicle was parked. If they kept to the far side of the ramp and managed not to act hostile, perhaps it would be all right. Maybe they could even explain what they-She froze. The first of the dark shapes had emerged into the faint glow cast by the distant lights of the compound and the ambient brightness of stars peeking through cloud–concealed sky. As their faces lifted out of the shadows, she saw that these weren't Spiders, after all.

They were street kids.

But they were something else, too.

While they were still recognizable as human, it was clear that the poisons that had permeated everything had damaged them. Their faces were deformed, their skin burned and riddled with lesions. Some of them were missing eyes and noses and ears. Some carried themselves in ways that suggested they could not move as normal humans did. Some had no hair; some had so much hair they could almost be mistaken for Spiders. They were dressed in ragged clothes that barely covered their mutilated bodies. She had never seen street kids like these, all twisted and broken. She wondered how they could have been living so close without the Ghosts knowing.

Then it occurred to her that these kids were not from here at all, but had come from someplace else. They were nomads. That was why they were living on the freeway in abandoned vehicles rather than in a building where they could be better protected.

"What are they, Owl?" Chalk asked from behind the wheelchair, his voice uncertain.

"Children," she answered him, "like you. Only they have had a much harder time of it." She glanced at the other Ghosts. "Don't do anything to threaten them. Stay close to me. Do what I tell you."

Despite her orders, Bear was already taking out the heavy cudgel he favored for close–quarters combat, an old, gnarled staff that could crack a skull with a single blow. The others looked uncertain, glancing at one another and back at the approaching shapes. In her lap, Squirrel stirred slightly, restless in his sleep. She considered handing him to one of the others, but decided against it. He was safest where he was.

"Candle?" Owl called out. "Can you sense anything?"

The little girl with the preternatural instincts turned. "I'm not sure. I can't tell if they mean to hurt us or not."

Owl hesitated, then said, "Move me to the front, Chalk."

The boy wheeled her forward, but she could sense his reluctance. He eased her wheelchair past Bear with his cart and Fixit and River with their litter and stopped. Ahead, the strange collection of street kids continued to advance. She held Squirrel tighter in her lap and stroked his fine hair.

"Who are you?" she called out.

The advance halted immediately. For a moment, no one said any–thing. Then a strong voice answered, "Who are you?"

"We are the Ghosts," she said, speaking the litany of greeting. "We haunt the ruins of the world our parents destroyed. This city is our home; we live down by the water. But an invasion force has landed to attack one of the compounds, and we are leaving." She paused. "You should leave, too."

"Everyone says that to us," the voice answered, laced with unmis–takable bitterness. She could tell now who was doing the speaking, a tall figure near the front of the advance. "Maybe you're just like all the others, telling us lies to make us go away."

"I don't know about anyone else, but I'm telling you the truth. We're all in danger here. You should get away. If you want to stay, though, at least let us pass. We need to go farther down the ramp and wait for our guide to come for us."

The speaker for the newcomers came forward and stood directly in front of her, a thin, ragged boy with scars everywhere, the right side of his face so badly mutilated that it looked like melted candle wax. His hand was resting on the butt of a strange black weapon, a handgun of some sort, that he had stuck into his belt.

"I don't believe you," he said. "Maybe you should turn around and go back."

Those with him began to advance again. Owl glanced at them. There were an awful lot of them if it came to a fight, even if they did seem half crippled. Already the other Ghosts were tensing. Bear had stepped away from the cart. River and Fixit had put down the litter with the Weatherman and brought out their prods. Even Chalk had stepped up beside her protectively. If she didn't find a way to calm them all down, things were going to get out of hand quickly.

It was at times like this that she wished she weren't confined to the wheelchair, that she could walk around like everyone else.

"We didn't come here looking for trouble," she said to the speaker. "Maybe you should think about where this is leading."

"Maybe you should give us what you've got in the cart," the other replied. "Then we might let you go.

And he drew the weapon from his belt and pointed it at her.

"PANTHER?" Sparrow cried out, her voice sharp with desperation.

He risked a quick glance over from where he was fighting his own battle. One of the Croaks had caught her from behind and pinned her against a pole. She was trying to bring the tip of her prod around to jolt it, but it was holding her off with one arm while it strangled her with the other.

He was at her side in seconds, fighting through the two that had been trying to trap him, his prod shedding electrical charges as the tip raked the metal surfaces of a series of trash containers. He slammed its heavy length into the Croak's head, and it staggered back, releasing its grip. Panther grabbed Sparrow's arm and pulled her after him, trying to find a clear space in which to run as other Croaks appeared from the shadows. The battle careened down the length of the cross street and into the path of those coming uphill from the waterfront. All at once they were in the thick of the exodus, and there were Lizards and Spi–ders and more Croaks and street kids, too, all about them. There was yelling and screaming and growling, and Panther couldn't tell whom he was supposed to be fighting. Sparrow latched on to him as if he were a lifeline, her prod gone and her face spattered with blood and as pale as Chalk's. He had never seen her look afraid, but she looked afraid now.

"Hold on?" he shouted over the sounds of the crowd.

He used his strength and weight to bull his way toward the far side of the climb, seeking a small measure of space in which to catch his breath. He could no longer tell if anyone–or anything–was chasing them. A clutch of Lizards was tearing at a handful of Croaks that had crossed its path and foolishly decided to attack, and the Croaks quickly disappeared from view. To his astonishment, Panther thought he saw Logan Tom off amid a scattering of street kids, but the other disap–peared from sight almost immediately. Unable to look further, Panther continued to fight his way through the rush, Sparrow pinned tightly against him, until they broke through and were able to take refuge in a doorway.

"Frickin' brainless stump heads?" he shouted angrily. "Hey, I think I saw that guy, the Knight of whatever back there?"

"Doesn't matter. The Croaks are still coming!" Sparrow cried.

He looked to where she was pointing, brushing dirt and sweat from his dark face. A handful of Croaks was pushing through the crowd, eyes fixed on them. "Damn?" he muttered.

Sparrow grabbed his arm and pulled him up the sidewalk and into another alleyway. Free of the surge of the crowd, they ran down its dark length, found an opening into one of the buildings, and began making their way through a tangle of corridors, dodging piles of broken crates and garbage of all sorts. Sparrow set the pace, running as if she had caught fire, heedless of the strain.

"Not so fast?" Panther gasped as the pace began to tell on him. He was the one who was tiring now. "Ease off, Sparrow?"

"Just another block or two until we reach the freeway?" she called over her shoulder. "Come on?"

They burst out of the building and found themselves back on a cross street not a hundred yards from where the crowd continued its uphill climb. Panther exhaled sharply in relief, and then an instant later caught his breath. The Croaks had reappeared, come out of the crowd like rats out of the shadows, eyes gleaming, claws and teeth sharp and ready.

Panther glanced down at the readout on his prod. Almost empty. He looked at Sparrow. They could run, but only by going in the wrong direction. If they wanted to reach the others, they would have to find a way past the Croaks.

He looked into Sparrow's eyes.

"I'm through being chased," she declared, as if she had read his mind, as if she knew what he wanted to hear.

Wordlessly, they turned to face the onslaught.

Then abruptly a stream of white fire surged out of the darkness be–hind them, lancing into the Croaks and exploding across the entire width of the street ahead.

Panther had not been mistaken. Logan Tom had found them.

OWL STARED down the short black barrel of the handgun and fought to stay calm. She saw that wires attached to its handle ran to a solar pack strapped to the boy's waist. Some sort of stun gun, a variation on a prod. It would shock its victim if fired. Maybe it would kill. In any case, she didn't want to find out the hard way.

Around her, the other Ghosts had frozen in their tracks, no one wanting to do anything that would cause the kid with the weapon to hurt her. But they wouldn't stay still forever.

She took a deep breath and said, "What's your name?"

He scowled. "What does it matter?"

"Just tell me, I want to know."

"You don't need to know my name." He looked uncomfortable, his ruined face tightening further. "Are you going to give us the cart or not?"

"My name is Owl," she said, ignoring him. "I am mother to the Ghosts. It is my job to protect them. Like it is your job to protect those who travel with you. Sometimes people make that very hard. Some–times they make us feel foolish and weak and even helpless. They do this by threatening to hurt us because they don't like us. That's hap–pened to you, hasn't it? That's what you were talking about when you said everyone always tells you to go away."

She waited for him to say something, but he just stared at her, the gun steady in his hand.

"Tell him to quit pointing that at you," Chalk said at her elbow.

"The thing is," she continued, keeping her eyes fixed on the boy's face, "you are doing to us what others have done to you. You are acting just like them, telling us we have to do something we don't want to. You are stealing from us and telling us to just turn around and leave. Why are you doing that?"

Again, no answer, but she could see the confusion and anger mir–rored in the boy's one good eye.

"Don't you see that you are no better than those people you don't like if you do this?"

"Stop talking!" he shouted suddenly.

Everyone tensed. Bear came forward a few steps until he had moved between the cart with their goods and the street kids who wanted it. He didn't say anything, but she could see the determination in his eyes. A few of the street kids glanced his way uneasily.

"What do you expect us to do?" she asked the boy with the gun. "Do you expect us to just stand here and let you take everything we have?"

"Everyone takes everything we have," he snapped angrily. "Everyone calls us Freaks? We're not Freaks?"

"Then don't act — "

"Don't tell me what to do!"

There was sudden movement to her left, and he shifted his weapon in response. Owl raised her hand to stay his, saying, "No!" The boy flinched, turning back to her as quickly as he had turned away. Seeing her raised arm and mistaking her intent, alarm flooded his face.

Then he shot her.