The Elves of Cintra

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

TWILIGHT ON THE ROAD.

Panther walked point with Sparrow, his dark eyes following the descent of the sun as it dropped below the rim of the horizon south. The moon was already up, a three–quarter–full white orb against the gray, hazy sky. Rolling hills turned brown and barren from drought and poisons flanked them in their passage, stark and empty save for small clusters of buildings that surfaced here and there like burrowing animals come up for a cautious look around. Farther away, beyond the hills, mountain peaks loomed black and jagged.

Panther glanced behind him. Catalya walked a few yards back, her mottled face shadowed within the hood of her cloak, her eyes lowered to the freeway they traveled. Rabbit bounced along in front of her, cir–cling back when she got too far ahead. Behind them and much farther back, Fixit drove the Lightning ATV. Owl and River were inside the cab with him, keeping watch over the comatose Knight of the Word. The rest of the Ghosts rode the hay wagon, bundled in among their dwindling stores of food and meager possessions, keeping watch as the shadows lengthened.

The end of the day was silent save for the low hum of the ATVs solar–powered engine, the soft hiss of rubber tires on concrete, and the whisper of a light wind.

Panther found himself thinking of Logan Tom for what must have been the hundredth time in the past hour. Saving him from Krilka Koos and his stump–head followers was one thing. Saving him from himself was another. He hadn't seemed that bad when they brought him back to the others, hadn't seemed as if he were that damaged. Then, all at once, he wasn't there anymore.

He kicked at the surface of the roadway. "Can't nobody do nothing to bring him out of this?" he asked Sparrow suddenly.

She glanced over, shaking her blond head. She looked tired. "He has to wake up on his own, when he's ready."

"But he hasn't moved in two days! He doesn't eat or drink. Man can't live long like that, you know?"

"I know. But that's the way it is with these things. He's hurt pretty bad, so he's gone somewhere inside himself to try to heal. He just isn't done with that yet." She shrugged. "Besides, Owl is doing what she can for him. The wounds are all healing pretty well. There doesn't even seem to be any infection from the viper–prick, and that should have killed him. Whatever's wrong, it's in his head somewhere."

Panther thought that was a bunch of crap, but he kept it to himself "Man's gonna die," he said instead.

"Don't say that," Catalya snapped at him from behind his back. He grimaced. "Okay, okay. I'm just making a … a observation, that's all." Girl's got ears like a hawk, he thought irritably.

Hawk. There was another mystery that didn't seem close to getting solved. Bird‑Man disappears off a wall, goes into the light–isn't that what happens when you die? — and now they were supposed to find him somewhere just by heading south. Like that was going to happen. A vi–sion said it would, but Panther had never had a whole lot of faith in vi–sions. Not even the ones Hawk used to have, the ones that Owl turned into stories about the boy and his children. He liked those stories, liked the way Owl told them. But he didn't actually believe them. Believing stories like that was what got you killed in this man's world. You wanted to believe in something, you were better off believing in a Parkhan Spray or a Tyson Flechette. Something you could put in your hands and use to kill your enemies.

Cat believed like that, too, he thought. Practical girl, no nonsense. She might be half Freak, but she was more like him than any of the others. He still couldn't believe how she had taken out those militia clowns. She was frickin' dangerous, was what she was.

She probably thought the same thing he did about this hunting around for Hawk, too. Waste of time.

Sometimes it made him wonder about things. They did stuff that seemed to have a purpose, but how much of it really mattered? Right now, right this moment, he felt like a drowning man treading water in the middle of the ocean.

"You know, we ain't going to find him," he said to Sparrow. "The Bird‑Man, I mean. We can look until every last one of us is under–ground with Squirrel, and we ain't ever going to see him again."

She didn't look at him. She was looking straight ahead, into the dis–tance. "We might," she said quietly.

He stared at her in confusion, the way she said it sounding odd, and then he shifted his gaze ahead to where she was looking. Three figures were just coming into view from out of the fold of the hills, stepping onto the freeway surface and turning toward them.

A boy, a girl, and a burly, butt–ugly dog.

Panther's jaw dropped. "Damn'!" he whispered.

A bright smile broke out on Sparrow's face, and her somber features were transformed. The weariness fell away. Fresh life blossomed. With–out a word, she sprinted toward the approaching figures, calling out to them by name, the sound of her voice a beacon that drew the others.

"Damn?" Panther repeated, and then he was running, too.

TWILIGHT IN THE MOUNTAINS.

Angel Perez woke to near darkness and freezing cold. She was lying where she had collapsed after her battle with the demon, sprawled facedown on the ice and snow, her all–weather cloak wrapped about her damaged arm, her black staff cradled against her body. There was blood everywhere, and large patches of the mountain's white expanse were burned and still smoking from the Word's fire. The remains of the demon lay to one side, all but unrecognizable save for the lower parts. Angel looked away quickly. Even in death, it was monstrous.

She was aware that she had to get up and find shelter, that she would freeze to death if she didn't. The light was almost gone from the sky, and the temperature dropping quickly. It might be that winter had virtually disappeared from almost everywhere else in the United States of America, but it was present here. She tried moving and found that her body didn't like it. She ached everywhere, but she imagined that the cold was helping to numb the pain and slow the bleeding. She knew she had damaged her ribs and maybe her arm, as well. She knew she was losing blood from a dozen deep slashes. She couldn't be sure of anything else.

She felt momentarily for internal damage and then quickly stopped. "No toques,” she whispered. "Don't touch. You don't want to know. You don't want to think about it."

She took a moment to collect herself, taking slow, deep breaths, tightening her resolve. Then she clasped her staff tightly and levered herself to her feet. She almost didn't make it, swaying and stumbling forward a few steps, pain lancing through her like a hot knife through butter. She fought to stay upright, knowing that if she went down it was likely she would not rise again.

She unraveled the all–weather cloak and pulled it on. It took a long time, and when she was finished she looked like a vagrant. Rips and tat–ters everywhere. Blood smeared in dark stains. Barely any protection at all against the cold.

But some, at least. It was the best she could do. She would take what she could find.

Her pack was gone, and she didn't feel like looking for it. What she needed to do was to take cover. Right away. Gasping for air, leaning on the staff, she looked ahead toward the ice caves, searching for the entrance.

She couldn't see it.

Doesn't matter, she thought. I know it's there. I know I can find it. I know I must find it.

"Hold on Kirisin, Simralin," she whispered to the wind and the night and the cold. "I'm coming."

Slowly, she began to stagger up the side of the mountain.

The Elves of Cintra ends here. The story concludes with the publication of the next volume.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The publication of this book marks the thirtieth year of my career as a professional writer, which began with the release of The Sword of Shan–nara in 1977. It is a time so distant I can barely remember what it felt like to be a first–time author. What I can never forget is the people who were there to help me every step of the way. I owe them more than I can possibly tell you, but I feel obligated to try.

I have been with Del Rey Books for my entire publishing life. Not many writers can say as much. Our long and immensely successful partnership is due to a number of fortunate and serendipitous factors, starting with my relationship with the founders of the company, Lester and Judy‑Lynn del Rey. I will not see their like again in my lifetime: intense, driven, brilliant, and by turns strange and kind beyond imagining. Lester was my first editor, my mentor, critic, taskmaster, and friend. Most of what I know about being a professional writer, I learned from him. I have heard it said repeatedly from those who worked with him that he was uncanny at finding the weaknesses in a manuscript. You won't get any argument from me. He was a teacher in all the best ways: he let me make my mistakes, and then find a way to correct them. He was famous for promising that if you could persuade him he was wrong and you were right, he would defer to you. I was successful in my ef–forts about one out of every twenty times. More often than not he left me frustrated and chagrined in the face of his knowledge and my igno–rance. At the same time, he made me a better writer. I could never thank him enough in his lifetime; I don't expect to be successful in doing so now.

Owen Lock, Judy‑Lynn's assistant and protege, succeeded Lester. It was a thankless job if ever there was one, but he made it work. Owen and I grew up in Del Rey together. We were friends from the begin–ning, and we remain friends to this day. He was there for me more times and in more ways than I can count. I will always be grateful that he was.

My current editor is Betsy Mitchell. I knew her before she came to the company, but knew little of her skills. I am pleased to say now from experience that they are considerable. She keeps me honest and fo–cused, which is not always easy. She is not afraid to tell me when I am cutting corners or attempting to slide by with something less than my best effort. She is funny and smart. It has been a privilege to work with her.

I cannot begin to give you the names of all those who have helped me at Del Rey Books, Ballantine Books, and Random House over the years. If I try to name names, I will leave someone out. I do not exag–gerate when I say there are hundreds. In editorial, publicity, art, mar–keting, and sales, from top to bottom, they have made my books and my life better. They have worked hard on my behalf, over and over again, and I will never forget them.

My friends and family have been enormously supportive, giving me the space and time to be as strange and disconnected from reality as I need to be. The various members of my blended family, in particular, have been patient and understanding to an extent I do not pretend I could ever approach. I am constantly astonished that they do not have me committed. My daughters Lisa, Jill and Amanda, my son Alex, and my grandson Hunter are the bedrock of my sometimes questionable sanity, bringing me down to earth when it is needed, keeping me securely grounded in the real world. My sister Laurie never doubts me, always believes in me, and forever supports me. She has forgotten all the times I chased her with a knife when we were children. Bless her for that. Bless them all for who they are.

Then there is Judine. What can I say that will begin to explain what she means to me? She has been there for me from the first day we met, some twenty years ago. Without her, I would have been lost. She has taught me most of what I know about the retail side of the book busi–ness. She has been my first reader, has edited and proofed my manu–scripts, and has traveled with me to the far–flung corners of the land on countless book tours. She tells me when I am wrong and reassures me when I am right. She is my conscience and my heart. I love her deeply and without reservation.

Everyone should be as lucky as I am. Everyone should have the kinds of friends and family I do. If there was a way to make that hap–pen, I would. Thank you, all.