Fire And Steel (The Merryweather Chronicles Book 2) (12 page)

      As if reading his earlier thoughts, Goldman went under his counter and came up with a bottle and three tumblers. Brandy wasn't Faux's usual drink of choice, but he didn't refuse when Goldman offered him a generous splash. The three men were silent as they drank, each lost in their own thoughts as Faux digested what he'd just been faced with. He wasn't sure if he believed, not completely, but he didn't need to know where the grohlm came from to know they had to be stopped.

      "How do we stop them?" Faux asked. He swallowed down his brandy and poured himself another glass. The alcohol made a nice ball of warmth in his belly and he felt a little less out of his depth. "There must be some way to stop more coming to our world. If we can't stop that, there'll be no way of getting rid of them all. Hunting them will only be a temporary fix until we close whatever portal or gateway they have to be using to get here."

      "Well said, Faux." Goldman raised his glass in a mock salute. "You have hit on our true dilemma quite succinctly." After drinking down his brandy in one long swallow, he said. "There is a gateway, I'm sure of it. Somewhere out there, deep in the Briar Woods, and we have to get to it and close it somehow."

      "Easier said than done." Said a voice from the front of the store. The three men turned to find Derek Teague standing just inside the store. They hadn't heard the bell. The deputy was in street clothes. He stepped up and took a look at the bottle on the counter and smiled. "You guys are starting awful early?"

      Goldman gave the young deputy a fatherly nod and Underhill just smiled. Faux eased over to give him a spot at the counter and said. "We're all on the same page, then? We have to find this gateway, whatever it is, and close it. Then we start hunting for real."

      Teague said. "And how do we do that without getting torn to pieces by those things? I don't want to piddle on your plan, but we haven't had much luck fighting those things. If we go out into those woods without knowing what we're doing or where we're going, we'll die." He gave each man a sober look before focusing on Goldman. He said. "We have to ask him for help, you know that, right?"

      "Bah!" Goldman said, throwing up his hands. "I won't be a part of it. The man is a fool and dangerous. And not likely to help, even if you could get him to listen to you. He would refuse just to spite you." He said to Teague.

      Teague could only nod in silent agreement.

      Underhill said. "We don't necessarily have to involve the uncle at all, you know." He rubbed his stubbly chin with fingers and squinted down at the counter-top. "We could go directly to the boy?"

      "Is that wise?" Teague said. He shook his head. "He's just a kid. What help can he be to us?"

      "It is not wise. Not at all." Goldman said, his voice hard. Then it softened. "But the boy can help. I met him and he seems more than competent. Strong, intelligent, he is his father's son, no doubt."

      "I'm sorry." Faux interrupted. "But who the hell are you talking about? What boy?"

      The other men went silent and all looked at one another before Teague answered, saying. "His name is Brandon Merryweather."

      It was getting dark when Brandon and Claire left the movie theater. It was cool to the point of a jacket, but they made do with snuggling arm in arm as they crossed the parking lot. They went back to the collectable store and picked up the gift wrapped statue, walking slowly and enjoying each other's company for as long as they could. As the nights grew longer and the weather continued to get colder, it became harder for the town to maintain its facade of normalcy. The sideways glances and haunted looks that the town's people tried to hide were more apparent.

      But Brandon and Claire didn't let it ruin their day. It was pretty out. Fall had arrived in Matheson, bringing with it the changing colors of the woods and banishing the punishing humidity that had kept most air conditioners running throughout the summer. If not for the miasma of fear and the lurking evil in the shadows, the town would've been peaceful and the perfect place to watch the leaves change. But the evil was there and it was watching the two young people.

      As they strolled across the mall parking lot, Brandon felt hostile eyes following him, watching him and him alone. He ignored the feeling as well as he could. The unseen eyes were always there, had been since he had come to Matheson, but he was almost getting used to it. It was a simple thing now to ignore the feeling, while staying aware of it enough to keep his guard up.

      Putting the watcher out of his thoughts, Brandon pulled Claire into his arms as they reached her father's Ford Explorer and kissed her. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she smiled against his lips and kissed him back. Pulling back, she smiled up at him and said. "You're pretty great, Brandon Merryweather, you know that?"

      He laughed and ran his fingers through her hair, loving the silky feel of it against his skin. She leaned her cheek against his open hand and his heart swelled at the look in her eye. He said. "You're pretty great yourself, Claire Moody. And pretty beautiful too."

      She giggled and kissed him again, pressing herself against him and holding him as tight as she could. If she could've melted into him, becoming one whole entity, she would've done it in a heartbeat. She said. "We better head home, slick. We don't want to break curfew, do we?"

      It was after 5pm when they reached Highgarden. Claire drove her father's Explorer most days, now, on the days that he could do without it. She seemed at home behind the wheel, talking to Brandon as she drove. They would have walked, but Claire's parents were beginning to worry about all of the disappearances and the missing children. They didn't want to risk anything happening to either Claire or Brandon by having them walking around town. Claire turned sixteen a month before Brandon came to Highgarden, making her his elder by a couple of weeks, but had only just started making use of her driver's license.

      She might've started driving herself earlier, except that she liked riding to and from school with her dad. It gave them some alone time, to catch up on each other's lives, and she loved talking to her dad. He worked such long hours and was always on call, so they had to make time together whenever they could.

      She'd been a little hurt when her dad suggested she drive herself, but it was her mom that told her that it was both of their idea. They wanted her to know that they trusted her and that they approved of Brandon as a boyfriend. They could ride to school together in the mornings and she could run him home in the afternoons.

      Gerrick stood on the front porch, watching the Ford as it circled round the driveway and stopped next to his Jeep. He was smoking a stub of cigar and holding a drink in his free hand. It looked like Iced Tea, but tasted a lot like scotch. He wasn't a regular drinker, but something about this evening called for vice. Something in the air, like the smell of an oncoming storm.

      Or battle.

      Brandon leaned over and gave Claire a kiss before getting out. She gave Gerrick a bright smile and waved as she left for home. Brandon made her promise to call when she got to her house. There were too many dark things roaming the streets of Matheson for Brandon to feel safe with her outside without protection. He knew he was being foolish, that Claire would punch him just for thinking it, but he wanted to be her protector all the time.

      She smiled at his request and promised, before he got out and watched her drive away. Brandon watched the Explorer disappear before turning to his uncle. The older man watched Brandon for a long time, puffing on his cigar and saying nothing. Brandon stood at the bottom of the front step and looked up at his uncle, saying. "I'm tired of this curfew. Of the way the town seems to be curling up in on itself, like a kicked dog. But, most of all, I'm tired of Claire being afraid." He met the old warrior's iron gaze and didn't flinch away from the other man's thousand yard stare. "When do we close the gateway?"

      Gerrick huffed out a cloud of gray and dropped the cigar, crushing it under his heel. He said. "When you're ready."

      "I'm ready now." Brandon said.

      "You only think you're ready." Gerrick said. He stared down at him, his expression grim. Brandon met the big man's gaze evenly, never once thinking of looking away, and Gerrick smiled. "Time to train."

      Gerrick intensified Brandon's training that night, shifting his focus back to sword work and the different forms used in weapon based combat. He also increased Brandon's physical training. Pushing the teenager to the very limits of his endurance. But Brandon didn't complain. If anything, he pushed himself even harder than his uncle did, driving himself to learn as much as he could, as fast as he could.

      It became easier for Brandon to find his focus and achieve the emptiness. He could maintain it even during the fiercest attacks Gerrick sent his way. Three times that night, he struck his uncle. Twice with the sword. And though Gerrick didn't say it, Brandon could tell that the man was proud.

      Rok spoke to Brandon during the training. During a lull in combat, when Brandon caught a glancing blow across his shoulder blades, Rok chimed in.
To know true strength is to understand pain. To embrace it.

      Brandon thought back at the stone.
Easy for you to say. You're not the one with a whelp forming on your back.

      Rok laughed.
You could have ducked.

      Brandon didn't bother to reply.

      When the training session was over, both men were dead on their feet. They stood across from each other, both covered in a sheen of sweat, and Gerrick gave an almost imperceptible nod of his head. He went inside, leaving Brandon standing in the flickering light of the circle. Exhausted and out of breath. Brandon bent and began putting out candles. The night was silent, the woods around Highgarden quiet in a way the rest of Matheson wasn't. Brandon assumed it was something to do with the magic of the place, the ancient spell surrounding the property.

     
Your ancestors chose a good place to build their fortress.
Rok said, inside his head. It was an admiring tone.

      Brandon agreed. He let the cold wind dry the sweat on his face and hands as he cleaned up the circle and followed his uncle inside.

      He took a long hot shower, washing away his bruises and fatigue along with the sweat. He stepped out of the shower feeling clean and strong. Powerful, even. He said a silent prayer of thanks to Nina, before shutting off the light and crawling into bed.

      As he was drifting to sleep, Rok spoke again. His voice was loud inside of Brandon's skull.
We are bonded, Merryweather. Soon, you will know my strength.  And, when that happens, you will no longer know fear of death.

      Sha'ha'Zel crouched on the limb of a tall tree on the outer edge of the spell surrounding the boy's home, letting its senses stretch across the forest below, out past the barrier. Grohlm moved in the trees around him and on the ground below, prowling along the edges of the invisible shield keeping them from their prey. They ignored the demon in their midst, giving the Curse a wide berth as he perched silently in the shadows.

      The boy's training was moving along, but he still wasn't ready to die just yet. He still had much to learn from his uncle and also from his little girlfriend. But the demon was patient. Standing, it lifted its hand and moved its fingers as if testing the air. There was magic in the air, the night stank of it, and it seemed thicker than usual around Highgarden and the spell protecting it.

      The Curse didn't know what it was, whether it was an attack on Merryweather by some other outside force or somebody was trying to help the boy. In this town, it could have been either. There were more factions in the town than the Curse had initially realized, powers that had taken notice of the battle going on around them and were slowing awakening to the danger in the forest.

      Shrugging off its uneasiness, Sha'ha'Zel tasted the magic with the tip of its tongue and shuddered. The magic tasted foul to the Curse, flat and metallic, meaning that it was spiritual in nature and not a physical attack at all. Pulling back the tendrils of its essence, the demon continued its silent vigil, waiting to see what else the night might bring.

CHAPTER 12

      In the dream, Brandon stood in the center of a clearing. He was himself, not his grandfather. He was dressed in battle gear, a long black cloak hanging limp off of his shoulders. An unfamiliar sword hung at his hip. The sky above was blue and cloudless, the sun standing high overhead. Brandon turned around in a slow circle, studying his surroundings as he got his bearings.

      The clearing was empty for miles around. Far off, near the edge of the horizon, Brandon saw a great spire reaching up into the sky. It was hard to tell from so far away, but the spire looked to be miles high, reaching up to pierce the blue. It glittered in the sunlight, as if made of polished metal, and wavered like a mirage.

      The ground under Brandon's feet was dusty, barren except for a few wisps of dying grass and scattered shrubs. Nothing substantial. No trees. No water to see. There was no wind. No sound, except for Brandon's breathing. The air tasted parched and metallic and left his tongue dry.

      Brandon turned in a circle, searching for anything that could show him where he was, but the only thing that stood out was the metal spire gleaming in the distance. Squinting up at the sun, he felt sweat begin to burst from his pores underneath the heavy cloak. He was tempted to take off the cloak, but Rok spoke up, his voice sounding as if it were coming from a great distance.
You'd best leave the cloak on. It's better to be hot and sweaty, underneath a soaked cloak, than to be hot and dry, dehydrating in the sun. You will live longer, I promise.

      Brandon was never one for arguing when the advice seemed sound. He left the cloak on and began walking towards the spire. The ground crunched underfoot as he walked, kicking up little swirls of dust, but still no wind blew. Brandon kept his eyes everywhere as he walked but it quickly became apparent that there was nothing else to look at. The place was dead. Even the sky was more white than blue, as if the sun had bleached the air.

      The spire grew as he moved towards it, becoming thicker and more pronounced. He was able to make out the finer details of the thing. It didn't seem to be made completely of steel. There were places along its length where the spire looked like glass. There were also stairways spider webbing across it, each leading to doorways spaced irregularly along its surface.

      Beyond the spire, Brandon began to make out mountains tracing the edge of the horizon, impossibly far away. He walked faster, despite the fact that his cloak was becoming heavier with each step. Looking behind him, he watched the trail of dust settle slowly back to the cracked and dying earth.

      The shimmer of heat surrounding him seemed to ripple, revealing black shapes lurking just beyond the edge of his vision. But when Brandon turned, the shapes vanished, fluttering into the ether. He stopped, staring around himself, and let his hand rest on the pommel of the sword at his hip. The weight was reassuring and real within the dream. The dreamworld felt as real as the waking, from the sweat running down his face to the hardness of the ground beneath his feet. He closed his eyes for a moment, fighting sudden vertigo. He tried to tell himself it was all a dream. That he would wake up soon and be amazed at how real it all felt.

      But when he opened his eyes, he was still surrounded by the deadlands. Something dashed across the dry strip of earth to his right, cutting across his peripheral vision. He twisted, yanking the blade free. The ring of the steel leaving its scabbard was loud in the silence of that barren wasteland.

      The blade was a stranger, curved and deadly sharp, and decorated with etched runes that seemed almost familiar to Brandon. Though he'd never held the sword before in his life, it felt instantly familiar in his fist. Like an old friend returned home.

      Shouldering sweat from his brow, Brandon turned a full circle with the blade held in the middle guard position. He watched for any hint of movement and saw nothing. Glancing at the spire in the distance, Brandon felt a moment of disquiet when he realized that it looked as if it had moved further away. Still holding the sword, he began to trot toward the spire, unsure what compelled him to quicken his pace. The trot became a loping run. Soon, he was dashing full tilt toward the towering sliver of metal and glass.

      His cloak fluttered limply behind him as he ran, only slightly slowing him down. He was running so fast and so hard that he almost ran into the swinging blade of the first attacking grohlm. It was a dog face, wielding a notched and rusty short sword. If not for Rok, Brandon would have been decapitated. The stone bellowed inside of his mind.
BRANDON, WATCH OUT.

      Brandon dove as the stone roared, keeping his sword ahead of him, and missed the slashing blade by mere inches. He hit the dusty ground rolling, snapping the blade up and around. The steel bit into the iron plate strapped to the dog's chest and sent it crashing backwards.

      It hit the ground with a yelp, scrabbling quickly to its feet, and launched itself at Brandon. Brandon stepped sideways, easily dodging the next sword swing, and drove his sword's tip into the dog's neck. It punched through the other side with a splash of crimson and the dog fell, ripping its head half off as it did.

      Brandon kept moving, this time keeping his eyes everywhere, but it was his ears that made him twist, throwing his blade into the path of a swinging axe. The second grohlm had the face of a Hawk, its hooked beak opening and closing as it attacked. Steel rang on steel. The hawk leapt to the right, its coarse and matted feathers rustling as it moved. The thing smelled like a desiccated corpse left in the sun to rot away into dust.

      Brandon swept away the axe, pistoning his free hand out to jab the thing in the face, stabbing his stiffened fingertips into its eyes. The hawk screamed and fell back, lashing out with one of its clawed feet. It caught Brandon in the chest, tearing the breast of his jerkin and scoring his skin underneath. He fell back, whipping his blade up and blocked an axe swipe aimed at his head.

      From somewhere behind him, Brandon heard a low growl. Rok said, softly.
Watch your flank.

      Brandon dropped and spun, raking his blade through the hawk's middle, and speared an attacking dog in the throat. Around him, the air was cloudy with kicked up dust, drifting down slowly, untouched by wind. Through the dust, he saw more black shapes lurking. The sun beat down mercilessly, slicking Brandon's face with sweat.

      Rolling quickly to his feet, Brandon turned, shocked to see the tower looming up before him. Up close, the tower's surface looked less like steel and more like gold. The stairs winding around the tower's walls reflected the sunlight like a thousand mirrors. They looked like crystal. The doors placed irregularly along the tower's surface were all closed. The ones that Brandon could see, at least.

      Something like thunder rolled overhead and the wasteland surrounding the tower lurched, nearly knocking Brandon off of his feet. The bodies of the slain grohlm had vanished. Brandon kept his sword up and approached the tower. The tower had no base. It punched its way up through the parched earth. The stairs were partially buried, as if there were more levels to the tower, hidden beneath the ground.

      Brandon climbed the steps, moving up and around the tower. As he walked, the dreamworld shook around him and another blast of thunder rolled out from the tower. Taking the steps two at a time, Brandon held onto the crystal railing with one hand and his sword with the other. The tower shuddered and Brandon stopped, staring down at the wasteland stretching over the horizon. A ripple spread out from the base of the tower, shattering the ground and throwing up a storm of dust that blasted out from the tower in an unbroken ring that looked like the blast wave of an atomic bomb.

      Boiling up out of the broken ground were thousands of grohlm. They were made up of every type of animal. Bears, dogs, wolves, cats, lizards, snakes, boars, deer, rabbits, birds, and some that even Brandon couldn't identify. All were armed and armored differently. Some in heavy plate, while others wore only toughened pieces of oiled leather.

      As the grohlm burst from the wounded earth, Brandon wasted no more time watching. Up the stairs he ran, only slowing as the tower trembled under his feet. The howling and roaring of the grohlm began to drown out the thunderous sound of the tower's tolling. Brandon didn't know how high he was when he reached the top. The spire was too narrow and the ground was too thick with grohlm to accurately gauge how far down they were. The stairs ended at the top of the spire, flattening into smooth polished steel. It was inlaid with crystal runes. The runes were identical to the ones etched into the blade in Brandon's hand.

      Brandon stood at the top of the spire, sword in hand, and stared down at the massing horde below. For as far as he could see, from horizon to horizon, the ground was covered in grohlm. The tower shuddered under his feet and from somewhere beneath him Brandon heard another boom of thunder. But it wasn't thunder, he realized. The sound was coming from behind one of the doors, far below him.

      Above him, the sky dimmed. Brandon stared up at the sun, which had grown a large black beauty mark across its surface. Like blood from a wound, inky darkness began to blot out the sun's light. The sky went dark, going from blue to violet, then gray to black. The sword in Brandon's hand became hot, the runes on the blade turning white, and he felt the tower give one last gigantic heave. The grohlm went wild, moving in on the tower in masse.

      The doorway is open.
Rok said. The god's voice was low and thoughtful.
The only thing that can close it now is the blood of the king.

      The crystal runes at Brandon's feet began to glow a deep dark red and he felt more doorways opening below him. He didn't have to see them to know that the grohlm were pouring into the open doorways, leaving this dead and barren world behind and finding new lands to conquer.

      "This is my world, isn't it?" Brandon said, his voice weak. He didn't expect an answer, but Rok gave one.

     
This world belongs to the grohlm.
Rok said.
And the dead.

      Brandon couldn't say anything. He stared at the writhing mass of grohlm and felt a cold shudder work its way up his spine. He knew where he was. What this wasteland once was.

      "This is my grandfather's kingdom." Brandon said, his voice quiet with shock. The sky was black now, the only light coming from the glowing runes at Brandon's feet and the ones blazing on the blade of the sword. Below him, he could hear the grohlm howling and roaring at the night.

     
Not anymore.
Rok said.

      The sword began to vibrate in Brandon's hand. Its grip getting hot enough to cause smoke to rise from Brandon's hands where he held it. Not knowing why he did it, Brandon stepped into the center of the tower, letting the golden light envelope him, and lowered the sword until its tip touched one of the glowing runes. The stone went from red to white, throwing a beam straight up into the midnight sky, and Brandon began to work through sword forms. He danced, whipping the blade up and around, touching each of the glowing runes as he did so. He was soon surrounded by pillars of light, creating a blinding ring that completely encompassed him. The light surrounded and flowed through him, piercing the inky curtain drawn over the world.

      Below him, at the base of the tower, the grohlm began to shriek. The tower heaved underneath his feet as they began to attack the tower itself. Brandon continued to dance the forms, closing his eyes as he moved. He didn't think of the howling monsters below him or of the nearness of the roof's edge. He thought of his grandfather. And his parents. He thought of all the people of this sad dead world. When Brandon thought of all the people killed by his grandfather's enemy, all of his fear vanished. Without the fear, all Brandon had left was anger and a righteous hatred. Hatred for the grohlm and their master, the Usurper. Hatred for Sha'ha'Zel.

      And hatred for himself. For not being strong enough to make this right. To save the lives of those lost. His parents, his grandfather, and all who had died because of the Usurper and his minions.

      There was a great cracking sound beneath him and the tower shifted underneath Brandon's feet. He danced sideways as the roof tilted and the tower collapsed. Holding the sword with one hand, he braced himself and held onto the tower as it fell. The wind battered him and his stomach clawed its way up his throat as the tower's base collapsed in on itself and he rode it to the grohlm covered ground.

      The grohlm slowed the tower's fall as hundreds were crushed beneath the heavy steel and crystal structure. Brandon leapt off as it crashed to the ground, throwing himself into the grohlm. He struck fast and hard, driving his boots into the chest of a bull and using it to break his fall. Striking the bull's head from its shoulders, he used its falling bulk as a bulwark against the other grohlm. Climbing up its back, he used its forward momentum to smash through the closest of the grohlm and began slicing through the rest.

      The air around him was black with blood, hair, and debris. Brandon was surrounded on all sides, so he turned and began cutting a path back toward the tower's shattered base. Making his way through the writhing and slashing creatures, Brandon used his sword like a farmer, cutting down weeds in the field.

      The base of the tower was a blasted ruin, jutting up from the sand and dusty earth like the twisted and broken fingers of a titan. Standing in the shadow of the mangled steel was an open doorway. The surface of the opening was glowing in the darkness and a figure stood there. The figure was too far away for Brandon to make out any details.