Fire And Steel (The Merryweather Chronicles Book 2) (4 page)

CHAPTER 4

      Brandon stood in Highgarden's weapons room, staring hard at the curved blade in its fine glass case. The Phoenix glittered dangerously in the display light, catching and holding Brandon's gaze. It called forth vivid memories of how it had felt in his hand, the scorching power that seemed to coarse through the sword's grip and into his body. 

      The stone in his right hand seemed to pulse with warmth and Rok's voice spoke up inside his head.
"An ancient blade. Strange to find it in the keeping of the last of the Stormlords.”

      "What do you know of it?" Brandon whispered aloud. 

      Rok said nothing for a long moment, a pregnant silence that felt thoughtful, before replying.
"Once, when the gods were young and not the weak broken things that they've become, the Phoenix walked among them."

      "The Phoenix was a god?"

     
"No. Not a god. The Phoenix was a force beyond the gods of men. It held itself apart, a wild and uncontrollable thing.”
Was that anger in Rok's tone? Or grief?
"Too powerful to be allowed to roam free, tinkering with the destinies of man. So all of the gods of man and beasts came together and bound the Phoenix."

      "Bound it?" Brandon narrowed his eyes. "How do you bind a god?"

    
"With fire and steel."
The god said in a hard voice.
"And blood. Oceans of blood."

      Brandon stared at the sword, at the intricate designs worked into the hilt and pommel, at the light rippling along the blade like liquid flame, and he felt cold. "But why bind it at all? Was it evil?"

     
"Good and evil are human concepts, Storm Son. There are things in this universe, in all universes, that are beyond judgement. Beyond all laws."
Rok spoke the words, but didn't sound like he completely believed them.

      "Then why are you bothering to help me?" Brandon asked. "That seems more good than evil to me?"

      Rok chuckled.
"Gods can become bored just as easily as humans, little man."

      Brandon was quiet a moment. Then said. "You still haven't told me why the Phoenix had to be bound?"

     
"The Phoenix was unpredictable."
Rok answered.
"And more powerful than any single god or goddess had any right to be. So it was bound and hidden away."

      "Bound inside the sword?"

      "The Phoenix is the sword."
Rok said.

      Brandon sighed. He stepped closer to the glass and rested his fingertips against the glass. He was learning quickly that these gods of his father's were grand-masters of double-talk. There were countless shades and nuances to everything they told him, rendering what they said almost pointless. He asked. "What happens if the Phoenix gets free?"

     
"Depends on who frees it. The prophecy is pretty vague about the fate of all of the worlds if anyone other than the Reclaimer releases the Phoenix. It might very well destroy reality."

      "The Reclaimer?" Brandon felt the name was familiar, it tickled at his memory, like a name on the tip of his tongue. "Where have I heard that before?"

     
"The prophecy of the Reclaimer is an old one, boy. The oldest on this world and many others."

      "And the Phoenix is part of this prophecy?"

      Rok chuckled inside of Brandon's skull.
"If there is one thing that human beings and the Pantheon share, it is an unhealthy pre-occupation with prophecy. It is said that the Reclaimer will release the Phoenix, binding its soul to his own."

      Brandon was quiet for a moment. He thought of his mother and father, dead and buried, and his anger flared white hot. The light on the blade seemed to flash, mirroring the inferno within Brandon's heart. His voice was cold when he asked. "So, when is all this reclaiming and binding supposed to happen anyway?"

     
"Who knows?"
Rok said from a vast empty place in Brandon's mind.
"There lies the Phoenix. All it needs is for the Reclaimer to show up and lay claim to it."

      Brandon asked a question that was weighing heavily upon him. "Am I supposed to be the Reclaimer?" He wasn't sure how he felt about the possibility that he might be some sort of prophesied savior. It was an alternating feeling of debilitating terror and excitement, hollowing out his stomach and giving him a twisted sense of internal vertigo.

      Rok was silent for so long that Brandon started to think that the god wasn't going to answer, but his voice came, soft and as close to regretful as the boy had ever heard it.
"It definitely seems like it may be your destiny, Bran. I'm truly sorry."

      "What happens to this Reclaimer at the end of this all knowing prophecy? Does he get a happy ending?" He is unable to look away from the Phoenix, its gleaming length seeming to call to him and repel him at the same time.

     
"The Reclaimer performs many feats and overcomes terrible obstacles. He saves countless lives and protects the worlds from darkness beyond time and space."

      "That doesn't really answer my question, Rok?"

     
"Prophecy only has what power you give it, Bran. If you decide to walk its path, you will find that it is a harsh mistress. It requires sacrifice, much as the gods do."

      Brandon spoke in a low calm voice as he asked. "How does the Reclaimer die?"

      "Badly. And painfully."
Rok's voice is as hard and implacable as the mountains.
"But his death will save the world of the living."
He added.
"Every good thing comes with a price."

      Faux was sitting on the bed, shirt unbuttoned and watching TV, when there was a knock at the door. Getting up, he walked barefoot to the door and opened it wide. He was only half surprised to find Teague. The acting chief was in street clothes, a ball cap pulled down low over his eyes. He took in Faux's bare feet and said. "I'm taking Baker and his crew to the Lumberjack to get a bite to eat. If you're interested you can ride down in my rig?"

      "The Lumberjack?"

      "It's a little diner on Main Street, mostly burgers and fries. They have one of the best rib-eyes in the state." Behind Teague, Faux can see Baker wrangling his team into their vehicles.

      "I could eat." Faux said, leaving the door open as he put his shoes on and grabbed his jacket. Locking the room up, he followed Teague to his idling squad car. It was a short hop down the road to Main Street, with a little idle chit chat, before they were climbing out of the car and following the others into the warmly lit diner.

      It was a comfortable looking place. Not crowded. A long wood and chrome counter, with red vinyl bar stools and booths flanking the entrance on both sides. Baker's team took one of the booths, while Baker and Faux took a booth with Teague. Once everybody had hot food in front of them and were nice and comfortable, the men started talking. 

      Teague was watching the other people in the diner when he said. "I'm not sure what we can do tomorrow that we didn't do earlier today." His tone was a mix of tired and something else, something that sounded unnatural coming from the chief, even knowing him a short time. It took Faux a moment to realize the other man sounded unsure of himself.

      "Maybe if we can call in more men?" Faux said, taking a drink of his iced tea. The food was really quite good, as was the atmosphere in the diner. There were Norman Rockwell prints on the finished oak walls, as well as framed newspapers from the town's past. There was a sound system, playing a mix of Blues and Classic Country songs. A Muddy Waters song was playing, giving the place a distinctively southern feel.

      Baker and Teague shared a look, before Baker shook his head. His tone is thoughtful. "It's going to be hard to get more men, not without bringing in the media and outside law enforcement."

      "Why wouldn't we want to get the media involved?" Faux asked, honestly puzzled. "I know the press can be a pain in the ass, but if you use them right, they can be an asset."

      Teague and Baker look at each other again, something silent passing between them. Before Faux can call them on their evasiveness, a tough looking old man with a scar on his face stopped at their booth and addressed Teague. "Derek Teague, I thought that was you."

      Teague was caught off guard by the old man's sudden appearance and didn't object when the man sat down in the booth beside him. He stretched his hand over the table and said, in his gruff voice. "Alric Underhill."

      "Darius Faux. It's good to meet you, Mr. Underhill." Faux shook the man's hand, surprised by the strength in that callused iron grip. Underhill gave him a nod, his piercing eyes seeming to read more in one glance than most people retained from hours of study.

      Underhill gave every man at the table a long look and shook his head. "I've never seen a sorrier looking lot of law enforcement professionals in my life. I take it things in Matheson are worse than I thought?" When Baker and Teague cut their eyes towards Faux, their faces tight with the same evasive look as before, Underhill gave them a sharp look before addressing himself to Faux. "Special Agent Faux, these men seem to be worried that I will reveal secrets to you, secrets best left buried. Myself, I think that you are a man with secrets of your own, else you wouldn't be in our neck of the woods."

      Faux met the old man's gaze and said, his voice soft. "I never identified myself as a Special Agent, Mr. Underhill? And I've never met anybody who didn't have a few secrets?"

      Underhill grunted and narrowed his eyes at the other man, pulling the scar tight under his left eye and giving him a fearsome look. "Matheson's secrets have killed many a poor soul, Agent Faux." His voice low and soft. "And, in some cases, they have done much worse."

      Faux said nothing for a long moment, his mind drawn to his own secrets, to dark and frightening places, filled with bones and blood and bullets.

      Into the silence, Baker said. "Doesn't get much worse than death, does it?" He tried out a soft chuckle, but it sounded like a nervous cough.

      Nobody at the booth said anything, but Underhill and Faux shared a long look. Underhill looked over at Teague and said. "This is a man you can trust, I think, Derek. He may doubt what you tell him, but he won’t break when he sees the truth for himself."

      "The truth about what?" Faux said, looking at all three men in turn.

      "The truth about all the weird shit that seems to keep happening in Matheson." Teague said with a resolved sigh. He drank some tea to wash away the sudden taste of ash in his mouth and continued. "As a kid, my friends and I saw things in Matheson that none of us could explain. Even now, I have to question the things we saw and did? Rationally, I know such things can't exist, not in the real world, but the memories are there, real or not."

      Faux didn't say anything. He watched the people around the diner, eating their evening meals, living their real world lives, and he could almost sense what Teague was talking about. That same sense of underlying wrongness that he felt in his motel room earlier. Something wasn't right in Matheson. Something unnatural. He said. "I've got an open mind, guys. More open then most. But if you're talking about ghosts and ghouls and monsters in the closet, I might need a little convincing before I join the tin hat squad. No offense."

      Underhill's harsh laugh held real mirth. He narrowed his good eye at Faux and said. "If you stay long in Matheson, Agent Faux, you'll have your tin hat. I promise you that."

      Everybody at the booth laughed, but it was forced laughter. They each spent a moment rearranging their food and sipping at their drinks as they thought on what they might be facing in Matheson. It was Teague that broke the silence. He said. "I don't know what exactly we're dealing with here, but I doubt very seriously that it's human. Bear attack, maybe?"

      "No bear did the butcher's work we saw out at the mill." Baker said, peering into his drink. "No animal that I've ever seen."

      "I've seen a wood chipper do something similar." Faux said, his voice low. Everybody looked at him, going quiet. He shook his head. "It was too savage for that though. I agree with Derek. It has to be some kind of animal, something we haven't thought of?"

      Underhill cleared his throat. "I may be able to add something, gentlemen. I was able to visit with the brother of the boy who went missing, before he left the hospital. Bobby was a mess, having witnessed his brother's death, but he was coherent. And what he described to me was something that wasn't entirely human or animal. Something in between."

      "What are you saying?" Faux leaned back and stared at the other man. "Some sort of mutant? An escaped lab experiment?"

      Underhill shrugged, slurping his coffee. He said. "The boy was in shock, but lucid enough to describe the thing that killed his brother. A cross between a fox and a person, those were his exact words."

      "Those kids were all smoking and drinking God only knows what, Al." Teague said, dubious. "I don't think we can rely on what that kid says he saw."