Palaces of Light (15 page)

“Yet,” Ryan added softly. “Come on.” He indicated that they should follow as he headed toward the sheltered spot halfway across the floor of the canyon that they had made their rendezvous from the safety of the cave, way up on the far side…something that seemed to be a million years away, though it was less than forty-eight hours prior.

They headed off across the floor of the canyon. Even though the depth of the crevasse and the shelter from the skies offered by the overhang of rock meant that shadow and a chill swept across them, they were still sweating. Doc felt as though his blood was bubbling with heat. He was aware that part of this was due to the residue of gas still pounding around his system. But more than that, it was the effort that they had put into both the diversionary attack and the subsequent flight. They had covered a lot of ground, and there was still more to go.

Each step jarred and racked his already aching body, but Doc was driven on by the need to attain shelter. Partly because he would be happy to see his companions and know that his fears for their safety were unfounded; and partly because he felt sure that some kind of retribution would be coming their way, and he would rather view the attempt from the relative safety of shelter than from out in the open. He was hideously aware that it was daylight, and that anyone could look down from the ledge on which the city sat and view them with ease…pick them off with ease, given the right weapons.

And then there was the illusory beast that could interfere with their perceptions and plant phantoms in their path. That was the last thing they would need. It couldn’t harm them, of course—or could it? he wondered momentarily—but it could certainly delay their passage and so make them easier to round up by a vengeful group of city elders.

And he didn’t like to think what they might do.

These thoughts passed back and forth through his mind as the foreground of his attention was taken with the simple act of putting one foot in front of another and trying to keep pace with Ryan and Mildred as they moved swiftly across the canyon floor. Doc, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat and the sour of bile in his mouth as breath came hard, was keeping pace…but only just. But despite the effort causing him to feel as though his heart would burst, he also found that the conflicting streams of thought were distracting him from the sheer frustration of the distance they had to cover. The canyon floor was vast, and it took time to cover the ground between where they had started and the point that had been designated as the rendezvous.

Doc finally looked up and saw that no one was watching from the lip of the city, and then let his eyes follow their path upward to see that the sun had moved across a great chunk of sky without his noticing, and he realized they had been running for some time, and what’s more they had been able to do it without being observed.

There was some hope. Could it be that these coldhearts were so used to their isolation that they had no idea of how to deal with someone invading their space?

The cheering thought made him ignore the ache in his muscles and the dry, burning ache in his lungs as he surged forward to try to catch Ryan and Mildred. They were now almost at the place where they had agreed to meet after they had each taken their leave of the city on the ledge. It was close to the creek that trickled peacefully across the valley floor, oblivious to the savagery and combat that had been occurring so close by. A small crop of rocks that Jak had noticed from the security of the cave a few days before, it formed a natural shelter, open on one side and yet hidden from clear view by a rise in the ground and some scrub that grew straggling around it. Draping over the leading edge of the crop, making it hard to view clearly from above unless you were at the right angle, it was only possibly from the far side of the canyon to see that the rock formed a roof over a dip that was a natural corollary to the raised ground on the far side. It was a small space, but enough for several people to gather and shelter until the dark of night gave them a chance to escape.

As the three companions reached it, they were on the blind side of the opening, and it was with hope in their hearts that they reached the scrub and rounded the overhang, hoping that Krysty, J.B. and Jak would be there, along with the baron’s daughter and however many of the kids they had been able to rescue.

“John—” Mildred panted as she slid around the edge of the rocks and into the gap, almost expecting to see the Armorer waiting to greet her.

The word choked and withered in her mouth as she saw the space was empty. Ryan and Doc were now level with her.

“Fireblast!” Ryan spit. With the other three not being there before them, there was little doubt that they hadn’t made it down from the ledge. If they had been running behind the three companions, then there was no way that they could have missed seeing them as they traversed the floor of the canyon.

They had seen nothing. No one. Their companions hadn’t made it down from the city on the ledge.

For a second, the implications didn’t sink in. Then, when they did, the three of them sank to their haunches in the shelter of the rock overhang. For some time they were silent, each unwilling to voice their thoughts.

Of course there had always been the possibility that it could go wrong. That was a given any time that they entered into any kind of a fight. But there was something about this that seemed to have an air of finality about it. In any of the actions they had embarked on in the past, their separation wasn’t a finality. There was always the chance that the others might be out there, struggling to fight their way free.

But this felt different.

The emptiness of the canyon, which had been so very welcome as they made their way to the shelter, now became oppressive as the full import became apparent.

“No…” Doc shook his head slowly, giving voice to the misgivings that all three of them shared, but had been wary of vocalizing, “I cannot believe that it would end like this. If they are gone, then so be it. We shall make those bastards pay for what they have done. Not just to our own, it is true, but certainly primarily for their sakes. If, I stress…for we are assuming the worst, are we not? Their not being here and our not having seen them means that they have in some shape or form bought the farm. But this may not be the case. They would go down fighting, it is true, but perhaps they did not go down at all? Perhaps the sheer weight of numbers and some misfortune that we cannot know have led to their being captured. In which case, we are back to the beginning. We have to free our targets, as we have come to do, but we also have to free our companions. It makes our task harder, of course,” he added with a shrug, “but then again, when was the last time that anything came easy for us?”

With which he shrugged again, allowing himself a beaming smile that he didn’t truly feel, but that was intended to emphasize the desire to go on.

It worked. Ryan agreed with a brief nod. “Come sundown we start over. We’re not beaten yet, and I’d bet any amount of jack that J.B., Jak and Krysty aren’t, either.”

Mildred shook her head and snorted. “Doc, there are times when I could kiss you…” Then, noting his alarm, she added, “Don’t worry, I was just saying… .”

Chapter Thirteen

The dank, fetid charnel house stink of the place was the first thing to wake Jak from his dreams, where there were dark, savage shapes that came at him from all angles. They sought to eviscerate him piece by piece, no matter what he tried to do to escape. It was as though he had to track dark shapes in a dark room, using only the sounds and smells of their passing by him to know where they might be. At every turn it seemed as though they would get him. With every move he made they came closer and closer, gaining ground on him, striking out with razor-sharp claws or knives—he could not tell which—that grazed and scored at his clothing and at his flesh, drawing beads of blood from livid red weals that stood out on his white skin. The sharp jabs of pain distracted him until he could no longer tell what was in front or behind him, and they swooped in closer, closing for the chill… .

The shock of their blows, falling like a rain of savage pain, jolted him awake. In his dreams he could smell the open flesh and the blood that welled from it, could smell the decay as it crept up on him and overwhelmed him, as though there were something in each blow that was making him rot at an alarmingly fast rate.

It was only when he was fully awake that he realized that the smell came from around him. It wasn’t his own body he could smell, but the contents of the room.

It was gloomy, but considerably lighter than the room he had been dreaming about, and so he was soon able to focus on what was around, groggily shaking the sleep from his head.

Lifting himself onto one elbow, he could see that he was now inside one of the gleaming palaces they had watched from the outside. In contrast to the splendor of the exterior when seen from afar, the interior revealed a different story. It looked like the sun hadn’t only bleached the outside of the building, but had also acted as a cleanser of which the interior had been in sore need. The walls and floor were caked with what could have been excrement, could have been blood, and might well have been a combination of both. Human or animal: or, again, both. It was impossible to tell, although the fact that the young people who had overwhelmed them had been reeking suggested that it may be the former.

Jak could see meat hanging on hooks from poles that had been clumsily embedded in each wall, straddling the divide of the interior space. These lumps of badly hacked meat could have been horse, or maybe some other beast that they had so far not seen, or they could have been human. The butchery involved was so poor as to render them indistinguishable in any shape or form. They had been hanging for some time, to judge by the smell and by the clusters of flies that swarmed over them and appeared even to be incubating on them.

He was on the floor, on a pile of rough sacking. There was little else in the room, which was presumably used as some kind of storeroom. There were other bundles of sacking and rags strewed around the room and on two of them were J.B. and Krysty. There appeared to be no sign of a guard. They were alone within the room, and although the stone door was closed, there was a window lintel carved into the stone close to the edge of the doorjamb. Anyone standing outside would be just about visible because of the closeness. Instead, Jak could see people going about the business they had watched from afar, with no concern for the three prisoners, even though the door showed no signs of being locked or barred—indeed, showed no signs of anything except a slab of carved rock—and there was nothing in or across the window space to keep them in.

Saying nothing—he could see that J.B. and Krysty were both still unconscious, and he didn’t wish to call attention to himself as of yet—Jak got to his feet. His head was swimming, which he put partly down to the stench that made every breath an ordeal of holding down the rising bile; and partly perhaps because he hadn’t yet recovered from the concussion that had rendered him unconscious. He stood for a moment, gathering his wits as much as was possible, before taking a step forward.

That was when he realized that something else was going on. His legs felt like lead, and moved only in a slow, jerky and awkward manner, something akin to the way in which he had seen the young people moving when he had been observing them from the far side of the canyon. One step, then another, and he realized that the effort was making him sweat. It was as though every movement demanded an effort that was sapping what strength he had left. It seemed to take him hours to get across the few yards that lay between himself and J.B. It was a perception of time belied by the way in which the people moved beyond the window, seemingly unaware of the titanic struggle that was taking place within the room. It was as though time slowed down for him as every fiber of every muscle demanded the utmost concentration to be willed into movement. The effort of just moving each foot made his head feel as though it would burst, and lurking at the back of his mind was the dread of the door to the room opening. If it did, he would be defenseless, unable to respond with any speed to whatever may happen, and in truth possibly lacking even the energy to move.

It was with something approaching relief that he eventually found himself standing over the Armorer’s prone figure. Sinking slowly to his knees and feeling the sheer flood of relief at this resting position, Jak reached out and prodded J.B’s still and seemingly unconscious body.

It was as he did that he noticed the marks on his hand. Why he hadn’t before he couldn’t say—perhaps simply because he had not looked, his concentration being so tightly focused on other matters. But now that he did, he could see that there were long scratches on the back of his hand, livid red welts with beaded scabs of dried blood. Like the wounds in his dreams… Perhaps that was where they had come from. What was real and what was dream? he wondered. Had he really been attacked in such a manner, or had the scoring of his body somehow penetrated his unconscious and been manifest in such a manner?

No matter. It wasn’t the wounds themselves that were the relevant factor, but rather the strange paste that seemed to have been painted over them. It was pale green in color, and flecked with dark vegetable matter. A paste of herbs… Suddenly things began to click in Jak’s mind, and the way that he was feeling made sense. The scratches had been made to speed up the absorption of whatever ingredients went into the paste, and it was these herbs and the combination of them that were now causing the disorienting effects that Jak was feeling.

Maybe it couldn’t change the effect it was having on him, but it could certainly explain it, and so make it easier to cope with. And so make it easier for J.B. and Krysty when they regained consciousness and he was able to explain it to them.

Feeling as though it had taken him several hours to work this out, although in truth it had probably been little more than a few moments, Jak continued to reach out toward the Armorer and prod him.

J.B. moaned softly and shifted slightly on the sacking that contained him. Jak kept prodding, and gradually the Armorer came around. Again, this seemed to take place over several hours although it was probably only a few moments. Eventually, J.B.’s eyes flickered open and gazed blearily up through his spectacles at Jak.

“What…” The one word seemed to drain him, and as he tried to raise himself he winced at the pain in his head. Jak held out a hand to stop him, and started to explain. It was slow and halting, and Jak felt as though his voice was slow and gloopy, like molasses rather than the running water of normal speech. He wasn’t even sure that J.B. would be able to understand him, yet despite this it seemed as though the Armorer was taking in every word.

J.B. kept himself supported on one arm and raised his free hand so that he could study it. His, too, had the scratches on the back, and the greenish residue of the paste that had been painted over them. He frowned. As long as this crap was in their systems, J.B. knew, then the coldheart bastards who ran this ville had them exactly where they wanted them. Regular topping up of the drug in their systems would keep them in this state, and while they were, they found themselves in no position to resist such action.

All they could do was roll with what was going on and try to look for a break. He said as much to Jak, and felt the same kind of weirdness about his own speech as Jak had found with his.

The Armorer looked around the room and, ignoring the way his voice sounded to him as he knew Jak had to be able to understand it clearly, said, “Only the three of us here. That’s good. The others must have been able to get away, otherwise they’d be here…or up there,” he added, indicating the pole from which the shapeless slabs of meat were dangling.

Jak nodded. “We try get out, they try get in,” he said simply.

J.B. grinned. “Yeah, except we’d better keep that as quiet as possible.”

Jak said nothing, but the thought ran through his head that if the coldhearts running the ville could slow them with their herbs, then there was little doubt that they could come up with something that would make them unable to do anything except tell the truth. He’d seen it before.

While this ran through his head, he gestured toward Krysty, who seemed unaware that they were talking. She hadn’t stirred the whole time, and it was only because his acute hearing could detect the sounds of her breathing that he didn’t fear for her life.

“Better hurry, tell her before anyone comes,” he said.

J.B. barked a hollow laugh. “Much as we can hurry.”

The two men started to move across the room toward where Krysty lay. It was slow, torturous and seemed to take an eternity. Every step was like running up the side of a mountain, taking more effort from them than it seemed possible to give. How could they cope with the intrusion of any of their captors while they were in this state was something that both concerned them, and about which they didn’t care to think. Instead, all they could really focus on was reaching Krysty and bringing her back to consciousness. There was nothing they could do to make their situation better at this stage, but at least somehow they knew that they shared the weight of the problem if they stood together. That sense of comradeship would be enough for now.

As they got close to her, J.B. looked through the window. If they were making enough noise to raise an alarm as they struggled across the room, then there was no one who was apparently watching them to hear them. Outside, the residents of the mysterious city seemed to go about their business oblivious to the inhabitants of the room; oblivious, indeed, to the disruption that had so recently disrupted their routines.

Recently? J.B. wondered about that as he caught sight of the shadows that formed on the far side of the canyon, and the way that the light reflected on the lip of the ledge that housed the city. It had been early morning when they had started their ascent, which would have made it about the middle of the day when they attacked. If the light outside was anything to go by, it was now early morning once more. They had been unconscious for at least eighteen hours. It felt like nothing. Possibly it was even more than that. How many times had the sun risen and fallen since they had been shut up in the room?

These musings were interrupted as Jak tugged at his sleeve. They were within a few steps of Krysty, and it was as if she had somehow been able to hear their approach and respond.

“She’s coming around.”

* * *

R
YAN
WATCHED
THE
CITY
on the ledge with a mixture of feelings: frustration, anger and an impotent sense of rage. Why the nuking hell had he decided to accept this mission? If he had been aware of what these people were capable of, and the extreme isolation of their position, then he would have thought twice. But that was the key. It hadn’t sounded like the kind of mission that would end this way.

The truth was that the dwellers on the ledge were in a superb defensive position. Now that they were alerted to the fact that they had an enemy within striking distance, they were well suited to close down any avenue of attack. To come from above would entail scaling down a ridge of rock that was almost sheer, and would leave any attacker exposed to those who could simply fire from below. To come from the floor of the canyon entailed leaving yourself open to being fired on at will from angles that gave a superior range of fire.

If J.B., Krysty and Jak were still alive, then they were being held in one of the buildings. There had been no sign of them during the watches that had been established two days previously, when his party had attained the safety of the rendezvous point. Since then, three patrols had been sent forth by the dwellers on the ledge. Those had been the armed, and the mounted parties that they had observed before had a subtle change in their behavior. Where before they had acted in a ritualized manner, as though drugged in some way and performing actions of which they had little awareness, this time they had been only too well aware of their actions. The three companions had used their cover well, keeping themselves hidden while still being able to observe the city.

When the riders had left the palaces, their bearing and the speed at which they spurred their mounts had been telling. They had galloped down the path, and instead of proscribing the circuit that had served them so well for who knew how long, they had begun to comb the floor of the canyon in a methodical manner. Instead of simply riding the route, they had stopped then doubled back on themselves before splitting into two groups and crisscrossing the bottom of the valley. Instead of silence, they had called to one another, and this time they had spoken in a tongue that was all too recognizable. Whatever the language they used when the rituals on the ledge took place, this wasn’t the one they used to communicate in an everyday situation.