The Elves of Cintra

CHAPTER TWO

SPARROW CROSSED THE ROOF of their building in a rush, intent on reaching the stairs and getting down to the street as quickly as she could manage it. The moment she realized what the lights on the water were, she realized as well the danger they were all in. It would take the invaders awhile to get ashore, but as soon as they did they would go hunting for strays like her. She had heard the stories from her mother and seen the results. The hunters of humans were mad things, beasts with claws and teeth and hair, predators. Street kids were a favorite prey. The other Ghosts had to be warned.

But just as she reached the stairwell and was preparing to start down, she heard footsteps coming up. They were heavy and rough, and no attempt was being made to hide their approach. She stopped where she was, listening. The footsteps did not belong to the Ghosts or even to the Knight of the Word. Or to anything human, she added quickly.

She backed away from the opening, both hands tightening around the slim metal length of her prod. Then she heard deep, guttural voices from the darkness below, voices harsh enough to override even the heavy tread, and she froze.

Croaks.

Her mind raced as she tried to think what to do. She did not want to have to fight her way past Croaks. They were slow and not particu–larly smart, but they were enormously strong. If they got their hands on her, she was finished. She stared into the black of the stairwell and took another few steps back. She did not know whether she should chance trying to get down to a lower level where there might be somewhere better to hide, or stay where she was. If she was lucky, they might lose interest and go away. If not, if they came all the way up, she was in trou–ble. She glanced around quickly. The roof was open and mostly flat save for a handful of small mechanical housings and the debris from their catchment system. There was almost nowhere to hide. She turned back to the stairs helplessly. There was no other way off the roof

Or was there?

She raced to the side of the building that fronted the alleyway and looked down. A fire escape ladder was attached to the concrete by heavy bolts, a narrow metal ribbon almost invisible in the gloom. She stared at it a moment, then glanced out at the water where the lights from the invading boats were drawing closer. The drums continued to sound, beating out a steady rhythm, announcing what lay ahead to those in the threatened city. Already the gates of the compound had swung open and squads of defenders were making their way down to the docks. A battle would be fought there soon. When that happened, the Ghosts would be well advised to be far away.

She brushed at her thatch of straw–colored hair and took a deep breath. She hated heights, but anything was preferable to an encounter with Croaks. She looped the prod's carry strap over her shoulder and across her back, stepped up onto the narrow, flat surface of the build–ing cap, grasped the curved railing where it arched up from below, and started climbing down backward.

She wanted to close her eyes, but she settled for keeping her gaze fixed on the wall and her attention focused on finding secure footing upon each rung as she descended. Her efforts were made easier by the deepness of the night, which the narrow canyon of the alleyway made almost complete. Even the torchlight from the compound and the water didn't penetrate here. She steadied herself by thinking of her warrior mother, of how she had orchestrated escapes of this sort so many times when Sparrow was little. Her mother had told her about some of them, and Sparrow had been present at a few near the end. She had marveled at her mother's calmness in the face of such excru–ciating pressure. It had taught her something about the necessity of composure, of knowing that the worst danger you faced would often be your own uncertainty.

She kept that foremost in her thoughts as she made her way down the side of the building, a fly against the wall in the gloom, trying not to think about how it would feel to fall.

The descent went much more quickly than she had expected, and her feet touched the ground before she realized it was there. She stepped away from the ladder, unslung the prod, and looked around guardedly. She could not see or hear anything. The alley was empty. Moving quickly down its length, she gained the street and peered out into the night. She was at the side of the building now, the street run–ning down from Pioneer Square to the waterfront. Everywhere, the shadows seemed to move in response to the fires and the drums.

A quick glance up at the roof revealed nothing.

She started up the street for the square, intent on going after the other Ghosts and warning them of the danger. She wasn't sure what they could do about it until the Knight of the Word returned with Hawk, but at least they would be prepared for what she knew was coming. She swore in her best thirteen–year–old street language at the Croaks that had forced her to climb down that ladder, furious at the delay. What were Croaks doing in her building anyway? They knew the rules. They had never entered before, never even dared. They must have seen the Ghosts leaving, must have realized that they were abandoning the building. It was a desirable dwelling, easily defended and safe. They just decided to move in once it appeared that the Ghosts had moved out.

But they could have waited a day or two, couldn't they?

She reached the head of the street where it intersected the square, moving cautiously, eyes sweeping the darkness, knowing that if there were Croaks inside the building there were probably Croaks outside, as well. But the square seemed deserted, and so she started to turn north up First in the direction the others had gone when she heard her name called.

"Sparrow? Wait up?"

She wheeled around at the sound of Panther's voice, watching as he came up the empty street at a trot, dodging among the piles of debris, his prod cradled in the crook of his arm, his breathing audible even from where she stood. He must have run all the way from the com–pound. Something must have happened for him to come back like this. Something bad.

She started to ask what it was, and then saw the dark forms sham–bling along behind him, still a way back, but clearly in pursuit. More Croaks.

"Flickin' Croaks!" he spit out angrily. "Chased me all the way from the edge of — "

She hissed at him in warning. "Keep it down, Panther Puss? There are more inside?"

Too late. Heavy bodies appeared from the doorway of their building, eyes turning their way. Ragged forms with gimlet eyes, fingernails long since grown to claws, and teeth sharpened like those of wild animals.

Sparrow shoved Panther in frustration. "Now you've done it, big mouth. Get moving!"

They hurried across the square, Croaks at both ends of the street and closing. The fires and the drums didn't seem to have any effect on them. They had their own concerns to occupy their attention, and Sparrow knew that most of those concerns revolved around food.

"Where's Hawk?" she asked as they ran toward the buildings across the way. "Why are you back here alone?"

"Don't know about Hawk. Don't know about that Knight of what–ever, either. He left me at the edge of the square, told me to wait until he came back. He never came, but these Croaks did and I had to make a break for it. They're all over. Did you see the fires on the water?"

She glanced over at his dark face. "I saw them from the roof Boats filled with invaders. If they're the ones I think, we're in big trouble. Mama used to tell me about them. Once–men, she called them. They destroy everything, kill everyone except the ones they put in the slave camps. Worse than the militias. We have to warn the others and get out of here."

"You won't get no argument from me." He slowed suddenly, grab–bing her arm. "Uh–oh."

A pair of Croaks had appeared out of the buildings in front of them, blocking their escape. "What is it with these things?" Panther snapped furiously. "We don't see any for weeks, then all of a sudden they're everywhere? Where'd they all come from?"

Sparrow took a quick look around at the ones following. Another few minutes and they would be right on top of them. "We have to get past these two," she said. "You take the one on the left. Try not to do anything stupid."

Without waiting for his response, she launched herself at the one on the right, her finger on the prod's trigger and the staffs electric charge at full strength. She jabbed the prod's end into the Croak's leg, and the Croak grunted and began to shake and jerk uncontrollably. Sparrow didn't back away, keeping the prod jammed into its leg, know–ing that if she gave ground it would be on her in a second. To her left, she caught a glimpse of Panther moving in close, his prod lancing into the other Croak's throat with such force that it broke the heavy skin. The Croak gasped and tried to extract the killing tip, but Panther used his strength to force it backward and down to its knees.

In seconds both Croaks lay twitching on the concrete. Sparrow grabbed Panther's arm and pulled him toward the building's alleyway. "Stop staring at them? Run?"

Prods held at the ready, they disappeared into the dark corridor of the alley.

LOGAN Tom took a few minutes more to look around the rubble where he had told Panther to wait, and then gave up. He didn't know what had happened to the boy, but he couldn't take the time to find out. He had to get back to the other street kids and hope that Panther would find his own way. Maybe something had scared him. That didn't seem like Panther, but you never knew. Whatever the case, he wasn't here now.

Unless he was, but couldn't answer.

Logan didn't want to dwell on that possibility, but he couldn't quite put it aside, either. He hated the thought that he might have somehow failed the boy, that he might have brought him along only to get him killed. He had lived for years with the guilt of never being able to do quite enough for the children in the slave camps. He didn't need an–other name added to that list. Funny. He had known Panther for less than twenty–four hours, but it felt a lot longer. He liked the dark–humored, moody boy–liked his aggressiveness and readiness to take on anything. Maybe it was because he admired the toughness in street kids that he liked Panther so much.

Or maybe it was because he reminded him of himself

He started back up the street into Pioneer Square, chased by the sounds of the drums on the bay and the marching of the compound de–fenders to the docks. He hated the thought of taking on this new re–sponsibility, looking after the Ghosts, shepherding them to wherever it was he was supposed to go. Losing the gypsy morph was a major breach of his duty to protect it. Pretty hard to protect something that had been swallowed up by a ball of light and was now who–knew–where. But being left with the morph's family …

He stopped himself, rethinking his choice of language.

Being left with Hawk's family, with a pack of street kids to look after, was galling. It limited his freedom of movement. What was he supposed to do with these kids and the old man and that wolf dog while he was trying to figure out how to find Hawk?

He realized that until he had come face–to–face with the morph, he had never thought of it as a child. Even though it had started out as one in the time of John Ross and Nest Freemark, even though it had never been seen as anything else after those first few weeks, he had never thought of it that way. He hadn't really given it any thought at all. When Two Bears had asked him to find the morph, he had seen it as an escape from what he had been doing for so many years: attacking the camps, killing the defenders, setting free the prisoners, and–he hesi–tated before finishing the thought–destroying the experiments that someday would become demons. The children. He had thought he would be leaving all that behind. He had thought himself free of it.

He had never imagined that he would find himself tied up with a bunch of street kids.

But as with so many things in his life, it appeared he had been wrong about this, too.

He moved ahead into the shadow of the buildings and the dark canyon of Pioneer Square and tried not to look back.

OWL HEARD THE DRUMMING first and looked back over her shoul–der past River, who was manning the wheelchair, toward the dark stain of the bay waters. Hundreds of lights dotted their smooth surface for as far as the eye could see.

"Turn me around," she ordered the dark–haired girl.

River wheeled her about obediently. The other Ghosts saw what was happening and stopped to look with her. Bear slowed the heavy cart that was filled with their possessions, and Candle, who was leading the way, walked back. Fixit and Chalk, carrying the Weatherman on his makeshift litter, set him down, stretching aching backs and rubbing weary arms.

"For an old man, he weighs an awful lot," Chalk muttered.

Owl didn't hear him, her attention focused on the lights. Torches, she decided. More than she could count. They would be burning from the decks of boats, which meant a huge fleet had come to the city. But not for anything good.

In her lap, Squirrel stirred and lifted his sleepy face from her shoul–der. "Are we there, Mama?"

"Not yet," she whispered.

He snuffled and rubbed his eyes. "What's that noise?"

"Nothing to worry about." She stroked his fine hair. "Go back to sleep."

She was worried about him. He should have been better by now, the sickness defeated. But he couldn't seem to shake it, and he was growing weaker despite the medications and care. He had only been able to walk three blocks from their home when they left for the free–way before tiring and climbing into her lap. She didn't mind holding him; he didn't weigh hardly anything.

She glanced down at his wan face. She wished Tessa were there to offer advice. Tessa knew more about medications and sicknesses than anyone.

Candle was standing at her shoulder, young face intense and wor–ried. "We have to run away," she said.

"It's an attack," Bear declared. His big frame blocked the heavy cart so that it could not roll. "Those are war drums. That many boats means an invading force, probably come up from the south."

"It is the thing that comes to kill us," Candle said quickly. She was shivering, hugging herself as she stared out at the lights. "It is the thing from my vision."

Owl reached out for her and turned her around so that she was no longer looking at the lights. "Just look at me, Candle," she said softly. She waited until the little girl stopped shaking. "Can you do that?"

Candle nodded. "I won't look anymore."

"Good." Owl glanced around at the others. "Whatever it is, Candle is right. We need to get as far away from it as we can. Has anyone seen any sign of Sparrow or Panther?"

No one had. Chalk and Fixit were arguing about who should take the front end of the Weatherman's litter. River stalked over angrily, pushed Chalk aside, and picked it up herself

"Owl says we have to go. Fixit, pick up your end." She glared at Chalk. "You can push the wheelchair for a while since you're so tired."

They started off once more, still climbing inland from the water–front, having followed First Avenue to within sight of the Hammering Man before turning uphill toward the freeway entrance. It was there that the Knight of the Word had told them they would find his vehicle and should wait for him to join them. Owl hoped he would hurry. She was growing steadily more worried about being separated from Spar–row and Panther. It was bad enough to lose Hawk and maybe Tessa, but unbearable to think of losing the other two, as well. The Ghosts were a family, and as mother of this family she didn't feel right when the group wasn't together.

"Chalk, are you really too tired for this?" she asked quietly so that the others could not hear. She looked back at him. "Do you need a rest? Maybe Candle can fill in for a few minutes if you need to take a break."

"I'm not tired," the boy said, refusing to admit anything, glancing over at River for just a minute before looking away again. "I can do any–thing that anyone else can and do it better. Especially her."

Even in flight and in danger, they squabbled like the children they were, Owl thought. But they loved and would do anything for one an–other. Wasn't that true of all families, whatever their nature and cir–cumstances? Wasn't that a large part of what defined them as families?

They continued their climb toward the top of the hill and the free–way entrance, following the sidewalk, angling between piles of debris and derelict vehicles. The darkened, mostly empty buildings formed huge walls to either side, leaving them layered in shadows and silence. A cold wind blew up the concrete–and–stone canyons, coming off the water in damp gusts, carrying the smell of pitch from the torches. The drums throbbed in steady rhythm, the sound deep and ominous.

"I'm not scared," Squirrel murmured into Owl's shoulder.

She gave him a quick hug. "Of course you aren't."

They reached the freeway entrance, a long curving concrete ramp littered with rusted–out cars and trucks, some still whole, some in pieces. Owl looked expectantly for Logan Tom's Lightning S-150 AV, having no idea what it was she was seeking, but knowing it wouldn't be like anything else. Her efforts were in vain. Everything appeared the same to her. Nothing but junk and trash.

"It's over there," Fixit announced.

Because he was carrying one end of the Weatherman's litter, he couldn't point, only nod, so none of them was sure what he was indi–cating. Owl looked in the general direction of his nod, but didn't see anything.

"It's behind that semi–trailer, over there by the pileup," Fixit contin–ued. "See the big tires? That's a Lightning AV."

Owl was willing to take his word for it, even though she still didn't see anything. Fixit knew a lot about the vehicles his elders had ridden in before almost everything on wheels stopped working. The source of his knowledge was something of a mystery given that he read so little and was content looking at pictures in old magazines, but she supposed it had to do with his mechanical nature.

She looked doubtfully at the abandoned vehicles, clusters of them stretching away down the ramp and onto the freeway for as far as the eye could see. It made her wonder what that last day had been like when the owners had simply abandoned them. It made her wonder what had happened to those people, all those years ago, when the city began to change.

Mostly it made her nervous about what might be down there that they couldn't see. Lots of things made their homes in old vehicles, and you didn't want to disturb them.

Still, they had no choice. They couldn't afford to wait where they were, so far from where Logan Tom had told them to be. Not unless they were threatened, and as yet, the only threat came from the water–front behind them.

"Lead us down, Fixit," she told him, trying to keep the reluctance from her voice. "But everyone stay together and keep a close eye out for anything that might be hiding in those wrecks. Candle? Warn us if you sense anything."

They started down the ramp, a strange little procession, Fixit and River at the forefront carrying the litter with the Weatherman, Candle right behind, Bear following with the heavy cart, and Chalk, pushing Owl and Squirrel in the wheelchair, bringing up the rear. There was a pale wash of light from the distant compound, the walls of which they could just begin to see, and from the torches beginning to close on the docks of the bay. The drums still beat, and now there were shouts and cries, the sounds of a battle being fought. She heard weapons fire, as well.

Her thoughts drifted to those still missing. She hoped that Sparrow was well away by now. She shouldn't have given her permission to go up on the roof for that final check; she should have made her come with the rest of them. She wondered about Panther and Logan Tom and about Hawk and Tessa. Too many people missing, too many ways for them to get hurt in what was happening down there.

Everything is changing, she thought without knowing exactly why she felt it was so. But the thought persisted. Nothing will ever be the same again after this night.

She thought suddenly of their home, of how cozy it had been. She remembered cooking for the others in her tiny, makeshift kitchen.

She remembered telling them her stories of the boy and his children. She could picture them sitting around the room, listening intently, their faces rapt. She could hear their voices and their laughter. She could see herself tucking Squirrel and Candle in for the night, their faces sleepy and peaceful as she wrapped their blankets around them. She remembered the quiet moments she had shared with Hawk, nei–ther of them speaking, both of them knowing without having to say so what the other was thinking.

No, nothing would ever be the same. She glanced around, looking at each of them in turn. The best she could hope for was that they would be able to stay together and stay safe …

She stopped herself suddenly, aware that something was wrong. She counted heads quickly, certain that she must be mistaken, that she had simply missed him.

But there was no mistake. Cheney was missing. The big wolf dog, there only a moment earlier it seemed, was nowhere in sight. Where was he?

She started to ask the others, and then stopped. In the shadows of the broken–down vehicles ahead, dark shapes were emerging into the light, crawling out of the wrecks.

Not just a few, but dozens.