Seth was acutely aware of their tactical disadvantage. But he couldn’t tell Ben to abandon his wife; even though that was the sane thing to do. All that would come of them chasing that gnoll in the dark was three dead people instead of one.
“It’s a trap,” said Seth.
“No reason we should feed it two mice,” Ben responded. “You go back to that tree and see if the wizard can help us out.”
“Nice try, but I’m not leaving you out here alone.”
They heard Helen’s weak cry in the distance. “Ben!” She was still in the meadow, at least-somewhere near the tree line.
“She’s still alive,” Ben whispered, relieved. “Helen!”
“Go back,” Helen cried.
“Ben, we’re fucked if we stay here.”
Ben contemplated something big in a way that only a member of America’s greatest generation could. He took the can of kerosene from Seth. “Listen up,” he said, “it’s a dog-man, right? I’m injured. It senses weakness, smells blood. I’m going to walk out along the edge of the snow line a couple of yards. It’s going to come after me. I’m going to grab it and hold on for dear life. No matter what it does, I ain’t letting it go. When you hear it, come to me and hack away. We won’t even have a minute, so don’t hesitate.”
“Ben, I don’t like the idea of you being bait.”
“Well we’re a few cans short of Alpo, kid. This is no time to split hairs.”
“Ben, I can’t even see out here.”
Ben held up the can of kerosene. “You’ll see me fine.” He walked away into the dark.
Seth gripped his ax tight. His magazine was halfway gone so he rolled and lit another one. He closed his eyes and tried to listen. It was the more effective sense in this situation. He caught a whiff of something foul upwind, like a garbage scow. It was in the direction Ben had gone. Damn!
Seth started toward Ben before he heard the scuffling. Then he heard a shout. A circle of flame ignited before him, lighting up the meadow, and in the middle of the ring was Ben struggling on the ground with the creature. The gnoll was startled by the circle of flames around them. It clearly wanted to run. Ben wrapped his arms and legs around the gnoll and held it in place as it tore and snapped at the old man. Ben yelled, “NOW! NOW!”
Seth quickly hopped through the ring of fire and landed a solid hack with the ax into the gnoll’s back. The creature howled and rolled on the ground bringing along Ben, whose legs were entangled with the gnoll’s in a wrestling grip. They rolled through a corner of the ring, and the gnoll’s fur caught. Ben went limp and the creature was able to push the old man off. It frantically patted the flames on its body. Seth picked up the can of kerosene and splashed the remains on the gnoll. Several embers on the fur lit up. The gnoll ran into the snow aflame. Seth chased it. The creature rolled around trying to extinguish the burning hair; Seth came upon it and swung a solid shot into the thing’s gut with his ax. The creature cried out and swiped at Seth’s legs. Seth continued to hack at it to his heart’s content. The smell of burning hair filled Seth’s nostrils. His fifth shot, a solid gash to the forehead, ended the creature.
Seth heard crunching in the snow. He lifted his ax to ward off another attack.
“Ben?” Helen queried.
“It’s me,” Seth said. “That thing is dead.”
She was shaking with fear. Seth took her hand. “Where’s Ben?” she asked.
Seth led her back to the spot where he left her husband. Ben hadn’t moved from where Seth left him, and Helen rushed to her husband’s side.
“Ben, talk to me.”
The old man didn’t respond. He had gashes all over and was bleeding out onto the ground. Ben’s head tilted back when his wife tried to prop him up, and they saw the rip in his throat. Helen kept calling his name as she patted his face trying to revive him. His eyes fluttered, and he coughed blood. He reached out to his wife and touched her cheek.
“Helen,” he slurred. His voice had turned into a raspy gurgle.
“You did it, Ben. I’m safe. We’re both safe. You hold on now. We’ll get you to the tree.” She turned to Seth. “Help me get him back.”
Seth was sure that moving Ben was a terrible idea, but he didn’t have many options. He reached under the old man to lift him. His clothes were saturated with blood as was the ground beneath him. Seth only moved him a little when Ben started to convulse and spit up blood. His body spasmed; he gasped for air.
“What happened?” Seth asked.
“It’s a heart attack!” Helen said. “Ben, hold on!”
Seth picked up the old man and struggled toward the tree with Helen right behind him. A few steps away from camp, Ben went completely limp. They got him to the tree and laid him beside the trunk. Nothing happened. Helen looked at Seth. Her face, streaming with tears conveyed the fears in her heart.
“Try touching the tree and holding Ben,” she said to him.
Seth did so, and felt the warmth of the tree fill him again, but the flow stopped at his hand, not going into Ben. He tried touching Ben’s forehead, his wounds, but nothing worked. Seth turned to Helen, who was looking to him for answers he couldn’t provide. Seth was sobbing as well by now. “I don’t know what to do,” he said. “Lelani has this powder that heals, but it’s out there with her.”
Seth stood back and looked at the bloodied old man slumped against the tree. He had a peaceful expression. Ben had caught the moment he knew his wife was safe and made it his eternal mask.
“Nooo!” Helen wailed. She leaned down and embraced her husband. She had no care for all the blood. She kissed his cheeks and cried freely.
Seth kneeled beside her and put his arms around them both. They wept for an eternity.
CHAPTER 17
1
Dorn hated America. It lacked order. It coddled the weak. The rules of behavior were contrary to nature. Common women were arrogant, badly disciplined; peasants pressed for their rights; the wealthy kept the masses subservient through financial debt instead of fear; and leaders were subject to criticism and even ridicule, such as on the players’ farce Saturday Night Live. Madness. Dorn rubbed his temples in an effort to relieve the growing pressure.
The Quinta do Noval ’83 slid down his lordship’s gullet and warmed the chill from his bones. He didn’t like the Park Plaza’s vented heating and longed for a real fire to stoke under a large stone mantel. Nothing was real in this world; the food was processed and bloodless and even the warmth was an illusion. The city smelled worse than brimstone, noxious waste belching from the asses of a million horseless carriages. Mass production by scientific trickery produced a lot of nothing. The masses hoarded material goods as if they were nobility-fooled into believing the purchase of soulless objects would overcome their ingrained defects. The right car or the toothpaste with a catchier tune will bring them closer to being noble. As wines went, though, port came closest to the spirits of home. It alleviated the throbbing in his temple, which had been growing worse since their arrival in this cursed world. It was also becoming harder to hide the pain from his underlings. He found himself drinking more of the wine the longer he remained here.
This world was not an easy place. Like hawks in a maelstrom, they struggled through it, denigrated in the effort of not drawing attention to themselves. Limited sorceries, restricted violence, and the inability to freely draw manpower from local denizens without leverage over them. More than that, there was no way to tell how high-grade magicks might react on this plane. Some unknown cosmic balance might be tipped. Such a thing could make the situation worse-the ensuing chaos might cause difficulty in their search. So they had to wade through the mire of orthodoxy, risking a spell only when needed, and slinking off like weasels after raiding the coop.
Dorn leaned against the mantel of his bedroom’s faux fireplace and pulled an ornate silver locket from his pocket. It opened on a hinge and he studied the tiny portrait within-Lara, his mother’s youngest sister. A few strands of her platinum-white hair encircled her image. He sniffed the strands, pining for any remnant of her scent. Lara had been more of a mother to Dorn than the woman who pushed him from her thighs could ever be. How long had it been since he had last seen her-her soft, scented skin, alabaster hair, and sympathetic amethyst eyes? The depiction, perfect as a photograph, followed him with its gaze. What was she doing at this moment? Was she free? Would Uncle keep his word? Dorn could not suspend his longing for her. It was there, below the surface, every moment of the day no matter what he did, as though he were under a spell. Even the port failed to dull its ache.