"We can go back?"
"And then where? Cuddles needs rest, even if you don't. I think we'll try the direct method. Saint George and the dragon will now perform! Get down."
"Ma'am, I—"
"Get down!"
The command was spoken quietly, but it must have been backed with mana, because his feet hit the dirt an instant later. He staggered.
"Here goes the charge of the Light Brigade,” Onica said.
"No, wait!"
"You can't help. Keep your fingers crossed, Exeter. Remember Kalmak Carpenter. Zomph!"
Cuddles shot forward, claws spraying stones. She hurtled like an arrow along the road, leaned into the curve, and disappeared.
He choked back a shout of anger. He stood there on the gravel, feeling like a pampered brat. The smirk on the youth's face did nothing to help his feelings. Bloody young exhibitionist, parading around in the nude!
"Well, come on!” he snapped. “Let's try to help!” He began to run, and the youth loped along at his side without a word.
The worst part was that he heard nothing at all—no screams, nothing. Cuddles came into view again, streaking across the bridge like a runaway lorry. Her claws must have made a considerable racket on the timbers, but the roar of the river below muffled it completely. At the far end, the dragon did not turn to follow the road, but went straight up the cliff face like a gigantic fly. She had no rider. In moments she vanished over a ledge. He caught one more glimpse of her, higher up, and then she had gone.
He stopped in dismay. The river rumbled, his heart thumped madly.
He wondered if he was the victim of some horrible hoax and rejected the notion as madness. Something had spooked that dragon!
If Onica were alive, she would come back. If she had died, she would not have accounted for all the reapers.
Now what? Eleal had explained that ordinary weapons were useless against reapers. Onica might be lying on the road, hurt and in need of help. If any of the enemy had survived, then they might well be able to sense him as Mason had sensed them—he did not know the extent of their powers. He bent and fumbled in the gravel until he had found a couple of rounded rocks that would fit his grip. He put one in his pocket and stood up. He would not likely have time for more than two shots.
What was the reapers’ range? He racked his brain to recall that brief glimpse he had caught earlier. Fifteen yards? Hard to say in the dark, just two black shapes in the night. He had better allow twenty, at least. A cricket pitch was twenty-two yards long.
He turned to his cryptic companion, who was watching him with amused contempt.
"Are you going to help or just stand there displaying yourself?"
This time he got an answer. He had spoken in English, but the reply came in Joalian:
"You go ahead, D'ward dear. I'll be very interested to see what happens."
With a snort of disgust, Edward started forward. He walked as quietly as he could, although he knew the river would mask any sounds he made. The youth sauntered along beside him.
Edward ignored him, keeping his eyes on the corner ahead, rolling the stone in his hand, forced his breathing to stay slow. The corner was not a knife-edge, just a very sharp bend. He moved close to the wall, crept forward more slowly. One step at a time now...
He saw a body. And a dark-robed form bending over it. Now! Quickly!
He sprinted forward. The reaper looked up, surprised, then rose, brightly lit by moonlight. He raised an arm....
Edward pivoted and bowled his best fast ball. For a moment he thought he had left it too late—a spasm of pain shot through his arm.
He hadn't, though. The reaper had no chance to dodge a missile moving at that speed. The rock took him between the eyes with an audible crunch. He went down, as if he had been hit by a sledgehammer.
Edward stumbled to a halt, rubbing his tingling hand and fighting waves of nausea. He did not want to think what that rock would have done to a human face. He had probably killed a man, or at least maimed him horribly. Worse, if the reaper was not dead, then he could still be dangerous. Dare Edward go closer to finish him off? Could he kill an injured man in cold blood? There were other bodies, but no one standing or moving.
He hurried forward. The first two were both reapers, and the one he had struck down was still twitching. The next was another reaper, sprawled in a contorted way that suggested he was very dead indeed.
Onica lay at the beginning of the bridge. She was dead, too. Her face was a lurid color in the green light, and twisted as if she had died in agony. A black trickle of blood had flowed from her mouth. He closed her eyes as he had closed Creighton's.
First Bagpipe, then Creighton and the Gover man—now Mason, too! How many deaths must he trail behind him?
Sudden realization made him leap to his feet. He turned to face his companion, the youth with the golden curls, the one who wore nothing but the light of the joker moon, the one who had not ridden on the dragon but had turned up at every stop. He had appeared at the theater with Mason, but she had not brought him. Mason had not even known he was there.
The two stood and looked at each other, the youth smiling, Edward fighting against tides of fury and despair, racking his brains. Out of the frying pan! I demand to see the British Consul! Bring in the gunboats!
What was the proper form for greeting a god? A local chieftain could be accorded respect, within limits, but Tion was not a secular authority, nor even a high priest or witch doctor. He was a brigand, a parasite, a first-class fraud. A native would undoubtedly throw himself in the dirt at this point, but no Englishman should grovel like that to anyone, and this young bugger ranked lower than a Sarawak pirate. Grovel? Edward wanted to smash that pretty face to pulp.
"I suppose you're Tion?"
The boy uttered a high-pitched laugh. “And you are the Liberator! Do you like this body? It was a present from Kirb'l.” He turned around to display it. “He's a maniac, but he does appreciate my tastes."
"A present?"
"Or you could say I won it in the festival. I win one every year—my prize! Do you like it?"
Was there any good answer to that?
"It's a fine representation of the young Apollo."
Apparently Tion understood the reference, for he flashed white teeth in a smile of pleasure. “Thank you! You're quite nice-looking yourself, you know. I say so, and I am the ultimate authority on such matters."
Fury! He must be mad as a March hare and dangerous as a hungry shark. With his superhuman power, he had turned up like a deus ex machina and then done nothing at all! “Why didn't you save her?"
The god pouted. “Why should I? She was only one of those meddling, idealistic nobodies from the Service! They won't last. It's been tried before. I've been around a lot longer than the Service, and I shall be around when they're all dead and forgotten."
"I'm sorry she's dead!"
"Well, you shouldn't be!” The Youth sounded peeved. Then he smiled. “We mustn't leave the evidence lying around, though. It's unsightly, having bodies all over the place. Drop them in the river."
"I won't take orders—"
"Yes you will,” Tion said quietly.
Before he knew it, Edward had bent to take hold of Onica's feet. He tried to let go, but his hands refused to open. His feet started to move, and he began dragging her out onto the bridge. There the roar of the river was deafening. A cold, misty wind blew along the canyon. The planks were slippery.
"Damn you!” he shouted. “She deserves a decent burial at least!"
"No she doesn't. This should be far enough."