Stoneworthy didn’t like the idea of the Prime “wanting” him, but he did know the man personally if not well. The top was the best place to start a dialogue. And then he flushed again. What was he saying? The street was the best place for the Word to be spoken. The average man’s soul needed to understand the Army of God. Hadn’t he started building the Tower on these very streets? Hadn’t he first met Karen there? Then he thought of his friend and closed his eyes in prayer.
It was too late to take the message to the street. Perhaps, this was the example of the necessity of leadership. The people already knew the message, now they needed to be led. If only the Prime could be made to understand. He had authority to countermand the mayor’s orders-even Central Authority rulings. Speaking to him would have the greatest impact. The Army of God was poised to strike. He couldn’t delay.
Stoneworthy had felt somewhat remiss that he and Updike did not bring the ultimatum to the Prime in the first place. But the preacher told him that their issue was with the City not all of Westprime and approaching the mayor would not be seen as an open challenge to the Prime’s authority. Stoneworthy wished the ultimatum had been better received. The Prime was a shrewd businessman and politician though. The army at the gates would get him to deal. And it was the only way he could hang onto any of the wealth he had.
The transport approached the high Tower Wall and passed the spear-point gates that protected the grounds. The soldiers were dressed in the livery of Central Authority. A wide circling drive guided them to one of many official entrances. Stoneworthy stepped out after his guards and looked up. The height was dizzying. Even against the gray concrete of the level overhead, the Tower was beautiful.
“There you are.” His voice was choked with emotion. “I’m home.” His breath sat heavy in his chest.
76 – Rearguard
Conan was backtracking and struggling with the possibility that he was disobeying orders. Mr. Jay had told him to help stragglers, and to some degree, since he wasn’t with the rest, the magician could be called a straggler. Bend. Fold. Twist the yak-yak. It didn’t sit well with him, since Mr. Jay had trusted the little fighter with an important and puffed-up position, but he couldn’t shake a nagging gut-wrench that his only grownup friend was in trouble. Hours had passed.
So he left the Quinlan boys to keep the path open for all the slow-kids who were ready to make the trek and run. Liz was out in the service tunnels pointing the Squeakers out of the Tower by Sophie’s secret way. He thought about the spooky girl and counted her lost among the stragglers doing her willowy dance or other tweedle-dum. She was just another good reason to sprint back and have a look-see and listen.
Mr. Jay’s work was ongoing, that much was plain as a nose out of place. As Conan made his way back among the empty dormitories, he passed a constant flow of white-shirted kids flying down the dark like paper airplanes. They all wanted to ask him questions and delay his mission, but all he had time for was a quick series of grunt-grunts and much point-point-pointing with his kill-flower back the way he came. All the boys looked at his murder-fist with can-I-have-it stares and Conan swelled. Helping Mr. Jay was the only thing on his mind. Worry. Shiver. Ghak!
He didn’t know how many forever kids were stuffed into the Tower but he knew the longer Mr. Jay worked to cut them free, the more danger he’d be in. And the more he’d need Conan’s slash and thrust of the blade-bloom.
The little fighter wondered about the power that the magician had already used, and hoped that Mr. Jay had not over-guessed himself. Conan had done it before, thinking he could fight men with guns and he had lucky-missed-me scars to prove it. The Tower was sure to be full of unseen dangers, and powers that no one ever guessed of in their wildest bed-wet.
Conan had butterflies and sour-gut that they had pushed their luck enough already. Too much time had passed.
He blurred by many more straggling kids and gave them the same encouragement and directions point-point-air-stab before running past them into the shadows. When he came upon a group of children that were running with panic-eyes and prickle-hair, Conan felt a thrill of battle-scorch burn through him. There was trouble for sure. Lots of it. Yum-cut-gulp! By the looks of terror on the rocket-run forever children, something really bad had happened. He hoped he wasn’t too late.
Conan grabbed the arm of one little boy who right-away started squeaking and dancing in the fighter’s grip.
“Let me go! Let me go!” the boy shrieked now pushing at Conan’s mask. “The Principal’s here!”
Conan let him go, and started sprinting the way the kids were coming. Ahead, the forever boy could see a minor change in eye-gleam. It was slightly brighter that way, and there was a reddish glimmer-stain to the walls and floors. A thrill for battle and quiver of yikes struggled in the boy’s breast as he ran ahead, imagining Toffers and Sheps in lethal claw and rip with Mr. Jay. His nimble feet crossed the distance in seconds. Then Conan slowed.
The doors to the Dormitory had been broken and battered from their hinges-tossed up and scattered like Popsicle sticks. The spooky red light from within showed the bodies of two forever kids crumpled and bent into bug shapes. Conan instinctively slipped under shadow and peered into the room, snuffling the thick air for friends.
A man stood opposite Mr. Jay in the center of the room. The stranger was much taller than the magician, perhaps two feet or more, and held no weapons. At least, Conan could see nothing dangerous or sharp about the man. He had an old book clamped in one large hand but that was nothing to squeak about.
Then the little fighter noticed that all the beds and furniture had been swept aside and smashed into the walls. It rested in broken piles of junk and splinter all around the gigantic circle-room. Conan slunk into the shadows and angles of the mess and looked for a place he could get a good peek or where he could help with a stick and twist if it came to that.
“ Your time is at an end,” said the man. “Your kind must learn this.” He chuckled, his eyes focused under wrinkled eyebrows.
“Save your games, Dantalion,” growled Mr. Jay, pressing one hand to his head and wincing. His metal stick was growing white with power. “This has never been our world.”
“But it is mine now!” The man bellowed and charged toward Mr. Jay. With each stride he moved farther away from his human skin-shape. Clothes fell away and were replaced with burning muscle and rank fur; the hands became claws, the feet hooves, and the face tipped toward drooling-fang-faced-demon. Its fists grew red with heat, and flames trailed from them like fireworks. Ooh! Aah!
Mr. Jay held his metal stick high, pointed slightly toward the now-monster-man. Then just as the thing was about to bite and claw and snatch, the magician shouted a word. And the monster froze in the air, its arms and legs and body a blur of stopped time. Flame and sparks still curled off its fists and blazed out of its eyes but it was locked in place.
It glared down at the magician through slit pupils.
Mr. Jay walked up to it. His movements were tired and almost old; Conan’s brain whirred doing all the not-yakking suddenly. The magician stood a few steps in front of the monster; his stick was just a cold piece of metal in his hands.
“My time is ending,” he said, like he was talking to any old body. “I’m looking forward to it.” His words were calm. “But it isn’t over yet.”
And he lifted an open hand and struck the air in front of the frozen monster with it. There was a blinding flash and the floor shook. Conan’s dazzled eyes saw seven strokes of lightning burst out of the air and rip into the body of the beast and it was gone. A ghost of smoke hung in the dark.
The magician knelt down, studying the enormous cracks his lightning had broken into the floor. He waved at a last drifting cloud of smoke.