Logan screamed in fury and counterattacked. Only his rage at the knowledge that the other recognized him gave him the strength to do so. It felt as if the demon had claimed a kind of ownership over him, and he could not bear that. But the effort was futile; the other’s power responded instantly, eroding his own, beating back his defenses, collapsing his shield. Even when he was close to being consumed by demon flames, his skin beginning to sear, he fought to regain his feet, lurching to his knees, struggling to rise.
It was not enough. He could not save himself. The feeders were all around him now and closing. He felt his magic giving way. Despite everything, he was going to die.
Then a wave of blue fire struck the demon from behind, a fire so bright and pure that Logan was almost blinded by its intense glow. He watched it envelop his attacker and saw the look of shocked surprise that crossed the hateful face. His first thought was that Angel had regained her feet and was trying to help him. But this was not Word fire, and Angel still lay where she had fallen, barely risen on one elbow.
He shifted his gaze, and through billowing clouds of dust and smoke he found Simralin.
She was standing not a dozen feet away, the Elfstones gripped in both hands, her face a mask of concentration. Blue fire erupted from between her fingers, burning into the old man. Logan was stunned. She must have disobeyed him and followed him down. She must have decided she would help. And against all odds, she had found a way to master the power of the Stones.
Fighting through pain and rage, the demon began to turn toward her, shifting his own magic to defend himself. The Elven fire illuminated his bones as if he were transparent, and his head was thrown back in concentration. The moment he began to turn, Logan lurched to his feet. He threw off his weariness and his fear of failure, recovered his shattered determination, and walked toward the demon. When he was right on top of him, he jammed one end of his black staff into the other’s back, penetrating skin and muscle and bone, and summoned the magic.
Instantly the Word’s fire responded, ripping into the demon, an explosion of power released from a place inside himself that he did not know existed.
In a flood of dark shapes, the feeders were all over Findo Gask.
The demon half turned, pinned between the killing fires, eyes bright with madness and hatred. Lips skinned back from pointed teeth, and its gaze conveyed to Logan Tom its terrible loathing. But Logan did not relent; he pressed his attack even harder. He pressed it until it was all there was left of him, until the entire world disappeared beneath the weight of his resolve to see the demon destroyed.
There was a moment in which Logan could feel a shift in the tides that marked the battle’s momentum. The demon twisted and thrashed, changing as it did so into something unspeakable, a creature from an older time come at last to the end of its life. The feeders clung to it, ripping and tearing, driven into a frenzy.
Then it exploded into flames and smoke and ash, and Findo Gask was gone forever.
THIRTY-THREE
IN THE AFTERMATH OF THE STRUGGLE, the skrails lifted off and flew south, and the remnants of the once–men drifted away. Even the lesser demons, perhaps not appreciating that had they chosen to do so, they might have combined forces and overwhelmed the pair that had destroyed their leader–perhaps too stunned even to think such thoughts–turned away. Atop the wall of the dam, the demon fires died out, leaving blackened stone and scorched air. East, the members of the caravan stood grouped along the banks of the gorge, and in the sweep of the land west, the plains lay abandoned and empty.
Logan Tom lowered his black staff and looked down at the remains of the old man, the enemy he had hunted for so long, and realized that he didn’t feel any of the things he should have been feeling. He should have felt elation or relief or satisfaction, shouldn’t he? Something? But all he felt was emptiness, as if the fulfillment of the Lady’s promise had done nothing more than hollow him out. All those years, he kept repeating in his mind, over and over. All those years.
Then Simralin’s arms were about him, and she was holding him, and he could feel something breaking inside, and the emotions flooded through him with such intensity that he began to shake. Forgotten memories surfaced like the ghosts of the dead, memories of his parents and his siblings, of his life after they were gone, of his loneliness and resolve, of so much he hadn’t allowed himself to think about for twenty years.
Her arms tightened, and he said softly, “I’m all right.”
But she held on to him anyway, and it was not until the shaking finally stopped that she whispered, “Now you are.”
She released him then, and they hurried over to Angel Perez. When they knelt next to her and tried to help her to her feet, she shook her head quickly and said, “No puedo. Me duele todo el cuerpo. I can’t. I hurt everywhere. Leave me, and see about the boy.” She looked at them each in turn. “Son muy valientes, mis amigos. Very brave.”
They moved to Hawk and found him awake, breathing regularly and unharmed. Simralin knelt and lifted the boy’s head into her lap, and when he opened his eyes and tried to speak, she put a finger to his lips and said, “Shhh, just rest. Everyone is safe.”
A stream of adults and children came charging back across the bridge to help them, ignoring the fresh network of cracks and fissures that had developed in the concrete. Soon the Ghosts were clustered around Hawk, hugging him and telling him they believed in him and would never leave him, and Tessa was kissing him and telling him she loved him more than ever.
Kirisin appeared suddenly from the throng, came running up to Simralin, and threw his arms around her. He was crying, even though he kept trying to hide it, and he couldn’t speak at first. She hugged him back, and simply said, “I missed you, too, Little K.”
With Helen Rice directing traffic, they carried Angel across the dam to the far side of the gorge, and a woman with medical skills set about removing the darts, cleaning out the wounds, and binding her up. No bones had been broken, and these injuries, like those she had received before, would heal with time. All that was needed was rest, and the woman gave Angel a medication that put her to sleep in moments. Helen had a makeshift stretcher built using a pair of slender trees and an old canvas greatcoat, placed the sleeping Knight of the Word atop it, and assigned two strong men the task of attending to her.
When the caravan set out again, its members were filled with a fresh sense of hope and confidence. From the youngest to the oldest, everyone’s spirits had been lifted. People talked and joked and related memories of the battle they had witnessed and the near disaster they had escaped. In softer tones they spoke of Hawk, of a boy who could open the earth and make it swallow their enemies, and they told themselves that as long as he led them they would come to no harm.
Hawk walked apart with Tessa and the Ghosts, choosing their path and not saying much to anyone. If he heard what people were saying about him, he didn’t let on. When Sparrow tried to speak of what he had done, daring, as usual, what no other would in the absence of Panther, he only shook his head and said he didn’t want to talk about it.
They walked through the remainder of the day, the sun drifting slowly west behind them, the light dimming, and finally, after far too long, Logan Tom found himself alone with Simralin.
“Your little brother doesn’t want to let you out of his sight,” he said, having just sent the boy to the rear of the caravan, ostensibly to make certain that everyone was keeping up.
“Little brothers are like that,” she replied, moving close to him and linking her arm in his.