So what was he to do?
As if in response, a shadow swept down across the front windshield of the Ventra before soaring off again into the darkness. Trim! He hadn’t seen the owl since he reached the Cintra. In truth, he had dismissed the bird from his mind completely.
The owl glided back across the road in front of him, as if marking his progress, and then disappeared into the darkness ahead. Trim was not there by accident or just to keep Logan company. He was taking him to Kirisin once more. He was showing him the way to where the skrails were holding the boy. If he could keep the bird in sight and if he were quick enough, he might have a chance at getting Kirisin back after all.
He accelerated the AV, one eye on the road and one eye on the owl, a jolt of adrenaline rushing through him.
With Trim leading the way, he tracked onward through the night, back down the roadway south, the big Ventra throbbing and growling all around him. He did not stop to rest; he did not stop to consider where he was. He pushed ahead with single–mindedness, intent on getting back something of what he had lost–not just that night, but over the past few weeks. Whether it was pride or self–confidence or just a sense of self–worth, he couldn’t say. Nor did it matter to him beyond the fact that he wanted to feel again that he could do what he had been given to do as a Knight of the Word.
It was still several hours until dawn when Trim took him off the road and into rougher country, high desert formed of mesquite and scrub and, in the distance, clusters of boulders and high bluffs. In between, ravines crisscrossed the landscape in a maze of deep rifts. Logan drove into this rolling, obstacle–riddled landscape almost recklessly, slowing only when the ravines or the boulders made it absolutely necessary. The Ventra was built for terrain like this and could take the shocks and jolts. Trim wheeled and soared in the sky ahead, giving Logan his direction, telling him where he should go. It almost seemed as if he were responding to what the Knight of the Word was thinking: Hurry!
The rough travel went on for what seemed an endless distance, and Logan began to feel that he might run out of time after all. Dawn could not be that far away, and once it was light there was a good chance that the skrails would move the boy again. At best, it would become more difficult to sneak up on them undetected. The danger in being caught out was not to himself, but to the boy. They might choose simply to kill him, or alternatively to move him again so that Logan could not follow. He had to reach Kirisin before it got light enough to see by.
Then all of a sudden Trim flew back at him from out of the night, wheeled about, and landed on the branch of a dead tree just ahead. Logan slowed the Ventra 5000 to a stop, shut it down, and climbed out. He walked over to the owl and stood looking up at him. Trim did not move, regarding him silently. Logan understood. The owl had taken him as far as possible with the AV. Now he must leave the vehicle and proceed on foot.
For just an instant, as he stood staring off into the night–shrouded distance, he considered casting off everything he had become as a Knight of the Word and reverting to how he had been when he was with Michael. It was an unexpected impulse, one born of his frustration with his present life and regrets for lost pieces of his last. His memories of his time with Michael–memories other than those of Michael’s descent into madness–still resonated. Good memories. One was of times like this, when they would seek out enemy patrols come in search of them. They would strip down to almost nothing, paint themselves with camouflage, and go hunting their enemies with nothing but knives. They would stalk them and kill them and then disappear back into the night as if they had never been there. It was a game they played, a challenge they gave themselves, dangerous and seductive. Surviving it provided validation of who and what they were, of their ability to confront and defeat the death that was constantly stalking them.
Get in and get out. Leave no footprints. Those were Michael’s words of caution to him each time they played the game. Leave no sign that you were ever there. That you even existed. Leave nothing but the bodies of the dead to show that death stalked their enemies, too.
Logan Tom thought about how it would feel to do that again, to turn back the clock, to strip away everything and go hunting. He thought about abandoning the staff of his office and taking up one of the big hunting knives instead. He would shed his identity as a Knight of the Word. He would become for just that night a nameless, faceless hunter—a predator, a warrior–confronting his enemies with nothing but his skill and strength and weapons that carried no magic upon which he could rely to defend himself.
It was a ridiculous idea, but there it was. He let it linger for just a moment, savoring the freedom it offered and the intense sense of satisfaction it would provide, and then he cast it aside. There was too much at stake for such madness, and he was no longer the boy he had been, no longer the student to Michael’s teacher, no longer the willing follower of a man who would one day try to kill him.
He took a deep breath and exhaled, tightening his hands about his black staff. “Show me where they are, Trim,” he said to the owl.
Trim seemed to understand. Lifting off the dead branch, he soared away into the distance. Logan Tom waited a moment, tracking the bird’s flight, and then stripped off his jacket and followed after.
They passed through the darkness as silently as night’s shadows, Trim flying ahead, Logan in pursuit. The Knight of the Word kept up a steady pace, running smoothly, eyes on the terrain he passed through, the black staff cradled beneath one arm. He was careful of the terrain, avoiding the rougher parts, the places he could be tripped up and injured, the deadwood and jagged rocks and deep crevices. He could feel the sweat form on his brow, and it mirrored the intense heat of his desire to track down the skrails. He had no illusions about what that meant; he understood the nature of who he was. He was trained to fight, and he looked forward to testing himself in combat. When he was going into battle, he was alive in a way that was both exciting and satisfying. He was complete. He was afraid, too, but that was to be expected. He was always afraid. He would have been a fool if he were not. But fear was something to be overcome, an enemy of a different sort, not something from which to run away but something to confront. He had done so many times in his life, and each time it made him a little stronger, a little more self–assured.
The minutes passed, and still he saw nothing of the skrails. Trim soared and dove, rose and fell, a fleet shadow against the sky, always wheeling back to find him, to make certain he was following. There was no sign of anything other than themselves in this desolate country, no movement amid the rocks and scrub, no sounds to break the silence. It felt as if they were alone in the world, the last two living things, running to escape the fate that had befallen all others.
And wasn’t that, he wondered, pretty much the truth of what he was doing every day of his life?
Ahead, Trim wheeled back sharply and landed on a rock. Logan Tom slowed in response, sensed the hidden presence farther on, and stopped. He peered into the darkness, breathing heavily, his magic–enhanced senses registering the skrail keeping watch just out of sight.
He had found them.