“None of them did, come to that,” Logan responded. “But that’s what life does to you. It gives you a whole lot of stuff you don’t ask for and expects you to deal with it. No complaining, no excuses.”
They crossed a dry wash where the asphalt road had given way and lay scattered all about in broken chunks. The Ventra skirted most of it and crawled over the rest, big and tough and able. There wasn’t much short of a wall that could stop it. Logan loved how it handled. Maybe he liked it better than the Lightning, he thought.
“What happened to his sister?” Angel asked suddenly.
Logan felt his throat constrict. Simralin. An image of her face appeared in his mind, blond and smiling that crooked half smile. He shook his head. “I don’t know. She stayed behind with the King and the army that was holding off the demons and once–men. She said she was the only one who could lead them to us once they had done all they could.” He kept his eyes on the road. “We’re still waiting.”
“Kirisin is very close to her,” Angel said. “He must be wild with worry.”
Logan didn’t answer. He was thinking about his own feelings, about his own sense of loss. If Simralin didn’t make it, he wasn’t sure what he would do. He’d tried hard not to think of her, but she was always in the forefront of his thoughts. He saw her all the time, watched her smile, heard her voice, smelled her scent when she leaned close …
“Maybe we need to look for her, too,” Angel suggested.
He shook his head. “One thing at a time. The Loden is more important.”
“How are we supposed to find it, anyway?”
He wasn’t sure, of course. He could try using the vehicle’s tracking system, but he knew it was unreliable. No way to differentiate between the things it would pick up on the screen. He had been hoping that he would have help from Trim. Without trying to be apparent about it, he had been searching the skies for the owl, thinking that since Trim had come to him before when he needed to find Kirisin and the Elven talismans, maybe he would come again.
“We’ll find it,” he insisted without offering any more.
Eventually, they did. But not until they had driven for several hours and the sun had begun to dip into the western horizon toward the Cascades. Then, all at once, Trim appeared, winging his way out of the skies, swooping down in front of the AV, and soaring away again.
“Look at that owl!” Angel exclaimed. “It almost hit us!”
“Not likely,” Logan said, giving her a quick grin. “That’s our guide to the Loden. He’s called Trim. The Lady sent him to me when I came to find Kirisin. We just need to follow him.”
They did so, working their way down the road as the shadows lengthened and the light faded. Logan began to worry that they might be getting too close to advance elements of the demon–led army. But they weren’t yet back to where the skrails had attacked and seized Kirisin several days earlier, so he could assume that Praxia and the other two Elves had come farther than that, at least. His worst fear was that all three had been captured and taken back to the old man. If that had happened, he might never learn what had become of the Elfstone.
But within half an hour Trim took them off the road and down a dirt trail into a dry wash studded with scrub and cactus. They followed the wash for maybe five hundred yards, searching through layers of shadows and clumps of rocks and earth.
“Logan, over there!” Angel exclaimed suddenly.
He had already seen it. A pair of military jeeps sat abandoned in the center of the wash, a body hanging off the driver’s seat of one, a second body sprawled on the hood of the other, and blood splashed everywhere. More bodies lay scattered on the ground nearby. Logan made a quick count. Four, five, six that he could see. He climbed out of the Ventra, Angel a step behind him. Both held their black staffs ready, eyes searching the wash and the high banks for any sign of life. But there was none, and the runes carved into the wood remained dark. The wash was a killing ground empty of life. Logan looked at the dead, the ground on which they lay, the jeeps and the tracks they had left, taking it all in, assessing it. Then he walked over to have a closer look at the bodies. He found the two male Elves lying together, riddled with bullets from automatic weapons. The men around them were wearing a patchwork collection of army surplus and makeshift insignia. Arrows and javelins had done for them.
He walked on, down the length of the wash and around a second bend, following a flurry of footprints.
Someone running away, someone else chasing. He stopped. Ahead, draped in shadows, lay a second cluster of bodies. More would–be soldiers, their bodies heaped on top of one another. The fourth was Praxia.
He knew right away what had happened. A unit of rogue militia had found the Elves. Maybe just stumbled on them, maybe saw their tracks. They shot the male Elves in a firefight. Some of them died in the process. The three survivors went after Praxia. Caught up with her here. Big mistake. She killed them all, was killed herself. No one had survived. He knew this because a survivor would have taken one of the two jeeps, and all the tire tracks stopped where the two were parked.
He moved over to Praxia. She was propped against a large boulder, eyes closed. Patches of dried blood marked half a dozen wounds in her chest and stomach. She had been shot repeatedly. She looked frail and broken, all the toughness drained away. One hand clutched a Sig—Hauser twelve–shot automatic rapid fire, clip ejected on the ground next to her. It was a favorite weapon of militia commanders. How she had gotten hold of it or even known how to use it was a mystery.
He bent down and touched her cheek, and her eyes opened. He froze, staring at the blood–streaked face. “My hand,” she whispered.
He looked down. The hand that wasn’t holding the Sig—Hauser slowly opened. In the palm lay the pouch that contained the Loden Elfstone.
Her lips moved. “Tell Kirisin …”
Then she trailed off, and her eyes fixed. He felt her neck for a pulse, found none. He sat back on his heels, staring at her. What must it have taken for her to stay alive this long? The fight was clearly hours old.
He took the pouch from her hand, checked to make certain the Elfstone was still inside, and then slipped the pouch into his pocket.
Tell Kirisin…
He stood up wearily. “I’ll tell him,” he promised her.
Angel, standing next to him by now, didn’t say anything, keeping her thoughts to herself. Logan searched Praxia’s young face. Just a girl, he thought, but she had fought and died hard. He thought suddenly of Simralin. He tried to imagine how he would feel if something happened to her.
“We’d better bury them,” Angel said to him.
He nodded. “And then get back to the camp.”
Without waiting for her response, he started toward the Ventra to collect the shovels.
TWENTY-FOUR
A NOTHER SWELTERING DAY, air thick with heat and steamy dampness, sky brilliant blue beneath a sun that burned white hot and implacable.
Angel Perez plodded ahead, her boots kicking up puffs of dust as she walked flats that stretched away for miles in all directions. Grasses were few and burned crisp and sapped of color, and what trees survived were withered scarecrows, their leaves in tatters. The Cascades were behind them and fading fast into the distant haze. If there were mountains ahead, they were not yet visible to the naked eye. Bluffs crested the horizon north, long stretches so distant they lacked clear definition.
No water was visible anywhere, and in the heat of the midday it felt as if there never would be.
The caravan stretched away for the better part of a mile, a collection of trucks and AVs, wagons and haulers, and people afoot. Supplies and equipment were loaded on the wagons and haulers along with the smaller children and the injured and sick. The AVs carried others, a select few who needed special attention or to whom had been assigned special tasks that required extra mobility: scouts, medics, machinists, and the like. One of the AVs just behind her, Logan Tom’s Lightning S-150, carried Owl, River, Tessa, Candle, and a couple of smaller children from the camps. The older children and most of the caregivers walked, strung out through the line of vehicles in ragged clumps. Ahead, in the vanguard, Hawk led with Cheney, Panther, Bear, Sparrow, and several handfuls of armed men and women.