Chapter 8 A Miserable Ride
A Miserable Ride
Crouching in summer shrubbery wasn’t the worst way for a Son to spend some time, and more pleasant than many Nigel could name.
However, doing so at a KOA campground after a chase involving pitched battle, a miracle, city-hopping, and long stretches of freeway before remaining still and silent in order to keep an exquisitely sensitive, terrified lirai unaware of his presence—well, that was quite unique in his experience.
The terrain had shifted from urban to rural to near-wilderness redolent of fir and balsam, bursts of freshwater threading through the forest, and a hint of salt sea when the wind veered from westward.
It was paradoxically easier to follow a lone rider as she slowed, and more difficult to avoid the swift, warm bursts of power scanning her backtrail.
So she had learned that much, yet was otherwise untrained?
It boggled the mind. And now Nigel was treated to another exceeding strange vision as he peered from the top of a rise, taking advantage of a natural sightline through dry underbrush—a group of ordinary civilians, all male, swarm a slim, reeling Dreamer.
It was for all the world like seeing Sons attend a lirai, especially the solicitude with which one burly fellow carried her to a hulking recreational vehicle.
“Military,” Edward murmured, a mere brush of sound.
The campground was large, with quite a few amenities as such things went; no doubt an exquisitely sensitive psychic preferred quiet.
Not to mention greater, though only relative safety; the unclean which hunted in less-populated areas were often solitary, and preferred their prey likewise.
“Tents are there but packed up, and… yeah, they’re definitely getting ready to move. ”
What were they doing, letting her wander around alone?
“Then so are we.” Nigel shifted slightly, rocking to keep muscles ready for instant movement.
The lirai was still emitting a deep, intense swirl of energy, though the flow had diminished somewhat.
Yes, she was far more comfortable with less crowding and psychic noise.
And less frightened, as well. Proximity to that sudden relaxation was quite pleasant, and staying buttoned-up at its very edge a torment.
“We could just take her.” Edward twitched as well, though perhaps only to express impatience. “Easy. Real easy.”
Orders were given in low, fierce tones. The motorcycle was already being hauled to an older, very robust pickup truck parked nearby, no doubt to be ferried elsewhere. This was a well-trained group, each movement bearing the stamp of careful thought and planning. Did they know what she was?
Why would a Dreamer be here? How?
“Sir.” Edward tried again. “They’re just ordinaries. Don’t even have to kill ’em. We can hit now, grab her, and be gone before—”
“I am aware of the possibility, my Elder.” Nigel matched his tone, barely a whisper.
Finding an active lirai in these circumstances absolutely called for extraordinary measures.
With a full Dreamer in their possession, the Mad God’s voice could be muted, or outright blocked inside both their heads.
They would both have access to a living font of healing and sorcerous force, exponentially increasing their chances of survival.
Her influence might even make it possible to get a message eastward over the Divide, and the Sons would burn down heaven and earth to mount a rescue.
Yet any movement, especially the initial one, had to be carefully chosen. To lose her, to fail at bringing a precious irreplaceable Dreamer to a liraim’s cushioned, luxurious safety, was unthinkable.
“But?” To his credit, Edward took it for granted his Father had good reasons. Still, he shifted again, not to keep suppleness but perhaps a sign of agitation.
She’ll seek escape—they all do, potentials and lirai both. There were other considerations, as well. “Tell me, what lies between us and the nearest liraim?”
“The Continental Divide?” The note of sarcasm was definite, but very faint and after all understandable.
It had been a long night, even as Sons counted such things.
Most of their kind sought to pretend losing brothers made little to no impression, but the bitter truth remained.
And the shock of finding a potential—let alone a full lirai—was immense, capable of driving even the most controlled Son to odd behavior.
“Mile upon mile of shadowbeast-infested territory, no backup, and the Mad God’s minions have effectively blocked every call-in we’ve attempted.
” Nigel hoped this would be the telling argument; if he had to add more he might well talk himself and his Elder into folly.
“Those ordinaries may be useful in her defense.”
“What use could… ohhh.” Edward didn’t nod, but he drew the last syllable out. Headlights flickered into life below. “Cannon fodder.”
“Exactly.” Nigel tensed as the pickup pulled away; the recreational vehicle’s brake lights flashed, steadied.
At least the Dreamer would be in some small comfort, though he did not like the thought of such precious cargo in a moving tin can with only a few civilians for defense.
“We will follow, until we may introduce ourselves. She may sense us; use caution.”
“Soul of discretion.” Edward glanced swiftly aside, an abortive flicker. He had been looking to share the joke with Michael.
But their Younger was gone. Nigel’s mouth was full of bitterness; he swallowed hard.
There was nothing more to be said, so he waited until the larger, wallowing vehicle began to move.
Hopefully there would be other traffic on the freeways, even at this hour; if not, they would be forced to more…
creative, and draining, measures. If there was anything to pray to—other than the Dreamers themselves—he could have done so.
No time for thought or grief, though. Only for the task ahead.
* * *
It was a miserable ride—screaming wind atop a heap of freeway-traveling metal, still keeping himself still and silent, hoping not to scrape against a lirai’s exquisite sensitivity.
The pickup truck had peeled away, clearly taking a different route; by all indications this unit was highly disciplined and run by an ordinary with some good military experience.
It wouldn’t be enough, even with a Dreamer on their side.
A curious psychic stillness hovered inside the recreational vehicle.
Was she asleep? It seemed likely, a fragile being worn out from the night’s activity; lirai’s undeniable power made for startling vulnerability in other areas.
She needed care, rest, a temple’s defenses closed about her, its luxuries laid at her feet.
Nigel leaned into the slipstream, unable to sense his Elder and hoping it was mutual.
Traffic was nearly nonexistent now, so there was no help for it—they both had to perch atop the recreational vehicle, subject to the roaring wind but surrounded by a soft invisible haze.
Regulating body temperature, keeping watch for any pursuit, clinging to slick metal, all that was easy.
Allowing the gorgeous, invisible force to slide over him in erratic waves was a torment made even more intense by the near-cessation of the god’s voice in his head.
A potential could ward off that terrible, constant whisper, even before they were bathed in the Flame to become a full-fledged Dreamer.
Much more intense was the relief from close proximity to a lirai, and best of all was being sealed—immune, no matter how far from the source of the protection.
Yet there was no need to ever stray from that grace, for a sealed Son was often called to that highest of duties, close service to those who had made the greatest and gravest sacrifice long before history began, barring the Mad God’s way into the waking world—and lirai continued the battle nightly, all while protected and cared for by traitors.
No mercy like a Dreamer’s, they used to say; Nigel didn’t know if the proverb was still in use. It became difficult to stay abreast of social and cultural changes, especially lately. A Younger helped the rest of their trio cope with age, but Michael, poor Michael…
Don’t. He tensed as the vehicle slowed. Dawn prepared its assault, stars receding under a tide of eastern grey.
The terrain was still quite aesthetic, yet he could only see defensible points, likely attack angles, pockets of stagnation or shadow where predators of the Dreaming Lands—or other layers stacked cheek-by-jowl to the physical world—hid during hours of inimical sunlight.
Day removed many dangers, but now he and his Elder also had to concentrate on an additional variety of low-grade sorcery to make onlookers’ gazes pass smoothly over and away.
They were aided by sheer outlandishness, of course; no ordinaries truly wanted to see anything bizarre unless it fell within certain strictly defined social categories.
The best defense for both Sons and the Mad God’s troops was official nonrecognition, staying below the sightline.
Even amid his insanity, the god remembered a peculiarity of humans—banding together against explicit outside danger.
Any coalitions afterward fell to infighting and escalating savagery, naturally, but what had once proved a bane even to a god could well do so again, especially with advances in worldwide communication.
So the war was fought in shadows, and the Sons for their part were content to have it so, understanding the paradoxical human fear of all things different or strange.
Lirai were a scarce resource and capable of extraordinary things; both qualities evoked fear, exploitation, and murder among commons or rulers alike.
No, much better to simply protect Dreamers from all three dangers—the unclean, the ordinaries, and themselves.
And Nigel had forgotten just how good it felt to be in proximity.
Fatigue washed away, wounds swiftly healed from the inside out, alert and clear, every nerve singing-alive, he could only hope neither he nor his Elder would succumb to a variety of drunken relief when they next made contact with this strange lirai.
Which would be after the group halted for rest. They had not acquired more fuel, but it could not be long.
He and Edward would have to deal with ordinaries who might or might not be trigger-happy, and that was best done in sunshine.
Certainly two Sons against a half-dozen or so civilians was child’s play, though any violence would create trauma in their new Dreamer, more than likely provoking a panicked flight response.
The situation called for diplomacy. And that was troublesome, since Nigel was uncertain how much of that quality he possessed at the moment. Yet for her—whoever she was, however she had survived—he would have to try.
Perhaps she would even be grateful. Eventually.