Sunshaker's War (39 page)

The phone rang twice, and then someone picked up.

“Hello?”

She deposited the requisite change, then: “Uh—oh, hi, Uncle Dale; it's me, Liz. I'm—”

“Miss Lizzy! Good God A-mighty, where
are
you? Yore folk've been worried sick about you, ever since you didn't call last night—I had to do a heap of explain' there, let me tell you!” A pause. “Hey, you okay? And what about Davy? How's he doin'?”

“I don't know,” she replied, and caught herself on the ragged edge of tears. “We've got Finno, but…but we've lost Davy. He's somewhere in Galunlati.”

Another pause. “I 'uz afraid of that, from what Calvin's lady told me 'bout y'all's plans. But where are
you
?”

“We're in—”

And then the phone went dead.

“Hello? Hello?” she called, low at first and then suddenly louder as panic took her.
“Hello?”
A subtlety of sound made her look around and when she did, every hair on her body stood on end, for she saw Alec leaning against the phone booth with a length of ragged telephone cable in his hand.

Reflexively, she jerked open the door, started to run—and saw
another
Alec start toward her from inside the station. He was walking by himself, but there was something odd about his gait, as if he were not quite in control.

He cleared the corner, but another figure was behind him: one of Finvarra's black-liveried guards. A
Word
pulsed in her head, freezing both her will and her body. Hands brushed her as the bogus Alec came up behind, and she saw four other black-cloaked shapes wander from the woods. “The metal steeds of this World are swift,” someone said in strangely accented English, “but not as swift as the winds of the upper sky—not when one wears the shape of a dragon. Come, now, and join your friend.” It was then that she saw the gas station dissolve back into the deserted block shell that had actually been there. “One sometimes sees what one desires to see,” that voice told her. “And if there are those who can read desires, almost anything can happen—and often does.”

And with that her legs took her against her will towards the woods.

Chapter XXI: In the Dark About Things

(Galunlati—night)

The first thing David noticed when he came to himself was the cessation of the searing pain of intra-World transition. It had been awful that time—much worse than any time before, and he still wasn't absolutely certain he was completely intact, either in body or soul; though in part that was due to the
second
thing he noticed, which was that wherever he had wound up was dark, and he was lying on his face. That was strange, too: zapping from a bright Georgia dawn complete with the distant hoot-and-holler of rush hour to the silence and darkness of…wherever here was.

The third thing that entered his reality was that his left ear was being quite vigorously nibbled by a 'possum.

“Uhhhmmm,” he half-groaned, half-sighed. He closed his eyes against the dark, feeling grateful to be alive—and thinking he'd be even more grateful if not for the insistent machinations of the blessed marsupial. If it'd only leave him alone for a minute, he'd get up and see what it wanted. For the time being all he wanted to do was lie here on whatever soft surface this was until his brain-cells got their act together again.

Tiny sharp teeth nipped his nose with exquisite precision.

“Shit!” he yipped, jerking himself to an awkward squat, arms flailing automatically. One connected with something small and furry and sent it tumbling head-over-heels. The other hit something larger and prompted a vaguely human groan out of it.

He blinked, shook his head, trying to clear his vision and finally figured out that the reason he couldn't see worth a damn was because he was being overhung by a handsome rhododendron and there was about a foot of wet hair in his eyes. He slapped both back, and took inventory of his surroundings. It was night: that hadn't changed. He was in the woods, though. And then the reality of his situation dawned on him. He was—or was supposed to be—in Galunlati.

Except that it didn't look like any part of Galunlati he'd been in before—not that he'd seen very much. He leapt to his feet (bare, he discovered to his dismay), glanced around—and saw trees. Oaks and beeches, to judge by their style of growth and bark, laced with a regular underforest of dogwoods, a few of which were still in bloom—but nothing else familiar. He stood on tip-toes, turned around in place—and made out only more of the same. A glance skyward showed him sky tinted with the hint of impending moonlight. Stars were everywhere, but not the ones he was used to. It was also rather remarkably warm.

There was a clear patch in the forest canopy a couple of yards from where he stood, and he staggered over there and gazed up at it. Three stars in a row, and a fourth and fifth right below it: almost like the belt of Orion, except it wasn't. But it was one of the constellations he'd found and named last time he was in Galunlati, so that must be where he was.

But where in Galunlati?

And what was he gonna do?

All at once the events of the last twelve hours came sneaking up on him and pounced, and he had to sit down again to keep himself from reeling.

Then it struck him that the particularly brave and obnoxious marsupial was without a doubt his old friend Calvin.

And finally that the groan had been Fionchadd who was in serious bad shape and probably ought to be looked at immediately.

He scanned the clearing in search of the 'possum, saw it absently nosing about at the base of a tree. Good, let it stay there, he couldn't do anything else for the time being. Meanwhile…

A half-leap brought him back to his other companion. The Faery boy was lying on his back, and the moon had begun to peek through the trees enough for David to be able to assess his condition.

He was almost as ill-clad as David, except that David's cut-offs and T-shirt were relatively clean, if sweaty-damp, while Finno's ragged tunic and breeches were filthy. Gently he smoothed the tangled, matted hair out of the Faery's face, peered close, shifting his position to get out of his own light. His fingers brushed something soft and raised, something that split and oozed clear liquid when he touched it, and David remembered to his horror that the entirety of the Faery boy's face was blistered. Ditto his neck, his bare arms, his feet, even a section of belly. No charring, but it was as if the whole skin had bubbled loose.

It was awful. Almost he wept again, this time not from relief, but from the futility of it all: alone, almost naked in a strange land, with an itinerate 'possum and a deathly ill Faery, and himself no great shakes either.

“Okay, Sullivan, get it together,” he told himself aloud. The sound echoed loud in the night, made the 'possum look his way before going back to its rooting. Fionchadd groaned. David took quick inventory of his equipment. Clothes like he'd noted, his uktena scale still on its thong, Liz's medallion, and his fannypack. Another search of the clearing showed him that he also had Calvin's largely empty fannypack and knapsack, and—wonder of wonders—even the 'possum's uktena scale. Evidently the critter had scooted out of it upon…landing, or whatever they'd done. Okay, then, check the packs. He snapped his open, found tightly wrapped plastic with his fingers, and dragged out the mixed-nuts can it contained—the one that housed Sandy's survival kit.

A quick flip undid the lid, and the next few moments proved sometimes enlightening, sometimes perplexing. There was everything from aluminum foil, string, and fishline, through a Swiss Army Knife, razorblades, and fishhooks, to instant coffee, water purification tablets, and a couple of batteries. There was also a tube of what might be burn ointment and a sheet of paper about the size of his hand covered with tiny black lines that might have been printed. He squinted at it in the moonlight, but could not tell what was on it, though he suspected it was instructions—probably everything in the can had at least two functions. But Sandy (presumably) had saved space even more by reducing it on a photocopier until the lettering was barely legible. He guessed she didn't plan on having trouble at night.

So what did he do with Finno?

Make him comfortable, he supposed, get him warm, dry, clean, treat his burns as best he could, and hope he'd come to and have further suggestions.

And to do anything else useful, he needed to get some water. A final check of the Faery showed him lying on soft, mossy ground. It was not cold, so there was no real chance of chill, and anything that could eat him would doubtless make short work of David as well.

He rose again, tuned his ears, suddenly aware of the night sounds unnaturally loud: owls, birds he didn't know, the distant yowl of a cougar that sent shivers up his spine. Unconsciously he gripped the uktena scale, knowing that—if he had to—he would do the dreaded thing and change shape again. He'd had no trouble last time, except mastering his own fear. Maybe that mental block was over.
Maybe.
Moving as softly as he could, he once more turned in place, now catching the soft rustling of smaller animals. And as he faced downhill, distantly, but distinctly, he heard running water.

He went that way, picking his route slowly because he was barefoot. A moment later he found what he was looking for: a small stream no more than a yard or so wide that tinkled down from the left. He knelt by it, drank from it (one of the good things about Galunlati was that you never had to worry about the water), and felt instantly refreshed. Acting quickly, he opened the plastic garbage bag from Sandy's kit, crossed his fingers, and let water run in. It was still only half full before he cinched it—no sense overstressing it. Now if he could just get back to Finno without rupturing it on some wayward branch…

A final long draught, and he was on his way back up hill. By the time he returned to his “camp” Fionchadd was stirring.

“Finno!” he cried, and would have leapt across the clearing had he not feared damage to the water bag.

It was true, though: the Faery was moving, twitching slowly back and forth, and working his lips. His eyes were crusted with blister-ooze that had pooled there and dried. David took off his T-shirt and carefully let a little of the water trickle from the bag onto it. With it, he rubbed Fionchadd's eyes, trying to stay clear of the pervasive blisters while yet attempting to get off as much of the gunk as possible. One done, and the moaning got louder, but he thought it hid a hint of relief, and then the other done, and he went on as carefully as he could trying to clean off his friend's face. That accomplished, he moved on to the arms, finally the feet. When he started on the left sole, the whole foot flinched out of his grip. He giggled at that. The Faery was evidently ticklish. He'd had no idea.

A stronger groan brought him back to the head—that had sounded almost like words.

Another
was
words—sort of.

“D…d'v…d?”

David dabbed the cracked lips, the eyes once more, grateful they, at least, weren't blistered. “I'm here, Lizard-man, I gotcha.”

“David?” Much stronger this time.

“That's me.”

“David!” And with that, beyond all hope, Fionchadd sat up.

David tried to ease him back down, though it was difficult because of his fear of popping one of the blisters, but the Faery was having none of it. Instead, he stretched, looked around, squinting into the gloom. “Is there any water?”

“All you need,” David told him and resisted the urge to hug him. He started to hand him the bag, but thought better of it, and poured a little into the can (after removing its precious contents
very
carefully), and passed him that instead.

Fionchadd drank greedily, the slurps and gulps certainly dispelling any notions he had about Faery fastidiousness. When he had consumed three refills, he made it to his feet.

“Dana, I stink,” he said; then, “Where are we and how did we get here?”

“Galunlati, I think,” David told him. “We got here by uktena scale after I saved you.”

“After you almost cooked me, you mean,” Fionchadd retorted, but David knew he was only half-serious.

“Would you rather've stayed where you were?”

“Now that you mention it, no.”

“We've got an expression about that, you know,” David told him. “We call it out of the fryin' pan, into the fire.”

Fionchadd chuckled, and David thought he had never heard so welcome a sound. “So what do we do, then?”

David sighed. “Yeah, well, that's a real good question.”

“Perhaps if I knew how I came here, I could provide some answers. But first, I must get clean. I have very little time.”

“Time? Time for what?”

“To stay awake. I have been gravely injured, David, I must heal. But my kind are not as yours. I can conserve or spend my strength at will. Thus, I choose to be aware now, but I cannot remain so for long. For my body to recover, my mind must aid it, and I cannot do that awake.”