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He couldn't go back yet. Somehow he just knew that there was something he had to do first, and that the place he had to be was White Palace. He would spend the night in Two-Fifty-Mile- House; the map said he had to go there anyway. Two-Fifty was a crossroads town, and to get to any of the major cities, one had to go through it. In the morning, he would set out for the City of the White Palace. He would be home with Infamous in a week. It would be hard waiting even that long. Arrowsmith tossed the rest of the sandwich away, a stampede of lizards following it into the grass. He started the bike up and took off at a great rate, determined to teach Harley to fly. The faster he got there, the sooner he could go home. Suddenly all he wanted to do was stare into those black eyes. "When did I start falling in love, Harley?" he said, but the red and gold bike had no answer. He reached the Great River, and found the ferry that would take him across the expanse of silver water. Arrowsmith parked Harley on the ferry, which was little more than a flat barge with something akin to a house on it. The door to the little shack opened, and out stepped an old man. Where ye off to? he asked. Um, the other side? said Arrowsmith. The man nodded, and untied the ferry from the short dock. Don t you get lonely out here? asked Arrowsmith. Oh I don t spend that much time alone. There s a fair bit of traffic back and forth, and there s the other ferrymen. Need more than one of these little boats to keep things moving. Takes well nigh two hours to cross. He handed Arrowsmith a pole then took one for himself. She s not deep but she s wide. Arrowsmith took the pole, and together they began pushing the ferry across the still waters. The old man glanced at Harley. And what be that thing? That be Harley. Oh yeah. Is it supposed to be that loud? Yes. A loud motorcycle is a good motorcycle. Uh-huh. Come from the Mountain Cabin, do ye? Arrowsmith blinked, and stared at the man in astonishment. How did you know that? This whole area is watched by the Children of Marakim. Anything that happens with their Master, they know about. And they ride my ferry, so that means I know about it. And a red and gold golem that sounds like ten angry dragons heading across the land is anything but a well-kept secret. Well, I always did want to be famous. They pushed the ferry across the vast, slow-moving body of water, reaching the other side at long last. Arrowsmith pushed Harley off the ferry, and watched as two men, garbed entirely in midnight black, mounted on horses the color of an abyss rode onto the ferry. The only color they wore was a splash of blood-red lace at their throats. Arrowsmith watched them with interest, knowing what they were from tales Infamous had told him. These were the Highwaymen of Marakim; a different sect of the same faith. These were the patrollers of the land, and in many cases the only form of aid isolated communities could rely upon. Unlike their Temple brethren, they were not terribly popular, and tended to be much more pragmatic and, indeed, dangerous. It was their duty to watch over those who lived in far-flung areas, and they were not shy about their duties. They had been known to head after merchant caravans with a bloody-handedness that made it hard to view them as the good guys, and if the merchant had a habit of dabbling in illicit matters, then he could rest assured that if the law did not catch him, the Highwayman would. The scrap of crimson lace about their throats was a reminder how the founder of their faith had died; he had been hung from a tree branch by his boots and had his throat slit. He watched them ride past him on their leggy, speedy horses, which looked a great deal like the wild ones he had seen on the plains. He felt a certain amount of intimidation, but it was not until one of the Highwaymen turned his horse and Arrowsmith saw the scrap of black silk bound across his eyes, and the unnatural way it sat, as if there were no eyes for the cloth to rest upon but merely empty sockets, that he felt truly afraid. The feeling only increased as the man turned his head towards him, his long ice-white hair framing his small face, falling in a silken waterfall across his shoulders. Arrowsmith swore the man was looking at him. Arrowsmith waited until the ferry was far enough away that he didn t think the engine would scare the horses, then continued on his way to Two-Fifty-Mile-House. By the time he reached the town, the sky had begun to change. The weather was volatile that time of year, and Arrowsmith and Harley flew out of the prairie on the wings of a spring storm. Before them lay blue sky, and to the right was the gold and pink of a sunset. Behind them, great black mountains of storm clouds climbed and rolled, chasing them across the flat expanse to the town. It appeared at first as a white glint on the horizon, then suddenly became a high wall with a black, wrought iron gate. The gate was closed and locked, and Arrowsmith had to stop before it. He glanced nervously over his shoulder at the storm, then once more at the wall. It was not truly white, he saw now: it was many colors, like opals, or mother-of-pearl. And high upon it was a word, written seven times in different languages. The last language was a tongue he spoke. It read simply, 'Somewhere.' The wind suddenly caught him, slamming into his back and tossing his long hair into his face. However before he could call out, an unseen gatekeeper pulled open the barred door and let him in. By now the sky was completely black, and it began to throw an ocean down upon him. He stopped a few feet inside the wall and watched the two men lock the gate once more. Then one of them came running over to him, his cloak pulled up over his head. He pointed at Harley. "Is that magical or technical? If it's technical you'll have to leave it here." Arrowsmith was not impressed with the idea of leaving Harley anywhere. "It's magical," he yelled back over the roar of the rain and the engine. "If it's magical, why is it so loud?" "Look, I'm just staying for the night, I'm leaving in the morning, can you just ignore it 'til then?" The man shook his head. "Sorry, it's the law. Technical devices aren't permitted, you know that. This thing will have to be destroyed." "Destroyed? Hey, nobody told me that." The man gave him a quizzical look, then said, "What's your name?" "John Arrowsmith." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ] |