The Servants of Twilight

"But you've got to. look out for Joey," Charlie said.

"Better cut a piece of line. put him on a tether."

That was a good suggestion. Out in the open field, visibility was only a dozen yards in the best moments, declining to less than four yards when the wind whipped up and the snow squalled. It would be easy for Joey to wander a few steps off course, and once they were separated, they would find it difficult if not impossible to locate each other again. She cut a length of rope from the coil that hung on her backpack and made a tether that allowed the boy six feet of play; she linked them, waist to waist.

Charlie repeatedly, nervously looked back the way they had come.

Christine was more disturbed by the fact that Chewbacca, too, was watching the trail along which they'd come. He was still lying down, still relatively calm, but his ears had perked up, and he was growling softly in the back of his throat.

She helped Charlie and Joey put on their ski masks because they would need them now, whether or not the eye holes restricted their vision. She put on her own mask, replaced her hood, pulled the drawstring tight under her chin.

Joey rose without being told. She decided that was a good sign. He still seemed lost, detached, uninterested in what was happening around him, but at least on a subconscious level he knew it was time to go, which meant he wasn't completely beyond reach.

Christine helped Charlie get to his feet.

He looked bad.

This last half mile to the caves was going to be sheer torture for him.

But there was nothing else they could do.

Keeping one hand on Charlie's good arm, ready to provide support if he needed it, tethered to Joey, she led them into the meadow. The wind was a raging beast. The air temperature was at least twenty below zero. The snowflakes were not really flakes any more; they had shrunk to tiny, crystal pellets that bounced off Christine's insulated clothing with a sharp ticking sound. If Hell was cold instead of hot, this was what it must be like.

65

Ashes and half-burned black branehes were all that remained of the fire that had recently flourished in the middle of the deer path. Kyle Barlowe kicked at the charred detritus, scattering it.

He stepped under the rocky overhang and looked at the abandoned backpack. There were scraps of paper in one corner of the rocky niche, wrappers from prepackaged gauze bandages.

"You were right," Burt Tully said." The man's been hurt."

"Bad enough so he can't carry his pack any more," Barlowe said, turning away from the abandoned gear.

"But I'm still not sure we should go after him, just the four of us,"

Thlly said." We need reinforcements."

"There's no time to go for them," Kyle Barlowe said.

"But he. he's killed so many of us."

"Are you turning yellow on us?"

"No, no," Tully said, but he looked scared.

"You're a soldier now," Barlowe said." With God's protection."

"I know. It's just. this guy. Harrison. he's damned good." "Not as good as he was before Denny shot him."

"But he shot Denny! He must still have a lot on the ball."

Impatiently, Kyle said, "You saw the place farther back on the trail, where he fell. There was more blood there, where she came and helped him."

"But reinforcements-"

"Forget it," Kyle said, pushing past him.

He had his doubts, too, and he wondered if he was being sharp with Burt only to push his own second-thoughts out of his mind.

Edna Vanoff and Mother Grace were waiting on the trail.

The old woman didn't look well. Her eyes were bloodshot, deeply sunken, pinched half shut by the sooty flesh that ringed them. She stood round-shouldered, bent at the waist, the very image of exhaustion.

Barlowe was amazed that she had come this far. He had wanted her to stay back at the cabin, with guards, but she had insisted on going farther into the mountains with them. He knew she was a vital woman, possessed of considerable strength and stamina for her age, but he was surprised by her unflagging progress through the woods. Occasionally they had to help her over a rough spot, and once he had even carried her for thirty yards or so, but for the most part she had made it on her own.

"How long ago did they leave this place?" Grace asked him, her voice as cracked and bloodless as her lips.

"Hard to say. Fire's cold, but in this weather the embers would cool off real fast."

Burt Thlly said, "If Harrison is as badly wounded as we think, they can't be making good time. We must be closing on them.

We can afford to go slowly, be careful, and make sure we don't walk into another ambush."

Grace said, "No, if they're close, let's hurry, get it over with."

She turned, took one step, stumbled, fell.

Barlowe lifted her to her feet." I'm worried about you, Mother." She said, "I'm fine."

But Edna Vanoff said, "Mother, you look… wrung out."

"Maybe we should rest here a few minutes," Burt said.

"No!" Mother Grace said. Her bloodshot eyes transfixed them, each in turn." Not a few minutes. Not even one minute.

We don't dare give the boy a second more than we have to. I've told you