With Trim leading the way, he tracked onward through the night, back down the roadway south, the big Ventra throbbing and growling all around him. He did not stop to rest; he did not stop to consider where he was. He pushed ahead with single-mindedness, intent on getting back something of what he had lost—not just that night, but over the past few weeks. Whether it was pride or self-confidence or just a sense of self-worth, he couldn’t say. Nor did it matter to him beyond the fact that he wanted to feel again that he could do what he had been given to do as a Knight of the Word.
It was still several hours until dawn when Trim took him off the road and into rougher country, high desert formed of mesquite and scrub and, in the distance, clusters of boulders and high bluffs. In between, ravines crisscrossed the landscape in a maze of deep rifts. Logan drove into this rolling, obstacle-riddled landscape almost recklessly, slowing only when the ravines or the boulders made it absolutely necessary. The Ventra was built for terrain like this and could take the shocks and jolts. Trim wheeled and soared in the sky ahead, giving Logan his direction, telling him where he should go. It almost seemed as if he were responding to what the Knight of the Word was thinking: Hurry!
The rough travel went on for what seemed an endless distance, and Logan began to feel that he might run out of time after all. Dawn could not be that far away, and once it was light there was a good chance that the skrails would move the boy again. At best, it would become more difficult to sneak up on them undetected. The danger in being caught out was not to himself, but to the boy. They might choose simply to kill him, or alternatively to move him again so that Logan could not follow. He had to reach Kirisin before it got light enough to see by.
Then all of a sudden Trim flew back at him from out of the night, wheeled about, and landed on the branch of a dead tree just ahead. Logan slowed the Ventra 5000 to a stop, shut it down, and climbed out. He walked over to the owl and stood looking up at him. Trim did not move, regarding him silently. Logan understood. The owl had taken him as far as possible with the AV. Now he must leave the vehicle and proceed on foot.
For just an instant, as he stood staring off into the night-shrouded distance, he considered casting off everything he had become as a Knight of the Word and reverting to how he had been when he was with Michael. It was an unexpected impulse, one born of his frustration with his present life and regrets for lost pieces of his last. His memories of his time with Michael—memories other than those of Michael’s descent into madness—still resonated. Good memories. One was of times like this, when they would seek out enemy patrols come in search of them. They would strip down to almost nothing, paint themselves with camouflage, and go hunting their enemies with nothing but knives. They would stalk them and kill them and then disappear back into the night as if they had never been there. It was a game they played, a challenge they gave themselves, dangerous and seductive. Surviving it provided validation of who and what they were, of their ability to confront and defeat the death that was constantly stalking them.
Get in and get out. Leave no footprints. Those were Michael’s words of caution to him each time they played the game. Leave no sign that you were ever there. That you even existed. Leave nothing but the bodies of the dead to show that death stalked their enemies, too.
Logan Tom thought about how it would feel to do that again, to turn back the clock, to strip away everything and go hunting. He thought about abandoning the staff of his office and taking up one of the big hunting knives instead. He would shed his identity as a Knight of the Word. He would become for just that night a nameless, faceless hunter—a predator, a warrior—confronting his enemies with nothing but his skill and strength and weapons that carried no magic upon which he could rely to defend himself.
It was a ridiculous idea, but there it was. He let it linger for just a moment, savoring the freedom it offered and the intense sense of satisfaction it would provide, and then he cast it aside. There was too much at stake for such madness, and he was no longer the boy he had been, no longer the student to Michael’s teacher, no longer the willing follower of a man who would one day try to kill him.
He took a deep breath and exhaled, tightening his hands about his black staff. “Show me where they are, Trim,” he said to the owl.