One of the bearded men says, "She's partial to this one."
"But so am I, dear boy. So am I." Lord Malshun actually nips Ty's skin this time and blood flows, as if from a shaving cut. Behind them, the Big Combination grinds on and on, but the screams have ceased. It's as if the children driving the machine realize that something has changed or might change; that the world has come to a balancing point.
The man with the glowing stick takes a step forward. Lord Malshun cringes back in spite of himself. It's a mistake to show weakness and fear, he knows this but can't help it. For this is no ordinary tah. This is someone like one of the old gunslingers, those warriors of the High.
"Take another step and I'll tear his throat open, dear boy. I'd hate doing that, would hate it awfully, but never doubt that I'll do it."
"You'd be dead yourself two seconds later," the man with the stick says. He seems completely unafraid, either for himself or for Ty. "Is that what you want?"
Actually, given the choice between dying and going back to the Crimson King empty-handed, death is what Lord Malshun would choose, yes. But it may not come to that. The quieting word worked on the boy, and it will work on at least three of these — the ordinary three. With them lying open-eyed and insensible on the road, Lord Malshun can deal with the fourth. It's Sawyer, of course. That's his name. As for the bees, surely he has enough protective words to get him up Station House Road to the mono. And if he's stung a few times, what of that?
"Is it what you want?" Sawyer asks.
Lord Malshun smiles. "Pnung!" he cries, and behind Jack Sawyer, Dale, Beezer, and Doc fall still.
Lord Malshun's smile widens into a grin. "Now what are you going to do, my meddling friend? What are you going to do with no friends to back you u — "
Armand "Beezer" St. Pierre steps forward. The first step is an effort, but after that it's easy. His own cold little smile exposes the teeth inside his beard. "You're responsible for the death of my daughter," he says. "Maybe you didn't do it yourself, but you egged Burnside on to it. Didn't you? I'm her father, ass**le. You think you can stop me with a single word?"
Doc lurches to his friend's side.
"You f**ked up my town," Dale Gilbertson growls. He also moves forward.
Lord Malshun stares at them in disbelief. The Dark Speech hasn't stopped them. Not any of them. They are blocking the road! They dare to block his proposed route of progress!
"I'll kill him!" he growls at Jack. "I'll kill him. So what do you say, sunshine? What's it going to be?"
And so here it is, at long last: the showdown. We cannot watch it from above, alas, as the crow with whom we have hitched so many rides (all unknown by Gorg, we assure you) is dead, but even standing off to one side, we recognize this archetypal scene from ten thousand movies — at least a dozen of them starring Lily Cavanaugh.
Jack levels the bat, the one even Beezer has recognized as Wonderboy. He holds it with the knob pressing into the underside of his forearm and the barrel pointing directly at Lord Malshun's head.
"Put him down," he says. "Last chance, my friend."
Lord Malshun lifts the boy higher. "Go on!" he shouts. "Shoot a bolt of energy out of that thing! I know you can do it! But you'll hit the boy, too! You'll hit the boy, t — "
A line of pure white fire jumps from the head of the Richie Sexson bat; it is as thin as the lead of a pencil. It strikes Lord Malshun's single eye and cooks it in its socket. The thing utters a shriek — it never thought Jack would call its bluff, not a creature from the ter, no matter how temporarily elevated — and it jerks forward, opening its jaws to bite, even in death.
Before it can, another bolt of white light, this one from the beaten silver commitment ring on Beezer St. Pierre's left hand, shoots out and strikes the abbalah's emissary square in the mouth. The red plush of Lord Malshun's red lips bursts into flame . . . and still he staggers upright in the road, the Big Combination a skeletal skyscraper behind him, trying to bite, trying to end the life of Judy Marshall's gifted son.
Dale leaps forward, grabs the boy around the waist and the shoulders, and yanks him away, reeling toward the side of the road. His honest face is pale and grim and set. "Finish him, Jack!" Dale bawls. "Finish the sonofabitch!"