The Talisman (The Talisman #1)

In horror Jack saw the tip of the root, a blind worm's head, lift up and stare at him. It twitched almost lazily in the air, then wound itself once again around Richard's burning arm. Other roots came sliding toward them across the road.

Jack yanked Richard back as hard as he could, and gained another six inches. The root around Richard's arm grew taut. Jack locked his arms around Richard's waist and hauled him mercilessly backward. Richard let out an unearthly, floating scream. For a second, Jack was afraid that Richard's shoulder had separated, but a voice large within him said PULL! and he dug in his heels and pulled back even harder.

Then they both nearly went tumbling into a nest of crawling roots, for the single tendril around Richard's arm had neatly snapped. Jack stayed on his feet only by back-pedalling frantically, bending over at the waist to keep Richard, too, off the road. In this way they got past the last of the trees just as they heard the rending, snapping sounds they had heard once before. This time, Jack did not have to tell Richard to run for it.

The nearest tree came roaring up out of the ground and fell with a ground-shaking thud only three or four feet behind Richard. The others crashed to the surface of the road behind it, waving their roots like wild hair.

'You saved my life,' Richard said. He was crying again, more from weakness and exhaustion and shock than from fear.

'From now on, my old pal, you ride piggyback,' Jack said, panting, and bent down to help Richard get on his back.

4

'I should have told you,' Richard was whispering. His face burned against Jack's neck, his mouth against Jack's ear. 'I don't want you to hate me, but I wouldn't blame you if you did, really I wouldn't. I know I should have told you.' He seemed to weigh no more than the husk of himself, as if nothing were left inside him.

'About what?' Jack settled Richard squarely in the center of his back, and again had the unsettling feeling that he was carrying only an empty sack of flesh.

'The man who came to visit my father . . . and Camp Readiness . . . and the closet.' Richard's hollow-seeming body trembled against his friend's back. 'I should have told you. But I couldn't even tell myself.' His breath, hot as his skin, blew agitatedly into Jack's ear.

Jack thought, The Talisman is doing this to him. An instant later he corrected himself. No. The black hotel is doing this to him.

The two limousines which had been parked nose-down at the brow of the next hill had disappeared sometime during the fight with the Territories trees, but the hotel endured, growing larger with every forward step Jack took. The skinny na**d woman, another of the hotel's victims, still performed her mad slow dance before the bleak row of shops. The little red flares danced, winked out, danced in the murky air. It was no time at all, neither morning nor afternoon nor night - it was time's Blasted Lands. The Agincourt Hotel did seem made of stone, though Jack knew it was not - the wood seemed to have calcified and thickened, to have blackened of itself, from the inside out. The brass weathervanes, wolf and crow and snake and circular cryptic designs Jack did not recognize, swung about to contradictory winds. Several of the windows flashed a warning at Jack; but that might have been merely a reflection of one of the red flares. He still could not see the bottom of the hill and the Agincourt's ground floor, and would not be able to see them until he had gone past the bookstore, tea shop, and other stores that had escaped the fire. Where was Morgan Sloat?

Where, for that matter, was the whole god-forsaken reception committee? Jack tightened his grip on Richard's sticklike legs, hearing the Talisman call him again, and felt a tougher, stronger being rear up within him.

'Don't hate me because I couldn't . . .' Richard said, his voice trailing off at the end.

JASON, COME NOW COME NOW!

Jack gripped Richard's thin legs and walked down past the burned-over area where so many houses had once stood. The Territories trees which used these wasted blocks as their own private lunch counter whispered and stirred, but they were too far away to trouble Jack.

The woman in the midst of the empty littered street slowly swivelled around as she became aware of the boys' progress down the hill. She was in the midst of a complex exercise, but all suggestion of Tai Chi Chuan left her when she dropped her arms and one outstretched leg and stood stockstill beside a dead dog, watching burdened Jack come down the hill toward her. For a moment she seemed to be a mirage, too hallucinatory to be real, this starved woman with her stick-out hair and face the same brilliant orange; then she awkwardly bolted across the street and into one of the shops without a name. Jack grinned, without knowing he was going to do it - the sense of triumph and of something he could only describe as armored virtue took him so much by surprise.