Death Weavers (38 page)

T
he lantern wasn't just leading Cole up the mountain, but around it as well. He climbed diagonally, stealing glances back as best he could without slowing down. His last view of the fight involved a pair of shapecrafters holding Winston down while another pair grappled with Harvan. Sando stood off to one side, watching the brawl.

The old beggar didn't look up at Cole.

Nobody was coming after him yet.

Would they give chase once Winston and Harvan were entirely subdued? Could they use their gliders to catch up? Would they simply wait for him to come down?

All Cole knew for sure was that his current job was to charge up the mountain. Harvan and Winston had provided an opportunity. To waste it would make their sacrifice meaningless. Cole needed to protect the Weaver's Beacon. He needed to make it to the summit and discover how to find Destiny. Then he could worry about the rest.

He ran hard, his path snaking ever higher over smooth, dark, angular rocks. Every upward glance made him uneasy—cliffs on top of cliffs stretched to stratospheric heights. If looking up felt intimidating, how would it be to look down? Cole had always been good with heights, but unclimbable precipices were another matter. He had no reason to believe he could access the colossal peak except for the lantern pulling him forward.

What would happen to Harvan and Winston? Was there a chance Harvan and Winston would overpower the shapecrafters and fight their way free? What if they couldn't? Would the shapecrafters march them away from the mountain until they were entranced by the call of the Other? Or might Sando take them prisoner?

Cole tried to console himself that both men were already dead. The thought wasn't very comforting. Neither man was ready to move on. If they were forced out of the echolands, wasn't that basically a second death?

The Weaver's Beacon led Cole onto a narrow path. Sometimes it vanished, only to reappear a few hundred yards later. He began to find stone steps chiseled into the rock. Maybe there was a way up after all!

Cole stayed at a run. Who knew when Sando and his henchmen might come after him? His duty was to give them as little chance as possible to stop him.

The path wound higher up the mountainside. The lantern followed the trail perfectly, curving through switchbacks and guiding Cole across barren areas where the path became hard to discern. Sometimes the path went into little tunnels or along deep clefts in the rock. The way became ever steeper. Some of the stairs were stacked so vertically that Cole felt like he was climbing crude stone ladders.

Cole tried not to look down, but every so often, moving along ledges or clifftops, he glimpsed arresting drops. As the way became almost constantly steep, he was unable to maintain a pace equal to running, but he climbed as quickly as he could.

After a long while he reached a wall where the stone steps dwindled to nothing more than handholds gouged into the rocky face. There was no way Cole could proceed with the Weaver's Beacon in his hand, so he looped the handle over the hilt of the Jumping Sword at his waist. The comfortably spaced handholds were shaped for easy grabbing, but Cole still felt nervous. Even without the panic of vertigo, a serious drop awaited if he slipped. Cole didn't care how tough echoes were—a fall from this height would be deadly. The danger demanded respect.

Higher and higher he climbed, the Weaver's Beacon wobbling at his waist. Every so often he would scan the sky, but he saw no gliders, or anything else for that matter. He was so close to the mountain that it was hard to gauge how far he was from the summit. He would reach the top of one precipice to find another awaiting above it.

The ascent began to feel like crossing the black-sand desert or the plain of white stone—he climbed without ever expecting to stop. The summit was up there someplace, but actually arriving seemed unrealistic. Perhaps the mountain was growing taller at a faster rate than Cole could climb. It sure seemed that way as one steep ascent followed another. Cole would not have been surprised to look down and see stars.

At long last he reached a broad ledge. The beacon at his waist pulled him toward a neatly carved staircase. This one wasn't crude like the previous stairs. It looked like it belonged in a castle.

As Cole approached, a voice filled his mind, accompanied by fierce music drenched in power.

Who dares to scale my mountain?

Cole paused, then spoke aloud. “My name is Cole. I need your help finding someone.”

On your knees, then.

Cole obeyed.

Close your eyes.

Again he complied.

Lie down.

He did.

Awake.

Opening his eyes, Cole froze.

He was no longer on a mountain.

He was under a black curtain, on a cool concrete surface.

He had lifted the fabric just enough to see out. He was in a basement.
The
basement. The supposed spook alley where Jenna, Dalton, and so many others were taken to the Outskirts by slavers.

There was Jenna now! Heading down the hole in the floor. He wanted to call out before her head ducked out of sight, but slavers were everywhere, and it all felt too real. If he cried out, he would be captured as well. The last of the kids followed Jenna down, some shrieking as they dropped from the final rung.

Was this real? It sure felt authentic. But he was actually somewhere else, wasn't he? This had happened months ago. He was already in the Outskirts. Where? Sambria? No, Elloweer had come after that, then Zeropolis, then Necronum. That was it! Necronum.

But where in Necronum?

And why had he returned to the basement? Could he have gone back in time?

This didn't feel like a dream or a memory. He felt the weight and texture of the curtain. His senses were alert, his conscious mind active. He felt awake.

There stood Ansel in his wide-brimmed hat and long weathered duster, checking his pocket watch. Secha was beside him, squat and swarthy, her clothes like layers of tattered rags.

“Excellent timing, Ansel,” she said. “This was a good plan.”

“Think we found what we were looking for?” Ansel asked.

Cole closed off his view. He had heard these words before. Why was he here, now, hearing them again? Could his time in the Outskirts have been a dream? No way. Too much had happened. It had all felt so vivid! But it seemed hazier now, many of the details slipping away.

He heard people walking around. The slavers were packing out the last of their stuff. He knew what they were doing. He knew what they looked like. He had seen it all before. Cole had no doubt about what was going to happen. Secha and Ansel would be the last to leave. They would speak one more time. He couldn't recall the exact words, but he knew basically what to expect.

Could he change how things happened? The kids were already down the hole. If he came out now, he would just get caught. Ansel had his sickle.

If this had happened before, how was it happening again? If the Outskirts had been an elaborate dream, why did he know what was coming next?

“Are we finished?” Secha asked.

Cole raised the fabric enough to see.

Ansel was checking his pocket watch. “Just over six minutes left.” He gazed around the room. “Doesn't matter how we leave the place. Nobody can follow us. We're done here.”

Secha climbed down the manhole, and Ansel followed. “Do we cover it?” her voice asked from out of sight.

“No need.”

Cole knew they were gone. Nobody else was in the room except for a little girl dressed like an angel, hiding under a different curtain.

He knew about the girl because this had all happened before. Had he really gone back in time? Was this a chance to change the outcome?

Last time he had followed his stolen friends down the manhole. And he had ended up in the Outskirts. Before long he was enslaved alongside them. So many adventures had followed. But he was stuck there, risking his life day after day. His chances of getting home were bleak. Nobody even knew he was missing. Everyone had forgotten him. And supposedly, even if he made it home, he would soon get drawn back in.

In a far corner of the room the little girl crawled out from under a heap of curtains. She was small and skinny, with wavy auburn hair and freckles. Cole remembered her angel costume, down to the crumpled wings and the tilted tinsel halo.

The girl looked around furtively. She approached the manhole cautiously and peered down. Then she turned to the stairs.

“Hey,” Cole called. “Delaney!”

The girl whirled and jumped, wide eyes searching for who had spoken. “Hello?” she asked hesitantly. “Do I know you?”

Cole came out from under his curtains. “Don't be afraid. I was hiding too.”

“I saw you guys come in,” she said. “I was part of another group.”

“You hid behind the curtains and got covered when they came down,” Cole said.

The girl gave him a strange look. “Yes. How did you know?”

“I bet you wanted to warn us, but they would have just sprung the trap earlier and caught you, too.”

“Are you psychic or something?” she asked.

“Just a good guesser,” Cole said. “Our friends are in huge trouble. You should climb out a window and go for help. Break it if it won't open. Get the police.”

“Aren't you coming?” Delaney asked.

Cole folded his arms and stared at the hole in the floor. That was the question. He supposed he could do whatever he wanted. Was this really a second chance?

“I don't know,” Cole said.

“Are you thinking of following them?” Delaney asked, her inflection implying it was a bad idea.

Cole gazed at one of the basement windows. His family was that way. He could go home and see his mom, dad, and sister. He could be there in less than ten minutes. He could help explain what happened to Dalton and Jenna. Would anyone listen to him? Would anyone believe him?

“Are you all right?” Delaney asked.

“Just thinking,” Cole said.

Would Dalton and Jenna be any worse off if he didn't go after them? Dalton would wind up working at the Silver Lining in Merriston. He would probably be safer at the confidence lounge than fighting the High King and Nazeem. They hadn't found Jenna, so she would presumably remain at the Temple of the Still Water in Necronum.

But what about Mira? As his mind turned to her, memories came flooding back. Would she have been taken by the legionnaires at Skyport? Maybe. No, wait, she would have probably died at the proving grounds. The cyclops would have gotten her. What about Honor and Constance? Who would stop Carnag? Morgassa? Roxie? Would any of the princesses get their abilities back?

“Hello,” Delaney whispered, waving a hand in front of Cole's face. “We need to get out of here. What if somebody comes down from upstairs?” She glanced at the hole. “What if some of those guys come back?”

Cole looked at the window. It would be such a relief to go home. But could he live with knowing his friends were trapped? Could he live with Mira getting killed? Or if she somehow survived, getting captured by her father? Could he live with the princesses never regaining their powers? With Carnag and Morgassa and Roxie running wild? All the Outskirts could be destroyed. That included Dalton, Jenna, and all the others.

“I'm going to follow them,” Cole said. “I'll be careful. Tell the police what happened.”

“Are you sure?” Delaney asked. “They're fast and strong. They might catch you.”

“They have my friends,” Cole said. “It's what I'm doing. My name is Cole Randolph. Try to remember me. Try to remember us. Please tell our parents what happened. You better go.”

“Be careful,” she said.

“You too,” Cole replied. “Hurry!”

Delaney moved toward the window, and Cole went to the hole and started down the metal rungs. Soon his foot couldn't find the next one. Darkness yawned below.

Cole took a deep breath. “Here we go again,” he murmured, stepping off the rungs and plunging into the darkness.

His eyes snapped open.

Cole was not falling.

He was not newly arrived in the Outskirts, seated on scorched dirt, surrounded by a symmetrical ring of twelve stone pillars.

He was in his bed.

At home. His real home, where he lived with his parents and sister.

It was morning.

Cole sat up. He wore his standard sleep uniform—a T-shirt and basketball shorts.

Had that all been a crazy dream? It must have been. It had even started repeating at the end.

Wow. It had felt very real.

His Halloween costume rested on the chair in his room. He was going to be a scarecrow that got used for archery practice. The tips of the arrows were broken off so he wouldn't be bringing weapons to school.

Cole got out of bed.

What was going on? Had it really all been a dream? Had he not yet gone to school on Halloween? Had Jenna not been dressed as Cleopatra? Had Dalton not yet been a sad clown? Had they not gone to a haunted house in a basement?

What about Mira? And Jace? And Twitch? And Joe? And Honor? And Constance? And . . . Hunter?

Wait a minute.

In his dream he had a brother.

A brother who had gone to the Outskirts a couple of years before him.

A brother who had supposedly occupied the spare room across the hall.

Cole turned away from his door. He was scared to look. What if the spare room was full of stuff that belonged to Hunter?

No. That was crazy. It had all been a dream.

It was no big deal to go look.

Except it was.

Because Cole had broken out in a cold sweat. Deep inside lurked an unsettling certainty that none of it had been a dream.

He had to walk across the hall and see.

Cole went out into the hall.

The door to the spare room was closed.

What was it supposed to look like inside? Cole could not form an image of the spare room in his mind. Surely he had gone in there. But as he thought back, he couldn't remember any specifics.