No Hero (22 page)

“You’ve got a plan, in case you run into trouble?”

“Does letting Kayla go first count?”

There is a sound from the other end of the line and for a moment I can’t think what it might have been.

“Director Shaw,” I say, “did I just make you laugh?”

“Just because we’re not being so formal, Arthur, doesn’t mean we’re being flippant.”

Except... is she being flippant?

“Yes ma’am,” I say. Just in case she’s not.

“Do you have a plan?” Formal. Whatever that moment was we’re back to business.

“The book’s pretty light on specifics,” I say. “So we’re flying a bit blind. We’ll just take things slowly, not rush in. I’m more than happy to pull out and reassess if things feel off.”

“The Peruvian weather agrees with you, does it?”

I actually smile at that. The first time since... since Alison was killed. And here I am, in a foreign country, halfway up a mountain, staring at light spilling into a valley beyond, and I’m smiling.

“Yes,” I say, “I think it does.”

“I’d like to see that,” says Shaw. Which seems an odd thing to say and for a moment I’m not quite sure how to respond. Shaw seems to fumble about as much as I do.

“Well...” She coughs. “Yes. Well, I’d appreciate updates on your progress. And a full debrief when you get back here. There’s a lot we might be able to learn here. And not just about the Progeny. There’s a lot of gaps in our knowledge this book, The Source, might be able to fill.”

“That sounds doable,” I say, still wondering about the weather comment. But then I turn, look back at the camp, and catch sight of the hole leading to the cave. The cloud to all this silver lining. “You’re assuming, of course, that when I get back I’ll still have a vital function or two left.”

“You might be surprised by my faith.” It actually sounds like I might.

Clyde’s disheveled head appears through a tent flap. He nods sleepily at me.

“I should go,” I say. “I’ll report back once we’re out of the temple, let you know how it all went, how many limbs we lost, that sort of thing.”

“Excellent.” There’s no humor in Shaw’s reply but there might still be a touch of warmth. It’s nice to hear. Odd. But nice. “I look forward to it,” she adds and then clicks off before I can say anything else.

The glory of the sunrise fades the deeper into the earth I go. Cold rock and dirt envelop me. I find myself wishing there had been a Starbucks near the apple tree. They do seem to be pretty much everywhere else.

Kayla leads the way, as that only seems sensible, then me, grubbing along on my belly just like the snake, post-Biblical curse. Then it’s Tabitha because, and I may have used Hollywood logic here a bit, in most movies that seems to be the safest place to be. Surprised no one called me on that... Then there’s Clyde to occupy the being-picked-off position. But I think he might have volunteered for it because it means he can stare at Tabitha’s legs some more.

I’m beginning to suspect Tabitha’s noticed the increased level of attention, though I’m not sure she’s interpreting it correctly. I overheard her asking Kayla if there was a stain on her shorts.

We’ve gone about a hundred yards and I’m starting to think that while he knew all about ancient apple trees, Olsted’s author might have known less about hidden Peruvian temples, when finally the space opens up ahead. The light on my headlamp spills out, first over Kayla’s ankles, and then, as she steps out the way and I fully emerge, over craggy moss-dotted rock. Tabitha and Clyde emerge as I swing my headlamp around, illuminating the massive cave.

Four beams of light reach out from our helmets, like the fingers of some giant hand. They trace the limits of the walls. And some of the dawn’s beauty is recaptured as we stand there in the darkness.

The cave’s ceiling seems incredibly distant—a great cathedral-like arc. Roots have pushed through the rough rock, some dangling like patches of fur, others that are great thick twisting things, broad as I am, which, admittedly, is not particularly broad or anything to be remarked at in a person, but which in a root may, I think, be noted as being of significance.

We circle the space slowly. And then, one by one, the fingers of light come to rest on the same point: carved into one massive slab of rock—an archway. And it’s not just something somebody hacked away, even though that would hardly be an achievement to be sniffed at, but someone really went above and beyond here. Twisting, carved figures, baroque details, pictogram script. It’s beautiful.

Tabitha is the first to speak.

“Bugger me,” she says.

And somehow the arch has enough poetry in it to make up for Tabitha’s lack.

While it’s tempting to just stand and stare, the headtorches are on battery power and we’re trying to conserve that for Clyde. So I give Kayla the nod, and she’s not one to stand around gawping, so off we go again. I ask Clyde to walk in front of Tabitha this time. I hope it’s not obvious, but I have the feeling we’re going to need him undistracted later on.

The corridors of the place are choked with roots. As we pick our way between them we catch occasional glimpses of intricate wall carvings—people lost to time frozen in poses, raising livestock, tilling fields, worshiping absent gods.

Here and there in the carvings I see a giant figure dominating all the others. The muscles are curiously exaggerated and I think of the magically twisted creatures that the Progeny seem to employ as shock troops. There is something different here, though. The figures are more graceful. Still, it’s doubtful any of the art is truly representational. These giant figures, for all their decoration, have utterly blank faces, not a single feature described—seems unlikely we’ll have to worry about them.

After ten minutes or so of twisting between the roots I see light up ahead. The space opens up into a square carved as decoratively as everything else we’ve seen. The roof has two long cracks that shed trickles of rainwater onto thick patches of moss. Massive roots hang down like so many stalactites.

At the center of the room are four statues, far more detailed than anything we’ve seen before. Four representations of the faceless figures. They’re no longer giants. Just average-looking men. At least, in the way Arnold Schwarzenegger is an average-looking man. They all sit, muscle-bound and silent, back to back in a tight square, one facing each corner of the room.

“I’ve seen them,” Clyde says, “on the walls.”

“Probably religious,” Tabitha says, squatting, opening the laptop. “Or royal. More important than most. Why they’re carved so big.”

Kayla circles the room, giving the statues a wide berth. I’m inclined to agree with her trepidation, but on the other hand there’s a slim chance I may have seen one too many action movies. Clyde, however, does not seem to feel any caution. He peers at one’s face.

“They’re masks,” he says. “They’re wearing masks. That’s why the faces look so blank.”

“Masks?” Tabitha asks, looking up from the glare of her computer screen.

“Yes,” Clyde says, nodding. “I can see straps round the back. Two of them: one above the ear, one below. About an inch thick. Bald heads beneath. Workmanship on these is pretty much amazing. I don’t think stonework like this should have even been possible.”

“Masks. Two straps.” Tabitha taps more. “Fuck. Please tell me they’re not wooden. I cannot be dealing with the Monks of Queatel today. Not tomorrow either.”

The elevator operator in my stomach presses the down button. Here we go. Kayla keeps circling the statues.

“Don’t know,” Clyde says, “looks like stone.” He reaches out a hand.

“No!” I bark, but it’s too late. His knuckle taps the mask. A hollow, distinctly wooden sound.

The statue moves instantly. I barely even see it stand up, but suddenly it’s vertical, a hand gripping Clyde’s extended arm. His face distorts in pain. Then a fist or a foot, or something else too fast to see, buries itself in Clyde’s midriff and he flies ten feet across the floor.

The other four statues are on their feet. Quick as blinking. Not statues at all. Or if they are, they move like men. Four colossal monks, wearing masks, sitting utterly still, covered in dust and grime, waiting. And waiting. And now they move. I see their muscles move. Flesh and bone, just like me. But they move so bloody fast. Move a way I never could. They move like Kayla.

She comes at them with terrifying speed. Inhuman speed.

She is not what you think she is.

Her sword comes up. Comes down.

And one of the bastards catches it.

He claps his hands together and holds the blade there suspended three inches from his face.

Kayla grimaces, pushes. I see the muscles in the monk’s arms knot. And I’ve seen this movie. This is the bit where he snaps the blade, attacks her with the tip.

Kayla goes with the motion. Her face relaxes. She jumps, moves with the monk’s straining muscles, and spins in the air. He carries her up over his head. She twists. Her knees clamp tight. Locks them around the back of his head. And she brings him down. Lands kneeling, crushing his head between thigh and calf.

But another masked figure is there. He slams a fist at Kayla. She blocks, pushing it aside, as the monk she’s sitting on bucks and thrashes beneath her. Then the third figure comes in, then the fourth. Blows rain down. Kayla’s hands and blade are a blur. And then there is a cracking sound and Kayla flies out of the group. The four figures rise, limbs flexing, as Kayla is tossed aside like so much firewood.

Clyde comes around at about the same time Kayla lands next to him. Her head cracks against the stone floor. Blood flows. Not good. Not even vaguely good. Way beyond bad, even.

The four masked figures start spreading out, a loose semicircle fanned out before us.

Clyde rolls over, vomits onto Tabitha’s knees. She’s kneeling next to him. I’m not sure how she got there. It doesn’t seem very Tabitha-like. Especially not when she wipes the corner of his mouth with one frilly sleeve.

“Get up,” she says to him. “You stupid bugger.”

Kayla beats him to it. An abrupt kippup and she’s on her feet, heading off toward the clenching fist of figures. At first I think my vision is still off. Everything is a blur. But then I realize that it’s not me, but the speed the five of them are fighting at. I can’t track a single limb. They’re all moving at fantastic speeds and I can only catch glimpses of movement. A raised sword. A fist drawn back. A deflected kick wheeling away.

There is something breathtaking about the whole thing, something almost as wonderful as it is horrible. Something like ballet. But, when I glimpse it, I can see a look of absolute fury on Kayla’s face, something desperate and something terrified.

I think of the Twins. I think of Ephie saying quite calmly that Kayla can’t save Ophelia. That must be what Kayla is thinking now. She’s being held in place. Total stalemate.

“We have to do something,” I say. Helplessly. Because I can’t think of any way to help.

“Be my guest.” Tabby stands, supporting Clyde. And despite the flippancy, I can see anxiety and frustration written all over her face. Because I’m right.

“Rocks,” I say. “We need to throw rocks.”

“What?” Tabby shakes her head. “What if you hit Kayla?”

“There are more monks,” I say, even as I realize I’m not really thinking straight. “We’re more likely to hit one of them.”

“But what if you hit Kayla?” Tabby’s question has grown teeth while I answered.

“I hate to be constantly siding with Tabby against you, Arthur,” Clyde starts.

“I know,” I say. “I know. But something. There has to be something...”

We stand helplessly, like absurd spectators as the four masked men pound on Kayla’s ever-twisting defense.

Can we just slip by them? While she holds them at bay? Leave her keeping this problem trapped in stasis?

Except... well, sod it, she may have come too late on the rooftop for Alison, but she did come. She tried. So unless I know for sure she’s Progeny, no, I can’t leave her behind. There’s got to be something we can do.

“Tabitha,” I say, “we need to know about these things. Anything. Everything. Whatever we can.” I grab her by the shoulder. “Right now. Please.”

She blinks, nods, disengages from Clyde who is clinging to her like a drowning man. She grabs her laptop.

Behind me I can hear Kayla grunting with exertion, her breath coming in whoops and gasps.

“OK,” says Tabitha. “Monks of Queatel. Masks... Recorded memory. Very advanced. Close to magic. Maybe magic. I’m not sure.”

Behind us steel smacks flesh and flesh smacks steel back.

“Come on,” I say.

“Circuits beneath the wood. Old monks’ brains written in zeroes and ones. Put on the mask, put on the monk. Personality override. So you train one bugger instead of generations.”

A shower of sparks lights up the room as Kayla’s sword rebounds at speed, carving a jagged channel through the stone.

“So...” The gears of my brain churn more than my adrenaline wants them to. “Take off the masks. Turn off the monk.”

“Kick the bloke’s arse,” Tabitha supplies.

All five figures are off the ground. Limbs pinwheel in midair. Limbs snap out at awkward angles. Knuckles pound skin and wood.

“How do we take the masks off?” I say. Next logical step.

“Erm...” Tabitha says. I echo the sentiment.

Kayla lands first, whips out her sword. Monks land on the flat of the blade, balance there. Impossibly. Kayla dodges kicks to the head.

“I have an idea,” Clyde says. He speaks quietly at first, hesitant.

“Yes?” Tabitha and I both wheel on him. He half recoils. I nearly grab him by the lapels. This is not the time for tentative modesty.

Kayla ducks as four blows reign down in a single instant. The monks’ fists slam together. I feel the shock wave where we stand.

“Well... it’s probably not a good idea...”

“Tell us!” My voice almost cracks as I yell.

“Sorry,” Clyde says, then sees the expressions Tabitha and I are wearing and finally spits it out. “Well, the masks... magical, electric. There is a chance that I could, so to speak, in a sort of manner—”