The Last Summoning---Andrew and the Quest of Orion's Belt (Book Four) (48 page)

The shining figure stood, watching the
carnage with emotionless eyes, unfeeling, uncaring, cold and hot,
without conscience---ruled by one thing and one thing only.

Andrew pushed through the screaming Codes.
Their disjointed voices beeped, clipped, and scraped out through
the night like something mechanical and animal.

Andrew ducked behind a Code as it fell,
crashing head first into the chest of a tall animal-like soldier
with eyes of a man and skin of a toad. The creature wore black
armor and a necklace with little barbs that looked like it was
digging into his neck. The man growled, and brandished a
doubled-bladed knife.

Andrew picked up the fallen blade of a Code
and plunged it into the creature’s chest. Ducking down, he sifted
in and out of the bodies of the struggling, the fighting and the
dead. All the while, he could feel the cold eyes of the shining
figure watching him like the bite of frost tickling his neck. No
matter where he ran or hid, he felt as though this being’s gaze
could see him, feel him, and stick to him like a shadow that would
never let go.

He ran from the throbbing crowd of struggling
bodies and slipped out of the courtyard and down a dark byway. The
clipping sounds of Codes’ screaming still echoed through the air,
mixed with the sounds of shifting shadows. He paused to catch his
breath. The shining figure had caused a cold, frosty prick of fear
to shroud his thoughts. Something about the figure made him feel as
if his soul had become paralyzed, and his body subject to its will.
It made his entire being feel cold. Not the normal kind of cold
when you stay out in a blizzard for a long period of time. But a
cold that draws you to it, like a metal pole that asks you to stick
your tongue on it, even though you know it will cause you pain.

“Over there!” A gruff voice called. “Grab
him!”

Andrew stumbled through the dark ally and
fell into an oily snow drift. He quickly pulled himself up and
pressed himself into a shadowy corner. The shadows there squirmed
and writhed, pinching him, irritated that he had taken up their
spot.

“He was here, I’m sure of it,” a soldier
shouted, bursting down the dark street, overturning carts, scouring
the area.

Andrew stood where he was, pressed against
the wall, closing his eyes as the soldier came dreadfully near him
and stopped.

Without knowing why, Andrew quickly stuffed
his hand into his pack and rubbed the smooth shell Shellbee had
given to him back in the land of the Brittlewambers. He didn’t know
why he rubbed it, but he did, and without realizing it, the sound
of his quick breathing became absorbed into the shell.

The soldier stepped nearer and placed his
boot over Andrew’s foot, causing Andrew to cry out, but the shell
absorbed that sound, and the soldier heard nothing. The soldier
stood by the wall for a long time, listening. But the shell Andrew
held kept any sound of Andrew hidden in its depths.

Finally, the soldier moved on. Andrew stepped
away from the shadowy wall, glad to be rid of the pinching,
squeezing, inhospitable shadows. He drew out Shellbee’s shell and
gazed at it. Where it once had a beautiful, silver swirl, it was
now just a faded distant gleam. Andrew had wondered what kind of
power the shell had. Now he knew. How he had known to rub it, he
had no idea. But he was thankful he had. He made another noise and
rubbed the shell. But the power the shell had once held was now
used up.

Andrew quickly dropped the shell and moved
away from the wall. He could hear the screams of Codes as they
died, and the angry shouts of soldiers. Still nearer to him he
could hear the sound of crunching of snow, the clattering swords
and heavy breathing. He turned, and stumbled through the street,
only to find himself trapped by four stark brick walls that reached
high into the sky. He felt as if those hard walls were laughing at
his smallness, daring him to try to climb them.

Andrew glanced behind him at the darting
shadows. They stirred through the air as if in great distress at
his coming. He could hear more soldiers marching down the street
towards him. In a moment, they would be upon him.

He clenched his fists, scanning the walls,
looking for some means of escape. There were no dark shadows to
hide himself behind. Even they had forsaken him, moving carefully
away from him so he could not hide in their cover.

Deep snow drifts hugged the edges of the
walls adding to the forsaken, untouched, dreary feeling of the dead
end. Andrew mused, perhaps that’s why they were so justly named.
For at finding yourself at such a place, you have little chance at
living.

Andrew groped the walls and tried to pull
himself up, digging his fingers into the wall. But the walls were
smooth and greasy as if someone had dumped oil over its entire
surface. The oil made his hands slip. He slid back down, landing in
the deep snow drifts.

He pounded the walls with his hands, and
kicked a cloud of snow, in frustration. Breathing hard, he stooped
over and stared down at the edge of the wall where he had kicked
the snow away. Just below his feet, peeking at him through the snow
was a small edge of a porthole---the remnants of a gutter nearly
hidden beneath a great snowdrift.

He glanced from side to side, then bent down
and dug away the snow from the opening. The more snow he scraped
away, the bigger the opening appeared. Gradually, he dug enough
snow away to reveal a window grating with iron bars that had been
bent back as if something trapped from the inside had been strong
enough to bend the bars back.

Andrew hesitated before he crawled through
the opening. It looked very dark and unwelcoming. He shivered,
wondering what terrible creatures lurked in such a gloomy place.
However, the sound of soldiers marching in his direction made up
his mind for him. He swiftly squeezed through the opening. Down he
fell, into a shallow pool of half frozen water. He groaned, and
pushed himself up. He looked around, feeling very cramped, cold and
wet. The air was dark, and heavy as if thousands of shadows had
crammed themselves into this hole and made the air thick and
horrible to breathe. An unfriendly smell as inviting as a rotting
carcass swirled around him. A rude gust of wind blew through the
opening from above, showering him with snow.

Shivering, Andrew dusted off the snow and
moved a safe distance away from the opening, slogging through a
sleet of cold, oily goo that ran above his ankles. He moved to a
corner that was a little drier and sat down on a stone step, of
sorts.

The sounds of soldiers had started to fade,
replaced by the dreary, miserable trickling of slime that ran past
his feet. He leaned his back on the oily wall, hugged his one good
hand to his chest, and closed his eyes. His body was filthy,
covered in oil. It clung to him, making him colder and wetter than
he normally would have been.

He rubbed his dead arm in the sling, bending
his fingers back and forth with his good hand, trying to get
feeling back into them. But he felt nothing. The weight of his arm
in the sling was as useless as a load of rocks.

He wondered if he could handle the sword with
his left hand. Something similar had happened to him, back in the
battle of Romrook, when his right hand had been stabbed by
Kalliope. But that had been different. He could still feel his hand
and arm. Then, his task had been different. He had to handle a
paintbrush with his left hand. And that was very different than a
sword. Very different.

He groaned, and rested his head in his good
hand. A hundred emotions ran through is mind. He felt so alone, so
helpless. So lost. What was he doing? He couldn’t remember why what
he was doing was important anymore. What was the point of it all?
Darkness crept in around him, filling his heart with a heavy
despair that made his spirit weary and his soul feel thick and old.
The doubts that had been planted in his mind began to creep and
crawl out from the cracks in his mind, spinning their web that
trapped him from himself.

He felt so old and weary that it made him
feel weak and feeble, and utterly powerless. Until now he had not
given in to his feelings, but here, alone, resting in the quietude
of this miserable dark slough, he began to see the desperate
situation he was in. Freddie and Ivory, and even Croffin, were all
probably dead. Everyone he cared for and loved were gone. He alone
remained. He had tried. He had. He had done everything he could.
Yet here he was, still. Utterly, and irrevocably alone---more alone
than he had ever been in his life.

His mind filled with the memory of his
friends---their unbending trust in him. Their courage, their
willingness to die for a cause nobody cared for. The battle on ice,
the bodies littering the cold frozen water. His thoughts went to
Talic, Gogindy, Rhapsody, his horse, and all who had given their
lives for the cause. All who had been there for him. Their memories
flooded his mind, made him dizzy with grief and emotion. His throat
grew tight, and his eyes glistened. He sat up as if startled by all
the wash of memories. His red eyes grew wide. “No, I am not alone,”
he breathed, wiping his eyes. “Even in death, they are with me. No,
I will not give in, though darkness overtakes me.”

When he said those words, he remembered the
letter Kesper, the hermit librarian, had given to him. He quickly
rummaged through his pack until he found it. He looked at it with
curious eyes. Kesper had cautioned him to only open the letter when
he found himself completely alone. Having never found himself so
alone, he had never opened it. Now that he was, he still did not
want to open it. Somehow it would prove his aloneness. Finally, he
ripped the letter open with his teeth.

The sheet of paper inside was completely bare
of words, like the letter his parents had given him in Hollyhock
Hollow. He smiled faintly, knowing what to do. He touched the
letter with his palm. Instantly, the white parchment turned black.
Then silver writing appeared over the paper like bright stars on a
dark night.