Mark Anthony - Last Rune 02 - The Keep Of Fire

Something stirred in the coruscating air ahead.

"Jakabar?"

The shape gathered its outlines behind the distant silver membrane that

spanned the road, then punched through and hurtled toward the man.

The beast approached with hateful speed, growing larger with each

fluttering of his heart, until it filled his vision and a roar

deafened him. Sunlight glared off armored crimson hide, and the thing 4

clung low to the ground, as if ready to pounce. Its eyes flashed twice,

and it let out a keening wail that pierced his skull and rooted him in

place. He abandoned motion, waiting to feel the beast's jaws close

around him, to feel bones pop and flesh part.

Acrid wind ripped at him, and stones pelted his skin. The hollow grasses

bent down, slaves before a terrible emperor, then rose as the world fell

still. The man craned his neck to look behind him, but the creature

already grew small and distant as it sped away.

He turned his gaze forward and forgot the beast. Again the fever rose

within him, cauterizing thought and memory, burning away everything he

was. He could envision the flames dancing along his papery skin. Soon.

After all this time, it would be soon now.

He started to move once more but met resistance from the ground. He

strained, then lifted a foot. Black strings of tar stretched from the

sole of his scuffed boot to the pit where it had sunk into the surface

of the road. He tugged his other boot free and lurched forward. He did

not know what strange land he had found himself in. All he knew was that

he had to find Jakabar.

"Beware," he whispered. "It will consume you."

The man staggered down the mountain highway, leaving a trail of

footsteps melted into the asphalt

2,

Now that he was back, it was almost as if he had never left.

"It's coming," Travis Wilder whispered as he stepped out the door of the

Mine Shaft Saloon.

He leaned over the boardwalk railing and turned his face westward, up

Elk Street, toward the pyramid of rock that stood sentinel above the

little mountain town.

Castle Peak. Or what he thought of as Castle Peak, for over the years 5

the mountain had borne many names. In the 1880s, the silver miners had

called it Ladyspur's Peak, in honor of a favorite whore. According to

local legend, when a gunslinger out of Cripple Creek failed to pay his

bill, Ladyspur shot him dead in a fair gunfight in the middle of Elk

Street. She died herself from cholera not long after, and she was buried

how she had lived and worked: with spurs on her high-heeled boots.

Before that, on maps drawn in St. Louis--fanciful documents meant to

lure dreamers across the tall- grassed prairies--it was named Argo

Mountain, although the only gold ever found on Castle Peak was the warm

light of sunrise or sunset.

For a few years prior to the gold rush of 1859, the name Mount Jeffrey

had hung over the mountain, a name it had shared with a minor member of

the Long Expedition of 1820--a lieutenant who one afternoon climbed to

the summit with a bottle of whiskey. By the time Lieutenant

Schuyler P. Jeffrey died of septicemia in a Washington, D.C., tenement

five years later, his name had tumbled off the mountain. Although the

empty whiskey bottle he had cast down

Was el-ill 4.1--.6 ' mark anthony

The Ute Indians, who from forested ridges had watched Long's party

stroll through the valley, had had their own name for the mountain:

Clouded Brow, for the wreath of mist that often girded the summit.

However, if the people who dwelled here before the Utes had called the

crag anything, then it had passed with them. And before that . . . no names.

One mountain. Many names. But eventually the peak and the town had both

come to wear the name of Mr. Simon Castle--who made his fortune in

publishing back East and who came west with a dream of constructing a

grand new kingdom. He built the Silver Palace Hotel and the Castle City

Opera House, then returned to Philadelphia eight years later, after his

wife perished of tuberculosis and his sandstone mansion outside of town

was struck by lightning and burned to the ground. Castle Peak. The name

fit for now, at least until^a new name came along. And after that, when

once again there were no people here and the valley dreamed alone, then

6 it would be simply the mountain once more.

Travis gripped the railing. Behind wire-rimmed spectacles he pressed

pale eyes shut as he pictured it:

high up the slope the first aspens quickening, leaves whispering

silver-green secrets, then moments later the low thrumming as the canyon

cleared its throat and the lodgepole pines circled in a

graceful tarantella. It was coming.

On any world, Travis could always tell when the wind was about to blow.

"I knew you'd come back," Max said that white January day when Travis

stepped into the Mine Shaft, still clad in the travel-worn clothes of

another world.

It had been morning, and the saloon had been quiet and empty save for

the two men.

THE KEEP Of FIRE 7

Jace said you died with Jack in the fire. I kept everything going for

you--the bar, the mortgage, the books. . . ."

Max's words got lost somewhere in his chest then, but that was all right.

"It looks wonderful, Max," Travis said as he hugged his friend. "It all

looks wonderful."

And that was how Travis had come home.

The days that followed were strange and fragile. In some ways he felt as

out of place as he had on Eidh, traveling in the company of Falken

Blackhand. Things like indoor plumbing and electric lights and pickup

trucks all had an exotic sheen. But just as he had on Eidh, he knew he

would get accustomed to them. All he needed was a little time.

7

Unlike the inquisitive bard, no one in Castle City asked Travis for his

story--where he had been for more than two months and why he had come

back. Then again, people in Castle City didn't usually ask a lot of

questions. It didn't really matter where you had been, only that you

were here.

Jacine Windom came the closest to prodding Travis for information, and

even the deputy's questions, while sharp as the creases steamed into her

khaki trousers, were narrowly directed.

"Were you at the Magician's Attic the night of the fire?" Jace asked one

afternoon at the saloon, straight- backed on her barstool, notepad and

pencil in hand.

"I was," Travis answered.

"Do you know what caused the fire?"

"Jack was struggling with an intruder. I was outside the antique

shop--Jack told me to run. When I turned around, the place was in flames."

"Did you get a good look at the intruder before you ned?"

"No. No, I didn't." It hadn't been until later that he came

face-to-face

Wit-h tk,,_ t .1 --¯. . -- - - -- ...

8 * mark anthony

had looked into alien eyes and seen death. But he didn't tell Tace that.

Travis waited for more questions, but Jace flipped her notepad shut and

stood up from the barstool.

"I think that's enough, Travis. I'll call you if Sheriff Dominguez needs

anything else." The deputy started for the door.

8

"Did you find him?" Travis looked up and met Tace's brown eyes. "Did you

find Jack?"

The deputy pressed her lips shut at that, then gave one stiff nod.

"There's a stone for him in Castle Heights Cemetery."

"I'll go see it, ]ace. Thanks."

The deputy headed for the door, although not before glancing back at

Max. The look the two of them exchanged told Travis he had been right

about one thing: Tacine had roped her stallion. Max was wearing

Wranglers now.

But maybe it wasn't such a bad thing to remake yourself for another.

Sometimes Travis thought he might like to have the chance, although he

could never really picture what he'd become, or for whom he'd change. Or

did it even matter? Maybe it was just the act of changing itself that

was important.

After his conversation with Tace, the days had started to come easier.

Travis's cabin outside of town had been rented to someone else, so

Travis had taken up residence in the empty space above the Mine Shaft.

The old apartment was narrow and drafty, and the kitchen consisted of a

hot plate and a sink, but it would do for now. Travis needed less than

he used to/he had gotten used to traveling light.

Max had parked Travis's battered green pickup truck behind the saloon,

and one day Travis got brave enough to try to start it. He turned the

key in the ignition, then laughed as the engine roared to life.

Since then he had lost himself in the day-to-day

,it..:^ -r ^i-_ ¯^;__ <^1- [.

THE KEEP OF FIRE 9

met at the saloon every week--stuffy novels of class oppression traded

for the sharp and vital wit of Evelyn Waugh. The dude ranch cowboys had

9 progressed from single malt scotch to martinis. And Molly Nakamura

still patiently taught saloon patrons to fold crisp sheets into

origami chameleons and monkeys, and still always stroked with gentle

fingers their mutant paper creations.

All in all, it was good and easy to sink back into his old life. And yet

. . .

From time to time, as he wiped down the bar, or swept the floor, or

gathered up empty beer glasses, Travis would find himself gazing out the

window, toward the rocky slopes of Castle Peak, and thinking of the wind

that blew down from the mountain. Thinking of traveling. That journey is

over, Travis. You're here now, where you belong. He opened his eyes and

drew in a breath. Electric wires hissed

overhead. Litter danced along the cracked surface of Elk Street,

choreographed into glittering auguries. Yes, it was coming.

He turned his face to. meet the approaching wind, ready to feel its

crisp embrace, to sense the possibilities it bore on its wings. The

witchgrass along the boardwalk trembled. Newsprint manta rays

levitated off the ground. Tourists reached up to clutch brightly logoed

hats--

--then lowered their hands and continued on.

A single hot gust lurched down Elk Street, then died in a limp puff. The

wires ceased their music. The witchgrass fell still. The newspaper rays

settled back to the pavement.

Sweat trickled down Travis's brow, and the parched air drank it, leaving

a crust of salt on his skin. rhere was no fresh awakening, no sense of

endless

possibility. Only the sun baking cement and wood and rli'r* ,._^-i i . "

' , . - 1 0 * mark anthony

He didn't remember it ever being this hot. The sky was too hard, the 10

valley too dull.

Travis reached up and fingered the piece of polished bone that hung from

a leather string around his neck. The bone's surface was incised with

three parallel lines. He traced them with a thumb. Yes, it was almost

like he had never left. Except he had left. And nothing would ever

really be the same.

Travis sighed, let go of the talisman, and walked back into the

saloon.

3,

The cool air inside the Mine Shaft was a balm to Travis's skin. He

stepped behind the bar, reached into the chiller, and brought out a

bottle of root beer. He pressed it against his cheek, wincing at the

frigid touch, then let out a breath and shut his eyes.

"You know, Travis, most people find it easier to drink if they take the

cap off the bottle first."

"People can be so boring sometimes."

There was a snort of laughter. Travis opened his eyes to see Max lift a

rack of glasses onto the bar.

"You're weird, Travis."

"That's a relief. For a minute I thought I might be losing my touch."

Max rolled his eyes and started unloading glasses.

Travis crossed his arms, leaned back, and watched his employee work. Max

had done a good job keeping the saloon humming while Travis had been

away. Better than good. And while Max clearly took pride in this fact,

he had not hesitated in returning control of the operation back to

Travis that wintry day in January.

Travis had been glad to take on the mantle of saloon proorietor aeain.

11 T.ilcp pvpru+1-iincr .ihr>n<- l-<ic. r^}A

THE KEEP OF FIRE 1 1

life, it felt warm and comfortable. And, like everything, it seemed

different since his return. For more than two months the saloon had

belonged to Max, no matter what the mortgage papers said.

Travis reached into a drawer, pulled out a folded piece of paper, set it

on the bar, and pushed it over the knife-scarred wood toward Max. Max

stared at the paper, then looked up. "What's this?"

"See for yourself."

The erstwhile accountant picked up the paper, a frown written across his

face. "You haven't been doing the saloon's books again, have you,

Travis? I finally just managed to get them in decent ..." He clamped his

jaw and shot Travis a hangdog look.

Travis laughed. "No, Max. I haven't been doing the books. I haven't even

found where you've hidden the ledger yet. Besides, that's your job in

this partnership."

Max blinked. "Partnership?"

"Not if you don't sign that deed." Travis held out a pen. "Go on."

Max hesitated, then accepted the pen. He unfolded the deed like it was

an old treasure map, then set the paper on the bar and in a deliberate

hand committed his name to the bottom, alongside Travis's. He folded the

deed and held it out.

"Thank you."

Travis took the paper and slipped it into the drawer, then regarded Max

with a solemn expression. "You deserve it, Max. The Mine Shaft is yours

as much as mine."

Max nodded, then a smile split his face. "So does this mean some of the

phone calls to the saloon will "e for me now?"

12

Travis rested a hand on his friend's shoulder. "I know you're excited,

Max, but try not to be goofy."

Befnrp A/T^,, ,-_--1-l -.--i rr i i i r '

1 2 * mark anthony

room, whistling a cheerful tune. Just because Max was his partner now

didn't mean Travis had to stop tormenting him.

That afternoon, Travis left the Mine Shaft and headed to McKay's General

Store to pick up a pair of hinges for the saloon's squeaky rear door. On

his way back he stopped by the Mosquito Cafe--where one quick coffee

turned into three leisurely cappuccinos as various locals wandered in

and bought Travis a cup.

As soon as he left the air-conditioned sanctuary of the cafe, Travis

wished he had ordered those cappuccinos on ice. The sun sank toward the

rampart of Castle Peak, ruddy and bloated, as if too heavy to hang in

the sky a moment more. Heat rose in sheets from Elk Street, bright and

jittery as Travis's caffeine- enhanced nerves. He mopped the sweat from

his forehead with a stiff handkerchief.

When Travis reached the Mine Shaft, he noticed a Harley-Davidson parked

next to Max's rusting Volvo. A Celtic cross was painted on the side of

the bike's jet-black gas tank, and a bunch of wind-worn

feathers and carved bone beads dangled from one of the handle grips; The

motorcycle seemed familiar somehow, but he couldn't place where or when

he had seen it. Travis pushed through the front door into the welcome

dimness of the saloon.

The place had started to fill up while he was gone. The Daughters of the

Frontier had shown up for their biweekly meeting, clad in their usual

red-fringed jumpsuits, their blue cotton-candy hair melting from the

heat. Two of them played pool against a pair of handsome,

clean-shaven young men--from Denver by their Doc Martens, casual shirts,

and the astonished looks on their faces. That was what they got 13 for

challenging the Daughters of the Frontier. No one in Castle City was

foolish enough to shoot stick with

THE KEEP Of FIRE 13

Over by the jukebox, Davis and Mitchell Burke- Favor two-stepped to the

tragic croonings of Patsy Cline. As always, the two men were clad in

matching geometric cowboy shirts and spotless Wranglers. At least once a

week the pair drove in from their ranch south of Castle City for a night

on the town. They moved with the brisk, effortless unison that had won

them back-to-back two-step championships in San Francisco a dozen years

ago, their wind-worn faces as rugged and serene as the high-country plain.

Travis paused on his way to the bar, watching the two men dance, and a

sigh escaped him. He had moved through life mostly alone. Would he ever

be that in-step with another person? He didn't know. Sometimes he hoped

so. Then again, when it came to dancing, Travis had always had two left

feet.

A yelp tore his attention away from the men. He glanced up, then winced.

Max was trying to shake up a round of martinis for the dude ranch

cowboys. One of them frowned behind his well-groomed mustache as a

renegade pearl onion catapulted off an olive spear and bounced around

the rim of his freshly steamed black Stetson. Travis moved to rescue Max.

Minutes later the cowboys had their drinks and were off to their table

to play dominoes.

Max slung a bar towel over his shoulder. "Thanks, Travis. I owe you one."

"I know." Travis reached under the bar, pulled out the martini recipe

book, and handed it to Max. "And you can start paying me back by reading--"

Travis froze as a knight, a lady, and a wildman stepped through the door

of the Mine Shaft Saloon.

14

"Travis?"

Max's voice seemed to come from down a long tunnel. Travis could only

watch as the trio threaded its way among the tables.

This can't be happening. They can't be here.

The larlir ^r^^^A ,.,;tl- ¯l-;_ U;_l- -1--1 -l--_^- .1

1 4 * mark anthony

heat in a confining gown of green velvet. The gown's bodice cinched her

breasts up into a horizontal shelf, and the two orbs of flesh were pink

from too much sun. The knight was short but powerful-looking. Sweat

sheened his somber face, and Travis was certain that, if

touched, the man's chain-mail shirt would be hot against his fingers.

The wildman scuttled behind the knight and lady, his hunched form draped

in rank furs and his hair caked with blue mud. The trio headed directly

for Travis. Did they know, then?

But they can't know. They're not even supposed to be here. They should

be a world away.

The three reached the bar. Travis couldn't move. The knight rested a

hand on the hilt of his sword and spoke.

"I need a Coors, a glass of the house chardonnay, and . . ." The knight

glanced back at the wildman. "What did you say you wanted?" "Make it a

Guinness," the wildman said.

The lady frowned. "How can you drink that stuff, Ted? It's noxious."

The wildman grinned, his teeth white and straight in his dirty face.

"Don't knock it until you try it."

Travis stared, his mind flailing. Only then did he notice the mobile

phone clipped to the knight's belt, the Day-Glo fanny pack around the

lady's waist, and the shoes on the wildman's feet: nylon strap sandals

with rubber soles.

15

Of course--he remembered the tents and stalls he had seen going up east

of town the other day. It was yune. The Medieval Festival had started up

again for the year. Most nights, a group of workers from the festival

would show up at the saloon near sundown to have a drink after a sweaty

day of work.

Max touched his arm. "Is something wrong, Travis?"

T-Tp liarln't- rpsnnnflpfl and t-hp l^nio'Tit was frnwriinS.

THE KEEP OF FIRE 15

"No, Max. Everything's just fine."

He moved to get the drinks, 'and the knight smiled and threw a twenty on

the bar.

"Damn, it's hot out there," he said.

The wildman glanced at the lady's fiery breasts and grinned. "Looks like

you've got a bad case of war chest, Sarah."

She adjusted her bodice and winced. "I know. Thanks to Alan forgetting

the sunscreen."

"Sorry," the knight mumbled, and the three walked away with their glasses.

Travis watched them go, then noticed Max gazing at him. Max cocked his

head but didn't say anything, and eventually he turned around to swab

out a keg.

Travis glanced down at the buckskin boots that poked out of his jeans:

the boots Lady Aryn had had made for him. They were one of his few

reminders of Eidh, along with the carved piece of bone--the rune of

hope--he wore around his neck, and the silver half- coin Brother Cy had

given him, which had brought him back to Earth, and which he always kept

in his left-hand pocket.

16

Travis shut his eyes and saw high battlements above stone-walled fields.

Sometimes he burned to tell someone about where he had really traveled

during those two months. But how could he? The only person in Castle

City who could have understood was gone.

, I miss you. Jack.

He opened his eyes and moved to rinse a tray of glasses in the bar sink.

On reflex, Travis looked up. It was hard to tell exactly what was being

advertised. Scenes flashed by, showing smiling people engaged in various

activiies--boating on a lake, going for a walk, cooking

dinner- No matter the scene, a bright crescent moon

hUnrr ,"^1 1 i .1 .i

1 6 mark anthony

silvery radiance on whatever the oh-so-happy people were doing.

The commercial faded to black, and a corporate logo appeared: a

crescent moon merging into a stylized capital D.

"Duratek," came the voice-over in a soothing, masculine tone. "Worlds of

possibility, close to home."

Travis frowned. What was that supposed to mean? He pointed to the TV.

"Would you shut that thing off, Max? Turn on the radio instead."

Max killed the TV with the remote, then flicked on an antique AM

receiver. A second later the phone rang, and Max lunged for it before

Travis could move an inch.

"The Mine Shaft," Max said. He paused, then shot Travis a smug little

smile. "No, but I'm the co-owner, so I'm sure I can help you out. . . ."

He turned his back and kept on talking.

17

Travis groaned. Now that Max was his partner, there would be no living

with him.

He bent back over his work. Music drifted from the radio behind him:

ancient sounds soaring above a new electronic drone. The song was all

over the airwaves, a tonic for ears tired of angsty alterna-rock. Travis

smiled at the seamless blend of old and new. Maybe two

different centuries could meet after all. Like two different worlds. A

tingling danced across the back of his neck. On instinct he looked up.

She watched Travis with smoke-green eyes that sparkled above high

cheekbones. He set down the glass in his hand, and the woman smiled from

her barstool perch. She had close-cropped hair that was dark and fiery

at the same time, and she wore a black- leather jacket, jeans, and biker

boots. He could just

THE KEEP OF FIRE 17

bone--a serpent twisted into the shape of a figure eight, swallowing its

tail.

"Deirdre? Deirdre Falling Hawk?"

"My gentle warrior," she said.

Then she leaned across the bar and kissed him, stunning him like a buck

caught in the white-hot beam of a hunter's flashlight.

4.

Travis had met her three years ago.

It was in the dwindling days of July, when the frantic buzz of

fresh-born insects had matured to a lazier drone, and clouds rolled

across the blue-quartz sky every afternoon, filling the valley with

thunder. She wandered through the saloon's door one evening with the

sound of copper wind chimes. Her hair had been long then, like a wave of

midnight water, but she wore the same leather jacket, the same 18

square-toed biker boots, and she carried the same wooden case over her

shoulder.

She said her name was Deirdre Falling Hawk, and she was a bard.

For the last month she had worked the big Medieval Festival down the

highway, she explained. Now that the festival had closed down for the

season, she had come to Castle City, hoping to find a little work before

she moved on.

"The mountains give me songs," she said. "I al- ^ys hate to leave them."

All Travis knew was that, when she played a melødy on the burnished

mandolin she took from her case; he had never heard anything so

beautiful. He bad cleared the boxes from a platform by the player Piano

that had once served as a vaudeville stage and on it ep<- " "!,..;..

t-_-. .^L., ._^-,^. ^-.,^ ,.,¯^i,, t^>¯;-.^-¯

1 8 ' mark anthony

Falling Hawk sat on the tiny stage each night and played her mandolin.

She was of both Irish and Native-American descent, and she blended both

traditions in her simple, haunting music. After that first night, word

spread, and locals packed the bar each evening to hear her play a

repertoire that included thirteenth-century madrigals, Celtic ballads,

and Plains Indian myths recited in her chantlike voice.

Mark Anthony - Last Rune 02 - The Keep Of Fire

相关推荐

开通VIP享超值会员特权

作者详情

相关内容

热门标签

举报选择: