"Don't know, don't know!" he shouted. "Finnbogg only ever remember bits and pieces. Finnbogg would tell you if he knew more, but he doesn't! He doesn't!"
He stood over the two sitting men, glowering with rage, then suddenly burst into tears. Clive and Smythe exchanged awkward glances. They'd been through the dwarf's sudden mood swings before, but that didn't make them feel any less like heels at the moment.
"By his behavior patterns," Guafe remarked conversationally. "I don't doubt that he's a schizophrenic."
That drew blank stares from both Englishmen.
"By which I mean," the cyborg explained, "he has an abnormally high number of dopamine receptors in his brain, so these sudden shifts in mood aren't really his ·fault. Neurosurgery could correct the problem, though I doubt we'd find facilities advanced enough on this level for me to help him—if, in fact, that is what he is suffering from. Being unfamiliar with his physiology, I would need to do some exploratory—'
"Why don't you shut your gob for a change," Smythe told Guafe as he knelt beside the weeping dwarf. He put an arm around Finnbogg's broad shoulders.
"We're sorry." he said, giving Finnbogg a squeeze, "the Major and I. We didn't mean to have at you as we did."
"Finnbogg... just doesn't know any more." the dwarf said in a small voice. "It comes and goes and he can never remember sometimes."
"And we know that now. Finn—don't we, sah? You've been a great help to us many's the time already. Don't you worry now."
Finnbogg rubbed his knuckles against his eyes. Clive sat on his haunches in front of the dwarf.
"I'm truly sorry, Finn," he said.
The dwarf blinked, then suddenly appeared self-conscious under all the attention.
"Friends?" Clive asked.
He offered his hand. After a moment, Finnbogg nodded and shook. Smythe gave the dwarf s shoulders a final squeeze.
"There's the lad," he said. Then he gave Guafe a cold look. "Why don't you take first watch—seeing how you like to observe things so much and all?"
"I'll be glad to," Guafe said.
"One day," Smythe muttered, smacking his right fist into his left palm. Then he tugged Finnbogg over to where he and Clive were sitting by the fire and regaled the dwarf with a few preposterous tales, until Finnbogg was clutching his stomach with laughter.
It was on the following day, just as the salmon-colored sun was reaching its zenith, that they spied what looked to be a low hill a mile or so away on the plain before them. It was Smythe who first realized that it was a dead brontosaur, but it was Finnbogg who spotted the small silver airships that were parked around the carcass, their silver-suited drivers harvesting the behemoth's flesh. Guafe called the airships one-man hovercraft.
"The herdsmen," Finnbogg said.
Clive's throat felt suddenly dry.
"Best we don't play the jack this time." Smythe said. "Time to hide ourselves."
He jumped into the nearest brontosaur footprint, Clive and Finnbogg following suit, but it was too late. The herdsmen had already spied them. A number of the silver hovercraft left the carcass and sped across the plain toward them, riding the air a foot or so above the ground.
The flyers closed the distance between them with such speed, they realized that they had no hope of outrunning the machines.
Ten
The village of the blue shark people was a half-day's march farther down the trail they'd been taking. It was a cluster of small, one-room huts, the walls and roofs constructed of reeds tied to wooden frames. Cookfires burned at the doorways. Domestic cousins of the lupine-faced possums hung by their tails from poles, heads slowly turning to watch the progress of Annabelle's party and their captors.
They were herded unceremoniously into the center of the village, where they were immediately surrounded by a crowd of the blue-skinned beings. Shark-toothed grins leered at them. Children with half-grown fins following the ridges of their spines poked at them with sticks. From all sides rose that maraca sound, as though Annabelle and her party had been dumped into the middle of a rattlesnake's nest.
Chica-chica-chica-chica . . .
Though she tried, Annabelle could discern no real variations in the sound, so she doubted it was a language. An expression of excitement, maybe? Or, how about amusement?
Prodded and pushed, they stood in a small, huddled group, with Shriek's limp body deposited at their feet. The noise of the shark people was steadily increasing, until Annabelle had to grit her teeth against the sound. It was painful—worse than feedback from her Les Paul—but it was also humiliating. She had the same feeling now as when she'd been on the receiving end of the chorusing boos her band had gotten the time they'd opened for Death Squad, whose neo-Nazi fans had eloquently expressed their impatience with the combination of music and theater that made up the Crackbelles' act.
Lookit the freaks.
When the sudden silence fell, it left a relief so profound that all Annabelle's limbs went weak. But she Kept herself stiffly upright, for coming toward them through the parting crowd was an awesome figure that even the shark people seemed to hold with as much fear as they did respect.
He was a good foot taller than any of the other villagers, blue-skinned as well, but his entire body was covered with tiny white shells, which were attached by wires directly to his skin, like pierced earrings. His hair was long and braided with blue feathers. From a shell-festooned belt about his waist hung a small cluster of monkey skulls, and a fiat fur pouch with a bluish tint to its pelage, in one hand he carried a staff two feet taller than himself. From its head dangled more shells, these threaded on leather thongs, and the skeletal arms of what she assumed were monkeys, the bones wired loosely together so that the limbs swung back and forth with every movement of the staff.
He came to a stop directly in front of the captives and studied them with a considering gaze. His eyes were a cloudy white, like a blind man's, but it was obvious he could see.
"Hrak," he said suddenly, thumping his free hand against his chest.
The shells attached to his skin clattered at the impact. Annabelle winced at the pain it must have caused; but maybe these creatures didn't have nerves in their skin. When she thought about how she'd feel if her own flesh was like that, it seemed likely.
A chorus of subdued chica-chics arose from the crowd. The one who appeared to be the leader gazed at them expectantly, as though waiting for a response.
Great, Annabelle thought. What the hell's "hrak" supposed to mean? His name? His title? The kind of being his is? Hello? Howyadoin'?
Impatient with the silence of his captives, the leader poked Annabelle with a stiff finger.
"Folly!" he cried.
Jesus, Annabelle thought with sudden insight. He's trying to say Folliot. Clive's brother must have passed through here, and this geek thinks anybody with skin this white's a "folly." Now, the thing to figure out was, had Neville left these guys in a good mood, or had he been shitting on them like he did in almost every other place they'd tracked him to? Only one way to find out.
Annabelle took a steady breath. "Folly," she said, thumping her chest in a manner similar to the leader's.
He glared at her from his milky eyes. There was no question about his displeasure.
Way to go. Annabelle thought. Annie B. blows it again.
Without warning, the leader batted her across the head with his free fist. Arms bound behind her back so that she couldn't maintain her balance. Annabelle hit the ground, head ringing from the blow, shoulder bruised from the impact with the dirt. The leader spat down at her.
"Folly, folly!" he cried.
The surrounding crowd took up the cry, mixed with the rattling chica-chics. The leader thrust a hand toward a distant hut and then eager hands were hauling Annabelle to her feet, propelling her and her two standing companions toward it. Others dragged Shriek along, hauling her by one leg and a couple of her arms. Inside the hut, they were pushed to the ground. The door swung closed on leather hinges, and grinning shark
faces pressed against it to look at the captives.
They hissed and spat, uvulas rattling.
Chita-chica-chica.
As Annabelle rose blearily into a sitting position, her vision swimming, a gob hit her on the check, the saliva leaving a slight burning sensation on her skin. She rubbed her cheek against her knee, then back-pedaled to the farthest corner of the hut, away from the crowd of creatures at the door.
"Why were you so estúpido?" Tomàs demanded.
Annabelle turned to look at him. "Blow it out your face," she told him. "I didn't see you coming up with anything better."
Tomàs's lips pulled into a snarl, but he made no reply, only turned his head away. Annabelle tested her bonds. The braided grass rope still held tight. She tried to ignore the crowd of leering faces at the door, and eventually they lost interest and drew away. It was then that the captives could see the stakes being raised in the square in the middle of the village, the wood being piled around their bases.
Four stakes. Four captives. No need to guess what they had to look forward to in the very near future.
"Aw, shit," Annabelle said. "What're we gonna do now?"
"Wait," Sidi told her.
"For what? The cavalry? I hate to break this to you. Sidi, but they're not going to show."
Sidi merely nodded to where Shriek lay, still unconscious. "If she were dead, they would not have thrown her in here with us. So we wait for the effect of the dart to wear off. She is not bound as we are."
Except, what if she didn't come round in time? Annabelle wanted to know, but she didn't speak her fear aloud. Instead, she leaned back against the wall of the hut and closed her eyes.
Annabelle tried not to think of the stakes, and the pyres being erected around them. From time to time she glanced at Shriek's limp body, but the spiderlike alien still showed no sign of life. Then she'd glance away again, catching Tomàs's gaze sliding from her own. Or meeting Sidi's, which was not quite resigned, but growing steadily less confident. Or seeing the slakes again, the blue-skinned shark people milling around them.
Those damned stakes.
She closed her eyes once more and thought of the last time she'd seen her daughter, out in front of her mother's place, where Amanda was staying with her Grannymums while the Crackbelles went on tour.
"Are you coming back, mommy?" Amanda had asked, her urchin face turned worriedly up to Annabelle's. "You won't forget me, will you?"
Amanda had a fear of being abandoned—because of all the band's touring. She thought one time that Annabelle just wouldn't come back. Like I'd ever dump her, Annabelle thought.
"No way. Jose." she'd told her daughter, mussing the short black curls. "I'll be back before you can say Jack Lippity Sprat."
Amanda's reply was to reach up for a tearful hug.
I'll be back, Annabelle thought, remembering. Right. She looked out at the stakes. I didn't mean to lie to you, sweetheart, but your mommy's never coming back.
"Life slips through our fingers." Annabelle's own mother had told her once. "Everyone says that—that time goes too quickly, that we never get to do everything we want to do in the time we have—out it's worse in our family. Annie. We never keep the things that are most precious to us—lovers, happiness. We never get to hold on to anything good for very long. Your grandmother used to say that there was a curse on the women of our line. 'Be happy with all your heart when you can be,' she told me, for it won't last. It never does. If you try to hold on. you'll only get hurt.'"
No kidding. Annabelle knew just what her mother had meant. Like saving up a lot of hard-earned cash for her first Les Paul, then getting mugged walking home with it from the store. Beautiful New York City. Like just having the Crackbelles finally start to get some decent gigs, and here she was, dusted off into Bizarro—Land of the Weird and Strange, where it looked like she was gonna end up as dinner for a bunch of monsters.
The Sharks That Walk Like Men. Now playing at a theater near you. Thrill to the chills. See the rock star and her friends become shark stew.
Aw, Jesus.
All she could see were Amanda's teary eyes. That sweet face turned up to hers.
You won't forget me, will you?
Never, sweetheart.
Are you coming back, mommy?
Tears were starting to leak from her eyes. She could feel Tomàs's disdainful gaze on her. Sidi's sympathetic one. Neither of them knew. They thought she was crying for herself, because she was scared, but it wasn't that. Not just that. It was the thought of leaving that big hole in her daughter's life. It was thinking of the poor kid growing up with first her old man, and then her old lady, dumping her.
I'm like the spell the fairies use, she thought, when they give humans gold in Fairyland and it turns out to be just dead leaves and crap when they get back to their own world. Everything I touch turns to shit.
Are you coming back, mommy?
She looked at the stakes, the wood piled up around their bases. Just waiting for her and her friends. They were probably due on that center stage at nightfall—at least, that's the way it usually worked in all the frigging movies.
You won't forget me. will you?
She looked at Shriek, still unconscious. Tomàs and Sidi watching her. The braided grass ropes around all their wrists, too tough to break. Maybe we could chew through them? Right. But then her gaze dropped down to the arms of her jacket, which was still tied around her waist.
Wake up. Annie B., she told herself.
"Sidi?"
"Yes?"
"Come help me get my jacket off, would you?"
Though he looked puzzled, the Indian slid himself over to where she was sitting and complied. When she had the jacket in her hands, she played around with it until she had a grip on one of the zippers. She held it firmly between her fingers.
"Get your hands around back here." she told him.
Sidi's eyes lit up as he understood. The metal zipper didn't have much bite, but it was going to be enough to saw through the grass ropes. It bloody well had to be.
It was tough going. The jacket kept slipping in her grip, and it was hard to work on something without being able to see what she was doing, but after a good fifteen minutes of sawing, the grass became weak enough for Sidi to break the remaining strands.
"All right." Annabelle said as he started to work on her own bonds.
The Indian was stronger, and he had her free in half the time, moving on to free Tomàs while she rubbed her chafed wrists and considered their next move. Shriek still wasn't moving. Should they try to make a break for it now—out the back of the hut, which faced the river, hauling Shriek as they went—or wait until the shark people came to get them, and try to take them down? There really wasn't any decision to make.
She moved to the back of the hut and explored the reed covering of the wooden frame. It'd be a piece of cake to get through that. When she looked back at the others, she saw that Tomàs was free now, as well. Sidi returned to her side, handing her back the jacket, which she retied around her waist.
"Good thinking."
"Yeah, well. I not lucky. But we're not outta here yet."
"Were going out the back?
Annabelle nodded. "Only choice we've got, I figure. We'll hit the river and make a swim for it—it'll BE easier pulling Shriek through the water than trying to haul her through the jungle. Can you swim?"
Sidi bobbed his head, white teeth flashing.
"How about you, Tomàs? A fine sailor like you—can you swim?" Considering his aversion to bathing, it was just as likely that he couldn't.
"Sim."
"Great." Annabelle glanced out the door, but no one seemed to be paying undue attention to them. "Let's get going, then. Sidi, you break down the wall—and quietly, please—while Tomàs gives me a hand with Shriek."
Tomàs shook his head. "Leave her."
"No way, pal."
"She is a monster."
"She's a friend. Now, either you give me a hand with her, or we'll k
nock you silly and leave you behind to be fish food—got it?"
"It is a waste of time," Tomàs argued. He gave Shriek's body a nudge with his toe that got no response. "She is already dead."
Sidi had broken a peephole through the reeds in the back of the hut. "All clear," he called softly over his shoulder.
"We've got a problem with the weasel here." Annabelle told him. "He won't help me with Shriek."
Sidi frowned and left the wall, brown fingers of either hand clenched into fists.
Tomàs quickly raised his hands protectively in front of him. "Ja nao." he said. "I was only joking. I'm happy to help. Verdade."
Annabelle gave him a hard stare. Yeah. Sure you are. Until someone offers you a better deal. But she motioned Sidi to return to the wall. While he continued to widen the small hole he'd made, she and Tomàs dragged Shriek's heavy body toward the back of the hut. When the hole was big enough. Sidi cautiously stuck his head outside.
"Still clear." he said.
He stepped through the opening, then helped the other two manhandle Shriek's body through. In moments they were all outside. The river bank was no more than fifteen feel directly behind the hut, hidden from the village's central square by a number of other huts.
Thank you. God. Annabelle said in silent prayer, eschewing her devout atheism. But then she heard the rattlesnake chica-chic of one of the shark people's uvulas. She turned, looking up from her half-crouch, to find a blue-skinned creature looming up directly behind her, obviously having just come around the hut to stumble upon them.
Shit, Annabelle thought. Everything I touch...
Eleven
Unarmed, and with nowhere to run. Clive's party awaited the approach of the herdsmen in their hovercraft—Clive. Smythe, anti Finnbogg hunched together in a group, the cyborg standing oil to one side on his own. Their helplessness chafed at them all, but considering their situation, the only reasonable course of action left open to them was to wait to see how events would unfold. For men who preferred to control their own destinies, it was not an easy course of action. But then, since entering the Dungeon, nothing had been simple or easy.