Terry Brooks - The Elves of Cintra

Then it occurred to her that these kids were not from here at all, but had come from someplace else. They were nomads. That was why they were living on the freeway in abandoned vehicles rather than in a building where they could be better protected.

"What are they, Owl?" Chalk asked from behind the wheelchair, his voice uncertain.

"Children," she answered him, "like you. Only they have had a much harder time of it." She glanced at the other Ghosts. "Don't do anything to threaten them. Stay close to me. Do what I tell you."

Despite her orders, Bear was already taking out the heavy cudgel he favored for close–quarters combat, an old, gnarled staff that could crack a skull with a single blow. The others looked uncertain, glancing at one another and back at the approaching shapes. In her lap, Squirrel stirred slightly, restless in his sleep. She considered handing him to one of the others, but decided against it. He was safest where he was.

"Candle?" Owl called out. "Can you sense anything?"

The little girl with the preternatural instincts turned. "I'm not sure. I can't tell if they mean to hurt us or not."

Owl hesitated, then said, "Move me to the front, Chalk."

The boy wheeled her forward, but she could sense his reluctance. He eased her wheelchair past Bear with his cart and Fixit and River with their litter and stopped. Ahead, the strange collection of street kids continued to advance. She held Squirrel tighter in her lap and stroked his fine hair.

"Who are you?" she called out.

The advance halted immediately. For a moment, no one said any–thing. Then a strong voice answered, "Who are you?"

"We are the Ghosts," she said, speaking the litany of greeting. "We haunt the ruins of the world our parents destroyed. This city is our home; we live down by the water. But an invasion force has landed to attack one of the compounds, and we are leaving." She paused. "You should leave, too."

"Everyone says that to us," the voice answered, laced with unmis–takable bitterness. She could tell now who was doing the speaking, a tall figure near the front of the advance. "Maybe you're just like all the others, telling us lies to make us go away."

"I don't know about anyone else, but I'm telling you the truth. We're all in danger here. You should get away. If you want to stay, though, at least let us pass. We need to go farther down the ramp and wait for our guide to come for us."

The speaker for the newcomers came forward and stood directly in front of her, a thin, ragged boy with scars everywhere, the right side of his face so badly mutilated that it looked like melted candle wax. His hand was resting on the butt of a strange black weapon, a handgun of some sort, that he had stuck into his belt.

"I don't believe you," he said. "Maybe you should turn around and go back."

Those with him began to advance again. Owl glanced at them. There were an awful lot of them if it came to a fight, even if they did seem half crippled. Already the other Ghosts were tensing. Bear had stepped away from the cart. River and Fixit had put down the litter with the Weatherman and brought out their prods. Even Chalk had stepped up beside her protectively. If she didn't find a way to calm them all down, things were going to get out of hand quickly.

It was at times like this that she wished she weren't confined to the wheelchair, that she could walk around like everyone else.

"We didn't come here looking for trouble," she said to the speaker. "Maybe you should think about where this is leading."

"Maybe you should give us what you've got in the cart," the other replied. "Then we might let you go.

And he drew the weapon from his belt and pointed it at her.

"PANTHER?" Sparrow cried out, her voice sharp with desperation.

He risked a quick glance over from where he was fighting his own battle. One of the Croaks had caught her from behind and pinned her against a pole. She was trying to bring the tip of her prod around to jolt it, but it was holding her off with one arm while it strangled her with the other.

He was at her side in seconds, fighting through the two that had been trying to trap him, his prod shedding electrical charges as the tip raked the metal surfaces of a series of trash containers. He slammed its heavy length into the Croak's head, and it staggered back, releasing its grip. Panther grabbed Sparrow's arm and pulled her after him, trying to find a clear space in which to run as other Croaks appeared from the shadows. The battle careened down the length of the cross street and into the path of those coming uphill from the waterfront. All at once they were in the thick of the exodus, and there were Lizards and Spi–ders and more Croaks and street kids, too, all about them. There was yelling and screaming and growling, and Panther couldn't tell whom he was supposed to be fighting. Sparrow latched on to him as if he were a lifeline, her prod gone and her face spattered with blood and as pale as Chalk's. He had never seen her look afraid, but she looked afraid now.

"Hold on?" he shouted over the sounds of the crowd.

He used his strength and weight to bull his way toward the far side of the climb, seeking a small measure of space in which to catch his breath. He could no longer tell if anyone–or anything–was chasing them. A clutch of Lizards was tearing at a handful of Croaks that had crossed its path and foolishly decided to attack, and the Croaks quickly disappeared from view. To his astonishment, Panther thought he saw Logan Tom off amid a scattering of street kids, but the other disap–peared from sight almost immediately. Unable to look further, Panther continued to fight his way through the rush, Sparrow pinned tightly against him, until they broke through and were able to take refuge in a doorway.

"Frickin' brainless stump heads?" he shouted angrily. "Hey, I think I saw that guy, the Knight of whatever back there?"

"Doesn't matter. The Croaks are still coming!" Sparrow cried.

He looked to where she was pointing, brushing dirt and sweat from his dark face. A handful of Croaks was pushing through the crowd, eyes fixed on them. "Damn?" he muttered.

Sparrow grabbed his arm and pulled him up the sidewalk and into another alleyway. Free of the surge of the crowd, they ran down its dark length, found an opening into one of the buildings, and began making their way through a tangle of corridors, dodging piles of broken crates and garbage of all sorts. Sparrow set the pace, running as if she had caught fire, heedless of the strain.

"Not so fast?" Panther gasped as the pace began to tell on him. He was the one who was tiring now. "Ease off, Sparrow?"

"Just another block or two until we reach the freeway?" she called over her shoulder. "Come on?"

They burst out of the building and found themselves back on a cross street not a hundred yards from where the crowd continued its uphill climb. Panther exhaled sharply in relief, and then an instant later caught his breath. The Croaks had reappeared, come out of the crowd like rats out of the shadows, eyes gleaming, claws and teeth sharp and ready.

Panther glanced down at the readout on his prod. Almost empty. He looked at Sparrow. They could run, but only by going in the wrong direction. If they wanted to reach the others, they would have to find a way past the Croaks.

He looked into Sparrow's eyes.

"I'm through being chased," she declared, as if she had read his mind, as if she knew what he wanted to hear.

Wordlessly, they turned to face the onslaught.

Then abruptly a stream of white fire surged out of the darkness be–hind them, lancing into the Croaks and exploding across the entire width of the street ahead.

Panther had not been mistaken. Logan Tom had found them.

OWL STARED down the short black barrel of the handgun and fought to stay calm. She saw that wires attached to its handle ran to a solar pack strapped to the boy's waist. Some sort of stun gun, a variation on a prod. It would shock its victim if fired. Maybe it would kill. In any case, she didn't want to find out the hard way.