The Interrogator considered this information. Twitch can really sound naïve, Slypaws thought. She might be believed. But the raccoon witch isn’t finished with me.
A door opened to her right. A swirl of mist. Another Security officer. These people weren’t High Guard, they weren’t Peoples Corps, they weren’t City Police – they weren’t anything and they were responsible to no one except the Witch. Her personal army.
A whispered huddle beside the car. With eyes unable to see, her hearing made acute by pain, she strained to listen.
“Your agent just reported, ma’am. The Makers’ headquarters is in a root cellar of a house on the Heights just above the factory.”
“I know it.”
“He wasn’t able to obtain names.”
“I see. Where is he? I want to talk with him.”
“He said he had to go off and find the names, as you commanded.”
Silent, seething anger. She could smell the Security Director’s anger.
“Okay, take these two down from the wall and put them in the Bin.”
Two shadowy creeps materialize at the periphery of her vision field – was she going to be permanently blinded around her focal point? And what about poor Twitch whimpering gently beside her? At least they probably wouldn’t be tortured again. The pace of events was overtaking the Interrogator’s merciless efficiency.
44
The dancing points of light left an idea behind his eyes. The way the Fireflies appeared, then disappeared, then reappeared unexpectedly somewhere else should be copied by his foraging packs. They would be vulnerable if spread out in a line. The Protector’s professional warriors would cut through them, then swarm the huddled survivors. But not if the foraging groups operated independently and harassed the enemy formation from unexpected angles. The fog rolling off the lake would make the High Guard stay within sight of each other in unknown terrain. But there was no reason for his own units to be visible. They could dash out of the fog, vanish, then appear somewhere else. Like Fireflies.
However, the Protector had gained one advantage from the fog. He could keep the size of his forces secret until the moment they engaged. And also their location and point of attack. They would be rested and fresh from a night’s sleep while the Creekers would be exhausted from spending a sleepless night in this place where the main biological activity was the decomposition of corpses.
No. That was wrong to say. For as the fog brightened behind him and creatures woke up, Clutch discovered he had other powers on his side. The Dead Zone was full of life: chipmunks, squirrels, rabbits, and groundhogs. And somewhere in the distance, a flock of geese honking nervously in the fog. The Protector couldn’t take him by surprise.
***
Spitting growls from the cemetery gate. The screams of raccoons. His bodyguard became taut, sniffing the moist air. More shrieking. Then the war cry of the High Guard. Where were the runners? Last time he’d seen them, they were curled up on the horizontal rock slabs, taking in the warmth left in the stone from yesterday’s sun. The attack had started. The High Guard was in action. Where were his runners?
A runner came, but she wasn’t from the First Wave. She was from Sleekfoot’s Second Wave watching the abandoned railway tracks just outside the cemetery’s southern fenceline.
“My compliments, sir. Sleekfoot sent me up for news.”
“Go and find out for yourself, then come back and tell me before you return to him. But be careful.”
The runner was swallowed by the fog. Surely his own runners would return from the cemetery gate …
His bodyguard began licking his hackles, trying to make him relax.
A raccoon popped out of the fog. The Second Wave runner. “Compliments from Lightfinger, sir. She’s facing a full-on frontal assault from a big High Guard unit. Company-strength. She can harass them but she says she can’t hold. She’s falling back.”
Why didn’t he order the runner to bring another runner with her? “Very good. My compliments to Sleekfoot, and would he prepare to move a company to reinforce the main gate? But not until I give the command.”
“Sir!” The runner loped off south down the roadway. She was using even ground; the soil around the tombstones was too bumpy.
“Ladyfriend?”
“Yes, you want me to be a runner. I’ll go to the gate and tell Lightfinger that reinforcements are ready when she requires them. And I’ll try to find the missing runners.”
He noticed the silver fur on her heels just as she entered the fog.
Now he was alone at the base of the ancient tree beside the Primate place of Ancestor worship. Funny, he hadn’t thought of the Great Raccoon Ancestor lately. Not since he’d met the fox. What side of the coming battle would the Ancestor favour? Would the god side with him or would he support the imposter? Or did he care at all about the skirmishing of mere creatures? Maybe he had larger matters to attend to, such as the migration of species and the change in habitats around the world. For a dreadful second Clutch thought the Ancestor didn’t care about even that.
A runner emerged on the path from the main gate. “Lightfoot’s compliments, sir. She is outnumbered. Reinforcements are required. Most immediate.”
The runner lay on the grass, panting.
“Can you go to the Second Wave? Along that path. Go at your own pace. You’ll likely meet a runner coming in the opposite direction. Give the runner the information, then find an upright stone to rest behind within hearing distance of me.”
“Aye!” The runner picked her body up from the grass and headed south.
It was frustrating being at the mercy of runners. But he had divided his army in order to cover two possible vectors of attack, and he could lose control of the show at any moment. Worse, a High Guard scout could slip away and follow the scent-trails of the runners to where they met at this central command point. He felt terribly exposed. And without his bodyguard. He’d better climb this old tree beside the worship place. Its broad lower limb was horizontal with the ground for as far as he could stretch, then it made a right-angled curve and shot straight up to the heavens.
Clutch climbed the trunk and lay on the branch. It allowed him to look in three directions without being seen. But the security of the limb didn’t relax him. His mind kept returning to the suspicion that what he had done, the splitting of his forces and their linking by runners, had been anticipated.
A leaf dropped from higher up on the tree.
Then a voice. A voice that was not unkind, for it held the power of the Ancestor.
“So, little one. How do you like being the Protector?”
45
“Did you make your report?” Frisk asked.
