Freewalker by Dennis Foon Read Free Book Online Page A

from people who are very nice but who we don’t trust, to an unknown, possibly deadly entity who, for no reason whatsoever, we do trust.”
    â€œYou’ve got it. Do you want to turn back now?”
    â€œAre you kidding? I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
    And with a last look at Newlight, they start down the stream.
    The uneven streambed doesn’t allow sure footing, and with heavy packs on their backs the going is slow. But fine weather, the scent of fir trees, and the singing of white crickets eases every step. Roan’s thoughts keep returning to the hook-sword on his back. Though he has no desire to use it again, he felt compelled to bring it. He knows it’s likely he’ll need all the skills the Brothers taught him before the end of this journey—that is, if he still remembers how to use them.
    By the end of the third day, they’ve moved out of the valley and the air’s grown colder. The trees have disappeared, the wild crickets are gone, and wide-leafed ferns converge around them. At a small clearing, Lumpy tosses down his pack.
    â€œThis is as good a place as any to spend the night.”
    Weary after the long day’s march, Roan throws down his bedroll and gathers some dry branches for a fire. Lumpy points to the mountains in the distance.
    â€œAccording to Bildt, the doorway to Oasis is due north, on the other side of those peaks. So... we’ll be wanting to go a different direction?”
    â€œMore or less.”
    â€œGood news. The walking’s good going east on the foothills.”
    â€œWe’re going west,” says Roan.
    â€œOh no... west is marshland.”
    â€œIt’s where the marker is.”
    â€œYeah, marking where you don’t want to go.”
    â€œNo, the tree I’m looking for is in the marsh.”
    Lumpy grimaces. “Well, actually, from what I hear, it’s more like... swamp. Huge, impassible, dangerous swamp. Bzzz Swamp. No sane reason to cross it.”
    â€œWell, that’s the way.”
    Lumpy lets out a huge sigh. “Just when you think you’ve found paradise, it’s back to the Devastation and bugs for breakfast.”
    â€œCould be worse.”
    â€œYeah, and I’m sure we’ll get there.”
    At sunrise, Roan wakes to find Lumpy at the ready with bean stick and water sack. “Breakfast in bed. Enjoy being nice and dry while you can, because after this it’s damp and miserable for days.”
    While Roan chews, Lumpy sifts through a small bag.
    â€œWell, that’s a relief,” he says, pulling out a small, battered tin. He opens the lid and sniffs. “Umm. Still effective.” He shoves it under Roan’s nose.
    Roan’s assaulted by a horrible stench and jerks away, gagging. “It’s like... rotten eggs!”
    Lumpy snaps the lid back on. “Rotten eggs would be useless as bug repellent. This is dragonweed.”
    â€œYou don’t mean we have to...”
    Lumpy smiles devilishly as he smears some on Roan’s chin. “And it has the added benefit of clearing your sinuses.”
    When they set out, pushing through the ferns, a sensation of impending danger eats away at Roan. As if on cue, his mind and body begin practicing the techniques that have lain dormant the last year. He gives complete awareness to every movement, making each footfall an exercise in strength, stamina, and concentration. When the brush becomes too thick for passage, Roan uses his hook-sword to clear the way. Not hacking like any trailblazer, he isolates each stem and the sword slices it in the exact spot he visualizes. With speed and precision, the minimal amount of vegetation is sacrificed, and an opportunity to train is maximized.
    â€œAre you doing what I think you’re doing?” asks Lumpy.
    â€œI guess,” replies Roan, as another swing of his blade executes a perfect clearing.
    Lumpy bends down and inspects the cut. “Won’t that