The Visitor (37 page)

The wall of the canyon at the near end of the bridge seemed steeper, so it was there they lowered the now ragged clothing at the end of the rope so that it dragged along the canyon wall before they pulled in the rope and dropped the clothing on the scree slope at the bottom. Michael had summerhay in hand to anoint the rope, plus pills for both of them and for the horse, who was too tired to make a fuss about it. When all that had been taken care of, he lifted Dismé to the saddle and led the horse across the bridge, only to stop in amazement. At the far end of the bridge, across the road that ran along the canyon, towered a stone.

He had heard such stones described enough times on this journey that there could be no doubt what it was. Black, wavy, with golden lights, taller than he, an armspan wide, thick at the bottom so that it sat securely upon its base. Dismé's reverie was broken by the stop, and she looked up as well.

“Another one,” she said.

Looking around to be sure they were alone, Michael went to the stone to lay his hands upon it. It hummed at him, but
there was no burst of light. He laid his ear against it, heard resonant harmonies, then pulled away to examine the darkening sky. Some distance back from the road and high above them, a huge section of the canyon rim had broken off and fallen to make a wide, arched slope of scree that extended from the road almost to the top of the mesa, where it met a short collar of rimrock, vermillion in the setting sun. On either side of the fall, other cliffs stood entire, the road squeezed into a narrow ribbon between their crimson walls and the foaming river.

The slope before them had grown up in dark firs, more thickly in the higher reaches. Leading the horse around the stone, Michael began the ascent, tugging the reluctant beast after him. Within a hundred meters or so, they were in the cover of the trees, sparse grasses around their feet. When the horse was picketed with a long rope, he began to graze, reasonably content even though still saddled, for Michael wanted no delay if they had to leave suddenly. Building a fire was out of the question, so he shared out their cold food, picked a fallen tree as backrest, and cushioned a place beside it with pine boughs covered with one of their blankets. There, with the other blanket warming their knees, they ate their evening meal, almost too weary to chew it.

When they had packed everything away, they lay back on the blanket, covered with the other. Michael drew Dismé against him, her head pillowed on his arm, and she turned toward him with a little sigh, her arm across his chest.

“Dearest Dismé,” he whispered. “Dearest one.”

“Aaah,” she bubbled at him, a tiny snore.

With a half smile of almost amusement, he lay still, letting her sleep. The sun had set far down the canyon. From where they lay, he could barely see the bridge, and as it grew darker it vanished into the general gloom. He dozed a little, then woke, then dozed again. At the third or fourth waking Michael saw a light eastward, slowly moving down toward the bridge on the near side of the river. He put his hand over Dismé's lips and shook her. When she wakened, he whispered to her, and she joined him in feeling their way down
the ridge toward the forest edge, where they lay prone to watch the light coming closer. As it neared, they made out the form of an old man, not bent but weary, carrying a lantern and obviously hurrying as fast as possible. When the figure reached the end of the bridge, he stopped, so close that Michael could make out the astonished circle of his mouth, the widened eyes reflecting the lantern light.

Dismé started. “Why…that's…I think it is…”

“Shhh,” Michael cautioned, drawing her tight against his side. Below them, the old man set his lantern down and approached the stone to lay his hands upon it, as Michael had done. A blast of light engulfed stone, man, and the surrounding area, and in the second before becoming blinded, both of the watchers saw something huge, dark, and hideous standing half erect at the far end of the bridge.

Dazzled, they put their hands before their eyes, removing them a moment later to blink at the scene below, where the stone was shedding its substance in a fountain of fire that lit the approach of the monster. The old man, alerted by sound or intuition, turned his back to the fiery stone and held his staff before him, facing the horror that approached.

“Are you Bertral?” the monster roared, a coughing roar that seemed to come from the pits of the earth. “You have no Book, Bertral. Without the Book, what are you?”

Michael saw the staff tremble. Behind him the horse whickered in fear and Dezmai spoke firmly into Michael's ear. “Get him the book from the saddlebag, boy. Take it to him.”

Though he was unaware of any decision to obey this command, he scrambled to his feet and ran to the horse, who immediately became as uncooperative as possible, tiptoeing one way and another and throwing his head about. “Speak to the damned horse,” growled Michael in his throat, only to hear the same voice say, to the horse, “Be still.” Which it was, immediately.

With the book in hand, Michael started down the slope, all too aware of the diminishing light of the sparkling stone, the looming darkness crossing the bridge, the glowing red eyes
an impossible height above that bridge, a monster ogre-ish in size, far greater than any man.

“Go,” said the voice in his mind. “Hurry!”

He slid down the hill, half falling, getting up and running, only to trip and fall several feet, knocking the breath from his lungs. Something went past him in the night with a great roar and the smell of hot metal, flinging itself against the enormous bulk of the monster in a tumult of shouting, crashing, and drums. Deafened by this assault, from which even the monster recoiled, Michael gave up trying to remain upright and simply slid to the bottom of the slope, fell at the old man's feet, rolling onto his back to offer the book.

Eyes peered down at him from beneath a twisted line of light. Old hands gripped the book. The ancient straightened, and stood up, and up, and up until his height was as a great tree and his voice an avalanche that spoke. “I have the Book! I am Bertral, servant of the Guardians. By Tamlar, Ialond, and Aarond, by Rankivian, Shadua, and Yun, I command you, go hence.”

Where the monster had been was only a core of retreating and shapeless darkness and a small form standing utterly still. As the stone sparkled away into nothingness, a voice cried:

Michael blinked. The old man was merely an old man, though the light upon his forehead shone as brightly as before. The oldster reached down and offered a hand, which Michael took and pulled himself onto his feet. From part way across the bridge, Dismé turned and came toward them, though how she had reached that place, Michael had no idea.

“Michael Pigeon,” Michael introduced himself. “That's my friend Dismé.”

“Arnole Gazane,” said the old man. “Any friend of Dismé's is a friend of mine.”

“Arnole!” cried her glad voice from behind him. “Oh, Arnole. It is you.” She came toward them, eyes beaming beneath her scarf, her face shining with joy.

 

Arnole had left his wagon some distance up the eastern road where it had lost a wheel on a protruding stone, so he said when they had finished hugging and exclaiming and brewing tea. “I couldn't raise it, couldn't unload the wagon. No help for it. I had to go look for help.”

“We'll go back with you,” said Michael. “What's in the wagon?”

“Three more of those stones,” said Arnole. “I remembered reading about the Lessy Yard, so I went there. Don't know why I hadn't gone before. Most of the stones were long gone. Three were gone more recently. I asked questions. Farmer said some strangely clad folk took the last three away in a wagon within the last year, and they said they were going to the marble quarry. Well, there was only one marble quarry I know of, one in the high mountains almost due west of Apocanew. So I got me a good wagon and a team, with a couple of strong fellows to help, and we came there to the quarry. There they were! Two standing amid some cut marble, right out in plain view, the third one between them, wrapped in sacking. Took some doing with felled trees and ropes and tackle, but we got them in the wagon. At that point, my helpers got on their horses and went back home, and I came this way because it's downhill and I'm going to see a lady who lives along that road. I have this niggling hunch about her.”

“The Seeress?” asked Michael.

“You know Allipto?”

“The doctor does. He's headed there, too,” said Dismé.

He grasped her by the shoulders and shook her gently. “So you left that house at last, girl. Oh, by all the powers and
spirits, by the separators and celebrators, you left that house.”

“Rashel didn't want to let her go,” commented Michael.

“Oh, I know that. I don't know why, exactly, though I've a feeling…I've always thought Dismé was more than she seemed…” He reached for her and patted her shoulder.

Michael laughed, without real humor. “You were right about that. She's already more than she seems. She's Dezmai of the Drums. The stone under the Fortress was meant for her. Dismé, I mean.”

Arnole's mouth was open, and it was a long moment before he shut it. “Dezmai?”

She took off the scarf and let him see her forehead.

Arnole shook his head. “It was you who hit that ogre where he stood?”

Dismé murmured, “It was Dezmai, not me. Not exactly. She uses my body as I might use a knife, to fight with. She uses me to speak through. She uses my mind to receive messages from all of them, or whatever ones of them are talking. Whichever ones those are, they say the monster is only a small manifestation. An envoy of the real evil, so to speak.”

Arnole nodded. “Things are coming to a head.”

“How do you know?” asked Michael.

“Twenty-one Guardians. Different classes of them. Tamlar was first, I guess we know that. I found
her,
that was no problem. I didn't have the book, so she read me the roll. One to call, two to answer, three to protect, four to rock the cradle, five to spur intelligence. I'm one of the five. Camwar's one of the five. He was called ages ago. The six aren't needed yet, not for what we're supposed to do, whatever that is, but one name among them is that of Befun the Lonely, and I know him! Protector of animals. I went to see him, and sure enough, he had the sign! He says those of us who are involved need to get to the new place, west of here.”

Dismé cried, “Why are we supposed to go there?”

“Tamlar says if we don't get there first, the monster wins the first round. It's a kind of race, or contest, or battle.
Befum says the monster—the thing behind the monster—is the reason. It's a synthesized monster, partly made of a creature that came with the Happening, and partly out of old gods buried here on earth, and it's the worst parts of all of them. It lies under Bastion, the place it both nourishes and feeds upon.” He sighed deeply. “No point talking about it now. There's too many things still unknown.”

He stared at the sky. “Best we get a move on, young ones. Wherever we want to get, we'd best get there before tomorrow night. That thing won't give up. He'll be on our trail again, bigger next time.”

“I don't know if we can raise a heavy wagon,” said Michael, tiredly.

“Don't worry about it,” said Dezmai in a muted roar. “Bertral and I will see to it.”

Michael fetched his horse and the three of them plodded up the northern road where, if all went well, they would be able to mend Arnole's wagon.

S
ummerspan five: Sixday. Sweltering, swearing, only half ready for movement, much less battle, the vanguard of the army of the Spared approached the guard station at the border of Bastion by dawn of sixday, as demanded. The outriders came back to report an empty post and evidence of some butchery in the road. The general spurred his horse; the bishop followed.

“Demons,” said the general, staring at the mess of blood and bone squashed on the road. “You see what they get up to?”

“I see blood and a good many chewed bones, but I don't see the promised warriors,” said the colonel bishop.

“Do you doubt the word of the angel?” huffed the general.

The bishop shook his head. “Not at all. Since all the men are here, perhaps I can do the blessing now.” He was impatient to return to Bastion, to light a fire under his coup d'etat.

“You'll bless them when the Quellers are here,” said the general in a voice that permitted no argument. “We'll bivouac here and the men can rest while we await the supply wagons.”

“As I was about to suggest,” grated Colonel Commander Achilles Rascan Turnaway. “The men can use some sleep.”

The bishop dismounted with an audible moan. The gen
eral bellowed at his aides, demanding breakfast, bed, water to wash himself. The ranks came plodding over the pass and down toward a wide meadow, an area called Ogre's Gap on maps, to memorialize a battle with monsters some centuries before. This fact occurred to the general as he took a paper from his pocket.

“Here,” he said when his aide approached with a basin of water. “Give this to the runners. Bring these men here.”

“What's that?” asked Rascan.

“The ones we named to give strength to the Quellers. I named a man of yours, fellow named Fremis. I recalled your telling me he was the best fighter you had.”

“You named Fremis? He's head of the Honor Legion, General. He needs to be with his men, not undergoing some formality.”

“If we're going to strengthen the warriors who'll assist us, we have to do it with our best people. Dr. Ladislav knows that. He named that favorite of yours, Bishop. Trublood.”

“Trublood? I hope this strengthening business won't damage him, General. I want him for one of my daughters.”

The three separated in mutual annoyance, the bishop and commander going in one direction, the general in another. “Last person in the world who should be distracted right now is Fremis,” mumbled Rascan. “What does Gowl think he's doing?”

“I think he's depending more upon the
Quellers
he's been promised than the army he has here,” said the bishop.

The two diverged toward their separate campsites, the commander toward rest, as any soldier did whenever he could, and the bishop to fret about getting back to Hold and usurping power. Around them, the men slumped, too weary to grumble, which would have been their usual response to a camp without food. Soon there was only the snargle and whump of snores, the murmur of voices as officers went about identifying the nominees. Within the hour, the “strengtheners,” around a hundred of them, were assembled outside the general's tent, where most of them went to sleep on the grass.