The Fellowship of the Talisman (36 page)

“He doesn't belong to Satan any longer. Remember that. He ran away from Hell.”

“But still he is a thing of wickedness. He has no grace within him and no possibility …”

“If by that you mean he is not a convert to Christianity, it is true he's not. But in view of what he has done for us, we must count him as a friend and ally.”

“My lord, at times it seems to me that you have strange values.”

“Each of us,” said Duncan, “must decide upon our own values. Take it easy now. If you should stumble once again, I'll be here to fish you out.”

Following the still tottery, fumbling hermit, Duncan gazed out across the fen. It was a place of flatness, a great expanse of limpid water stretching out on every side, broken here and there by darker splotches that probably were beds of reeds growing in a patch of shallow water or small islands of willows rooted in a mud flat.

The wailing continued, rising, falling, a lonely sound that could twist the heart of one who allowed himself to listen to it and to nothing else. After a time, even listening to it peripherally, the sound seemed to acquire a weight, as if it were a physical substance that bore down upon one. Duncan found himself wondering if it might be the weight of the wailing, pressing on the fen, that made it so flat and featureless. Nothing, he told himself, not even a watery wilderness such as this, could stand unaffected beneath the weight of the wailing for the world.

Ahead of him loomed a pile of rocks, another island, with those ahead of him clambering over it. He increased his stride, caught Andrew's arm, assisting him over the great slabs of riven stone. He found a flat slab that made a good seat and swung Andrew around and sat him down upon it.

“You stay here and rest,” he told him. “Don't move until I come to get you. You're all tuckered out.”

Andrew did not answer. He hunched up his knees, put his arms down on them and bent his head to rest it upon the folded arms.

Duncan clambered up the rocks and found the rest of the company on the other side, settling down to rest. He said to Snoopy, “I think we should hold up for a while. Everyone must be tired. Andrew is about played out.”

“So are the others,” Snoopy said. “Big and tough as he may be, Conrad has almost had it. That arm is hurting him a lot. You'll have to talk with Scratch. Reason with him a little. He's hell-bent for going on. That demon is all whang-leather. He doesn't know what tired is. He could keep on forever. He'll want to go on after we rest only for a short while.”

“What's his hurry?”

“I don't know. We must be better than halfway across by now. It is hard to judge. Everything looks the same here. There aren't any landmarks.”

“I'll talk with him. He may have a reason. Have you seen anything of Nan?”

Snoopy made a face. “I think she's gone.”

“You mean she left us?”

“I can't be sure, but I think maybe. She's not a good flyer. You know that. A flitterer rather than a flyer.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Over land, where she can come down anywhere or anytime she wishes, she wouldn't mind. But here, if she had to come down, there is nothing solid to set down on, only water. Banshees hate the water. Besides, there's danger here.”

“You mean the things that rushed us.”

“Well, yes, those. We're fairly safe from them so long as we are on the ledge. Here they can't get at us. The water is too shallow and they're too big. Otherwise, we'd have been gobbled up.”

“There are other dangers?”

Snoopy twitched his shoulder. “I don't know. Stories. There are all sorts of stories about the fen. No one knows about it and that's how the stories start. No one ventures into it.”

“And you think Nan is gone?”

“I think so. I don't know. She didn't tell me one way or the other.”

“Maybe she figured she had done enough for us.”

“That could be true,” said Snoopy.

Duncan worked his way down the island to the water's edge. There he found Scratch perched on a boulder. He hunkered down beside him.

“The folks are fairly well beat out,” he said. “Is there any reason we can't stay here until daylight, get some rest?”

“We should get across as fast as we can,” said Scratch. “Look ahead there.” He pointed and Duncan peered in the direction he was pointing. “See those peaks over there? Three peaks. They are hard to make out.”

Duncan shook his head. “I'm not sure I can. One minute I think I see something and the next I don't.”

“The peaks are the Island of the Wailing for the World.”

“The place where the dragons are.”

“That's exactly it,” said Scratch. “They may not see us in the dark. Dragons maybe can see in the dark. I'm not sure. But if so, not very well. If we could reach the island before dawn we might not have too bad a time with them. But if they spot us open in the water and we still have a long way to go they'll peck us to death; they'll get us one by one.”

“We'd have a better chance if we were on the island that they guard?”

“Yes, a better chance. They couldn't fly at us. They've got a big wingspread and they can't get in close to the island's rocky crags. They'll come at us, of course, on the ground, but they'll be easier to handle there. Kill a couple of them and the others may sheer off. Basically dragons are a cowardly lot.”

“Then you think we should push ahead?”

“What's to hold us up?”

“Andrew is on his last legs. Conrad is hurting a lot and is getting shaky.”

“Put one of them on the horse.”

“Meg already is riding Daniel. She doesn't weigh much more than a feather, of course, but I'd hate to put more weight on him. I'd hate to tire him out. He's the best fighter that we have. When it comes time to face the dragons, I want him there and able to fight the best he can.”

“My lord,” said Scratch, “I think it is important that we make a try to reach that island not later than dawn.”

“Once we get to the wailing island, how much farther across the fen?”

“A short distance. A mile or so. It's hard by the western shore.”

“From the island we could make a run for the shore despite the dragons?”

“If they saw us leaving the island they might not be after us so hard. Their job is to guard the island. Leaving it, we'd no longer be a threat. I think it might work out that way. I'm just guessing.”

From overhead came a soft rustling. Duncan looked up and saw Ghost floating in.

“I bring sad tidings,” said Ghost. “The unexpected has come about.” He paused dramatically.

“All right,” said Duncan. “Quit your silly posing, catch your breath, and dump all the misery on us.”

“My breath I do not need to catch,” said Ghost. “As you well know, I have no breath to catch. And I have no intent to dump misery on anyone at all. I only tell you truth.”

“Then out with it,” said Duncan impatiently. “Tell us this great truth.”

“The Horde has ceased its northward progress and has turned back,” said Ghost. “It is encamped on the western shore opposite the wailing island and its components are beginning to form into a massive sphere.”

“My God,” said Duncan, “a swarm. They are starting to form a swarm.”

“A swarm?” asked Ghost.

“Yes, a swarm.” Duncan turned to Scratch. “You told me about their swarming habits.”

“I told you what I'd heard,” said Scratch.

“A defensive swarming, you said. Gaining strength by personal, almost one-to-one contact of all the members of the Horde. A pulling together. A gathering to face danger.”

“That,” said Scratch, “was the interpretation I had heard put upon it.”

“Against us, for the love of God,” said Duncan.

“If any of this that I earlier told you is true,” said the demon, “I would assume the defense would have to be against us. We're the only possible danger around.”

“Cuthbert told me the Horde was running scared,” said Duncan. “He had no idea of what it might be scared. But why should they be scared of us? They have faced us and beaten us. We have fled repeatedly from them. What danger do we pose?”

“There is ample evidence of their fear of you,” said Ghost. “They have never really come against you, not the members of the Horde. Only a few of them, a half-dozen at the most. They have sent the hairless ones against you and the hairless ones may not even be members of the Horde. They may be no more than beings created by their magic—foot soldiers, the carriers-out of orders who may not have the sense to know of fear.”

“What the ghost says is true,” the demon said. “If the Horde had no fear of you, you'd have been dead days ago.”

“What do you do now?” asked Ghost. “They lie in wait for you.”

“We can't retreat,” said Duncan. “We've come too far to think of turning back. The quicker we get across the fen, the quicker we'll confront them. We may be able to slip past them. I don't know. The one thing we can't do is give them time. It may take them a while to complete the swarming.”

“When you face them, what will you do?” asked Ghost. “My shrunken soul, if I still have any soul at all, shrinks even further at the thought of it.”

“We'll do what we can,” said Duncan. “Maybe when we face them we'll know what we should do.”

He leaped to his feet.

“Be ready to show us the way,” he said to Scratch. “We are going on, right now.”

29

The wailing had become louder and heavier—heavier in the sense that it seemed to press down harder on the earth and water and all those things that lived or traveled on the land and water, as if a great invisible hand, with its palm spread wide, was pushing down, squeezing all that lay beneath it.

Conrad stumbled and pitched forward, his hand slipping from Duncan's shoulder, which it had been gripping for support. Duncan thrust himself forward and sidewise in an attempt to block Conrad's fall and got one arm around him, but it slipped away, and the impact of the big man's fall shoved them both into the water.

It was the third time Conrad had fallen since they had started the grueling drive to reach the wailing island before dawn set in. On several other occasions Duncan had been able to catch him soon enough to prevent a fall.

Now Duncan struggled up out of the water and by hauling and shoving got Conrad on his knees. The big man snorted and coughed, spitting out the water he had swallowed.

“M'lord,” he wheezed, “why not go on without me?”

“Because we started this together,” said Duncan, “and we are, by God, finishing it together.”

Conrad struggled up, stood swaying on his feet.

“It's the arm,” he said. “The pain of it has drained my strength. I am shaken by a fever. Go ahead. I can follow after. On hands and knees, if need be, but I'll follow after.”

“I'll carry you if I have to.”

“M'lord, you can't carry me. It would be like carrying a horse.”

“Or drag you by the heels,” said Duncan.

“Where's my club?” asked Conrad.

“Snoopy's carrying it.”

“It's too heavy for Snoopy. He might drop it and it could float away from him.”

“Look,” said Duncan. “There's the wailing island, dead ahead of us. A half a mile away. That's as far as we have to go. And we'll get there in time. There's no sign of dawn as yet.”

“Where are the dragons?” Conrad asked. “There should be dragons. Scratch said so. I heard him say it.”

“Come on,” commanded Duncan. “Get your legs moving. Get going. Grit your teeth and move. Lean on me.”

“It's not right I should lean on you, m'lord.”

“Goddamn it, lean on me,” yelled Duncan.

Conrad lurched forward, leaning heavily on Duncan, breathing hard, shivering and shaky. Step by step they inched themselves along.

They had fallen a little behind the others, but not by much. The line of march was moving slowly. Everyone was worn down by this terrible trek across the fen, Duncan told himself. Somewhere near the head of the line, Diane was shepherding Andrew along, keeping him awake, keeping him from falling, keeping him going.

So far there had been no sign of dragons. Maybe, Duncan told himself, there would not be any dragons. Although that, he knew, was more than one could hope for.

If only the wailing would stop, he thought, stop at least for a minute to give one a slight breathing space. The wailing and the pressure, the sense of the weight of wailing bearing down upon one, the pressure that held the fen tideless and motionless, flat and calm, a great palm pressed against the water.

Then, for some reason that he didn't know, in an intuition that came to him as unquestioned truth, an intelligence that suddenly blossomed in his brain, he knew that it was not the wailing alone that was pressing down upon him, but the misery of the world—all the misery and hate, all the terror, all the pain and guilt—somehow collected, drawn from all the peoples of the world and concentrated here, funneling down upon this island just ahead, to present itself, to make the force of itself known. As if, he thought, here all the people of the world were coming to confessional, seeking the solace and the comfort that might be gained from such a rite, and, perhaps, getting it, in at least some degree, from the wailing that came off the island. Were the misery and guilt, the pain and terror, he wondered, here converted into wailing and given to the winds to be swept away?

It was a stunning knowledge and he fought against it, for it was horrible, it was unreasonable and not possible, it was unseemly that such a thing could be—shameless, an obscenity, a barbarity. It was a wonder, he thought, that the island did not writhe in throes of agony, that the fen did not steam and boil under the impact of this stream of misery.

And yet, struggle as he might against this unbidden knowledge, he knew it to be true, and knowing this, the pressure seemed greater and more oppressive, more unrelenting than it had been before.