The Last Guardian of Everness (War of the Dreaming 1) (30 page)

There was an open window right in front of her, and a grinning, whiskered seal face peered in; smiling with sharp teeth, it made an affable gesture with its webbed hand. “Here, me pretty!”

Wendy shrieked and ran back another way, shouting for Raven.

She came out upon a balcony overlooking a roof.

The balcony extended along the south wing up to an open door in the distance through which she saw the tapestries and crows of the corridor she wanted. But she would have to pass along a gallery with nothing between her and the milling army in the courtyard below, not even a window, nothing except a line of posts holding up the overhanging roof.

A titanic, robed figure stepped over the building into the courtyard, far vaster than the giant of fire, vast as outer space. Her face was like a woman’s face, but made of iron; in her hands was a flail made of shackles and chains. Behind her, wading through the sea, another vast, hooded shape came, holding a lantern of trapped small lights (like the light she had seen once in Galen’s hand) and carrying a great sickle.

In another step, the dread figure was on the other side of the house.

Wendy hid the lamp in her pocket and started creeping along the balcony, one cautious step at a time. She held her breath and tiptoed, one step, another. . .

“Hoy mates, there she be!”

At once a great clamor arose, shouts and yells and laughter. Wendy broke into a run, screaming Raven’s name. She wondered why none of the monsters in the courtyard shot at her, even though some of the knights had bows, and some of the seals dressed up as pirates had flintlock pistols and muskets.

She was about halfway along the gallery when the screams and shouts fell hushed. Wendy tried to run faster, but now her stocking feet were hurting on the cold boards, and her breath was coming short.

In the silence, she heard a sad, pained whinny.

The Wizard wearing Galen’s body came silently down out of the sky on the back of a winged colt and landed on the roof the balcony overlooked, almost directly between her and her goal. In one hand he held a broomstick for a staff; a sheet of imperial purple swathed his shoulders. On his necklace, he carried amulets of power.

Wendy skidded to a stop, eyes wide.

The Wizard dismounted. Wendy saw the dream-colt had been cruelly used, her head tied tightly with black straps, her flanks cut and bleeding from marks of spurs and whip. The colt looked up, and her eyes were the sad, lavender color of the unicorn’s eyes.

Wendy’s sudden anger and pity for the beast gave her courage.

She straightened up and drew out her lamp; holding the unicorn horn like a sword, she walked forward, even though her legs were shaking. She walked toward the Wizard.

The same voice that had spoken from the picture now came from Galen’s mouth. His burning eyes were so magnetic, so penetrating, that Wendy wondered how anyone had been fooled for a moment into thinking this was Galen.

“Young one, what is in your hand is mine. Do you doubt I have a claim?”

Wendy, coming closer, saw that he was not standing on the balcony itself,
but had his feet still on the rooftop next to it. She would have to walk by him to get to the door, but he was not actually blocking her path.

“You have no claim!” Wendy said. “Get lost!”

“You don’t mind, at least, if we discuss the matter? You surely wish to learn where your young husband is?” And he started to step forward between the posts.

“No!” she cried. “We have nothing to discuss! I don’t want to talk to you!”

He drew his foot back casually, but Wendy saw it tremble as if it had been stung, and she laughed.

And she walked by him, so close he could have reached out and touched her, but he did not. Her footsteps shook at first, then grew more firm, and she walked right past him.

Now he started walking along the roof, an arm’s length away from her, even with her steps. He could have reached out and grabbed her shoulder, but he did not.

“I bring you a gift. . .”

“Don’t want it!”

“You have entered my house without permission . . .”

“Have not! It’s not yours anymore!”

“I will depart, young miss, if you apologize, at least, for . . .”

She turned on him, eyes blazing, and said, “The bird which holds your name will not come to your hand again when you call!”

A look of grief and horror twisted his face, and he actually staggered back, dropping the broomstick, one hand clutching his stomach, one hand touching his face.

Wendy ran to the door, but she heard the noise of a dry sob behind her. At the door she turned.

Azrael stood only a few feet away, straightening up again, a look of cold pride smothering whatever moment of remorse had stung him. In a cruel and kingly voice, he cried out, “All I have done is for the betterment of
mankind! I defy the gods and curse them! Their spirits and angels shall be the slaves of men as we were once their slaves!”

Wendy said back, “I know men like you! I’ll bet you did it for no one but yourself!”

“A wager! I accept it. I shall collect at a time and fashion of my own choosing, as the world shall witness.” And he stepped onto the balcony, reached out toward her with one hand, the other touching his necklace.

The colt behind him spoke in a voice like a woman’s voice: “Deny him the threshold of the door.”

And Wendy skipped back into the open doors. “I declare the balcony is outside the house! You can’t come over this threshold here, or any other door or window or chimney or opening into the house!”

The colt said, “Call upon the spirits of the world to witness.”

Azrael grabbed his necklace. “Euryale, be silent, I compel you by the ancient names that bind you.”

Wendy said, “Spirits of the world, witness this: the one the Unicorn named Azrael can’t come into the house, or send anything! Not at any time, nor by any means!”

Azrael said, “By what authority do you speak?” He stepped up to the door, but did not step in.

Behind him, the colt shook her head vigorously.

“I don’t have to answer you!” Wendy said, stamping her foot.

Azrael smiled cruelly. “Perhaps not. But I have servants from the waking world, men not bound by laws of magic. They are even now upon you. Listen.”

Downstairs somewhere and far away, she heard booted feet kicking open a door, and shouts. “Open up! Federal agents! Everyone here is under arrest! Fan out! Secure the area! The subjects are armed and dangerous, so shoot on sight!”

A second voice, farther away, but still clear: “Follow them. We get the things, we get the cash. Let the cops go first and get shot. We’re just here to party. Kill the men, rape the women.”

From another part of the house came the sound of breaking glass, and strange voices, slurred and intoxicated, lifted in song, and, with them, a third voice: “Forward, children, for the Dark Messiah commands! Hallelu- jah!”The house echoed with shouts.

“I will protect you from them. And I will safely find and restore to you your missing husband,” said Azrael, eyes glittering. And he extended his hand.

“Yield unto me the Silver Key.”

“Never!” she cried, and fled away down the corridor.

18

Battle Before
the
High House

I

It was still dark, though pink clouds foretold dawn. Raven and Peter were on the main drive leading to the house, rows of trees, whispering in the night wind, to either side. In the distance, the High House rose.

There were fires about the house; someone had laid torch to the arbors. Boiling black smoke rushed up from the garden walls, and leaping flames were spreading to the south wing.

Here, the grass was bare of snow, as if it had only snowed near where the frost-giant walked. Raven crouched on the grass, Peter’s flashlight in hand. He pointed.

“Three groups of men, coming here. First group wears boots and march; second group wears expensive sneakers, and they saunter and swagger
like frightened men trying to look grand; third group are mixture of men and women, wearing long robes that brush the ground, and their leader wears slippers. He is older; bad feet. Third group walks slowly in a line. Some of them are swaying as they walk.”

Now Raven pointed. “Third group goes toward north wing, there. Twenty men, five women. Second group goes south wing, there. Ten men. First group goes straight ahead down this road. Thirty-five men, two of them carrying heavy burdens. If I was having more light, I could tell you more.”

“God, I wish I had had a man like you when I was out on patrol.”

“Also, there, a group of tracks leaves main body. Six men go off, seven men come back. New man is young, wearing sneakers, has robe or cape which brushes the ground, walks with a walking stick. But he walks, you know, stately. He is leader. Is Azrael.”

Peter said, “We can’t just go straight in if they left a perimeter patrol. But we’re dealing with a mixed command, probably not in radio contact with each other, and they’re attacking a fortified position.”

“Your house is fortified?”

“No, but if they’re smart they’ll act like it is. That means their attention will be forward; they’ll be trying to stop people from getting out, not people from getting in. Also, if their communication is bad, their fronts may overlap or have gaps. We gotta find one of those gaps. We should try the spot between the north and east wing, a place called the Chamber of Middle Dreaming. There’s an entrance there, but it’s not a main door, where, my guess is, the enemy will be concentrating their firepower.”

“You forget, though. Azrael or Galen know house as well as you know.”

To their right, south of the house, silhouetted between themselves and the spreading flames, they saw something huge walking slowly—something gigantic, with torches in either hand.

Raven doused the light.

Peter drew out his gun and swore. “I can’t get ‘em without giving away our position.” He gestured off through the chest-high bushes.

“Let’s go that way. If you’re strong enough to get me through the brush, do it. Otherwise, leave me, and I’ll get to the house on my own.”

“Ha! Strength is one thing I do not lack!” And he picked up the wheelchair, Peter and all, and crashed though the bushes.

He pushed the wheelchair across the lawn but could not travel at any very quick rate, and the wheels became tangled as they sank into the long grass.

Peter said, “Leave me. I’m slowing you up.”

Raven heard the slight tremor in his voice as he said it, as if this admission were the most difficult and heartbreaking to utter.

Raven said, “I—”

Then he heard a scream from the house, his wife’s voice, calling his name.

“Sorry, Peter!” And he sprinted away.

“Damn you! Take the gun!” Peter shouted. And then he clapped his hand over his mouth.

Running over the lawns to the north of the house, Raven made no more noise than a leaf blowing across the grass. He vaulted over a low wall with a swirl of his cape, landing in the garden beyond, out of Peter’s sight.

There was a movement in the shadows near Peter, a rustling from the bushes behind him. But Raven had disappeared with the lantern, and he could not see what was coming.

II

In the garden, near the garden gate, Raven came across tracks of six men going one direction, seven men the other. Here was where Azrael had met the leaders from the three groups.

He risked a moment of light, saw tangled and bloody leaves. Strange. Here were additional tracks, converging on the first set; creatures with webbed claws, or wearing square-toed, ill-fitting shoes. From the way the
weight was distributed in the shoe print, Raven knew whatever foot had been forced into these shoes was not human. These creatures had come stealthily upon the group with Azrael, meeting them in the grove beyond the rhododendron bushes.

There were tiny hoofprints also, as if from a deer which appeared in the middle of the dirt path, prints appearing as if the deer had come out of nowhere. Raven looked again and found small spots of rich purple blood in the dirt, but no other deer tracks leading up or leading away; Azrael’s track led away from the place the deer appeared; but not toward. Another mystery.

He doused the light, crept forward, parted the bushes before him.

He saw a black, narrow shadow dressed in dead man’s bones, stinking of grave dirt, crowned with severed hands. Koschei’s back was toward Raven, and Koschei was bent over the bloody, skinless corpses of six men strewn in pools of fresh blood across the grass.

The men’s veins and muscles stood out on their flayed flesh, and blood welled up from between their bones and organs. The corpses were heaped in postures of agony and terror, as they had been when they died.

There were lights like the glimmer of fireflies coming from Koschei’s hand. This and the light from the pinpoints of his eyes were the only light illuminating the scene. Raven, from his angle, could see twin circles of pale, ghastly light caressing the corpses, shining wherever Koschei turned his head.

With his fingernail, Koschei slit open a dead man’s leg and drew out the thighbone, which he began to attach to the breastplate of his armor.

He bent down and began to slice open the man’s chest with long, smooth strokes of his fingernails.

“Cold! Always so cold . . .” The hissing, solemn voice murmured to itself: “Why should they have the warmth of their marrowbones inside them? Why does that warmth never sink into me? I need more bones. More bones. The bones of the little Wendy girl are rich with warmth and joy . . .I must have their living warmth to cloak me from my infinite, deep cold. . .”

Another voice from the small trees opposite: “Ar! Ye jackal! No cloak can warm you when your bones are ice.”

A manlike creature came forth from the trees, carrying a bloody burden. He was dressed in a seaman’s coat of splendid cut, with double rows of glinting buttons climbing his broad chest and crossed twin sashes holding cutlass and flintlock. Atop his powered wig he wore an admiral’s bicorne hat with a ruff of feathers along the crest. He had a whiskered face of black fur, eyes of a beast, white, sharp teeth.