The Vistor

  He had time to remember it fully while the demon holding him grew huge and tall, like a tree three thousand years in the growing. The general was carried high above the fray as Fortrees grew, mighty as a tower. The general could not fathom what was happening to him. Sandbur had been the orphan boy. Sandbur had been the little follower, the nothing. Sandbur? Come to this? What was this?

  "I am Tchandbur for the Trees," the giant demon whispered. "One of the Guardians, Gowl. I was begot to be what I am. I was named to be what I am, chosen first and named first, and you were moved to call me by that name from the beginning, Gowl. You were a tool in god's hands. I was put under your tutelage to learn what you had to teach me, which was to be wary of men's friendship and their words. Are you going to apologize to me, Gowl?"

  "Apologize?" Gowl howled. "For what. We went on an outing. You were caught, I wasn't. Why should I apologize..."

  "Oh, Gowl. So old to be so much a boastful child still. What shall I do with you, Gowl?"

  "Oh, Fortrees, Fortrees, just put me down, put me down..."

  "Gladly," said the Guardian, doing so from a very great height, then placing his foot firmly on what he had dropped. He turned and trudged away to the south while the other Guardians watched, amazed.

  "Who?" asked Bobly.

  "Tchandbur," said Bertral disapprovingly, as he looked up from his book. "Not summoned here, not needed here, merely divagating on private business."

  "Is that in the book?" whispered Dismé.

  "It seems everything is in the book," said Bertral. "And it changes, day by day."

  The squashing of the general signalled a widespread and disorderly retreat by the army, though the silver shapes still pursued.

  "Thus endeth our war against Bastion?" whispered the doctor.

  Dismé shook her head, saying sadly, "Thus endeth one battle. Only one. Think what the small god said, Brother Jens. There are many devils."

  Gowl's horse and those of his slain officers were running free on the prairie. There was no sign of their riders.

  The doctor murmured, "I'll wager Bishop Lief Laron took himself back to Bastion some time ago."

  "Bastion is hell," said Dismé. "Why would he go there."

  "Because he belongs there," said the doctor. "For a little time."

  The silver warriors were halfway up the second ridge to the east.

  Dismé turned to Wolf. "Can you call them back?"

  "Do you want them called back?" Wolf asked, curiously. "It seems to me they're doing a good job."

  "There has been enough slaughter," she replied. "Many of those men are as much victims as murderers. Call them back, now." She searched the surrounding land with her eyes. Somewhere here were the ones who were needed. Certainly they would always be at the site of any battle. Eventually she found them, three tiny figures dwarfed by the flayed and dismembered body of the ogre.

  "Tell your creatures to go there," Dismé said, pointing at the ogre's corpse. "Tell them to go there quietly, and just stand there, don't kill anyone else."

  Wolf took a small silver box from his belt, flipped it open, and keyed in a command. The far-off figures, all but one, slowed, turned, and trudged back in the direction they had come. Wolf cursed, keyed in a specific number, then the command again, and this time the lonely silver figure stopped, turned, and came toward them with lagging feet.

  He said, "The others are fighting at command, but that one loves to kill."

  "Have them go farther right," said Dismé, tonelessly, as the silver fighters neared. "Where those three people are, next to the ogre's body."

  "Who?" said the doctor, turning. "Oh. Of course."

  They watched silently as the silver figures came to the ogre's corpse and arranged themselves silently in ranks. The three Guardians there went among them, touching them. Even at the great distance, Dismé saw the green fire, and then the thin, white smoke.

  "Who are they? What are they doing?" asked Wolf.

  "Rankivian. Shadua. Yun." said Dismé. "They are releasing your captives."

  "They aren't captives," complained Wolf. "And you can't release them. There isn't enough left of them to exist outside the shells..."

  "She knows," said the doctor, expressionlessly. "Believe me, she knows."

  All three of the distant figures were gathered around one of the silver warriors, the last one to arrive. Dismé felt a tickling summons in her mind. She went off down the hill, both Michael and the doctor hurrying to catch up to her. The ogre's body was not far away. As the wind shifted, they caught a momentary whiff, which made their eyes smart and their throats catch.

  Shadua, looking up, saw their reaction and went at one to lay her hand upon the mountain of oozing flesh. It exploded into leaping black flames that melted the body like wax, and in moments only a pile of ash remained beneath the charred bones on a darkly stained patch of soil, the ashes already blowing away among the grasses,

  "You called me?" asked Dismé, wearily.

  "This one," said Rankivian. "All the others chose to die, but not this one. This one chooses nothing."

  "Can you find out who it is?" asked the doctor.

  "It says only one name, over and over. Your name: Dismé, Dismé. It hates you. It wants to kill you. But it has no volition. It can do only what it is told. If told to hate and kill, it does it with enjoyment. If told to do anything else, it will obey."

  "Then order her to tell us her name."

  They turned their attention back to the silver form, intent upon it. Shadua said imperatively, "Tell us your name."

  Mechanically, the being answered. "Nemesis of Gone..."

  Dismé said, "What was your name before you were Nemesis."

  "Rashel was my name."

  Dismé stared at the shining carapace, her own image reflected in it, a distorted personage that grimaced like a clown. What a vengeance! Rashel had hated and feared Gohdan Gone. He had done to her as he did to all his servants. And then...

  She asked, "What was the potion Old Ben gave this woman, Jens?"

  "I don't know what was in it," he said, "but you know it was meant for you. The power in it came from Gone, not from the stuff itself. I took it to the clinic and put it away where I thought it would be safe ... I knew it was evil, but I had no idea what it would do..." He fell silent, realizing Dismé was no longer listening.

  "A potion meant for me. One made by Rashel, at the command of Gohdan Gone. Because I was a Latimer. As, it turns out, we all are, all of us. Guardians." She looked over the doctor's shoulder at Wolf, who was approaching, but still at some distance.

  "Rashel," she said quickly to the silver form. "Who is Gohdan Gone? Is he dead?"

  "A servant of the Fell," said the metallic voice. "The Fell is not dead. The Fell is not here to die."

  They felt a chill, as though a harsh wind had blown across them. Dismé asked, "What is the Fell?"

  "The Fell is in the book, greater than ... greater than ... greater than any being here."

  Dismé checked Wolf's progress again and said quickly, "Rashel, I order you to choose to die."

  For a long moment nothing happened. The three fingered hands clicked and clicked, the knife edge extending as though in longing. The optics in the silver face glowed.

  "It's either that or imprisonment forever. I order you, choose to die," said Dismé again, eyes fixed on Wolf who was very near.

  "I choose to die," said Rashel.

  Shadua put her hand upon the silver figure and a fine white smoke came from a grilled opening near the neck. Dismé turned and started back toward the others, Michael and the doctor still at her side. They passed Wolf, who went by them purposefully on his way to his silver army.

  "He'll be angry when he finds they are dead," said the doctor.

  "Very," agreed Michael. "So will all of Chasm, even if they get their hardware back."

  As they passed the amorphous scattering that had been Gohdan Gone, Dismé lingered beside it. The stuff of it was leaking slowly into the sand. A thin w
hining came from it. She stooped to hear it better and made out the words. "Fell is not dead; sing while you can."

  She knew in her heart she could defeat Gone, had defeated Gone, but evidently Gone had been only part of the evil. The Fell still lived. Somewhere. After a moment, she rejoined the others at the bottom of the butte where they were saddling the horses and hitching the wagon. Nell, Arnole and the little people slowly gathered around them.

  "Are we finished here?" Michael asked.

  Nell nodded. "Except for your friend there. He looks upset."

  Wolf was storming back toward them, his anger palpable.

  "What in hell have you done?" he shouted as he approached.

  "I told you," said Dismé, when he was near enough to hear her speak quietly. "We released your captives. What you had out there in those silver shells is the same thing Bastion had in the bottles. It doesn't matter if they fight for us or against us, what's kept there is pain, and Gohdan Gone can feed off it just as he could the ouphs."

  "Ouphs?" said Wolf.

  "The spirits of those who had their patterns kept alive in bottles. Not full-fledged ghosts, just meager spirits, but taken all together, they felt enough pain to feed that monster."

  "You're talking magic again," snarled Wolf. "Those warriors had no pain. We gave them pleasure, great pleasure."

  She shook her head. "If you could not detect the evil, you weren't looking for it. They hated and they were in captivity. Hate is pain, captivity is pain, even when the hater is euphorized into accepting it. If you could not detect the ouphs, you were not looking for them. Just because you can't see it, doesn't mean it isn't there. As for magic, yes, I may be talking magic from time to time, but then, I am the temporary servant of only a small and temporary god."

  "We saw your small god," sneered Wolf. "The way we at Chasm figure it, you had a collective hallucination. You only thought you saw and heard it, but your dobsi picked up on what you thought you sensed."

  Dezmai turned on him, took him by the shoulder and grinned fiercely at him. "I call upon my sister, Volian, Guardian of the Air," she cried, keeping her eyes fixed on Wolf's face so the dobsi would catch it all and send the image to every demon within reach. "May he fly until the sun sets. I call upon my brothers, Hussara of Earth and Wogalkish of the Waters. May dust devils annoy him and rain pour upon him, and may he hear the ridicule of Jiralk the Joyous throughout his suspension."

  She picked up a stone and threw it high into the air, so that it fell sharply on the drumhead, creating a resonance that carried Wolf aloft and spun him face down, slowly, staring at them from widely opened eyes as the sound went on, and on, and on, and laughter rang in his ears. Lightning split a cloud that began to move in their direction. Small dust devils began to collect.

  "Magic," whispered the doctor.

  Nell said tiredly, "Arnole told me once that sufficient power would look like magic to a person who didn't have it. If we are to believe the little god, the power is hers, not ours, or perhaps it is the natural power of Tamlar's kinfolk. Do I need to say I don't feel like a Guardian of anything at the moment? My children seem to have taken to it better than I."

  "Let's head back to Trayford," said Arnole. "They may need our help in dealing with the remnants of the army. Whether they do or not, we need some time to ourselves."

  He helped Nell onto the wagon seat. Camwar, Bobly, and Bab climbed into the wagon bed behind them. Michael lifted Dismé onto her horse, then mounted his own as the doctor had already done.

  "Tamlar," called Nell. "Will you come with us?"

  "I will come when you need me," she replied. "But now I will help Shadua dispose of all this carnage."

  "Burn it well," called Dezmai. "Be sure none is left for either Chasm or the Fell to use."

  Camwar turned to take a last look at his great drum. "I know it's too large to move," he confessed. "But, I will miss working on it." Then he smiled at Dismé. "You will need others, however. Smaller ones that will not take so long. I brought you a sample," and he took from the wagon bed a set of three small drums, set into a curved frame that fit over the pommel of the saddle.

  They rode eastward, up the rises and into the troughs, toward the distant mountains. As they crested one of the ridges, they saw the flying machines from Chasm returning to the field. They stopped long enough to look through the glasses at the pilots of these machines gathered by the great drum, peering into the air above it where Wolf still revolved, around and around.

  Later, as the sun was setting, they heard one brief drum roll from behind them.

  "He fell. He bounced," said Dismé, with a small, self-satisfied smile. "Dead snake."

  Jiralk, Michael, erupted into laughter which sped away like the wind along their back trail. "You didn't kill him, did you," he cried.

  "Of course not. I was just returning the insult he gave me."

  "And what now?" Michael asked her.

  Dismé reached out her hands to Michael and the doctor. "Bastion, I think. We know the devil there. We know what he eats. Maybe we can smoke him out. Maybe we can find out more about... the other thing."

  "You think we'll have access to our ... counterparts to do that?" the doctor asked.

  "I said we," Dismé said, smiling ruefully to herself. "I didn't necessarily mean them, though I admit they're useful. Then, after Bastion, maybe other places for the same reason. And after that, to meet our brethren, those who live in the forest and the sea..."

  Nell remarked from the wagon. "I knew there was a reason to come out of the redoubt. Also, if we're stopping in Trayford, I'd like to find Alan. I promised him I would. And poor Jackson. I suppose he's in Chasm. Perhaps I can visit him there."

  There was silence for a time, except for the creaking of the wagon, until Bobly asked Arnole:

  "How many Guardians are there in the book, Arnole?"

  "Twenty-one. We know some of them only by name, Ushel, for instance, and Geshlin."

  "And how many stones were there?"

  "Twenty, one for each Guardian but Tamlar."

  "But Bab and I only used up one," she said. "So if you count us as two..."

  "As you certainly should," said Bab.

  "...there should be twenty-two Guardians."

  "Odd," Arnole said thoughtfully. "You're right, of course. I wonder who that could be?"

  No one had an answer. Camwar drew a long-necked stringed instrument from his baggage in the wagon and began to make a gentle music in time with the horses' hooves. Dismé touched the drums and then stroked them, bim, bom, and boom: tinky tunk, tiddle, tunk tunk. Jiralk began to sing, Dezmai joined him, and for a time, they rejoiced, while unseen far behind them the fortress of the small god emerged once more, silently from the grasses.

  46

  nell latimer's journal

  Alan and I are living in a large apartment in the Fortress of Bastion. It used to belong to General Gowl, and it has access to the roof garden the general built to reward his wife for giving him a son. Gowl's wife, son, and unmarried daughters are now living on a farm somewhere in Praise, learning to raise sheep. Dismé wanted them moved completely out of Bastion, but the doctor preferred to have them where he could keep an eye on them until we start separating the sheep from the goats.

  We returned to Bastion by way of Trayford. The town had escaped any serious depredations by the army, which had pretty well scattered to the points of the compass, along with most of their leaders, including the bishop. Alan was there waiting for me, along with Hussara, Volian, and Wogalkish. I've forgotten the names they had before, though they told me, and when the huge, hairy bulk of Hussara hugged me to his chest and called me Mother, I was ... a little put out. I cannot yet think of them as my children. Hussara is a very big man, wide-shouldered, with great muscled arms and legs. Wogalkish is built like a swimmer, very lean and fit and androgynic, and Volian is a graceful woman with white hair and light blue eyes, slender but tremendously strong. We stayed in Trayford just long enough to tell several demons what w
as intended and ask them to spread the word to the people of Bastion and the surrounding area.

  From Trayford, we went north by wagon. Dismé and I traveled in the same small wagon, spending most of the time in talk. Of them all, I think she will be closest to me for she feels like a daughter whereas the others feel like ... creatures out of myth, too strange to humanize. Oh, except for Arnole. And Michael. And the doctor, sometimes. I told Dismé a lot about the world before the Happening, and after we had established a friendly relationship, Dismé told me what the small god had told her at the end of our audience. The god said none of the Guardians had any deleterious genes, and therefore any cultural taboo against brother-sister sexual alliances had no meaning. The small god had taken my embryos, yes, but she had made sure they carried nothing hurtful.

  I spoke supportingly to Dismé about this, telling her that what is is no doubt more important than what people think. She replied, rather pettishly, I thought, that Arnole had told her that years ago. Nonetheless, believing that Dismé might be too shy to mention this to Michael—she seems to be totally inexperienced in such matters—I told the doctor and I presume he spoke to Michael about it, for on several occasions, I've seen Michael talking quietly to Dismé, and no one could mistake the message in his eyes. Or hers.

  The trip over the mountains was uneventful, except that on the third day, we began to encounter refugees streaming out of Bastion. Most of them were on foot because the horsemen had taken their stock out of Bastion earlier, about the time Dismé and the others came out. Throughout the fourth and fifth days, the exodus continued, but by dawn of the sixth day we crossed the pass on virtually empty roads. At that point, Bertral, Galenor, Hussara, and Wogalkish went into conference, that silent sharing of views the inhabitants do when they take us over.

  We camped at the pass, for we arrived there late in the day, not far from the great black scar on the meadow of Ogre's Gap, where the pyre had burned the bodies of the dead. There was a scatter of bones, pulled from the ashes by small beasts. When we woke in the morning, Tamlar had arrived amid a good bit of smoke, and the bones were gone. I imagine her fires burn a good deal hotter than any the demons could set. Besides Tamlar, there was a wan and wistful-looking man sitting on a log, waiting like a patient hound, and Tamlar said he had come to tell us something.