The Last Guardian of Everness (War of the Dreaming 1) (25 page)

He removed his human face and let the night wind from the window caress his black fur. Tilting back his narrow head, he blew an airy smoke ring toward the roof.

Even if the call came tonight (and, to be sure, he thought it might), his people had enough men for a small operation. They would look like soldiers of the United States, and they would wear such a uniform and fly such a flag. Most of the men in the unit, so far, were men like Furlough, who had sold their souls and knew it, and knew they were traitors to the uniform they wore. But some of the stupider ones, men like Cooke, might convince themselves that they were still somehow soldiers loyal to their country.

That was the way of his people: to have foe fight foe, brother kill brother, man slay man. The innocent would either have to kill the innocent or be killed in his turn. That was what made it so delicious! Whether the traitors knew they were traitors or not, the people whom they shot would die just as dead, and every honest man in uniform would have his honor stained, and every man of goodwill would be more likely to mistrust those whom he had the most need of trusting: that was the way.

VII

Later, by certain signs he had been told, he knew to expect a visitation. When the Moon went behind a cloud, black shadows filled the barren room where he was. He felt a cool touch of fear, and he knew that this was due to looking at the darkness with mortal eyes. He peeled his human face from his black fur.

Thin and skeletal, armored in bone, the tall black shadow loomed in the corner farthest from the window, as if it had always been there.

“Aye?” Mocklear growled.

A cold voice came forth: “Tonight. The White Hart Slayer is risen.”

“And the Watchman? If they blow that damned horn . . .” but his voice choked with fear at the thought, and he could not finish. He did not want to be burned alive, forever, in the pitiless and shining Light.

The unliving and unbreathing voice continued: “The Horn is in the House that only mortal man can enter. Have you your mortal men?”

“Men I have, men most mortal. Where?”

“Maine. You know the place?”

“Ha har, Old Bones. Every shipwreck sunk by a nor’easter, I know. Every rock where pale sailors’ wives waited in vain for their men to return from the bitter waves, I know. Where the wall between waking and nightmare is thin, there I know best of all.”

“Then gather your men there, men unbound by the laws of magic, and put the cold iron weapons of men in their hands. Wentworth says.”

Wentworth! One of the Three who had journeyed in dream and spoken to the Warlock and lived. His would be a skin worth taking, once the Warlock had showered him with gifts but needed no more hard work from him.

For that was also the way of his people.

The moon came from behind the cloud, and the smell of grave soil lingered, but Koschei the Deathless was gone.

Donning his human face again, Mocklear picked up the phone on his
desk. With his furry paw (for his human gloves were off), he reached and touched one of the buttons on the phone, which winked like a firefly as it lit.

A sobbing voice answered. He gave the password and waited for the countersign.

Mocklear said, “There be some hard work and, aye, some danger I will need to face tonight. So I will wrap up my coat to put it in our drop spot. If ye yearn to see yer mate and yer pups again, you will do no disgrace to the name of Mac y Leirr!”

There was more weeping and crying and blustering, but eventually his stand-in was forced to agree. There was more talk and sobbing, threats and counterthreats, and the two agreed on signs and passwords for their next speaking.

“And mind ye well, lickspittle cur,” Mocklear said. “Brush ye up my coat all nice once ye are done wearing me good face! I’ll have no more funny tangles and cigarette burn spots in me fine coat! Ar! No tricks! If ye make me seem the fool again, by Setebos, I vow that day ye’ll rue!”

The pipe smoke tasted bitter in his mouth after that last call. There were times when Mocklear did not much care for the ways of his people.

14

The
Lantern
of the
Elves

I

Two men stood in a circle of yellow light cast by the doctor’s oil lamp, which he had placed on the floor at the foot of the suit of armor to the left of the door, the unrusted suit.

The doctor said, “If there is something in your hand, you have no reason not to show me. You are here as my guest, after all.”

Raven rumbled, “If you really are doctor, I am thinking, you have no reason not to tell who you really are. You know, since I am not knowing how you got into house here at all. Maybe you are drugging old man, no?”

“And perhaps, sir, you are a. . .” But he was interrupted. Both he and Raven looked through the door, which the doctor had left open, at the point of silver light that appeared in the distance.

Down the hall the light came, like an evening star seen through transparent mists, surrounded by a halo of radiance. As it approached, there came the sound of light, rapid footsteps.

Raven’s eyes were fixed down the hall, but he groped and grasped the doctor’s arm. “What is this thing we are seeing?” he asked in a hushed whisper.

“It is a supernatural effect,” said the doctor in a hoarse voice. “I do not know what it means. I know nothing about this cursed house and its secrets. Those who sent me do not take me into their confidences . . .”

The light came forward, and it was Wendy, smiling, running down the hall, black hair flying about her face, skirts flapping like wings. In her hands was a miniature lantern no taller than a woman’s smallest finger, with tiny square panes of glass and a lantern-ring too small to pass a finger through. Inside was a prism of crystal glowing with incandescent light, as if it were reflecting a light from some unseen source. She carried the tiny thing in the palm of her hand.

“Hi there!” called Wendy. “Don’t you recognize me? I’m
Wendy!”

“Young lady,” said the doctor, “where did you get that lamp?”

But Wendy was telling Raven: “. . . giants and seals and dead horses and everything! They’re all pounding on the walls! We’ve got to do something!”

And she turned to the doctor and said, “I was in the library. I think they should have kept it there instead so it wouldn’t hurt the books. See? No flame.” She held it up proudly.

“It is a fairy-lamp,” said the doctor, “from Alfhiem. It will not burn in mortal hands.”

“But there is nothing out there!” said Raven. “It is no more than storm wind and angry sea. What can we do to fight the sea waves, eh?”

“Find the magic!” she said to Raven impatiently, stamping her foot. Then, to the doctor: “Here! Catch!” And she tossed the little lantern at him.

The results were amazing. Quicker than a striking snake, too swift to see, he reached to the belt of the suit of armor hanging on the rack near the door, drew the sword, and parried the flying lamp in midair, batting it, rebounding, to the floor, ringing like fine crystal, burning like a falling star.

During that frozen instant, the doctor was poised as if weightless, coat- tails flying, glasses at their apogee on the end of their necklace, gleaming sword in one hand, the other hand back behind his shoulder in a gesture of elegant grace; his eyes were calm and deadly; his expression, for once, relaxed, handsome, alert.

The noise of metal on metal rang like a chime in the room and hung in the air a moment, lingering.

The next instant: the doctor stood embarrassed, his mouth open in surprise, dumbfounded, as if his perfect grace with a sword had been a reflex, a mistake. The miniature lantern rolled to rest near his feet.

Still distracted, now the doctor bent to pick up the silver light.

It went dark at his touch.

By the time he straightened, his old sardonic expression had returned, and, in the light from the oil lamp on the floor (which seemed dim and unclear in contrast), Wendy could see the little prim lines of bitterness reappearing around his mouth and nostrils.

“Well!” exclaimed Wendy. “I wasn’t expecting that!”

II

“Nor was I, my dear,” said the doctor in a dry tone. He handed the little lantern over to her.

“Then you’re human,” she said. A spot of light appeared within the lantern’s depth, faintly at first.

“Perhaps too much so,” he said dryly. “The magic here will not serve me; it knows me for a traitor and an oathbreaker.”

Raven said, “Who sent you? What. . . what are you?”

“A doctor, actually. And an accountant and a barrister and a sailor and a pipefitter. I was a priest before that, and a soldier, and oh, so very many things. I have many dreary lifetimes of useless skills to burden me. But now I must see to my charge.” And he turned his back to them and stepped toward the door.

“Wait!” Raven started to follow after him.

“You must stay and watch the patient, man!” the doctor said.

“Not unless you stay and answer questions, you know!” said Raven back.

“There is no time!” The doctor flourished the sword, pointing to the eastern windows. “The creatures of Nidhogg are upon us.”

Wendy said, “Three questions, then.”

“I beg your pardon . . . ?”

“Three questions, and we’ll help you on with your armor. This is yours isn’t it? There’s only one suit for north and south and east, but two for the west, and this other suit is rusted, not brand-new like this one.”

The doctor bowed, a courtly elegance. “Ask, my lady.” And he threw his cloak aside, gesturing toward the mail shirt.

Raven said, “Who sent you?” And he started to heave the mail shirt up over the man’s shoulders.

The gathering storm beat at the windows. There was a rumble of thunder.

“I was summoned down once again from the Tower in the Autumn Stars, where my lord lies sleeping, called by the coven of good witches who guard England from all invasions. Ouch! Not so hard, there. No, that’s for the arm. The coven are too old and feeble to come themselves. One is a file clerk in a small museum . . . pull the buckles tighter . . . one putters around with potted plants and lives with a hundred cats . . . left shoulder, left shoulder . . . the last one is at the nunnery at St. Anne’s in Oxford. They gave me those clothes, the most modern they had to spare.”

Wendy smiled and said, “Why did they send for you?”

“I cannot be defeated in combat. But. . .” and now he looked up at the ceiling, breathed a deep sigh, blinked. When he lowered his gaze again, his mouth was set in a grim line. “I betrayed my best friend, who was also my king. And not just any king—scoundrels and cowards, most who wear a crown, liars and cheats like all men with power become—but the most just and fair-minded man . . . well. Enough of that. My punishment is that I will
never fight in the Last Battle. During the Apocalypse, my sword, brave Durindel, will rust, in idleness, while other men win glory. They sleep the sleep of the righteous and smile, dreaming sweet dreams. And I, I must stay awake for all these slow ages, and watch and guard. Like a little boy who must watch the Christmas tree, all alone at Yuletide eve, but be sent away when church bells ring the morning welcome; guarding presents other little boys will open. Enough! I have answered a dozen question’s worth!” And he pulled the plumed helmet out of Wendy’s hands and started to turn away.

“Wait!” said Wendy. “Let me buckle on your sword belt.”

He turned slowly back. “My lady, I. . . it is not a thing a woman does, except for a man who . . . that is . . .”

Wendy knelt down and put her arms around his waist and began passing the long belt once and twice around him. “Oh hush up! I’ll do it if I want. You’ll wear out your face if you don’t stop frowning! I’m not going to give you my kerchief unless you smile!”

“You have a kerchief ?”

“Well, I’ve got a packet of Kleenex in my purse, and they’ll have to do.”

And so he smiled, standing there with his arms spread, while she pulled the belt for a third time around.

Wendy buckled up the heavy buckle of the war-belt, and said, “There now. Third question! What is this house?”

He drew a deep breath. “My lady, this is the final house where magic dwells. It is the same awake and asleep, the only place left on Earth the two realms touch. Because of this, it is also the gateway through which the creatures that haunt men’s nightmares must come if they are to conquer Earth. If the house should change, even by the smallest thing, the glare from a flashlight, for example, it moves away from its counterpart in the other realm. But this house also guards the gate where good dreams fly; if this house should fall, all dreams will die.”

Raven said, “If house is so important, why are there not more people here? An army?”

“Who cares, these days, to see that dreams are kept alive?”

Wendy said, “And you?”

“My lady, I shall exit now by a door of dreaming, now that I am garbed once more as one who dwells in fairy-land might be. You shall not see me when the sun is up; but I shall hold them back. The terror of my sword shall hold them back, if God so wills, while the Redcrosse Knight and the Warred War Queen watch over me.”

“Protect yourself, eh?” Raven handed him his shield, which was set with three fleurs-de-lis on an azure field.

Wendy took out a paper handkerchief and tucked it into the back of his gauntlet, and stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek.

Now he did smile, and some of the lines of bitterness around his mouth were smoothed away, not to return, and, for that moment, youth, boldness, and dignity seemed to shine from his face.

He knelt and drew his sword and held it by the blade, the hilts up, so that the shadow of its cross fell between them. “May St. George and Malen Ruddgoch Ren, and all the warrior-angels of Trajan’s Heaven see all who take up arms in holy cause safely to the battle’s end, or else to rest and sweet repose in heaven!”

He stood and reversed the sword and raised the blade in crisp salute, turned smartly on his heels, and marched away, spurs jangling, naked sword in one hand, bright shield in the other. He dwindled down the corridor and was gone, and the ringing echo of his footsteps faded and died.