The Physiognomy (33 page)

I breathed deeply in an attempt to suppress my fugitive imagination, and it was then that the scents of the forest broke through to calm my fears. From that one inhalation, I was able to distill the aromas of trailing serpent vine, fantail blossom, and the oozing root of tarasthis fern. These were all familiar to me from my daily forays into the woods to search for medicines. Each of them, when dried and ground, was a cure for a different illness—gout, river blindness, acute melancholy—and now just their fragrances were enough to cure me.

I kept to the trail that had been forged in recent years by merchants from Latrobia, but with the first light of morning, I coaxed Quismal into the underbrush, and we headed northwest for the fields of Harakun. I hadn't seen or heard Wood for over two hours before changing direction and was resigned to the fact that he had most likely found a rabbit to torment instead of myself.

By the time the sun was high in the sky, I was exhausted from having traveled all night. Quismal was damp with perspiration, spluttering and frothing from both ends, and obviously as much in need of rest as I was. When we finally broke clear of the forest and forged the creek that defined the southern boundary of the plain, I found a huge, spreading shemel tree overhanging the water. It was here that I decided to stop for a spell. I tied the horse to a low-hanging branch where he would have access to both water and grass. Retrieving the crossbow and quiver of arrows from the saddle, I chose a spot in the shade for myself and sat down.

I was saddle sore, bleary-eyed, and altogether overjoyed once again to touch down on solid ground. The day was warm, and the ever-present breeze of the plains moved around me, lulling me into a temporary amnesia. I had wanted to try the crossbow at least once before reaching the city, but instead, I lay back and stared up at the sunbeams that found their way through the swaying clusters of star-shaped leaves. The thought of sleep still frightened me, considering the fact that I might have carried the disease away from Wenau with me, but I finally closed my eyes.

I woke sometime later to the sound of barking, and even in my half-cognizance felt a surge of disappointment to think that the dog had found me. Sitting up quickly, I turned around to check on the horse. The faithful Quismal was still where I had docked him, munching grass and swatting jade flies. I cleared my eyes and turned around, trying to get a bead on where the dog was. When I finally spotted him, he had crossed the creek and was standing on the bank some twenty yards away from me, shaking water from his coat. With nose wrinkled back and teeth exposed, he crouched down in front while the hair along the ridge of his back spiked up. His curled tail straightened as he began growling.

If he had seemed mad before, he now looked positively deranged. I reached slowly down next to me and grabbed the crossbow. “Good boy,” I called to him. He continued growling and barking. I'd had quite enough of the benefit of his presence. He would be nothing but a liability to me when I tried stealthily to navigate the ruins of the city. My hands shaking, I lifted the bow and then grabbed an arrow from the quiver. Continuously speaking to him in as soothing a voice as possible, I tried to pull the weapon's cord back. I moved the string about three inches and it would go no farther. My knowledge of the operation of crossbows was less than shallow, and having lived a life of relative ease, I didn't possess half the arm strength of a well-trained soldier. Quickly improvising, I brought my feet up to hold the cross of the bow in place and then, still gripping the string, leaned back. With this technique, I barely managed to hook the cord up over the firing mechanism.

Then Quismal whinnied and snorted, and I looked up to see Wood charging, his teeth bared, his tongue lolling, his eyes fierce. “Harrow's hindquarters,” I yelled, and reached for an arrow. I had half a mind to forget the ancient weapon and scramble up a tree. He was five feet from me as I fitted the shaft into place along the barrel of the bow. I curled my finger around the trigger, lifted the stock to my shoulder, but as I aimed, I could see that he had already leaped. I gave a very unsoldierlike yelp of fear and, instead of firing, dropped the weapon and fell face first to the ground, covering my head with my hands. To my astonishment, he sailed right over me, snarling like some demonic creature of the Beyond. Before I could grab the bow and spin around, I heard another beastly voice join his with a sharp cry of pain.

In seconds, I was on my feet, the bow up against my shoulder, aiming at two forms that struggled on the ground only a few feet from me. Before I could clearly see what it was Wood had by the neck, I smelled the depraved bile scent of the Latrobian werewolf. Then the silver-gray coat, the half-human haunches and claws came clear to me. Gathering its strength, it stood on its hind legs, lifting Wood with it. With a cry of agony, it spun ferociously back and forth, whipping the dog free of its neck, a piece of which came away in a shower of yellow blood.

I pulled the trigger and the arrow shot out with a force I hadn't anticipated. The weapon fell from my grip, but still, I was able to follow the progress of the shaft as it caught the monstrosity square in the underside of its chest. There was more yellow liquid, more horrendous bellowing, and though I was frightened beyond measure, I actually cheered and gave a slight jump like a child who has just won a round of split the muggen. It was a momentary victory, for the instant the creature hit the ground, it began loping toward me on all fours.

Wood again came to my rescue, charging from where he had landed in the grass, and leaped onto the werewolf's back, burying his fangs in the top of its spine. They both went down again, rolling and slashing in the dirt. This gave me the time I needed to lift the bow, pull the string back while holding the cross down with my feet, and affix another arrow.

“Get off, Wood,” I cried as I took aim again. The creature threw the dog down in front of it, struggled to its hind legs where it reached back a massive hand-paw studded with four-inch claws, and took a swing at my protector's head. That dog was insane, but he wasn't stupid—he slipped between the werewolf's legs, free of the blow. I aimed quickly for the chest again, fired, and the jolt of the bow lifted the arrow in its course, sending it directly into the thing's forehead. The werewolf stumbled forward a few steps on its hind legs and stopped suddenly. It stared at me momentarily with a pitiful gaze, as if recalling its lost humanity, and then its eyes crossed as it fell forward onto the ground. It continued to writhe, growl, spit, and chew the earth until I gathered my wits and bashed the remaining life out of it with the butt of the crossbow.

As soon as I was sure it was dead, I dropped the weapon and walked to the creek where I plunged my own head into the water. When my adrenaline had finally stopped pumping and my heart lost its hummingbird flutter, the real terror set in. I was elated to have come through the encounter with my life, but the face of the vanquished monster told me in no uncertain terms that this was only the beginning. The creature Wood and I had killed was not Greta Sykes, Below's original beast. It had moved somewhat more clumsily than she. On closer inspection it proved to be a male and had no head-bolts as Greta had. Given Below's propensity for carrying all projects across the boundary of absurdity, I realized there could be an entire pack of these things guarding the perimeter of the city.

I was shaken, but the discovery of a second werewolf was an undeniable argument that the Master had to be stopped as soon as possible. Before moving on, I went to the saddlebag on Quismal's back and retrieved a handful of dried meat. I called Wood to me. He came quietly enough and sat at my feet. Kneeling down, I expressed my thanks to him, petting his head, scratching his chest, while I fed him the strips of meat. He panted and ate and made a face with his teeth showing as though he were smiling. When he had finished the meal, and there was nothing else I could say, I stood and went to fetch the bow and quiver of remaining arrows. I bent over to lift the weapon, and he ran by behind me and bit me on the rear end, pulling my trousers down. I turned to kick him, but he was off like a shot, streaking across the plain.

“Idiot,” I yelled after him, and then turned to see that Quismal, savant of horses, had somehow undone his reins from the tree and was standing in the middle of the creek.

I spent a half-hour fishing my mount out of the water before I was on my way again. We crossed the open expanse of the fields of Harakun, where so many historic battles of oppression had been waged by the forces of the Well-Built City against the farmers of Latrobia. Thousands were buried in mass graves beneath the ground I traversed, their lives cut short by the Master's will and whim. There was an eerie sadness to the desolate plain, which, as I had read in school, had once been fertile ground. Now nothing grew there but a tawny-colored saw grass and an occasional gnarled tree, as if the deaths of all those souls had also killed the very earth on which they had battled. I was equally tense for the fact that there was little cover with which to block my approach to the walls of the city.

Quismal could obviously feel the spirit of the place, for he overcame his usual lethargy and was actually skittish at times, prancing to this side or that, whinnying at the sight of birds and rabbits. I stayed low on his back, trying to present as slight a spectacle as possible to anyone or anything that might be watching. When we would move across a clearing that held no grass, I more than once saw paw tracks in the soft dry dirt that I knew were too large to be Wood's. In the late afternoon, I saw something moving through tall grass about a quarter of a mile to the west and was almost certain it had a silver-gray coat. As I continued deeper into the heart of the plain, I had the sickening realization that they were probably encircling me, waiting for nightfall.

It was twilight when I first caught sight of the city's jagged silhouette in the distance. The few remaining spires, the blasted outer wall, and the crumbled buildings appeared all together like the fossil of an ancient behemoth that had fallen from the sky. The shaft of the crystal tower that had been the Top of the City glimmered like a diamond eye in the setting sun. I could not help but think that it could see me returning. For a moment, I forgot about the horrors that had been perpetrated there and experienced a brief wave of nostalgia. I had spent my youth there, had risen to power, learned my gravest lesson there. I reached into my coat and retrieved the green veil. I could not deceive myself that I had come solely to save my neighbors.

As I gauged by the position of the sun how long I had until nightfall, I noticed three birds moving through the sky from the direction of the ruins. At first, I took them to be crows or hawks, but then the last of the sun touched them and they glistened like splinters thrown off from the remains of the crystal tower. I needed no more of an indication than those brief sparks of light to know exactly what breed of bird they were. I reached back and brought up the crossbow. As soon as I had the quiver of arrows slung across my back, I leaned forward and pleaded for Quismal to run. He must have felt my fear, because, to my astonishment, he actually began to canter.

By the time he achieved a gallop, the first of the metallic birds had begun to spiral down toward us. I pulled hard on the reins from left to right, directing the horse in a zigzag pattern while all the time watching the deadly mechanism in its descent. As if it had intelligence, it stayed with us as we fled erratically across the plain. When it was no more than a hundred yards above, it hovered for a second and then simply plummeted like a stone dropped from a cliff. It missed us by less than ten yards and upon impact with the ground exploded with an intensity that threw earth and rock high into the air, nearly knocking me out of the saddle. We had narrowly escaped, but the blast frightened Quismal back into his usual apathy. He hobbled a few more steps and came to an abrupt stop.

The second and third of the flying bombs began to circle downward toward us as I pleaded for the horse to move. In the space of ten seconds, I had called him everything from the noblest creature that had ever lived to the essence of equine genius, but it was clear he had become a living statue. I had no choice but to abandon him and run. When I leaped to the ground, Below's chrome messengers of death had begun their free fall. I sprinted fifty yards in little more than the time it might have taken to sign my name and then dived onto the earth. Shielding my eyes, I looked back just in time to see poor Quismal come apart at the seams like a bursting flagon of wine. The roar and shock wave rolled over me as hooves and entrails showered down in a twenty-yard radius from where he had once stood.

The fear I had worked so hard to keep in abeyance now spread through me—an ice that formed with the speed of fire. I thought nothing as I ran headlong toward the ruins. When I finally stopped to catch my breath, I realized that night had fallen. I immediately set about arming the crossbow, but before I could engage an arrow, something came bounding out of the dark. There was not even time to be startled. Never did I think I would be so happy to see the black dog. He trotted over and sat at my feet.

Buy
Memoranda
Now!

About the Author

Jeffrey Ford is the author of the novels
Vanitas, The Physiognomy, Memoranda, The Beyond, The Portrait of Mrs. Charbuque, The Girl in the Glass, The Cosmology of the Wider World
, and
The Shadow Year
. His story collections are The
Fantasy Writer's Assistant, The Empire of Ice Cream, The Drowned Life, and Crackpot Palace
. Ford has published over one hundred short stories, which have appeared in numerous journals, magazines, and anthologies, from the
Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction
to
The Oxford Book of American Short Stories
. He is the recipient of the World Fantasy Award, the Nebula Award, the Shirley Jackson Award, the Edgar Award, France's Grand Prix de l'Imaginaire, and Japan's Hayakawa's SF Magazine Reader's Award.