To the High Redoubt (49 page)

“Jesus, Joseph and Mary!” Arkady yelled as one of the monsters crawled over the entrance to their hiding place.

Surata turned, moving her hands in a series of passes while she recited three harsh phrases.

The glowing creature faded, becoming a speck like a firefly as it rolled away from them.

“We are too slow, Arkady-champion,” she said in despair.

“No—don't give up yet!” He laughed once, wildly. “At least let's be together.” The sight of that thing had shocked him. He could fight any soldier in the world, but not something that was defeated by a collection of unknown sounds and gestures. He felt a gratifying surge in his groin and the strange, compelling tide that ran between him and Surata. The curve of her hip pressed against his as she moved over him, her mouth seeking his.

Surata kissed him deeply, her hands tweaking his nipples while he cupped her breasts in his hands. Her thighs were soft, warm, open
and the lights were more brilliant than they had ever been, as splendid as the vastness of the sky and as luminous as jewels
.

(“Surata?” he whispered, awed by what he felt for her.)

That other place was alive with movement, with constant shifting and rustling of unseen beings treading unimaginable byways. Sounds, excited, alarmed, echoed in the radiance
.

(“Arkady?” she responded, lost in him.)

Now the lights were all but tangible, and the

ground shook as something enormous and vile from the farthest reaches of that other place lumbered through the portal the Bundhi had opened. The mountainside swayed with the tread of the beast
while the glory faded to pale, mauve shades that were more like fog than light
.

“Ludicrous. Pitiful!” the Bundhi jeered
sending rivers of stinking acid down the wall of the ravine, hooting derision at his enemies and
calling forth more potent manifestations of his desire for destruction. They roiled and twisted, many with little of a body about them, but with their obduracy and savagery growing steadily more powerful
.

The fabric of that other place was rent with the impact of the Bundhi's summons, and the distorted evocations that came through the portal blighted the clarity that had been present there before
.

“Do not be so unwise, Surata-of-Bogar!” the Bundhi called from the daily world beyond the portal. “You have no more strength, you are weak and useless. You are nothing! Let me take your life and give it some worth in adding to my power!”

(“Don't listen, Surata. Be with me.”)

A flood of shames rushed through the tarnished brightness, some loathsome, some ghastly, a few so foreign that they could only confuse or disorient. Nothing else responded to the call that pierced the vast distances of that other place
and echoed from the stones of the gorge.

Something gigantic, winged and smelling of sulphur emerged from the portal and hung above them, mouth gaping.

“It seeks for sustenance,” the Bundhi screamed. “You can feed it as well as anything else. There are more to come. Do not fight this, Surata-of-Bogar. I have won. You are destroyed. Let me take your flesh, let me use it, and give you to the staves, to keep the portal open!”

“He hasn't won,” Surata begged. “Not yet.”

For once, it was Arkady who aligned their Centers of the Subtle Body. “You're letting him rattle you. Don't let that happen.” He shifted his position so that they could join more deeply. Pleasure coursed through him and he felt her respond.

“Arkady-champion, more.” She licked his chest and his neck, balancing so that they were both half sitting, her legs straddling his.

“If you must waste your death, then die!” the Bundhi stormed, while the ground shivered and groaned. “
Die!
”

There was the huge explosive ringing as the boulders separated from the sides of the mountains, rushing down to the river at the depths of the gorge. The sound was impossibly loud, the ground shook.

“Arkady-champion!” she screamed, clinging to him as the avalanche surged over them.

He could say nothing: he held her, taking ultimate consolation in their union. If only they might sustain that, he decided, he would not think that death and the Bundhi had cheated him of everything. “Surata!” he cried, wanting to surround himself with her and his love for her.

“Again, Arkady-champion,” she encouraged him. “Please, again.”

Enormous footsteps trudged down the avalanche with the stones, and something raised its complaint in a voice that mocked all the cannon in the world.

“You, Surata, only you,” Arkady whispered to her.

Burning wings flapped over them. The Bundhi pranced and chanted and crowed in glee.

“Only you, Arkady-champion,” she vowed, pressed to him with a strength and desire she had not known before. The current of the Subtle Bodies moved through them, more inexorable than any previous link they had experienced. Within themselves, within each other, they saw with
a Child's eyes, brightness exceeding every garden in the daily world. The Child scampered with the lights, laughing in utter joy. What had been malignant was changed as the Child came to it; what had been shaped by one will adapted to the Child's wishes. Effulgent light glowed from the Child, its eyes so intense in their gaze that the shapes and colors drifted toward it to bask in its glance. It held out its hands to everything coming toward it, watching them caper. The Child ran with them, laughing, making that other place into a meadow
.

Fanged and clawed shadows pursued the Child, reaching out to snare it, maws gaping, madness in their eyes
.

The Child let them catch it, rolled on the grass with them, giggling, hugging the shadows, smiling while they became more and more insubstantial and finally faded away like wisps of clouds on a summer day. The Child toddled on through the meadow, watching for other shadows
.

Trees grew ahead: tall, lean birches and willows; squat, green-headed oaks; massive, fuzzy pines. They were lovely and fragrant, plucking the wind like a harp. The Child ran among them, delighted with what it saw. It skipped and twirled, enchanted with all it encountered
.

Strange, stinging insects swarmed around the Child, searching for targets on its fresh skin. The Child brushed them off where they settled. One of the bolder insects made straight for the Child's eyes. A small fist fended the insect off, then caught it gently and studied it where it hovered, iridescent wings glistening. The Child held out a finger for the insect to land on, but the brilliant wings flashed as the insects soared away, fleeing the Child
.

The woods grew denser, the trees larger and more imposing. The Child followed the ever-narrowing path, occasionally patting the trunks of the trees in affection. Roots snarled at the base of trunks, branches dipped and made traps for the unwary; the Child bounced over them, playing with them, treating the long, tangled undulations as a puzzle, or an unraveled skein of yarn. It chortled as it followed the most complex convolutions, happily entranced by the curves and knots and gnarls the trees provided
.

A keening wind arose, bending the trees, making the more flexible snap and bow before it; the larger, hardier, stolid members of the forest did not fare as well as the wind increased, breaking heavy limbs and leaving maimed trunks behind
.

The Child let itself be carried by the wind, riding it as thistledown would, curvetting and dancing, making no resistance to the howling force that ravaged the forest
.

The trees were gone. The their place was a broad expanse of rocks and sand, with clumps of fulvous, arid grasses. Everything that could live here did so at the price of something else that lived here. Lizards preyed upon insects and the young of borrowing rodents; the rodents preyed upon insects and the few plants that survived above the ground; snakes hunted the rodents and one another; spiders pursued insects and baby birds; scorpions snared wasps. The Child dropped to the sand near a flat rock, looking around it without alarm, knowing the place well. It got to its feet and began to walk steadily toward the first rise in the distant hills. It did not move quickly, but there was determination in its every step. Neither the hiss of snakes nor the leg-waving threats of spiders distracted it or caused it to turn in fear. High above it, three carrion birds began their ominous circle. The Child waved at them and continued to walk
.

The heat grew more intense, pouring unremittingly down on the parched land, making ripples rise from the sands like unheard music
.

A long way off, a spot of green appeared, like a smudge in the pale world. At first it seemed unreal, for in the heat it looked to be hovering over the ground. Then it became clear, and the oasis waited, with its panache of palms, promising water and succor from the relentless sun
.

The Child walked toward the green haven, alert and curious, as much as anything. Thirst did not bother it, hunger was unknown to it, and for it, there was delight in everything. It shone like the sun as it ambled over the scorching earth
.

Under the palms there were tents, most of them festooned with cording and tassels and embroidery. They stood invitingly open, some showing meals spread on sumptuous silk cloths, some revealing couches of soft pillows, some occupied by musicians and dancers, performing sweetly. The Child stood in the middle of the tents and clapped happily. It motioned the musicians and dancers to leave the tent and join it where it stood, but none of them answered the summons
.

“We will not hurt you,” the Child said. “But if you will come out, we can bring the food out and share it. Why should you not eat when a feast is waiting? And why should we eat and not have the cheer you provide?”

The dancers hastily closed the flaps of the tent and fell silent
.

In disappointment, the Child sat on the grass in the middle of the tents and amused itself with making animal shapes with its fingers. “The Bundhi,” it said to itself in sad revelation, “never shares—never shares anything.”

The tent that had contained the musicians and dancers opened again and out came three armed men, each with his weapons raised. They rushed at the Child, shouting curses and obscenities, prepared to strike
.

As the blows fell, the weapons melted away when they neared the Child, playing contentedly in its own luminescence. It raised its head, beaming at the enraged men. It picked up grasses and tossed them at the men, and each was transfixed with arrows
.

“They need not be arrows,” the Child said. “I threw grass.”

The three men fell, then faded so that all that remained were heaps of clothes and weapons on the soft, green grass
.

When the Child looked around again, all the tents were gone, and the oasis itself was fading. The Child sighed once and got to its feet, starting off once again toward the distant mountains, walking without fatigue or apprehension
.

Thorns and brambles tore at its feet, and the rocks and pebbles yielded nothing but sharp edges. The Child never noticed, and its pace remained the same. When sudden, engulfing darkness came, the Child continued on, bearing its own light. The darkness took on a solidity, impeding the progress of the Child, but it did not falter, letting the thickness of the air hold it up through the continuing night
.

The air became harder, more obdurate, until it all but imprisoned the Child, binding it as if in a cage
.

(“Oh, God, Surata,” Arkady muttered, remembering the men hanging in cages.

(“Release it, Arkady. You are held in me and can come to no harm.”

(“Hold me, then.”)

The cloying, binding darkness grew less oppressive, then gave way to morning and a place that was eerily remote, a high plateau of very good size, but which dropped away preciptiously on all sides
.

Not far away was the nest of some huge bird, with eggs waiting to hatch. Each egg was nearly as large as the Child, and there were six of them. There were signs that the chicks were about to emerge from their shells, but the parent was nowhere in sight. The Child stood by the nest, watching with interest as the first shells began to crack
.

An enormous-beaked head poked out of the broken shell, already gaping for nourishment. Almost at once, there was a second chick, as demanding as the first. Both squeaked and craned their scrawny necks, desperate, ugly, hungry
.

When four of the six had fought their way out of their eggs, they began to peck at one another, each trying to gain nourishment and room in the nest. The last two eggs were cracking. In unison, the first four turned on these unhatched eggs and began a steady assault on them with their beaks. From their manner and determination, the Child knew the chicks wanted to destroy the unhatched nestlings
.

The Child held out its hands, hoping to separate the baby birds. The birds at once seized on it, grabbing for fingers, for face, for legs and toes, for ambiguous genitals, for any bit of flesh that might end their hunger
.

As the beaks tore and snapped at the Child, it did not try to stop them; and almost at once, the huge baby birds changed. The nest was a nest no longer, but a wall of bamboo, and the beaks were the cut ends of staves, pressing the Child's body, fastening there with the determination of leeches
.

“You have come to me at last,” said a voice from the bamboo, a deep, gratified voice that belonged to the Bundhi
.

“We never ran from you,” said the Child. “We were always coming to you.”

“Fool!” the Bundhi upbraided it. “What a fool you are!”

The Child sat, folding its legs with soles turned up at the knees, a contented smile on its face. It made no attempt to dislodge the staves
.

“I will drain you, fools!” the Bundhi promised
.